ANYONE who has chanced to pass from Bolkhov District into Zhizdra District must have been impressed by the striking difference between the race of people in the province of Orel and the population of the province of Kaluga. The peasant of Orel is not tall, is bent in figure, sullen and suspicious in his looks; he lives in wretched little hovels of aspen-wood, labours as a serf in the fields, and engages in no kind of trading, is miserably fed, and wears bast shoes. The rent-paying peasant of Kaluga lives in roomy huts of pine-wood; he is tall, bold, and cheerful in his looks, neat and clean of countenance; he carries on a trade in butter and tar, and on holidays he wears high-boots. The village of the Orel province (we are speaking now of the eastern part of the province) is usually situated in the midst of ploughed fields, near a ravine which has been converted into a filthy pool. Except for a few of the ever-accommodating willows and two or three gaunt birch-trees, you do not see a tree for a mile round; hut is huddled up against hut, their roofs crudely thatched with rotting straw. . . . The villages of Kaluga, on the contrary, are generally surrounded by forest; the huts stand more freely, are more upright, and have boarded roofs; the gates fasten closely, the hedge is not broken down nor trailing about; there are no gaps to invite the visits of the passing pig. . . . And things are much better in the Kaluga province for the hunter. In the Orel province the last of the woods and copses will have disappeared five years hence, and there is no trace of moorland left; in Kaluga, on the contrary, the moors extend over tens, the forest over hundreds of miles, and that splendid bird, the grouse, is still extant there; there is an abundance of the friendly great snipe, and the loud-clapping partridge cheers and startles the sportsman and his dog by its abrupt upward flight.

On a visit to Zhizdra District in search of sport, I met in the fields a petty landlord of the Kaluga province called Polutikin, and made his acquaintance. He was an enthusiastic hunter; it follows, therefore, that he was an excellent fellow. He was liable, indeed, to a few weaknesses: he used, for instance, to pay his addresses to every unmarried heiress in the province, and when he had been refused her hand and house, broken-hearted he confided his sorrows to all his friends and acquaintances, and continued to shower offerings of sour peaches and other raw produce from his garden upon the young lady's relatives; he was fond of repeating one and the same anecdote, which, in spite of Mr. Polutikin's appreciation of its merits, had certainly never amused anyone; he admired the works of Akim Nakhimov and the novel Pinna; he stammered; he called his dog Astronomer; instead of "however" said "howsomever" and had established in his household a French system of cookery, the secret of which consisted, according to his cook's interpretation, in a complete transformation of the natural taste of each dish; in this artiste's hands meat assumed the flavour of fish, fish of mushrooms, macaroni of gunpowder; to make up for this, not a single carrot went into the soup without taking the shape of a rhombus or a trapezium. But, with the exception of these few and insignificant failings, Mr. Polutikin was, as has been said already, an excellent fellow.

On the first day of my acquaintance with Mr. Polutikin, he invited me to stay the night at his house.

"It will be five miles farther to my house," he added; "it's a long way to walk; let us first go to Khor's." (The reader must excuse my omitting his stammer.)

"Who is Khor?"

"A peasant of mine. He is quite close by here."

We went in that direction. In a well-cultivated clearing in the middle of the forest rose Khor's solitary homestead. It consisted of several pine-wood buildings, linked by plank fences; a porch ran along the front of the principal building, supported on slender posts. We went in. We were met by a young lad of twenty, tall and good-looking.

"Ah, Fedya! is Khor at home?" Mr. Polutikin asked him.

"No. Khor has gone into town," answered the lad, smiling and showing a row of snow-white teeth. "You would like the little cart brought out?"

"Yes, my boy, the little cart. And bring us some kvas."

We went into the cottage. Not a single cheap print from Suzdal was pasted up on the clean boards of the walls; in the corner, before the heavy, holy image in its silver setting, a lamp was burning; the table of linden-wood had been lately planed and scrubbed; between the joists and in the cracks of the window-frames there were no lively Prussian beetles running about, nor gloomy cockroaches in hiding. The young lad soon reappeared with a great white pitcher filled with excellent kvas, a huge slice of wheaten bread, and a dozen salted cucumbers in a wooden bowl. He put all these provisions on the table, and then, leaning with his back against the door, began to gaze with a smiling face at us. We had not had time to finish eating our lunch when the cart was already rattling before the doorstep. We went out. A curly-headed, rosy-cheeked boy of fifteen was sitting in the cart as driver, and with difficulty holding in the well-fed piebald horse. Round the cart stood six young giants, very like one another and Fedya.

"All of these Khor's sons!" said Polutikin.

"These are all Khorki" (i.e., polecats), put in Fedya, who had come after us on to the step; "but that's not all of them: Potap is in the wood, and Sidor has gone with old Khor to the town. Look out, Vasya," he went on, turning to the coachman; "drive like the wind; you are driving the master. Only mind what you're about over the ruts, and easy a little; don't tip the cart over and upset the master's stomach!"

The other Khorki smiled at Fedya's sally.

"Lift Astronomer in!" Mr. Polutikin called majestically. Fedya, not without amusement, lifted the dog, who wore a forced smile, into the air, and laid him on the bottom of the cart. Vasya let the horse go. We rolled away.

"And here is my counting-house," said Mr. Polutikin suddenly to me, pointing to a little low-pitched house. "Shall we go in?"

"By all means."

"It is no longer used," he observed, going in; "still, it is worth looking at."

The counting-house consisted of two empty rooms. The caretaker, a one-eyed old man, ran out of the yard.

"Good day, Minyaich," said Mr. Polutikin; "why don't you have the water ready?"

The one-eyed old man disappeared, and at once returned with a bottle of water and two glasses. "Taste it," Polutikin said to me; "it is my splendid spring water." We drank off a glass each, while the old man bowed low.

"Come, now, I think we can go on," said my new friend. "In that counting-house I sold the merchant Alliluyev four acres of forest-land for a good price."

We took our seats in the cart, and in half an hour we had reached the court of the manor house.

"Tell me, please," I asked Polutikin at supper, "why does Khor live apart from your other peasants?"

"Well, this is why: he is a clever peasant. Twenty-five years ago his cottage was burnt down; so he came up to my late father and said: 'Allow me, Nikolai Kuzmich,' says he, 'to settle in your forest, on the bog. I will pay you a good rent.' 'But what do you want to settle on the bog for?' 'Oh, I want to; only, your honour, Nikolai Kuzmich, be so good as not to claim any labour from me, but fix a rent as you think best.' 'Fifty rubles a year!' 'Very well.' 'But no arrears, mind!' 'Of course, no arrears'; and so he settled on the bog. Since then they have called him Khor" (i.e., polecat).

"Well, and has he grown rich?" I inquired.

"Yes, he has grown rich. Now he pays me a round hundred for rent, and I shall raise it again, I dare say. I have said to him more than once, 'Buy your freedom, Khor; come, buy your freedom. . . .' But he declares, the rogue, that he can't; has no money, he says. . . . As though that were likely. . . ."

The next day, directly after our morning tea, we started out hunting again. As we were driving through the village, Mr. Polutikin ordered the coachman to stop at a low-pitched cottage and called loudly, "Kalinich!"

"Coming, your honour, coming," sounded a voice from the yard; "I am tying on my shoes."

We went on at a walk; outside the village a man of about forty overtook us. He was tall and thin, with a small and erect head. It was Kalinich. His good-humoured swarthy face, somewhat pitted, pleased me from the first glance. Kalinich (as I learnt afterwards) went hunting every day with his master, carried his bag, and sometimes also his gun, noted where game was to be found, fetched water, built shanties, and gathered strawberries, and ran behind the droshky; Mr. Polutikin could not stir a step without him. Kalinich was a man of the merriest and gentlest disposition; he was constantly singing to himself in a low voice and looking carelessly about him. He spoke a little through his nose, with a laughing twinkle in his light-blue eyes, and he had a habit of plucking at his scanty, wedge-shaped beard with his hand. He walked not rapidly, but with long strides, leaning lightly on a long thin staff. He addressed me more than once during the day, and he waited on me without obsequiousness, but he looked after his master as if he were a child. When the unbearable heat drove us at midday to seek shelter, he took us to his bee-garden in the very heart of the forest. There Kalinich opened the little hut for us, which was hung round with bunches of dry scented herbs. He made us comfortable on some dry hay, and then put a kind of bag of network over his head, took a knife, a little pot, and a smouldering stick, and went to the hive to cut out some honeycomb for us. We had a draught of spring water after the warm transparent honey, and then dropped asleep to the sound of the monotonous humming of the bees and the rustling chatter of the leaves.

