Minds In Ferment

Anton Chekhov

THE earth was like an oven. The afternoon sun blazed with such energy that even the

thermometer hanging in the excise officer's room lost its head: it ran up to 112.5 and

stopped there, irresolute. The inhabitants streamed with perspiration like overdriven horses,

and were too lazy to mop their faces.

Two of the inhabitants were walking along the market-place in front of the closely shuttered

houses. One was Potcheshihin, the local treasury clerk, and the other was Optimov, the

agent, for many years a correspondent of the Son of the Fatherland newspaper. They walked

in silence, speechless from the heat. Optimov felt tempted to find fault with the local

. . . If one were to go and take a shot at them, and if one were to pick them up . . . and if . . .

They have settled in the Father Prebendary's garden!"

"Oh no! They are not in the Father Prebendary's, they are in the Father Deacon's. If you did

have a shot at them from here you wouldn't kill anything. Fine shot won't carry so far; it

loses its force. And why should you kill them, anyway? They're birds destructive of the

fruit, that's true; still, they're fowls of the air, works of the Lord. The starling sings, you

know. . . . And what does it sing, pray? A song of praise. . . . 'All ye fowls of the air, praise

ye the Lord.' No. I do believe they have settled in the Father Prebendary's garden."

Three old pilgrim women, wearing bark shoes and carrying wallets, passed noiselessly by

the speakers. Looking enquiringly at the gentlemen who were for some unknown reason

Seeing the attention directed upon his abode and wondering what people were staring at, he

stopped, and he, too, as well as the sexton, began looking upwards to find out.

"The father is going to a service somewhere, I suppose," said Potcheshihin. "The Lord be

his succour!"

Some workmen from Purov's factory, who had been bathing in the river, passed between

the friends and the priest. Seeing the latter absorbed in contemplation of the heavens and

the pilgrim women, too, standing motionless with their eyes turned upwards, they stood still

and stared in the same direction.

A small boy leading a blind beggar and a peasant, carrying a tub of stinking fish to throw

into the market-place, did the same.

"There must be something the matter, I should think," said Potcheshihin, "a fire or

something. But there's no sign of smoke anywhere. Hey! Kuzma!" he shouted to the

peasant, "what's the matter?"

The peasant made some reply, but Potcheshihin and Optimov did not catch it. Sleepy-

"Where do you see the fire? What fire? Pass on, gentlemen! I ask you civilly!"

"It must be a fire indoors!"

"Asks us civilly and keeps poking with his elbows. Keep your hands to yourself! Though

you are a head constable, you have no sort of right to make free with your fists!"

"He's trodden on my corn! Ah! I'll crush you!"

"Crushed? Who's crushed? Lads! a man's been crushed!

"What's the meaning of this crowd? What do you want?"

"A man's been crushed, please your honour!"

"Where? Pass on! I ask you civilly! I ask you civilly, you blockheads!"

"You may shove a peasant, but you daren't touch a gentleman! Hands off!"

cheek, he's from Purov's works."

"Don't put down the men from Purov's. It's Purov's birthday to-morrow."

The starlings rose in a black cloud from the Father Prebendary's garden, but Potcheshihin

and Optimov did not notice them. They stood staring into the air, wondering what could

have attracted such a crowd, and what it was looking at.

Akim Danilitch appeared. Still munching and wiping his lips, he cut his way into the crowd,

bellowing:

"Firemen, be ready! Disperse! Mr. Optimov, disperse, or it'll be the worse for you! Instead

of writing all kinds of things about decent people in the papers, you had better try to behave

yourself more conformably! No good ever comes of reading the papers!"

and I will allow no one to make reflections upon literature! though, as is the duty of a

"Don't answer me! Go and get some! Look sharp!"

"We've nothing to get it in, your honour. The major has taken the fire-brigade horses to

drive his aunt to the station.

"Disperse! Stand back, damnation take you! Is that to your taste? Put him down, the devil!"

"I've lost my pencil, please your honour!"

The crowd grew larger and larger. There is no telling what proportions it might have

reached if the new organ just arrived from Moscow had not fortunately begun playing in the

tavern close by. Hearing their favourite tune, the crowd gasped and rushed off to the tavern.

So nobody ever knew why the crowd had assembled, and Potcheshihin and Optimov had by

now forgotten the existence of the starlings who were innocently responsible for the

proceedings.

An hour later the town was still and silent again, and only a solitary figure was to be seen --

the fireman pacing round and round on the watch-tower.

express. The efficiency of Krushensky and of the major of the fire brigade are beyond all

praise! I am proud of such devoted servants of our country! As for me, I did all that a weak

man could do, whose only desire is the welfare of his neighbour; and sitting now in the

bosom of my family, with tears in my eyes I thank Him Who spared us bloodshed! In

absence of evidence, the guilty parties remain in custody, but I propose to release them in a

week or so. It was their ignorance that led them astray!"