When he had gone away the lawyer examined the candelabra, fingered it all over, and then, like the doctor, racked his brains over the question what to do with the present.

“It’s a fine thing,” he mused, “and it would be a pity to throw it away and improper to keep it.  The very best thing would be to make a present of it to someone. . . .  I know what!  I’ll take it this evening to Shashkin, the comedian.  The rascal is fond of such things, and by the way it is his benefit tonight.”

No sooner said than done.  In the evening the candelabra, carefully wrapped up, was duly carried to Shashkin’s.  The whole evening the comic actor’s dressing-room was besieged by men coming to admire the present; the dressing-room was filled with the hum of enthusiasm and laughter like the neighing of horses.  If one of the actresses approached the door and asked:  “May I come in?” the comedian’s husky voice was heard at once:  “No, no, my dear, I am not dressed!”

After the performance the comedian shrugged his shoulders, flung up his hands and said:  “Well what am I to do with the horrid thing?  Why, I live in a private flat!  Actresses come and see me!  It’s not a photograph that you can put in a drawer!”

“You had better sell it, sir,” the hairdresser who was disrobing the actor advised him.  “There’s an old woman living about here who buys antique bronzes.  Go and enquire for Madame Smirnov . . . everyone knows her.”

The actor followed his advice. . . .  Two days later the doctor was sitting in his consulting-room, and with his finger to his brow was meditating on the acids of the bile.  All at once the door opened and Sasha Smirnov flew into the room.  He was smiling, beaming, and his whole figure was radiant with happiness.  In his hands he held something wrapped up in newspaper.

“Doctor!” he began breathlessly, “imagine my delight!  Happily for you we have succeeded in picking up the pair to your candelabra!  Mamma is so happy. . . .  I am the only son of my mother, you saved my life. . . .”

And Sasha, all of a tremor with gratitude, set the candelabra before the doctor.  The doctor opened his mouth, tried to say something, but said nothing:  he could not speak.

A JOKE

IT was a bright winter midday. . . .  There was a sharp snapping frost and the curls on Nadenka’s temples and the down on her upper lip were covered with silvery frost.  She was holding my arm and we were standing on a high hill.  From where we stood to the ground below there stretched a smooth sloping descent in which the sun was reflected as in a looking-glass.  Beside us was a little sledge lined with bright red cloth.

“Let us go down, Nadyezhda Petrovna!” I besought her.  “Only once!  I assure you we shall be all right and not hurt.”

But Nadenka was afraid.  The slope from her little goloshes to the bottom of the ice hill seemed to her a terrible, immensely deep abyss.  Her spirit failed her, and she held her breath as she looked down, when I merely suggested her getting into the sledge, but what would it be if she were to risk flying into the abyss!  She would die, she would go out of her mind.