A slight gust of wind awakened me. . . . I opened my eyes and saw Kalinich: he was sitting on the threshold of the half-opened door, carving a spoon with his knife. I gazed a long time admiring his face, as sweet and clear as an evening sky. Mr. Polutikin, too, woke up. We did not get up at once. After our long walk and our deep sleep it was pleasant to lie without moving in the hay; we felt weary and languid in body, our faces were in a slight glow of warmth, our eyes were closed in delicious laziness. At last we got up and set off on our wanderings again till evening.

At supper I began again to talk of Khor and Kalinich. "Kalinich is a good peasant," Mr. Polutikin told me; "he is a willing and useful peasant; but he can't farm his land properly; I am always taking him away from it. He goes out hunting every day with me. . . . You can judge for yourself how his farming must fare."

I agreed with him, and we went to bed.

The next day Mr. Polutikin was obliged to go to town about some business with his neighbour Pichukov. This neighbour Pichukov had ploughed over some land of Polutikin's, and had flogged a peasant woman of his on this same piece of land. I went out hunting alone, and before evening I turned into Khor's house. On the threshold of the cottage I was met by an old man--bald, short, broad-shouldered, and stout--Khor himself. I looked with curiosity at the man. The cut of his face recalled Socrates: there was the same high, knobby forehead, the same little eyes, the same snub nose. We went into the cottage together. The same Fedya brought me some milk and rye bread. Khor sat down on a bench and, quietly stroking his curly beard, entered into conversation with me. He seemed to know his own value; he spoke and moved slowly; from time to time a chuckle came from between his long moustaches.

We discussed the sowing, the crops, the peasant's life. . . . He always seemed to agree with me; only afterwards I had a sense of awkwardness and felt I was talking foolishly. . . . In this way our conversation was rather curious. Khor, doubtless through caution, expressed himself very obscurely at times. . . . Here is a specimen of our talk.

"Tell me, Khor," I said to him, "why don't you buy your freedom from your master?"

"And what would I buy my freedom for? Now I know my master, and I know my rent. . . . We have a good master."

"It's always better to be free," I remarked. Khor gave me a dubious look.

"Surely," he said.

"Well, then, why don't you buy your freedom?"

Khor shook his head.

"What would you have me buy it with, your honour?"

"Oh, come, now, old man!"

"If Khor were thrown among free men," he continued in an undertone, as though to himself, "everyone without a beard would be a better man than Khor."

"Then shave your beard."

"What is a beard? A beard is grass: one can cut it."

"Well, then?"

"But Khor will be a merchant straightaway; and merchants have a fine life, and they have beards."

"Why, do you do a little trading, too?" I asked him.

"We trade in a little butter and a little tar. . . . Would your honour like the cart put to?"

"You're a close man and keep a tight rein on your tongue," I thought to myself. "No," I said aloud, "I don't want the cart; I shall be hunting near your homestead tomorrow, and if you will let me, I will stay the night in your hay-barn."

"You are very welcome. But will you be comfortable in the barn? I will tell the women to lay a sheet and put you a pillow. . . . Hey, women!" he cried, getting up from his place; "here, women!. . . And you, Fedya, go with them. Women, you know, are foolish folk."

A quarter of an hour later Fedya conducted me with a lantern to the barn. I threw myself down on the fragrant hay; my dog curled himself up at my feet; Fedya wished me good-night; the door creaked and slammed to. For rather a long time I could not get to sleep. A cow came up to the door and breathed heavily twice; the dog growled at her with dignity; a pig passed by, grunting pensively; a horse somewhere near began to munch the hay and snort. . . . At last I fell asleep.

At sunrise Fedya awakened me. This brisk, lively young man pleased me; and, from what I could see, he was old Khor's favourite, too. They used to banter one another in a very friendly way. The old man came to meet me. Whether because I had spent the night under his roof, or for some other reason, Khor certainly treated me far more cordially than the day before.

"The samovar is ready," he told me with a smile; "let us go and have tea."

We took our seats at the table. A robust-looking peasant woman, one of his daughters-in-law, brought in a jug of milk. All his sons came one after another into the cottage.

"What a fine set of fellows you have!" I remarked to the old man.

"Yes," he said, breaking off a tiny piece of sugar with his teeth; "they have no cause to complain of me and my old woman, seemingly."

"And do they all live with you?"

"Yes; they choose to, themselves, and so they live here."

"And are they all married?"

"Here's one not married, the scamp!" he answered, pointing to Fedya, who was leaning as before against the door. "Vasya, he's still too young; he can wait."

"And why should I get married?" retorted Fedya; "I'm very well off as I am. What do I want a wife for? To squabble with, eh?"

"Now then, you . . . ah, I know you! You wear silver rings. . . You'd always be after the girls up at the manor house. . . . 'Have done, do, for shame!' " the old man went on, mimicking the servant girls. "Ah, I know you, you're a fine gentleman!"

"But what's the good of a peasant woman?"

"A peasant woman--is a labourer," said Khor seriously; "she is the peasant's servant."

"And what do I want with a labourer?"

"I dare say, you'd like to play with the fire and let others burn their fingers; we know the sort of chap you are."

"Well, marry me off, then. Well, why don't you answer?"

"There, that's enough, that's enough, giddy pate! You see we're disturbing the gentleman. I'll marry you off, depend on it. . . . And you, your honour, don't be vexed with him; you see, he's only a baby; he's not had time to get much sense."

Fedya shook his head.

"Is Khor at home?" sounded a well-known voice; and Kalinich came into the cottage with a bunch of wild strawberries in his hands, which he had gathered for his friend Khor. The old man gave him a warm welcome. I looked with surprise at Kalinich. I confess I had not expected such a delicate attention on the part of a peasant.

That day I started out to hunt four hours later than usually, and the following three days I spent at Khor's. My new friends interested me. I don't know how I had gained their confidence, but they began to talk to me without constraint. The two friends were not at all alike. Khor was a positive, practical man, with a head for management, a rationalist; Kalinich, on the other hand, belonged to the order of idealists and dreamers, of romantic and enthusiastic spirits. Khor had a grasp of actuality--that is to say, he looked ahead, had saved a little money, kept on good terms with his master and the other authorities; Kalinich wore shoes of bast, and lived from hand to mouth. Khor had reared a large family, who were obedient and united; Kalinich had once had a wife, whom he had been afraid of, and he had had no children. Khor knew Mr. Polutikin inside out; Kalinich revered his master. Khor loved Kalinich and took protecting care of him; Kalinich loved and respected Khor. Khor spoke little, chuckled, and thought for himself; Kalinich expressed himself with warmth, though he had not the flow of fine language of a smart factory hand. But Kalinich was endowed with powers which even Khor recognized; he could charm away hemorrhages, fits, madness, and worms; his bees always did well; he had a light hand. Khor asked him before me to introduce a newly bought horse to his stable, and with scrupulous gravity Kalinich carried out the old sceptic's request. Kalinich was in closer contact with nature; Khor with men and society. Kalinich had no liking for argument, and believed in everything blindly; Khor had reached even an ironical attitude towards life. He had seen and experienced much, and I learnt a good deal from him. For instance, from his account I learnt that every year before mowing-time a small, peculiar-looking cart makes its appearance in the villages. In this cart sits a man in a long coat, who sells scythes. He charges one ruble twenty-five kopeks--a ruble and a half in notes--for ready money; four rubles if he gives credit. All the peasants, of course, take the scythes from him on credit. In two or three weeks he reappears and asks for the money. As the peasant has only just cut his oats, he is able to pay him; he goes with the merchant to the tavern, and there the debt is settled. Some landowners conceived the idea of buying the scythes themselves for ready money and letting the peasants have them on credit for the same price; but the peasants seemed dissatisfied, even dejected; they had been deprived of the pleasure of tapping the scythe and listening to the ring of the metal, turning it over and over in their hands, and telling the scoundrelly city-trader twenty times over, "Eh, my friend, you won't take me in with your scythe!"

