Anton Pavlovich 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.

    1883

_______________________________________________________________________________