Chapter 9: Distress

Waiting and waiting, the carriage driver Ona finally waited for his first customer:

"Driver, to Vyborg District!" Ona heard the shout, "Driver!" Ona shuddered suddenly, looking out from his eyelashes stuck with snowflakes, and saw a soldier wearing a hooded military coat.

"To Vyborg District!" the soldier shouted again, "Are you asleep or what? To Vyborg District!"

For some reason, although a customer had arrived, the carriage driver Ona seemed somewhat absent-minded, merely stiffly shaking the reins, yet seeming unclear even about where exactly he should go.

"Where are you barging, you devil!" Ona immediately heard a shout come from among that stream of black shadows, "Where has the devil sent you? Keep to the right!"

"You don't even know how to drive! Keep to the right!" the soldier said angrily.

So what happened? Why was he absent-minded?

Belinsky's doubt was immediately answered:

"Ona turned his head to look at the passenger, moving his lips... He clearly wanted to speak, yet not a single word came from his throat, only a hissing sound.

"What?" the soldier asked.

Ona twisted his mouth into a bitter smile, strained his throat, and then spoke hoarsely:

"My lord, that, my son... died this week."

Such a sorrowful thing, no wonder the carriage driver Ona was in his current state.

Facing this sorrow that seemed almost uncontrollable, would this soldier comfort him?

"Oh!... What disease did he die of?"

Ona turned his whole body toward the passenger and said:

"Who knows! Most likely he caught a fever... He lay in the hospital for three days and then died... It is the will of God."

"You turn, you devil!" a shout came from the darkness, "Are you blind or what, old dog! Use your eyes to look!"

"Drive your carriage, drive your carriage..." the passenger said, "At this pace, we won't arrive even by tomorrow. Go faster!"

The question asked subconsciously was merely a perfunctory formality; in reality, the soldier had no interest in this matter at all.

Seeing this, Belinsky felt a vague anger while also hurriedly looking backward.

What would happen next?

To whom could this poor carriage driver possibly pour out such sorrow?

After seeing off the officer, three young men soon arrived:

"Driver, to Police Bridge!" the hunchback said with a voice like a broken gong, "Three of us... twenty kopecks!"

Ona shook the reins and clicked his lips. The price of twenty kopecks was unfair, yet he had no time to haggle... Whether it was one ruble or five kopecks, it was all the same to him now, as long as there were passengers...

At this moment, the old man seemed to have given up even on his livelihood; he only wanted someone to talk to, hoping to alleviate such terrible emotions through interaction with others, but could this really work?

"My... that... my son died this week!"

"Everyone must die..." the hunchback coughed a while, wiped his lips, sighed, and said, "Come on, drive your carriage, drive your carriage! Gentlemen, I can't stand this pace anymore! When will he get us there?"

"Then just encourage him a bit... give him a crack on the neck!"

"You old dead thing, did you hear? Really, I'm going to punch your neck!... It would be better to simply walk than to be polite with people like you!... Did you hear, old dragon (a strange dragon, an insult)? Do you simply not care about our words?"

For a sorrowful old man, such a reply could already be called humiliation, but what was this old man's reaction?

"Ona felt, rather than heard, a sharp crack on the back of his head.

"Hee hee..." he laughed, "These merry lords... May God bless you!"

"Driver, do you have a wife?" the tall man asked.

"Me? Hee hee... These merry lords! My wife has now become mud... Hahaha!... In the grave!... Now my son is dead too, but I am still alive... What a strange thing, Death got the wrong door... It was supposed to come for me, but it went for my son..."

Ona turned around, wanting to tell how his son had died, but at that moment the hunchback exhaled lightly and declared, thank heavens, they had finally arrived.

Facing such humiliation, why did this old man still react this way?

Was he simply too sorrowful to care at all, or was this matter too common, leaving him already numb, merely wanting to talk to someone to vent his feelings?

And after this group left, the old man could find no one to confide in; in distress and pain, he once again chose to speak up voluntarily, yet still received a similar result:

"Ona saw a yard-sweeping servant carrying a small sack and decided to strike up a conversation with him.

"Old brother, what time is it now?" he asked.

"Past nine... Why are you stopping here? Drive your sleigh away!"

Up to this point, the old man seemed to have finally given up hope.

Ona drove the sleigh a few steps away, bent his waist, and let distress torment him... He felt that speaking to others was useless... Yet before five minutes had passed, he straightened his body, shook his head, as if feeling a sharp pain; he pulled the reins... He could bear it no longer.

"Back to the inn," he thought, "Back to the inn!"

Yet it seemed this pain still clung to him like a festering sore on the bone, and he finally could not help but look at the carriage driver beside him:

"Then drink heartily... As for me, little brother, my son died... Did you hear? This week in the hospital... Such a thing exists!"

Ona watched to see what effect his words produced, but saw no effect at all. That young man had already covered himself with a blanket, pulled it over his head, and fallen asleep.

By now, with no one to speak to and nowhere to go, even though the pain remained unrelieved, this poor old man looked around once more and finally discovered the only object he could confide in.

And that object was:

"Are you eating grass?" Ona asked his horse, seeing its shining eyes, "Good, eat, eat... Since we haven't earned the money to buy oats, then let's just eat grass... Yes... I am too old to drive anymore... My son should be the one driving; I can't do it... He is the true carriage driver... As long as he is alive..."

Ona fell silent for a moment, then continued:

"That's how it is, my little mare... Kuzma Yonich is gone... He passed away... He died for no reason... Suppose, for instance, you have a little foal, and you are that little foal's own mother... Suddenly, for instance, that little foal passes away... Would you not be sad?"

The thin horse chewed its fodder, listened, and breathed warm air onto its master's hand.

Ona became so absorbed in speaking that he told it everything in his heart...

Who could have thought that in the end, it was a thin horse that gave this old man his final comfort?

Seeing this astonishing ending, Belinsky had no time to look at the other side anymore; instead, he stood up directly in excitement, pacing back and forth in the room while shouting at Nekrasov beside him:

"Yes, Nikolai! They are people too, living, breathing people! Why refuse to listen to them? Why never sympathize with them or pay attention to them? Too many people would rather spend vast amounts of time on meaningless things than ever cast a glance at their brothers!

And our writer merely recorded these things truthfully, yet they accuse him of nonsense, fabricating history, and having malicious intent!

Do they have no eyes?! Or has their heart grown so hard that they see only their own present, only what they wish to see and what they themselves believe, caring nothing at all for the past, the present, and the countless people far away!

Nikolai, this author is a doctor, a surgeon! He is dissecting the entire Russian society with a scalpel!"

It's not water, cough cough.

Chekhov the elder wrote it so concisely that it is almost impossible to refine further.

One can only try to extract the key points.

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(End of this chapter)