The same tricks are played over the sale of sickles, only with this difference that the women have a hand in the business then, and they sometimes drive the trader himself to the necessity--for their good, of course--of beating them. But the women suffer most ill-treatment through the following circumstances. Contractors for the supply of stuff for paper factories employ for the purchase of rags a special class of men, who in some districts are called "eagles." Such an "eagle" receives two hundred rubles in bank-notes from the merchant, and starts off in search of his prey. But, unlike the noble bird from whom he has derived his name, he does not swoop down openly and boldly upon it; quite the contrary, the "eagle" has recourse to deceit and cunning. He leaves his cart somewhere in a thicket near the village, and goes himself to the back-yards and back-doors, like someone casually passing, or simply a tramp. The women scent out his proximity and steal out to meet him. The bargain is hurriedly concluded. For a few copper half-pence a woman gives the "eagle" not only every useless rag she has, but often even her husband's shirt and her own petticoat. Of late the women have thought it profitable to steal even from themselves, and to sell hemp in the same way--a great extension and improvement of the business for the "eagles"! To meet this, however, the peasants have grown more cunning in their turn, and on the slightest suspicion, on the most distant rumour of the approach of an "eagle," they have prompt and sharp recourse to corrective and preventive measures. And, after all, wasn't it disgraceful? To sell the hemp was the men's business--and they certainly do sell it--not in the town (they would have to drag it there themselves), but to traders who come for it, who, for want of scales, reckon forty handfuls to the pood--and you know what a Russian's hand is and what it can hold, especially when he "tries his best"!

As I had had no experience and was not country-bred I heard plenty of such descriptions. But Khor was not always the narrator; he questioned me too about many things. He learned that I had been in foreign parts, and his curiosity was aroused. . . . Kalinich was not behind him in curiosity; but he was more attracted by descriptions of nature, of mountains and waterfalls, extraordinary buildings and great cities; Khor was interested in questions of government and administration. He went through everything in order. "Well, is that with them as it is with us, or different?. . . Come, tell us, your honour, how is it?" "Ah, Lord, Thy will be done!" Kalinich would exclaim while I told my story; Khor did not speak, but frowned with his bushy eyebrows, only observing at times, "That wouldn't do for us; still, it's a good thing-- it's right."

All his inquiries I cannot recount, and it is unnecessary; but from our conversations I carried away one conviction, which my readers will certainly not anticipate . . . the conviction that Peter the Great was pre-eminently a Russian--Russian, above all, in his reforms. The Russian is so convinced of his own strength and powers that he is not afraid of putting himself to severe strain; he takes little interest in his past, and looks boldly forward. What is good he likes, what is sensible he will have, and where it comes from he does not care. His vigorous sense is fond of ridiculing the thin theorizing of the German; but, in Khor's words, "The Germans are curious folk," and he was ready to learn from them a little. Thanks to his exceptional position, his practical independence, Khor told me a great deal which you could not pry or--as the peasants say--grind with a grindstone out of any other man. He did, in fact, understand his position. Talking with Khor, I for the first time listened to the simple, wise discourse of the Russian peasant. His knowledge was, in his own opinion, wide enough; but he could not read, though Kalinich could.

"That ne'er-do-well has school learning," observed Khor, "and his bees never die in the winter."

"But haven't you had your children taught to read?"

Khor was silent a minute. "Fedya can read."

"And the others?"

"The others can't."

"And why?"

The old man made no answer, and changed the subject. However, sensible as he was, he had many prejudices and crotchets. He despised women, for instance, from the depths of his soul, and in his merry moments he amused himself by jesting at their expense. His wife was a cross old woman who lay all day long on the stove, incessantly grumbling and scolding; her sons paid no attention to her, but she kept her daughters-in-law in the fear of God. Very significantly, the mother-in-law sings in the Russian ballad: "What a son art thou to me! What a head of a household! Thou dost not beat thy wife; thou dost not beat thy young wife. . . ." I once attempted to intercede for the daughters-in-law, and tried to rouse Khor's sympathy; but he met me with the tranquil rejoinder, "Why did I want to trouble about such . . . trifles; let the women fight it out. . . . If anybody tries to tear them apart, it only makes it worse . . . and it's not worth dirtying one's hands over."

Sometimes the spiteful old woman got down from the stove and called the yard dog out of the hay, crying, "Here, here, doggie"; and then beat it on its thin back with the poker, or she would stand in the porch and "snarl," as Khor expressed it, at everyone that passed. She stood in awe of her husband though, and would return, at his command, to her place on the stove, it was specially curious to hear Khor and Kalinich dispute whenever Mr. Polutikin was touched upon.

"There, Khor, do let him alone," Kalinich would say.

"But why doesn't he order some boots for you?" Khor retorted.

"Eh? boots! . . . what do I want with boots? I am a peasant."

"Well, so am I a peasant, but look!" And Khor lifted up his leg and showed Kalinich a boot which looked as if it had been cut out of a mammoth's hide.

"As if you were like one of us!" replied Kalinich.

"Well, at least he might pay for your bast shoes; you go out hunting with him; you must use a pair a day."

"He does give me something for bast shoes."

"Yes, he gave you two coppers last year."

Kalinich turned away in vexation, but Khor went off into a chuckle, during which his little eyes completely disappeared.

Kalinich sang rather sweetly and played a little on the balalaika. Khor was never weary of listening to him: all at once he would let his head drop on one side and begin to chime in, in a lugubrious voice. He was particularly fond of the song, "Ah, my fate, my fate!" Fedya never lost an opportunity of making fun of his father, saying, "What are you so mournful about, old man?" But Khor leaned his cheek on his hand, closed his eyes, and continued to mourn over his fate. . . . Yet at other times there could not be a more active man; he was always busy over something--mending the cart, patching up the fence, looking after the harness. He did not insist on a very high degree of cleanliness, however; and, in answer to some remark of mine, said once, "A cottage ought to smell as if it were lived in."

"Look," I answered, "how clean it is in Kalinich's bee-garden."

"The bees would not live there else, your honour," he said with a sigh.

"Tell me," he asked me another time, "have you an estate of your own?"

"Yes."

"Far from here?"

"A hundred miles."

"Do you live on your land, your honour?"

"Yes."

"But you like your gun best, I dare say?"

"Yes, I must confess I do."

"And you do well, your honour; shoot grouse to your heart's content, and change your bailiff pretty often."

On the fourth day Mr. Polutikin sent for me in the evening. I was sorry to part from the old man. I took my seat with Kalinich in the trap.

"Well, good-bye, Khor--good luck to you," I said; "good-bye, Fedya."

"Good-bye, your honour, good-bye; don't forget us." We started; there was the first red glow of sunset. "It will be a fine day tomorrow," I remarked, looking at the clear sky.

"No, it will rain," Kalinich replied; "the ducks yonder are splashing, and the scent of the grass is strong."

We drove into the copse. Kalinich began singing in an undertone as he was jolted up and down on the driver's seat, and he kept gazing and gazing at the sunset.

The next day I left the hospitable roof of Mr. Polutikin.

 

 

ONE EVENING I went with the huntsman Yermolai "stand-shooting." But perhaps all my readers may not know what "stand-shooting" is. I will tell you.

A quarter of an hour before sunset in springtime you go out into the woods with your gun, but without your dog. You seek out a spot for yourself on the outskirts of the forest, take a look round, examine your caps, and glance at your companion. A quarter of an hour passes; the sun has set, but it is still light in the forest; the sky is clear and transparent; the birds are chattering and twittering; the young grass shines with the brilliance of emerald. . . . You wait. Gradually the recesses of the forest grow dark; the blood-red glow of the evening sky creeps slowly on to the roots and the trunks. of the trees, and keeps rising higher and higher, passes from the lower, still almost leafless branches, to the motionless, slumbering tree-tops. . . . And now even the topmost branches are darkened; the purple sky fades to dark-blue. The forest fragrance grows stronger; there is a scent of warmth and damp earth; the fluttering breeze dies away at your side. The birds go to sleep--not all at once--but after their kinds; first the finches are hushed, a few minutes later the warblers, and after them the yellow buntings. In the forest it grows darker and darker. The trees melt together into great masses of blackness; in the dark-blue sky the first stars come timidly out. All the birds are asleep. Only the redstarts and the nuthatches are still chirping drowsily. . . . And now they, too, are still. The last echoing call of the peewit rings over our heads; the oriole's melancholy cry sounds somewhere in the distance; then--the nightingale's first note. Your heart is weary with suspense, when suddenly--but only hunters can understand me--suddenly in the deep hush there is a peculiar croaking and whirring sound, the measured. sweep of swift wings is heard, and the snipe, gracefully bending its long beak, sails smoothly from behind a dark bush to meet your shot.

