A.P. Chekhov - The Bird Market
THERE is a small square near the monastery of the Holy Birth
which is called Trubnoy, or simply Truboy; there is a market
there on Sundays. Hundreds of sheepskins, wadded coats, fur
caps, and chimneypot hats swarm there, like crabs in a sieve.
There is the sound of the twitter of birds in all sorts of keys,
recalling the spring. If the sun is shining, and there are no
clouds in the sky, the singing of the birds and the smell of hay
make a more vivid impression, and this reminder of spring sets
one thinking and carries one's fancy far, far away. Along one
side of the square there stands a string of waggons. The waggons
are loaded, not with hay, not with cabbages, nor with beans, but
with goldfinches, siskins, larks, blackbirds and thrushes,
bluetits, bullfinches. All of them are hopping about in rough,
home-made cages, twittering and looking with envy at the free
sparrows. The goldfinches cost five kopecks, the siskins are
rather more expensive, while the value of the other birds is
"How much is a lark?"
The seller himself does not know the value of a lark. He
scratches his head and asks whatever comes into it, a rouble, or
three kopecks, according to the purchaser. There are expensive
birds too. A faded old blackbird, with most of its feathers
plucked out of its tail, sits on a dirty perch. He is dignified,
grave, and motionless as a retired general. He has waved his
claw in resignation to his captivity long ago, and looks at the
blue sky with indifference. Probably, owing to this
indifference, he is considered a sagacious bird. He is not to be
bought for less than forty kopecks. Schoolboys, workmen, young
men in stylish greatcoats, and bird-fanciers in incredibly
shabby caps, in ragged trousers that are turned up at the
ankles, and look as though they had been gnawed by mice, crowd
round the birds, splashing through the mud. The young people and
the workmen are sold hens for cocks, young birds for old ones. .
. . They know very little about birds. But there is no deceiving
the bird-fancier. He sees and understands his bird from a
"There is no relying on that bird," a fancier will say, looking
into a siskin's beak, and counting the feathers on its tail. "He
sings now, it's true, but what of that? I sing in company too.
No, my boy, shout, sing to me without company; sing in solitude,
if you can. . . . You give me that one yonder that sits and
holds its tongue! Give me the quiet one! That one says nothing,
so he thinks the more. . . ."
Among the waggons of birds there are some full of other live
creatures. Here you see hares, rabbits, hedgehogs, guinea-pigs,
polecats. A hare sits sorrowfully nibbling the straw. The
guinea-pigs shiver with cold, while the hedgehogs look out with
curiosity from under their prickles at the public.
"I have read somewhere," says a post-office official in a faded
overcoat, looking lovingly at the hare, and addressing no one in
particular, "I have read that some learned man had a cat and a
mouse and a falcon and a sparrow, who all ate out of one bowl."
"That's very possible, sir. The cat must have been beaten, and
the falcon, I dare say, had all its tail pulled out. There's no
great cleverness in that, sir. A friend of mine had a cat who,
saving your presence, used to eat his cucumbers. He thrashed her
with a big whip for a fortnight, till he taught her not to. A
hare can learn to light matches if you beat it. Does that
surprise you? It's very simple! It takes the match in its mouth
and strikes it. An animal is like a man. A man's made wiser by
beating, and it's the same with a beast."
Men in long, full-skirted coats move backwards and forwards in
the crowd with cocks and ducks under their arms. The fowls are
all lean and hungry. Chickens poke their ugly, mangy-looking
heads out of their cages and peck at something in the mud. Boys
with pigeons stare into your face and try to detect in you a
"Yes, indeed! It's no use talking to you," someone shouts
angrily. "You should look before you speak! Do you call this a
pigeon? It is an eagle, not a pigeon!"
A tall thin man, with a shaven upper lip and side whiskers, who
looks like a sick and drunken footman, is selling a snow-white
lap-dog. The old lap-dog whines.
