Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Power of Darkness by graf Tolstoy Leo (inspiring books for teens .txt) 📖
- Author: graf Tolstoy Leo
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NIKĂŤTA. Bother her! What should I go for?
NAN. She says, “If he don't come, I'll go into the hut to him.” Blest if she didn't say she'd come in!
NIKĂŤTA. Not likely. She'll wait a bit and then go away.
NAN. “Or is it,” she says, “that they want him to marry AkoulĂna?”
Re-enter AkoulĂna, passing near NikĂta to take her distaff.
AKOULĂŤNA. Marry whom to AkoulĂna?
NAN. Why, NikĂta.
AKOULĂŤNA. A likely thing! Who says it?
NIKĂŤTA [looks at her and laughs] It seems people do say it. Would you marry me, AkoulĂna?
AKOULĂŤNA. Who, you? Perhaps I might have afore, but I won't now.
NIKĂŤTA. And why not now?
AKOULĂŤNA. 'Cos you wouldn't love me.
NIKĂŤTA. Why not?
AKOULĂŤNA. 'Cos you'd be forbidden to. [Laughs].
NIKĂŤTA. Who'd forbid it?
AKOULĂŤNA. Who? My step-mother. She does nothing but grumble, and is always staring at you.
NIKĂŤTA [laughing] Just hear her! Ain't she cute?
AKOULĂŤNA. Who? Me? What's there to be cute about? Am I blind? She's been rowing and rowing at dad all day. The fat-muzzled witch! [Goes into closet].
NAN [looking out of the window] Look, NikĂta, she's coming! I'm blest if she isn't! I'll go away. [Exit].
MARĂŤNA [enters] What are you doing with me?
NIKĂŤTA. Doing? I'm not doing anything.
MARĂŤNA. You mean to desert me.
NIKĂŤTA [gets up angrily] What does this look like, your coming here?
MARĂŤNA. Oh, NikĂta!
NIKĂŤTA. Well, you are strange! What have you come for?
MARĂŤNA. NikĂta!
NIKĂŤTA. That's my name. What do you want with NikĂta? Well, what next? Go away, I tell you!
MARĂŤNA. I see, you do want to throw me over.
NIKÍTA. Well, and what's there to remember? You yourself don't know. When you stood out there round the corner and sent Nan for me, and I didn't come, wasn't it plain enough that you're not wanted? It seems pretty simple. So there—go!
MARĂŤNA. Not wanted! So now I'm not wanted! I believed you when you said you would love me. And now that you've ruined me, I'm not wanted.
NIKĂŤTA. Where's the good of talking? This is quite improper. You've been telling tales to father. Now, do go away, will you?
MARĂŤNA. You know yourself I never loved any one but you. Whether you married me or not, I'd not have been angry. I've done you no wrong, then why have you left off caring for me? Why?
NIKĂŤTA. Where's the use of baying at the moon? You go away. Goodness me! what a duffer!
MARĂŤNA. It's not that you deceived me when you promised to marry me that hurts, but that you've left off loving. No, it's not that you've stopped loving me either, but that you've changed me for another, that's what hurts. I know who it is!
NIKĂŤTA [comes up to her viciously] Eh! what's the good of talking to the likes of you, that won't listen to reason? Be off, or you'll drive me to do something you'll be sorry for.
MARĂŤNA. What, will you strike me, then? Well then, strike me! What are you turning away for? Ah, NikĂta!
NIKĂŤTA. Supposing some one came in. Of course, it's quite improper. And what's the good of talking?
MARĂŤNA. So this is the end of it! What has been has flown. You want me to forget it? Well then, NikĂta, listen. I kept my maiden honour as the apple of my eye. You have ruined me for nothing, you have deceived me. You have no pity on a fatherless and motherless girl! [Weeping] You have deserted, you have killed me, but I bear you no malice. God forgive you! If you find a better one you'll forget me, if a worse one you'll remember me. Yes, you will remember, NikĂta! Good-bye, then, if it is to be. Oh, how I loved you! Good-bye for the last time. [Takes his head in her hands and tries to kiss him].
NIKĂŤTA [tossing his head back] I'm not going to talk with the likes of you. If you won't go away I will, and you may stay here by yourself.
MARĂŤNA [screams] You are a brute. [In the doorway] God will give you no joy. [Exit, crying].
AKOULĂŤNA [comes out of closet] You're a dog, NikĂta!
NIKĂŤTA. What's up?
AKOULĂŤNA. What a cry she gave! [Cries].
NIKĂŤTA. What's up with you?
AKOULĂŤNA. What's up? You've hurt her so. That's the way you'll hurt me also. You're a dog. [Exit into closet].
Silence.
NIKĂŤTA. Here's a fine muddle. I'm as sweet as honey on the lasses, but when a fellow's sinned with 'em it's a bad look-out!
Curtain.
The scene represents the village street. To the left the outside of Peter's hut, built of logs, with a porch in the middle; to the right of the hut the gates and a corner of the yard buildings. AnĂsya is beating hemp in the street near the corner of the yard. Six months have elapsed since the First Act.
ANĂŤSYA [stops and listens] Mumbling something again. He's probably got off the stove.
AkoulĂna enters, carrying two pails on a yoke.
ANĂŤSYA. He's calling. You go and see what he wants, kicking up such a row.
AKOULĂŤNA. Why don't you go?