That is the meaning of "stand-shooting."

And so I had gone out stand-shooting with Yermolai. But excuse me, reader: I must first introduce you to Yermolai.

Picture to yourself a tall gaunt man of forty-five, with a long thin nose, a narrow forehead, little grey eyes, a bristling head of hair, and thick sarcastic lips. This man wore, winter and summer alike, a yellow nankin coat of foreign cut, but with a sash round the waist; he wore blue pantaloons and a cap of astrakhan, presented to him in a merry hour by a spendthrift landowner. Two bags were fastened on to his sash, one in front, skilfully tied into two halves, for powder and for shot; the other behind for game; wadding Yermolai used to produce out of his peculiar, seemingly inexhaustible cap. With the money he gained by the game he sold, he might easily have bought himself a cartridge-box and powder-flask; but he never once even contemplated such a purchase, and continued to load his gun after his old fashion, exciting the admiration of all beholders by the skill with which he avoided the risks of spilling or mixing his powder and shot. His gun was a single-barrelled flint-lock, endowed, moreover, with a villainous habit of "kicking." It was due to this that Yermolai's right cheek was permanently swollen to a larger size than the left. How he ever succeeded in hitting anything with this gun, it would take a shrewd man to discover--but he did. He had, too, a setter-dog, by name Valetka, a most extraordinary creature. Yermolai never fed him. "Me feed a dog!" he reasoned; "why, a dog's a clever beast; he finds a living for himself." And certainly, though Valetka's extreme thinness was a shock even to an indifferent observer, he still lived and had a long life; and in spite of his pitiable position he was not even once lost, and never showed an inclination to desert his master. Once indeed, in his youth, he had absented himself for two days, on courting bent, but this folly was soon over with him. Valetka's most noticeable peculiarity was his unruffled indifference to everything in the world. . . . If it were not a dog I was speaking of, I should have called him "disillusioned." He usually sat with his cropped tail curled up under him, scowling and twitching at times, and he never smiled. (It is well known that dogs can smile, and smile very sweetly.) He was exceedingly ugly; and the idle house-serfs never lost an opportunity of jeering cruelly at his appearance; but all these jeers, and even blows, Valetka bore with astonishing indifference. He was a source of special delight to the cooks, who would all leave their work at once and give him chase with shouts and abuse, whenever, through a weakness not confined to dogs, he thrust his hungry nose through the half-open door of the kitchen, tempting with its warmth and appetizing smells. He distinguished himself by untiring energy in the chase, and had a good scent; but if he chanced to overtake a slightly wounded hare, he devoured it with relish to the last bone, somewhere in the cool shade under the green bushes, at a respectful distance from Yermolai, who was abusing him in every known and unknown dialect.

Yermolai belonged to one of my neighbours, a landlord of the old style. Landlords of the old style don't care for game, and prefer the domestic fowl. Only on extraordinary occasions, such as birthdays, namedays, and elections, the cooks of the old-fashioned landlords set to work to prepare some long-beaked birds, and, falling into the state of frenzy peculiar to Russians when they don't quite know what to do, they concoct such marvellous sauces for them that the guests examine the proffered dishes curiously and attentively, but rarely make up their minds to try them. Yermolai was under orders to provide his master's kitchen with two brace of grouse and partridges once a month. But he might live where and how he pleased. They had given him up as a man of no use for work of any kind--"bone lazy," they called him. Powder and shot, of course, they did not provide him, following precisely the same principle in virtue of which he did not feed his dog. Yermolai was a very strange kind of man; heedless as a bird, rather fond of talking, awkward and vacant-looking; he was excessively fond of drink, and never could sit still long; in walking he shambled along, and rolled from side to side; and yet he got over fifty miles in the day with his rolling, shambling gait. He exposed himself to the most varied adventures: spent the night in the marshes, in trees, on roofs, or under bridges; more than once he had got shut up in lofts, cellars, or barns; he sometimes lost his gun, his dog, his most indispensable garments; got long and severe thrashings; but he always returned home after a little while, in his clothes, and with his gun and his dog. One could not call him a cheerful man, though one almost always found him in an even frame of mind; he was looked on generally as an eccentric. Yermolai liked a little chat with a good companion, especially over a glass, but he would not stop long; he would get up and go. "But where the devil are you going? It's dark out of doors." "To Chaplino." "But what's taking you to Chaplino, ten miles away?" "I am going to stay the night at Sofron's there." "But stay the night here." "No, I can't." And Yermolai, with his Valetka, would go off into the dark night, through woods and watercourses, and the peasant Sofron very likely did not let him into his place, and even, I am afraid, gave him a blow to teach him "not to disturb honest folks." But none could compare with Yermolai in skill in deep-water fishing in springtime, in catching crayfish with his hands, in tracking game by scent, in snaring quails, in training hawks, in capturing the nightingales who had the greatest variety of notes. . . . One thing he could not do, train a dog; he had not patience enough. He had a wife, too. He went to see her once a week. She lived in a wretched, tumble-down little hut, and led a hand-to-mouth existence, never knowing overnight whether she would have food to eat on the morrow; and in every way her lot was a pitiful one. Yermolai, who seemed such a careless and easy-going fellow, treated his wife with cruel harshness; in his own house he assumed a stern and menacing manner; and his poor wife did everything she could to please him, trembled when he looked at her, and spent her last farthing to buy him vodka; and when he stretched himself majestically on the stove and fell into an heroic sleep, she obsequiously covered him with her sheepskin. I happened myself more than once to catch an involuntary look in him of a kind of savage ferocity; I did not like the expression of his face when he finished off a wounded bird with his teeth. But Yermolai never remained more than a day at home, and away from home he was once more the same "Yermolka," as he was called for a hundred miles round, and as he sometimes called himself. The lowest house-serf was conscious of being superior to this vagabond--and perhaps this was precisely why they treated him with friendliness; the peasants at first amused themselves by chasing him and driving him like a hare over the open country, but afterwards they left him in God's hands, and when once they recognized him as "queer," they no longer tormented him, and even gave him bread and entered into talk with him. . . . This was the man I took as my huntsman, and with him I went stand-shooting to a great birch wood on the banks of the Ista.

Many Russian rivers, like the Volga, have one bank rugged and precipitous, the other bounded by level meadows; and so it is with the Ista. This small river winds extremely capriciously, coils like a snake, and does not keep a straight course for half a mile together; in some places, from the top of a sharp declivity, one can see the river for ten miles, with its dykes, its pools and mills, and the gardens on its banks, shut in with willows and thick flower-gardens. There are fish in the Ista in endless numbers, especially roaches (the peasants take them in hot weather from under the bushes with their hands); little sandpipers flutter whistling along the stony banks, which are streaked with cold clear streams; wild ducks dive in the middle of the pools, and look round warily; in the coves under the overhanging cliffs herons stand out in the shade. . . . We stood in ambush nearly an hour, killed two brace of wood snipe, and, as we wanted to try our luck again at sunrise (stand-shooting can be done as well in the early morning), we resolved to spend the night at the nearest mill. We came out of the wood and went down the slope. The dark-blue waters of the river ran below; the air was thick with the mists of night. We knocked at the gate. The dogs began barking in the yard.

"Who is there?" asked a hoarse and sleepy voice.

"We are hunters; let us stay the night." There was no reply. "We will pay."

"I will go and tell the master. Sh! curse the dogs! Go to the devil with you!"

We listened as the workman went into the cottage; he soon came back to the gate. "No," he said; "the master tells me not to let you in."

"Why not?"

"He is afraid; you are hunters, you might set the mill on fire; you've firearms with you, to be sure."

"But what nonsense!"

"We had our mill on fire like that last year; some fish-dealers stayed the night, and they managed to set it on fire somehow."

"But, my good friend, we can't sleep in the open air!"

