Chapter 15 : 
Proshchai And Proschaite
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18621862

People :
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Author : Leo Tolstoy

Translator : Nathan Haskell Dole

Text :
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We returned to the village. Fedka had not once let 
go of my hand. It seemed to me that he held it now 
out of gratefulness. We were all brought so close together that night! as we had not been for a long time. 
Pronka walked abreast with us, along the wide village 
street.

"See, there 's a light at the Mazanofs' yet!" said he. 
"As I was going to school to-day, Gavriukha [11] was coming out of the tavern dr-u-u-unk!" he added, "blind 
drunk; his horse was all of a lather, and he was beating 
her like everything. I feel sorry even now! Indeed, 
I do! Why should he beat her? And lately, father," [12] 
said Semka, "he drove his horse from Tula, and she 
ran him into a snowdrift, but he was asleep, he was 
so drunk!"

"But Gavriukha was beating his horse right across 
the eyes, and I was so sorry to see him," said Pronka, 
for the second time. "Why did he beat her? and even 
when he got down he beat her!"

Semka suddenly stopped.

"Our folks are all asleep," said he, looking at the 
windows of his crooked black cottage. "Won't you 
come in?"

"No."

"Goooo-d-by, [13] Lyof Nikolayevitch," he cried suddenly; and, as if using all the force of his will, he tore 
himself away from us, and trotted off to the house, 
lifted the latch, and disappeared.

"Will you take us all home this way; first one, and 
then the other?" suggested Fedka.

We went farther.

At Pronka's there was a light; we peered through 
the window; his mother, a tall, handsome, but careworn 
woman, with black brows and eyes, was sitting at the 
table peeling potatoes; in the middle a cradle was hung; 
the mathematician of the second class, Pronka's other 
brother, was standing by the table, eating potato and 
salt. The cottage was black, narrow, and dirty.

"There is n't much for you!" cried Pronka's mother. 
"Where have you been?"

Pronka smiled a sweet and sickly smile, as he glanced 
at the window. His mother discovered that he was not 
alone, and immediately her expression changed and became unbeautiful and hypocritical.

Fedka was now the only one left.

"The tailors are at our house, so we have a light," 
said he, in his gentle voice of the evening. "Good-by,[14] 
Lyof Nikolayevitch," he added gently and affectionately, 
as he began to rap with the knocker on the closed door. 
"Let me in!" rang his clear voice through the wintry 
quiet of the village street. It was long before there was 
any answer.

I looked through the window; the cottage was large; 
legs were seen hanging down from the oven and 
benches; the father was playing cards with the tailors; 
a few copper coins were lying on the table. A peasant woman, Fedka's stepmother, was sitting by the 
cresset and looking eagerly at the money. One tailor, 
a dissipated-looking young peasant, 3 was holding the 
cards on the table, and was looking triumphantly at his partner. Fedka's father, with his collar thrown open, 
his face screwed into a scowl of mental excitement and 
vexation, was shuffling his cards, and irresolutely waving his toil-hardened hand above them.

"Let me in!"

The woman got up and opened the door.

"Good-by!" said Fedka, once more; "let us always 
walk that way!"


     From : Wikisource.org

Events :
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     Chapter 15 -- Publication : September 30, 1862

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