{"id":14173,"date":"2025-06-16T05:20:03","date_gmt":"2025-06-16T05:20:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lib.sjp.ac.lk\/englishforfun\/?page_id=14173"},"modified":"2025-06-16T06:17:45","modified_gmt":"2025-06-16T06:17:45","slug":"the-lament","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/lib.sjp.ac.lk\/englishforfun\/undergraduate-level-stories\/the-lament\/","title":{"rendered":"The Lament (Misery)"},"content":{"rendered":"

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_custom_heading text=”The Lament (Misery)” font_container=”tag:h2|text_align:left|color:%23673ab7″ use_theme_fonts=”yes”][vc_column_text css=””]<\/p>\n\n

[\/vc_column_text][vc_column_text css=””]Click Here to Download the MP3<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

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<\/div>[vc_row_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1\/2″][vc_single_image image=”14283″ img_size=”full” css=””][\/vc_column_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1\/2″][vc_column_text css=””]The twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses\u2019 backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent.<\/p>\n

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If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. . .<\/p>\n

His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.<\/p>\n

It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier.<\/p>\n

\u201cSledge to Vyborgskaya!\u201d Iona hears. \u201cSledge!\u201d<\/p>\n

Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo Vyborgskaya,\u201d repeats the officer. \u201cAre you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!\u201d<\/p>\n

In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse\u2019s back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets of. . . .<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere are you shoving, you devil?\u201d Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. \u201cWhere the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know how to drive! Keep to the right,\u201d says the officer angrily.<\/p>\n

A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse\u2019s nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat rascals they all are!\u201d says the officer jocosely. \u201cThey are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse\u2019s feet. They must be doing it on purpose.\u201d<\/p>\n

Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips. . . . Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d inquires the officer.<\/p>\n

Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: \u201cMy son . . . er . . . my son died this week, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cH\u2019m! What did he die of?\u201d<\/p>\n

Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:<\/p>\n

\u201cWho can tell! It must have been from fever. . . . He lay three days in the hospital and then he died. . . . God\u2019s will.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTurn round, you devil!\u201d comes out of the darkness. \u201cHave you gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDrive on! drive on! . . .\u201d says the officer. \u201cWe shan\u2019t get there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!\u201d<\/p>\n

The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box. . . . Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and then another. . . .<\/p>\n

Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their goloshes.<\/p>\n

\u201cCabby, to the Police Bridge!\u201d the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. \u201cThe three of us, . . . twenty kopecks!\u201d<\/p>\n

Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a rouble or whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a fare. . . . The three young men, shoving each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, drive on,\u201d says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling himself and breathing down Iona\u2019s neck. \u201cCut along! What a cap you\u2019ve got, my friend! You wouldn\u2019t find a worse one in all Petersburg. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe-he! . . . he-he! . . .\u201d laughs Iona. \u201cIt\u2019s nothing to boast of!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy head aches,\u201d says one of the tall ones. \u201cAt the Dukmasovs\u2019 yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t make out why you talk such stuff,\u201d says the other tall one angrily. \u201cYou lie like a brute.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStrike me dead, it\u2019s the truth! . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s about as true as that a louse coughs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe-he!\u201d grins Iona. \u201cMe-er-ry gentlemen!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTfoo! the devil take you!\u201d cries the hunchback indignantly. \u201cWill you get on, you old plague, or won\u2019t you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well.\u201d<\/p>\n

Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says:<\/p>\n

\u201cThis week . . . er. . . my. . . er. . . son died!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe shall all die, . . .\u201d says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. \u201cCome, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simply cannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, you give him a little encouragement . . . one in the neck!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you hear, you old plague? I\u2019ll make you smart. If one stands on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old dragon? Or don\u2019t you care a hang what we say? \u201d<\/p>\n

And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe-he! . . . \u201d he laughs. \u201cMerry gentlemen . . . . God give you health!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCabman, are you married?\u201d asks one of the tall ones.<\/p>\n

\u201cI? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth. . . . He-ho-ho!. . . .The grave that is! . . . Here my son\u2019s dead and I am alive. . . . It\u2019s a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door. . . . Instead of coming for me it went for my son. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, thank God! they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is alone and again there is silence for him. . . . The misery which has been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona\u2019s eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery. . . . His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona\u2019s heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight. . . .<\/p>\n

Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat time will it be, friend?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n

\u201cGoing on for ten. . . . Why have you stopped here? Drive on!\u201d<\/p>\n

Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins. . . . He can bear it no longer.<\/p>\n

\u201cBack to the yard!\u201d he thinks. \u201cTo the yard!\u201d<\/p>\n

And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early. . . .<\/p>\n

\u201cI have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even,\u201d he thinks. \u201cThat\u2019s why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work, . . . who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket.<\/p>\n

\u201cWant a drink?\u201d Iona asks him.<\/p>\n

\u201cSeems so.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMay it do you good. . . . But my son is dead, mate. . . . Do you hear? This week in the hospital. . . . It\u2019s a queer business. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself. . . . Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet . . . . He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation. . . . He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. . . . He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son\u2019s clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country. . . . And he wants to talk about her too. . . . Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament. . . . It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s go out and have a look at the mare,\u201d Iona thinks. \u201cThere is always time for sleep. . . . You\u2019ll have sleep enough, no fear. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather. . . . He cannot think about his son when he is alone. . . . To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish. . . .<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you munching?\u201d Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. \u201cThere, munch away, munch away. . . . Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay. . . . Yes, . . . I have grown too old to drive. . . . My son ought to be driving, not I. . . . He was a real cabman. . . . He ought to have lived. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s how it is, old girl. . . . Kuzma Ionitch is gone. . . . He said good-by to me. . . . He went and died for no reason. . . . Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt. . . . And all at once that same little colt went and died. . . . You\u2019d be sorry, wouldn\u2019t you? . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master\u2019s hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.<\/p>\n

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[vc_row][vc_column][vc_custom_heading text=”The Lament (Misery)” font_container=”tag:h2|text_align:left|color:%23673ab7″ use_theme_fonts=”yes”][vc_column_text css=””] [\/vc_column_text][vc_column_text css=””]Click Here to Download the MP3 [\/vc_column_text][vc_row_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1\/2″][vc_single_image image=”14283″ img_size=”full” css=””][\/vc_column_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1\/2″][vc_column_text css=””]The twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses\u2019 backs, shoulders, caps. Iona […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":13779,"parent":14001,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-14173","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nThe Lament (Misery) - English for Fun<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/lib.sjp.ac.lk\/englishforfun\/undergraduate-level-stories\/the-lament\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Lament (Misery) - English for Fun\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"[vc_row][vc_column][vc_custom_heading text=”The Lament (Misery)” font_container=”tag:h2|text_align:left|color:%23673ab7″ use_theme_fonts=”yes”][vc_column_text css=””] [\/vc_column_text][vc_column_text css=””]Click Here to Download the MP3 [\/vc_column_text][vc_row_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1\/2″][vc_single_image image=”14283″ img_size=”full” css=””][\/vc_column_inner][vc_column_inner width=”1\/2″][vc_column_text css=””]The twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses\u2019 backs, shoulders, caps. 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Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses\u2019 backs, shoulders, caps. 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