"That's your business." He went away, his boots clacking as he walked.

Yermolai promised him various unpleasant things in the future. "Let us go to the village," he brought out at last, with a sigh. But it was two miles to the village:

"Let us stay the night here," I said, "in the open air-- the night is warm; the miller will let us have some straw if we pay for it."

Yermolai agreed without discussion. We began again to knock.

"Well, what do you want?" the workman's voice was heard again; "I've told you we can't."

We explained to him what we wanted. He went to consult the master of the house, and returned with him. The little side gate creaked. The miller appeared, a tall, fat-faced man with a bull neck, round-bellied and corpulent. He agreed to my proposal. A hundred paces from the mill there was a little out-building open to the air on all sides. They carried straw and hay there for us; the workman set a samovar down on the grass near the river, and, squatting on his heels, began to blow vigorously into its pipe. The embers glowed, and threw a bright light on his young face. The miller ran to wake his wife, and suggested at last that I myself should sleep in the cottage; but I preferred to remain in the open air. The miller's wife brought us milk, eggs, potatoes and bread. Soon the samovar boiled, and we began drinking tea. A mist had risen from the river; there was no wind; from all round came the cry of the corn-crake, and faint sounds from the mill-wheels of drops that dripped from the paddles and of water gurgling through the bars of the lock. We built a small fire on the ground. While Yermolai was baking the potatoes in the embers, I had time to fall into a doze. I was waked by a discreetly subdued whispering near me. I lifted my head; before the fire, on a tub turned upside down, the miller's wife sat talking to my huntsman. By her dress, her movements, and her manner of speaking, I had already recognized that she had been in domestic service, and was neither peasant nor city-bred; but now for the first time I got a clear view of her features. She looked about thirty; her thin, pale face still showed the traces of remarkable beauty; what particularly charmed me was her eyes, large and mournful in expression. She was leaning her elbows on her knees, and had her face in her hands. Yermolai was sitting with his back to me and thrusting sticks into the fire.

"They've the cattle-plague again at Zheltukhina," the miller's wife was saying; "father Ivan's two cows are dead--Lord have mercy on us!"

"And how are your pigs doing?" asked Yermolai, after a brief pause.

"They're alive."

"You ought to make me a present of a sucking pig."

The miller's wife was silent for a while, then she sighed.

"Who is it you're with?" she asked.

"A gentleman from Kostomarovo."

Yermolai threw a few pine twigs on the fire; they all caught fire at once, and a thick white smoke came puffing into his face.

"Why didn't your husband let us into the cottage?"

"He's afraid."

"Afraid! the fat old tub! Arina Timofeyevna, my darling, bring me a little glass of spirits."

The miller's wife rose and vanished into the darkness. Yermolai began to sing in an undertone:

When I went to see my sweetheart,
I wore out all my boots. . .

Arina returned with a small flask and a glass. Yermolai got up, crossed himself, and drank it off at a draught. "Good!" was his comment.

The miller's wife sat down again on the tub.

"Well, Arina Timofeyevna, are you still ill?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"My cough troubles me at night."

"The gentleman's asleep, it seems," observed Yermolai after a short silence. "Don't go to a doctor, Arina; it will be worse if you do."

"Well, I am not going."

"But come and pay me a visit."

Arina hung down her head dejectedly.

"I will drive my wife out for the occasion," continued Yermolai. "Upon my word, I will."

"You had better wake the gentleman, Yermolai Petrovich; you see, the potatoes are done."

"Oh, let him snore," observed my faithful servant indifferently; "he's tired with walking, so he sleeps sound."

I turned over in the hay. Yermolai got up and came to me. "The potatoes are ready; will you come and eat them?"

I came out of the out-building; the miller's wife got up from the tub and was going away. I addressed her:

"Have you kept this mill long?"

"It's two years since I came on Trinity Day."

"And where does your husband come from?"

Arina had not caught my question.

"Where's your husband from?" repeated Yermolai, raising his voice.

"From Belev. He's a Belev townsman."

"And are you too from Belev?"

"No, I'm a serf; I was a serf."

"Whose?"

"Zverkov was my master. Now I am free."

"What Zverkov?"

"Alexander Silich."

"Weren't you his wife's lady's maid?"

"How did you know? Yes."

I looked at Arina with redoubled curiosity and sympathy.

"I know your master," I continued.

"Do you?" she replied in a low voice, and her head drooped.

I must tell the reader why I looked with such sympathy at Arina. During my stay at Petersburg I had become by chance acquainted with Mr. Zverkov. He had a rather influential position, and was reputed a man of sense and education. He had a wife, fat, sentimental, lachrymose and spiteful--an ordinary and disagreeable creature; he had, too, a son, the very type of the young swell of today, pampered and stupid. The exterior of Mr. Zverkov himself did not prepossess one in his favour; his little mouse-like eyes peeped slyly out of a broad, almost square face; he had a large, sharp nose, with distended nostrils; his close-cropped grey hair stood up like a brush above his furrowed brow; his thin lips were for ever twitching and smiling mawkishly. Mr. Zverkov's favourite position was standing with his short legs wide apart and his podgy hands in his trouser pockets. Once I happened somehow to be driving alone with Mr. Zverkov in a coach out of town. We fell into conversation. As a man of experience and of judgement, Mr. Zverkov began to try to set me in "the path of truth."

"Allow me to observe to you," he piped at last: "all you young people criticize and form judgements on everything at random; you have little knowledge of your own country; Russia, young gentlemen, is an unknown land to you; that's where it is!. . . You are for ever reading German. For instance, now you say this and that and the other about anything; for instance, about the houseserfs. . . . Very fine; I don't dispute it's all very fine; but you don't know them; you don't know the kind of people they are." (Mr. Zverkov blew his nose loudly and took a pinch of snuff.) "Allow me to tell you as an illustration one little anecdote; it may perhaps interest you." (Mr. Zverkov cleared his throat.) "You know, doubtless, what my wife is; it would be difficult, I should imagine, to find a more kind-hearted woman, you will agree. For her waiting-maids, existence is simply a perfect paradise, and no mistake about it. . . . But my wife has made it a rule never to keep married serving-maids. Certainly it would not do; children come--and one thing and the other--and how is a lady's maid to look after her mistress as she ought, to fit in with her ways; she is no longer able to do it; her mind is on other things. One must look at things through human nature. Well, we were driving once through our village, it must be--let me be correct--yes, fifteen years ago. We saw, at the bailiff's, a young girl, his daughter, very pretty indeed; something even-- you know--something of the good servant in her manners. And my wife said to me: 'Koko'--you understand, of course, that is her pet name for me--'let us take this girl to Petersburg; I like her, Koko. . . .' I said, 'Let us take her, by all means.' The bailiff, of course, was at our feet; he could not have expected such good fortune, you can imagine. . . . Well, the girl, of course, shed foolish tears. Of course, it was hard for her at first; the parental home . . . and that sort of thing . . . there was nothing surprising in that. However, she soon got used to us: at first we put her in the maidservants' room; they trained her, of course. And what do you think?. The girl made wonderful progress; my wife became simply devoted to her, promoted her at last above the rest to wait on herself . . . observe. . . . And one must do her the justice to say, my wife had never such a maid, absolutely never; attentive, modest, and obedient--simply all that could be desired. My wife was very good to her; she even spoilt her, I must confess; she dressed her well, fed her from our own table, gave her tea to drink, and so on, as you can imagine! So she waited on my wife like this for ten years. Suddenly, one fine morning, picture to yourself, Arina--her name was Arina--rushes unannounced into my study and flops down at my feet. That's a thing, I tell you plainly, I can't endure. No human being ought ever to lose sight of his personal dignity. Am I not right? 'What do you want?' 'Your honour, Alexander Silich, I beseech a favour of you.' 'What favour?' 'Let me be married.' I must confess I was taken aback. 'But you know, you fool, your mistress has no other lady's maid?' 'I will wait on Mistress as before.' 'Nonsense! Nonsense! Your mistress can't endure married serving-maids.' 'Malanya could take my place.' 'Don't argue with me.' 'I obey your will.' I must confess it was quite a shock. I assure you, I am like that; nothing wounds me so-- nothing, I venture to say, wounds me so deeply as ingratitude. I need not tell you--you know what my wife is: an angel upon earth, goodness inexhaustible. One would fancy even the worst of men would be ashamed to hurt her. Well, I sent Arina away. I thought, perhaps, she would come to her senses; I was unwilling, do you know, to believe in wicked, black ingratitude in anyone. What do you think? Within six months she thought fit to come to me again with the same request. And here I must confess I turned her out in a temper and threatened to tell my wife about it. I felt revolted. But imagine my amazement when, some time later, my wife comes to me in tears, so agitated that I felt positively alarmed. 'What has happened?' 'Arina. . . . You understand. . . . I am ashamed to tell it.' 'Impossible! Who is the man?' 'Petrushka, the footman.' My indignation broke out then. I am like that. I don't like half-measures! Petrushka--well, he wasn't to blame. We might flog him, but in my opinion he was not to blame. Arina. . . . Well, well, well! What more's to be said? I gave orders, of course, that her hair should be cut off, she should be dressed in sackcloth, and sent back to the village. My wife was deprived of an excellent lady's maid; but there was no help for it: immorality cannot be tolerated in a household in any case. Better to cut off the infected member at once. There, there! now you can judge the thing for yourself--you know that my wife is . . . yes, yes, yes! indeed! . . . an angel! She had grown attached to Arina, and Arina knew it, and had the face to. . . . Eh? no, tell me . . . eh? And what's the use of talking about it. Anyway, there was no help for it. I, indeed--I, in particular, felt hurt, felt wounded for a long time by the ingratitude of this girl. Whatever you say--it's no good to look for feeling, for heart, in these people! You may feed the wolf as you will; he has always a hankering for the woods. It was a good lesson! But I only wanted to give you an example. . . ."

