If he doesn't come by evening time, we go our own ways, but if he managed to unstick his eyelids the Golubchiks will get their pay-So you stand and stand-and suddenly you make it to the window. You're the one who's lucky, it's your pay, so you're the one who has to bend over. And why do you have to bend over? Because the tiny, narrow little window is right smack at the level of your belly button. And that's because the Murza on the other side is sitting on a stool, to make it comfortable for him. He does it that way so we bow down to him, show our respect, so the body is humbled. After all, if you stand up straight when you're counting your chits, who knows what ideas you might get. Like, why so few? or why are they torn? or did he give me all of them? or did he keep a handful, the damned creep? and all kinds of Freethinking. But when you lean over at the waist, your head turned to the side so you can see what's going on, and your arm is stuck waaaayyy into the window slot-it's deep-and your fingers are spread out to grab the chits, and your shoulder aches -well, then you get a feeling for what government service means, its power and glory, and authority on earth, for all time, amen.
So if you're in luck again, you grab the chits. If you've got short arms, of course, or an ailment in your joints, then you'll never grab hold of ' em all. There's a wise proverb about that:
His arms are short. The other Golubchiks are pushing from behind, rushing you, shoving, they're plastered to your back, breathing down your neck. It's hard. Benedikt, now, he's young, he can fend for himself, hold his chits tight, and pull his arm back out of the window fast enough, only scraping his knuckles a bit, but that's nothing, it happens all the time. If you put a warm compress on at night and wrap the hand up, the blood will thicken. And by next payday, just wait and see, new skin will grow over it.
When you've grabbed your chits from the government, then you have to stand in another line to pay taxes. That's what they say, go stand in line, but who would do it of their own free will? So of course there's a guard with a poleax who herds the Golubchiks along into another hall, hup two, line up, one-two, left right, and stone chains block the way on every side: that's the way it's supposed to be.
The rest is all the same, only the Murza in the window isn't a paymaster, he's a tax collector, and the window is wide and spacious-a sleigh could get through.
Things go quicker here-you can finish in four hours. Count out six and a half chits to the Murza and hand them over. But you can't tear a chit in half, can you? Who needs it torn? So that means you hand over seven. By the end of the day these Murzas have thousands of extra chits. So they all take some for themselves, to buy some food, or to add a floor to the terem, or a balcony, or to get a fur coat, or a new sleigh.
That's why he's a Murza, the tax collector.
People who don't have any government know-how, just silly thoughts, like Nikita Ivanich, for instance, they say: Why can't one and the same Murza give you your salary and keep back the taxes? So things go faster.
Jeez, what idiots! You just have to laugh at them! Why? Because the Paymaster Murza is a Paymaster Murza, and the taxes are collected by the Tax Collector Murza! How could one Murza both give and take? Huh? Why would he even bother coming to work with that kind of money around? He could just lock himself in the house, eat and drink, or hop in his sleigh and head off hunting, and that'd be the last you'd see of him, right?
Anyone would do the same.
If the Tax Murza weren't sitting in his izba collecting money, would the Paymaster ever stick his nose out the door? Of course not, the drunken bastard, he'd never remember that the twentieth is payday or that the fifth is advance day!
The Tax Murza's probably been bugging him since last night: Where are the chits? Did he spend them all? Have my interests been harmed? Are the baskets tied tight, did the mice get in them? That happens too, then they don't pay us. They just say: they're all gone, we don't know where they got to, wait till next time. And we wait.
But let's say everything goes all right, you get your pay, you've got your chits in hand. With these chits, which some people call "rubles," or "greenbarks," or "cash," you can't buy a darned thing, of course. If there were a lot of them, then maybe. Then you could buy something. But you can't. Only lunch if you're lucky.
Mice are a whole different story. There are lots of them, they're fresh every day, you can catch them if you've got the time, and trade them as much as you like, help yourself. No one will say a word. Of course, there's a tax on mice too, or duty- and there's a house tax, pillow tax, stove tax, so many you can't count them all, but that's another story.
Benedikt had his chits in hand, so he was halfway there. Now he had an idea: buy lunch in the Food Izba with those chits, but don't eat the bread, save it, take it home and feed the mice. Crumble up a little piece for them every day-scads of the lovely little critters will come running.
And this time everything worked out! The plan worked! All night Benedikt caught mice and by morning two hundred seventy-two of them dangled from his string-careful don't break it-gray, chubby cheeks, silky fur! Well, maybe not two hundred seventy-two, but one hundred fifty-six! A lot! He lost track counting. And why such success?-because everything was thought through ahead of time, everything was planned carefully, with real smarts.
Goodness gracious! How marvelous is the mind of man! Who could sing a song to it, a loud, happy song with hoots and hollers, the kind of song where you go out on a hummock or a hill, plant your feet firm, spread your arms wide, and stomp! – taking care not to fall, of course-stomp, I say! With a hey and a ho! And a fee-fi-fiddle-dee-dee! There was a tailor had a mouse, hi diddle um cum fee-doe. They lived together in one house, hi diddle um cum tarum tantrum, hi diddle um cum over the lee. And the greengrass grows all around all around, and the green-grass grows all around!
Not quite like that, but something rakish, joyous, so that the song jumps from your breast, so that your head fills with happiness, so that the happiness bubbles between your ears like soup in a pot and tickles the nape of your neck. And a knickknack paddiwack, give the mouse a crumb! This Golubchik will have some fun. So that the whole settlement, the whole world can hear: Praise be to the reason, the season, the reckoning and the beckoning of man. Hooray for the head! Hooray!!
Fyodor Kuzmich himself, Glorybe, probably never saw such a bunch of mice in his life, and isn't he the greatest hunting master of all? Isn't he a poet, a real buff, a gourmand?
Three blind mice, three blind mice. See how they run, see how they run. They all run after Fyodor Kuzmich Who cut off their tails without a hitch.
Benedikt didn't sleep all night. He was so happy he couldn't sleep. His knees felt a little weak and his back ached a bit. But otherwise-he wasn't the least bit sleepy. Now it was time to take his riches to market.
The market is wonderful in the morning. A fairer sight you never did see! The snow is cleared with shovels, flattened down like a floor. If it's very, very cold, then the snow is all blue, it sparkles. Of course, once the Golubchiks run in they'll mess it up, ruin it, toss their butts on it, but it's still beautiful. If the weather's getting warmer, if there's a bit of a thaw-then it's like an ice clearing underfoot and the snowdrifts next to the fence are sunken and black, spongy, with toothy crusts. It smells of spring.
What a crowd-ooooo-eeee! It's packed to the gills. Everyone wants to trade something. Everyone's lugging goods.
There are rows of salted and pickled food: all the stands are packed with barrels, clay pots, buckets, and tubs, taste if you like, but don't grab too much, or you'll get your ears boxed. If the past summer's harvest was good, the stands sometimes reach to the horizon, and the last far-off Golubchik looks like a bug in the forest: distant, teeny tiny, waving his arms, shouting, hawking his marshrooms. He thinks he's a big shot too, but from this end it looks like you could smush him with your foot.