"She told me to sell the nasty thing," says the footman, with a
contemptuous snigger. "She is bankrupt in her old age, has
nothing to eat, and here now is selling her dogs and cats. She
cries, and kisses them on their filthy snouts. And then she is
so hard up that she sells them. 'Pon my soul, it is a fact! Buy
it, gentlemen! The money is wanted for coffee."
But no one laughs. A boy who is standing by screws up one eye
and looks at him gravely with compassion.
The most interesting of all is the fish section. Some dozen
peasants are sitting in a row. Before each of them is a pail,
and in each pail there is a veritable little hell. There, in the
thick, greenish water are swarms of little carp, eels, small
fry, water-snails, frogs, and newts. Big water-beetles with
broken legs scurry over the small surface, clambering on the
carp, and jumping over the frogs. The creatures have a strong
hold on life. The frogs climb on the beetles, the newts on the
frogs. The dark green tench, as more expensive fish, enjoy an
exceptional position; they are kept in a special jar where they
can't swim, but still they are not so cramped. . . .
"The carp is a grand fish! The carp's the fish to keep, your
honour, plague take him! You can keep him for a year in a pail
and he'll live! It's a week since I caught these very fish. I
caught them, sir, in Pererva, and have come from there on foot.
The carp are two kopecks each, the eels are three, and the
minnows are ten kopecks the dozen, plague take them! Five
kopecks' worth of minnows, sir? Won't you take some worms?"
The seller thrusts his coarse rough fingers into the pail and
pulls out of it a soft minnow, or a little carp, the size of a
nail. Fishing lines, hooks, and tackle are laid out near the
pails, and pond-worms glow with a crimson light in the sun.
An old fancier in a fur cap, iron-rimmed spectacles, and
goloshes that look like two dread-noughts, walks about by the
waggons of birds and pails of fish. He is, as they call him
here, "a type." He hasn't a farthing to bless himself with, but
in spite of that he haggles, gets excited, and pesters
purchasers with advice. He has thoroughly examined all the
hares, pigeons, and fish; examined them in every detail, fixed
the kind, the age, and the price of each one of them a good hour
ago. He is as interested as a child in the goldfinches, the
carp, and the minnows. Talk to him, for instance, about
thrushes, and the queer old fellow will tell you things you
could not find in any book. He will tell you them with
enthusiasm, with passion, and will scold you too for your
ignorance. Of goldfinches and bullfinches he is ready to talk
endlessly, opening his eyes wide and gesticulating violently
with his hands. He is only to be met here at the market in the
cold weather; in the summer he is somewhere in the country,
catching quails with a bird-call and angling for fish.
And here is another "type," a very tall, very thin, close-shaven
gentleman in dark spectacles, wearing a cap with a cockade, and
looking like a scrivener of by-gone days. He is a fancier; he is
a man of decent position, a teacher in a high school, and that
is well known to the habitus of the market, and they treat him
with respect, greet him with bows, and have even invented for
him a special title: "Your Scholarship." At Suharev market he
rummages among the books, and at Trubnoy looks out for good
"Please, sir!" the pigeon-sellers shout to him, "Mr.
Schoolmaster, your Scholarship, take notice of my tumblers! your
"Your Scholarship!" is shouted at him from every side.
"Your Scholarship!" an urchin repeats somewhere on the
And his "Scholarship," apparently quite accustomed to his title,
grave and severe, takes a pigeon in both hands, and lifting it
above his head, begins examining it, and as he does so frowns
and looks graver than ever, like a conspirator.
And Trubnoy Square, that little bit of Moscow where animals are
so tenderly loved, and where they are so tortured, lives its
little life, grows noisy and excited, and the business-like or
pious people who pass by along the boulevard cannot make out
what has brought this crowd of people, this medley of caps, fur
hats, and chimneypots together; what they are talking about
there, what they are buying and selling.
THE BIRD MARKET: The Russian title translates as "In Moscow in