And Mr. Zverkov, without finishing his sentence, turned away his head, and, wrapping himself more closely into his cloak, manfully repressed his involuntary emotion. The reader now probably understands why I looked with sympathetic interest at Arina.

"Have you long been married to the miller?" I asked her at last.

"Two years."

"How was it? Did your master allow it?"

"They bought my freedom."

"Who?"

"Savely Alexeyevich."

"Who is that?"

"My husband." (Yermolai smiled to himself.) "Has my master perhaps spoken to you of me?" added Arina, after a brief silence.

I did not know what reply to make to her question.

"Arina!" cried the miller from a distance. She got up and walked away.

"Is her husband a good fellow?" I asked Yermolai.

"So-so."

"Have they any children?"

"There was one, but it died."

"How was it? Did the miller take a liking to her? Did he give much to buy her freedom?"

"I don't know. She can read and write; in their business it's of use. I suppose he liked her."

"And have you known her long?"

"Yes. I used to go to her master's. Their house isn't far from here."

"And do you know the footman Petrushka?"

"You mean Pyotr Vasilyevich? Of course, I knew him."

"Where is he now?"

"He was sent for a soldier."

We were silent for a while.

"She doesn't seem well?" I asked Yermolai at last.

"I should think not! Tomorrow, I say, we shall have good sport. A little sleep now would do us no harm."

A flock of wild ducks swept whizzing over our heads, and we heard them drop down into the river not far from us. It was now quite dark, and it began to be cold; in the thicket sounded the melodious notes of a nightingale. We buried ourselves in the hay and fell asleep.

 

 

AT THE BEGINNING of August the heat often becomes insupportable. At that season, from twelve to three o'clock, the most determined and ardent sportsman is not able to hunt, and the most devoted dog begins to "clean his master's spurs," that is, to follow at his heels, his eyes painfully blinking, and his tongue hanging out to an exaggerated length; and in response to his master's reproaches he humbly wags his tail and shows his confusion in his face; but he does not run forward. I happened to be out hunting on exactly such a day. I had long been fighting against the temptation to lie down somewhere in the shade, at least for a moment; for a long time my indefatigable dog went on running about in the bushes, though he clearly did not himself expect much good from his feverish activity. The stifling heat compelled me at last to begin to think of husbanding our energies and strength. I managed to reach the little river Ista, which is already known to my indulgent readers, descended the steep bank, and walked along the damp, yellow sand in the direction of the spring, known to the whole neighbourhood as Raspberry Spring. This spring gushes out of a cleft in the bank, which widens out by degrees into a small but deep creek, and, twenty paces beyond it, falls with a merry babbling sound into the river. Young oak covers the sloping wall of the ravine; the short velvety grass is green about the source: the sun's rays scarcely ever reach its cold, silvery water. I came as far as the spring; a cup of birch-wood lay on the grass, left by a passing peasant for the public benefit. I quenched my thirst, lay down in the shade, and looked round. In the cave, which had been formed by the flowing of the stream into the river, and hence marked for ever with the trace of ripples, two old men were sitting with their backs to me. One, a rather stout and tall man in a neat dark-green coat and lined cap, was fishing; the other was thin and little; he wore a patched fustian coat and no cap; he held a little pot full of worms on his knees, and sometimes lifted his hand up to his grizzled little head, as though he wanted to protect if from the sun. I looked at him more attentively, and recognized in him Styopushka of Shumikhino. I must ask the reader's leave to present this man to him.

A few miles from my place there is a large village called Shumikhino, with a stone church, erected in the name of St. Kozma and St. Damian. Facing this church there had once stood a large and stately manor house, surrounded by various out-buildings, offices, workshops, stables and coach-houses, baths and temporary kitchens, wings for visitors and for bailiffs, conservatories, swings for the people, and other more or less useful edifices. A family of rich landowners lived in this manor house, and all went well with them, till suddenly one morning all this prosperity was burnt to ashes. The owners removed to another home; the place was deserted. The blackened site of the immense house was transformed into a kitchen-garden, cumbered up in parts by piles of bricks, the remains of the old foundations. A little hut had been clumsily put together out of the beams that had survived the fire; it was roofed with timber bought ten years before for the construction of a pavilion in the Gothic style; and the gardener Mitrofan, with his wife Axinya and their seven children, was installed in it. Mitrofan received orders to send greens and garden-stuff for the master's table, a hundred and fifty miles away; Axinya was put in charge of a Tyrolese cow, which had been bought for a high price in Moscow, but had remained barren and had, consequently, not given a drop of milk since its acquisition; a crested smoke-coloured drake, too, had been left in her hands, the solitary "seignorial" bird; for the children, in consideration of their tender age, no special duties had been provided, a fact, however, which had not hindered them from growing up utterly lazy. It happened to me on two occasions to stay the night at this gardener's, and when I passed by I used to get cucumbers from him, which, for some unknown reason, were even in summer peculiar for their large size, their poor, watery flavour, and their thick yellow skin. It was there I first saw Styopushka. Except Mitrofan and his family, and the old deaf churchwarden Gerasim, kept out of charity in a little room at the one-eyed soldier's widow's, not one man among the house-serfs had remained at Shumikhino; for Styopushka, whom I intend to introduce to the reader, could not be classified under the special order of house-serfs, and hardly under the genus "man" at all.