ANĂŤSYA. Go, I tell you! [Exit AkoulĂna into hut] He's bothering me to death. Won't let out where the money is, and that's all about it. He was out in the passage the other day. He must have been hiding it there. Now, I don't know myself where it is. Thank goodness he's afraid of parting with it, so that at least it will stay in the house. If only I could manage to find it. He hadn't it on him yesterday. Now I don't know where it can be. He has quite worn the life out of me.
Enter AkoulĂna, tying her kerchief over her head.
ANĂŤSYA. Where are you off to?
AKOULÍNA. Where? Why, he's told me to go for Aunt Martha. “Fetch my sister,” he says. “I am going to die,” he says. “I have a word to say to her.”
ANĂŤSYA [aside] Asking for his sister? Oh my poor head! Sure he wants to give it her. What shall I do? Oh! [To AkoulĂna] Don't go! Where are you off to?
AKOULĂŤNA. To call Aunt.
ANĂŤSYA. Don't go I tell you, I'll go myself. You go and take the clothes to the river to rinse. Else you'll not have finished by the evening.
AKOULĂŤNA. But he told me to go.
ANĂŤSYA. You go and do as you're bid. I tell you I'll fetch Martha myself. Take the shirts off the fence.
AKOULĂŤNA. The shirts? But maybe you'll not go. He's given the order.
ANĂŤSYA. Didn't I say I'd go? Where's Nan?
AKOULĂŤNA. Nan? Minding the calves.
ANĂŤSYA. Send her here. I dare say they'll not run away. [AkoulĂna collects the clothes, and exit].
ANĂŤSYA. If one doesn't go he'll scold. If one goes he'll give the money to his sister. All my trouble will be wasted. I don't myself know what I'm to do. My poor head's splitting. [Continues to work].
Enter MatryĂłna, with a stick and a bundle, in outdoor clothes.
MATRYĂ“NA. May the Lord help you, honey.
ANĂŤSYA [looks round, stops working, and claps her hands with joy] Well, I never expected this! Mother MatryĂłna, God has sent the right guest at the right time.
MATRYĂ“NA. Well, how are things?
ANĂŤSYA. Ah, I'm driven well-nigh crazy. It's awful!
MATRYĂ“NA. Well, still alive, I hear?
ANĂŤSYA. Oh, don't talk about it. He doesn't live and doesn't die!
MATRYÓNA. But the money—has he given it to anybody?
ANÍSYA. He's just sending for his sister Martha—probably about the money.
MATRYĂ“NA. Well, naturally! But hasn't he given it to any one else?
ANĂŤSYA. To no one. I watch like a hawk.
MATRYĂ“NA. And where is it?
ANĂŤSYA. He doesn't let out. And I can't find out in any way. He hides it now here, now there, and I can't do anything because of AkoulĂna. Idiot though she is, she keeps watch, and is always about. Oh my poor head! I'm bothered to death.
MATRYĂ“NA. Oh, my jewel, if he gives the money to any one but you, you'll never cease regretting it as long as you live! They'll turn you out of house and home without anything. You've been worriting, and worriting all your life with one you don't love, and will have to go a-begging when you are a widow.
ANĂŤSYA. No need to tell me, mother. My heart's that weary, and I don't know what to do. No one to get a bit of advice from. I told NikĂta, but he's frightened of the job. The only thing he did was to tell me yesterday it was hidden under the floor.
MATRYĂ“NA. Well, and did you look there?
ANĂŤSYA. I couldn't. The old man himself was in the room. I notice that sometimes he carries it about on him, and sometimes he hides it.
MATRYĂ“NA. But you, my lass, must remember that if once he gives you the slip there's no getting it right again! [Whispering] Well, and did you give him the strong tea?
ANÍSYA. Oh! oh!… [About to answer, but sees neighbour and stops].
The neighbour (a woman) passes the hut, and listens to a call from within.
NEIGHBOUR [to AnĂsya] I say, AnĂsya! Eh, AnĂsya! There's your old man calling, I think.
ANÍSYA. That's the way he always coughs,—just as if he were screaming. He's getting very bad.
NEIGHBOUR [approaches MatryĂłna] How do you do, granny? Have you come far?
MATRYÓNA. Straight from home, dear. Come to see my son. Brought him some shirts—can't help thinking of these things, you see, when it's one's own child.
NEIGHBOUR. Yes, that's always so. [To AnĂsya] And I was thinking of beginning to bleach the linen, but it is a bit early, no one has begun yet.
ANĂŤSYA. Where's the hurry?
MATRYĂ“NA. Well, and has he had communion?
ANĂŤSYA. Oh dear yes, the priest was here yesterday.
NEIGHBOUR. I had a look at him yesterday. Dearie me! one wonders his body and soul keep together. And, O Lord, the other day he seemed just at his last gasp, so that they laid him under the holy icĂłns.[1] They started lamenting and got ready to lay him out.
ANĂŤSYA. He came to, and creeps about again.
MATRYĂ“NA. Well, and is he to have extreme unction?
ANĂŤSYA. The neighbours advise it. If he lives till to-morrow we'll send for the priest.
NEIGHBOUR. Oh, AnĂsya dear, I should think your heart must be heavy. As the saying goes, “Not he is sick that's ill in bed, but he that sits and waits in dread.”
ANĂŤSYA. Yes, if it were only over one way or other!
NEIGHBOUR. Yes, that's true, dying for a year, it's no joke. You're bound hand and foot like that.
MATRYĂ“NA. Ah, but a widow's lot is also bitter. It's all right as long as one's young, but who'll care for you when you're old? Oh yes, old age is not pleasure. Just look at me. I've not walked very far, and yet am so footsore I don't know how to stand. Where's my son?
ANĂŤSYA. Ploughing. But you
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