Every man has some kind of position in society, and at least some ties of some sort; every house-serf receives, if not wages, at least some so-called "ration." Styopushka had absolutely no means of subsistence of any kind; had no relationship to anyone; no one knew of his existence. This man had not even a past; there was no story told of him; he had probably never been enrolled on a census-revision. There were vague rumours that he had once belonged to someone as a valet; but who he was, where he came from, who was his father, and how he had come to be one of the Shumikhino people, in what way he had come by the fustian coat he had worn from immemorial times, where he lived and what he lived on--on all these questions no one had the least idea; and, to tell the truth, no one took any interest in the subject. Grandfather Trofimich, who knew all the pedigrees of all the house-serfs in the direct line to the fourth generation, had once indeed been known to say that he remembered that Styopushka was related to a Turkish woman whom the late master, the brigadier Alexei Romanich, had been pleased to bring home from a campaign in the baggage-train. Even on holidays, days of general money-giving and of feasting on buckwheat dumplings and vodka, after the old Russian fashion--even on such days Styopushka did not put in an appearance at the trestle-tables nor at the barrels; he did not make his bow nor kiss the master's hand, nor toss off to the master's health and under the master's eye a glass filled by the fat hands of the bailiff. Some kind soul who passed by him might share an unfinished bit of dumpling with the poor beggar, perhaps. At Easter they said "Christ is risen!" to him; but he did not pull up his greasy sleeve and bring out of the depths of his pocket a coloured egg, to offer it, panting and blinking, to his young masters or to the mistress herself. He lived in summer in a little shed behind the chicken-house, and in winter in the ante-room of the bath-house; in the bitter frosts he spent the night in the hayloft. The house-serfs had grown used to seeing him; sometimes they gave him a kick, but no one ever addressed a remark to him; as for him, he seems never to have opened his lips from the time of his birth. After the conflagration, this forsaken creature sought a refuge at the gardener Mitrofan's. The gardener left him alone; he did not say "Live with me," but he did not drive him away. And Styopushka did not live at the gardener's; his abode was the garden. He moved and walked about quite noiselessly; he sneezed and coughed behind his hand, not without apprehension; he was for ever busy and going stealthily to and fro like an ant; and all to get food-- simply food to eat. And indeed, if he had not toiled from morning till night for his living, our poor friend would certainly have died of hunger. It's a sad lot not to know in the morning what you will find to eat before night! Sometimes Styopushka sits under the hedge and gnaws a radish, or sucks a carrot, or shreds up some dirty cabbage-stalks; or he drags a bucket of water along, for some object or other, groaning as he goes; or he lights a fire under a small pot and throws in some little black scraps which he takes from out of the bosom of his coat; or he is hammering in his little wooden den--driving in a nail, putting up a shelf for bread. And all this he does silently, as though on the sly: before you can look round, he's in hiding again. Sometimes he suddenly disappears for a couple of days; but of course no one notices his absence. . . . Then, lo and behold! he is there again, somewhere under the hedge, stealthily kindling a fire of sticks under a kettle. He had a small face, yellowish eyes, hair coming down to his eyebrows, a sharp nose, large transparent ears, like a bat's, and a beard that looked as if it were a fortnight's growth, and never grew more nor less. This, then, was Styopushka, whom I met on the bank of the Ista in company with another old man.

I went up, wished them good day, and set down beside them. Styopushka's companion, too, I recognized as an acquaintance; he was a freed serf of Count Pyotr Ilyich X., one Mikhailo Savelich, nicknamed Tuman (i.e., fog). He lived with a consumptive Bolkhov townsman, who kept an inn, where I had several times stayed. Young officials and other persons of leisure travelling on the Orel highroad (merchants, buried in their striped rugs, have other things to do) may still see at no great distance from the large village of Troitskoye, and almost on the highroad, an immense two-storied wooden house, completely deserted, with its roof falling in and its windows boarded up. At midday in bright, sunny weather nothing can be imagined more melancholy than this ruin. Here there once lived Count Pyotr Ilyich, a rich grandee of the olden time, renowned for his hospitality. At one time the whole province used to meet at his house, to dance and make merry to their heart's content to the deafening sound of a home-trained orchestra, and the popping of rockets and Roman candles; and doubtless more than one aged lady sighs as she drives by the deserted palace of the boyar and recalls the old days and her vanished youth. The count long continued to give balls. and to walk about with an affable smile among the crowd of fawning guests; but his property, unluckily, was not enough to last his whole life. When he was entirely ruined, he set off to Petersburg to try for a post for himself, and died in a room at a hotel, without having gained anything by his efforts. Tuman had been a steward of his, and had received his freedom already in the count's lifetime. He was a man of about seventy, with a regular and pleasant face. He was almost continually smiling, as only men of the time of Catherine ever do smile--a smile at once stately and indulgent; in speaking, he slowly opened and closed his lips, winked genially with his eyes, and spoke slightly through his nose. He blew his nose and took snuff, too, in a leisurely fashion, as though he were doing something of no little importance.

"Well, Mikhailo Savelich," I began, "have you caught any fish?"

"Here, if you will deign to look in the basket: I have caught two perch and five roaches. . . . Show them, Styopushka."

Styopushka stretched out the basket to me.

"How are you, Styopushka?" I asked him.

"Oh--oh--not--not--not so badly, your honour," answered Stepan, stammering as though he had a heavy weight on his tongue.

"And is Mitrofan well?"

"Well--yes, yes--your honour."

The poor fellow turned away.

"But there are not many bites," remarked Tuman; "it's so fearfully hot; the fish are all tired out under the bushes; they're asleep. Put on a worm, Styopushka." (Styopushka took out a worm, laid it on his open hand, struck it two or three times, put it on the hook, spat on it, and gave it to Tuman.) "Thanks, Styopushka. . . . And you, your honour," he continued, turning to me, "are pleased to be out hunting?"

"As you see."

"Ah--and is your dog there English or German?"

The old man liked to show off on occasion, as though he would say, "I, too, have lived in the world!"

"I don't know what breed it is, but it's a good dog."

"Ah! and do you go out with the hounds too?"

"Yes, I have two leashes of hounds."

Tuman smiled and shook his head.

"That's just it; one man is devoted to dogs, and another doesn't want them for anything. According to my simple notions, I fancy dogs should be kept rather for appearance's sake. . . and all should be in style, too; horses, too, should be in style, and huntsmen in style, as they ought to be, and all. The late count--God's grace be with him!--was never, I must own, much of a hunter; but he kept dogs, and twice a year he was pleased to go out with them. The huntsmen assembled in the courtyard, in red caftans trimmed with galloon, and blew their horns; his excellency would be pleased to come out, and his excellency's horse would be led up; his excellency would mount, and the chief huntsman puts his feet in the stirrups, takes his hat off, and puts the reins in his hat to offer them to his excellency. His excellency is pleased to click his whip like this, and the huntsmen give a shout, and off they go out of the gate away. A huntsman rides behind the count, and holds in a silken leash two of the master's favourite dogs, and looks after them well, you may fancy. . . . And he, too, this huntsman, sits up high, on a Cossack saddle; such a red-cheeked fellow he was, and rolled his eyes like this. . . . And there were guests too, you may be sure, on such occasions, and entertainment, and ceremonies observed. . . . Ah, he's got away, the rascal!" he interrupted himself suddenly, drawing in his line.

"They say the count used to live pretty freely in his day?" I asked.

The old man spat on the worm and lowered the line in again.

"He was a great gentleman, as is well known. At times the persons of the first rank, one may say, at Petersburg, used to visit him. With blue ribbons on their breasts they used to sit down to table and eat. Well, he knew how to entertain them. He called me sometimes. 'Tuman,' says he, 'I want by tomorrow some live sturgeon; see there are some, do you hear?' 'Yes, your excellency.' Embroidered coats, wigs, canes, perfumes, Eau-de-Cologne of the best sort, snuff-boxes, huge pictures: he would order them all from Paris itself! When he gave a banquet, God Almighty, Lord of my being! there were fireworks, and carriages driving up! They even fired off the cannon. The orchestra alone consisted of forty men. He kept a German as conductor of the band, but the German gave himself dreadful airs; he wanted to eat at the same table as the masters; so his excellency gave orders to get rid of him! 'My musicians,' says he, 'can do their work even without a conductor.' Of course he was master. Then they would fall to dancing, and dance till morning, especially at the écossaise matradur. . . Ah--ah--there's one caught!" (The old man drew a small perch out of the water.) "Here you are, Styopushka! The master was all a master should be," continued the old man, dropping his line in again, "and he had a kind heart, too. He would give you a blow at times, and before you could look round, he'd forgotten it already. There was only one thing: he kept mistresses. Ugh, those mistresses! God forgive them! They were the ruin of him, too; and yet, you know, he took them most generally from a low station. You would fancy they would not want much? Not a bit--they must have everything of the most expensive in all Europe! One may say, 'Why shouldn't he live as he likes; it's the master's business' . . . but there was no need to ruin himself. There was one especially; Akulina was her name. She is dead now; God rest her soul! the daughter of the constable at Sitovo; and such a vixen! She would slap the count's face sometimes. She simply bewitched him. My nephew she sent for a soldier; he spilt some chocolate on a new dress of hers . . . and he wasn't the only one she served so. Ah, well, those were good times, though!" added the old man with a deep sigh. His head drooped forward and he was silent.

"Your master, I see, was severe, then?" I began after a brief silence.

"That was the fashion then, your honour," he replied, shaking his head.

"That sort of thing is not done now?" I observed, not taking my eyes off him.

He gave me a look askance.

"Now, surely, it's better," he muttered, and let out his line further.

We were sitting in the shade; but even in the shade it was stifling. The sultry atmosphere was faint and heavy; one lifted one's burning face uneasily, seeking a breath of wind; but there was no wind. The sun beat down from blue and darkening skies; right opposite us, on the other bank, was a yellow field of oats, overgrown here and there with wormwood; not one ear of the oats quivered. A little lower down a peasant's horse stood in the river up to its knees and slowly shook its wet tail; from time to time, under an overhanging bush, a large fish floated up, bringing bubbles to the surface, and gently sank down to the bottom, leaving a slight ripple behind it. The grasshoppers chirped in the scorched grass; the quail's cry sounded languid and reluctant; hawks sailed smoothly over the meadows, often resting in the same spot, rapidly fluttering their wings and opening their tails into a fan. We sat motionless, overpowered with the heat. Suddenly there was a sound behind us in the creek; someone was coming down to the spring. I looked round and saw a peasant of about fifty, covered with dust, in a smock, and wearing bast shoes; he carried a wicker-work pannier and a cloak on his shoulders. He went down to the spring, drank thirstily, and got up.

"Ah, Vlas!" cried Tuman, staring at him; "good health to you, friend! Where has God sent you from?"

"Good health to you, Mikhailo Savelich!" said the peasant, coming nearer to us; "from a long way off."

"Where have you been?" Tuman asked him.

"I have been to Moscow, to my master."

"What for?"

"I went to ask him a favour."

"What about?"

"Oh, to lessen my rent, or to let me work it out in labour, or to put me on another piece of land, or something. My son is dead--so I can't manage it now alone."

"Your son is dead?"

"He is dead. My son," added the peasant, after a pause, "lived in Moscow as a cabman; he paid, I must confess, my rent for me."

"Why, are you paying rent now?"

"Yes, we pay rent."

"What did your master say?"

"What did the master say! He drove me away! Says he, 'How dare you come straight to me; there is a bailiff for such things. You ought first,' says he, 'to apply to the bailiff . . . and where am I to put you on other land? You first,' says he, 'bring the debt you owe. He was angry altogether."

"What then--did you come back?"

"I came back. I wanted to find out if my son had not left any goods of his own, but I couldn't get a straight answer. I say to his employer, 'I am Philip's father'; and he says, 'What do I know about that? And your son,' says he, 'left nothing; he was even in debt to me.' So I came away."

The peasant related all this with a smile, as though he were speaking of someone else; but tears were starting into his small, screwed-up eyes, and his lips were quivering.

"Well, are you going home then now?"

"Where can I go? Of course I'm going home. My wife, I suppose, is pretty well starved by now."

"You should, then. . ." Styopushka said suddenly. He grew confused, was silent, and began to rummage in the worm-pot.

"And shall you go to the bailiff?" continued Tuman, looking with some amazement. at Styopushka.

"What should I go to him for?--I'm in arrears as it is. My son was ill for a year before his death; he could not pay even his own rent. But it can't hurt me; they can get nothing from me. . . . Yes, my friend, you can be as cunning as you please--I'm cleaned out!" (The peasant began to laugh.) "Kintilyan Semyonich'll have to be clever if--"

Vlas laughed again.

"Oh! things are in a sad way, brother Vlas," Tuman ejaculated deliberately.

"Sad! No!" (Vlas's voice broke.) "How hot it is!" he went on, wiping his face with his sleeve.

"Who is your master?" I asked him.

"Count Valerian Petrovich X."

"The son of Pyotr Ilyich?"

"The son of Pyotr Ilyich," replied Tuman. "Pyotr Ilyich gave him Vlas's village in his lifetime."

"Is he well?"

"He is well, thank God!" replied Vlas. "He has grown so red, and his face looks as though it were padded."

"You see, your honour," continued Tuman, turning to me, "it would be very well near Moscow, but it's a different matter to pay rent here."

"And what is the rent for you altogether?"

"Ninety-five rubles," muttered Vlas.

"There, you see; and it's the least bit of land; all there is is the master's forest."

"And that, they say, they have sold," observed the peasant.

"There, you see. Styopushka, give me a worm. Why, Styopushka, are you asleep--eh?"

Styopushka started. The peasant sat down by us. We sank into silence again. On the other bank someone was singing a song--but such a mournful one. Our poor Vlas grew deeply dejected.

Half an hour later we parted.

 

 

ONE DAY in autumn on my way back from a remote part of the country I caught cold and fell ill. Fortunately the fever attacked me in the district town at the inn; I sent for the doctor. In half an hour the district doctor appeared, a thin, dark-haired man of middle height. He prescribed me the usual sudorific, ordered a mustard-plaster to be put on, very deftly slid a five-ruble note down the cuff of his sleeve, coughing drily and looking away as he did so, and then was getting up to go home, but somehow fell into talk and remained. I was exhausted with feverishness; I foresaw a sleepless night, and was glad of a little chat with a pleasant companion. Tea was served. My doctor began to converse freely. He was a sensible fellow, and expressed himself with vigour and some humour. Queer things happen in the world: you may live a long while with some people, and be on friendly terms with them, and never once speak openly with them from your soul; with others you have scarcely time to get acquainted, and all at once you are pouring out to him--or he to you--all your secrets, as though you were at confession. I don't know how I gained the confidence of my new friend--anyway, with nothing to lead up to it, he told me a rather curious incident; and here I will report his tale for the information of the indulgent reader. I will try to tell it in the doctor's own words.

"You don't happen to know," he began in a weak and quavering voice (the common result of the use of unmixed Berezov snuff); "you don't happen to know the judge here, Milov, Pavel Lukich? You don't know him? Well, it's all the same." (He cleared his throat and rubbed his eyes.) "Well, you see, the thing happened, to tell you exactly without mistake, in Lent, at the very time of the thaws. I was sitting at his house--our judge's, you know--playing preference. Our judge is a good fellow, and fond of playing preference. Suddenly" (the doctor made frequent use of this word) "they tell me, 'There's a servant asking for you.' I say, 'What does he want?' They say, 'He has brought a note--it must be from a patient.' 'Give me the note,' I say. So it is from a patient--well and good--you understand--it's our bread and butter. . . . But this is how it was: a lady, a widow, writes to me; she says, 'My daughter is dying. Come, for God's sake!' she says; 'and the horses have been sent for you.' . . . Well, that's all right. But she lived twenty versts from the town, and it was midnight out of doors, and the roads in such a state, my word! And as she was poor herself, one could not expect more than two rubles, and even that problematic; and perhaps it might only be a matter of a roll of linen and some groats in payment. However, duty, you know, before everything: a fellow-creature may be dying. I hand over my cards at once to Kalliopin, the member of the provincial commission, and return home. I look; a wretched little trap was standing at the steps, with peasant's horses, fat--too fat--and their coats as shaggy as felt; and the coachman sitting with his cap off out of respect. Well, I think to myself, 'It's clear, my friend, these patients aren't eating off gold plate.' . . . You smile; but I tell you, a poor man like me has to take everything into consideration. . . . If the coachman sits like a prince, and doesn't touch his cap, and even sneers at you behind his beard, and flicks his whip--then you may bet on six rubles. But this case, I saw, had a very different air. However, I think there's no help for it; duty before everything. I snatch up the most necessary drugs, and set off. Will you believe it? I only just managed to get there at all. The road was infernal: streams, snow, watercourses, and the dyke had suddenly burst there-- that was the worst of it! However, I arrived at last. It was a little thatched house. There was a light in the windows; that meant they expected me. I was met by an old lady, very venerable, in a cap. 'Save her!' she says; 'she is dying.' I say, 'Pray don't distress yourself. Where is the invalid?' 'Come this way.' I see a clean little room, a lamp in the corner; on the bed a girl of twenty, unconscious. She was in a burning heat, and breathing heavily--it was fever. There were other girls, her sisters, scared and in tears. 'Yesterday,' they tell me, 'she was perfectly well and had a good appetite; this morning she complained of her head, and this evening, suddenly, you see, like this.' I say again, 'Pray don't be uneasy.' It's a doctor's duty, you know--and I went up to her and bled her, told them to put on a mustard-plaster, and prescribed a mixture. Meantime I looked at her; I looked at her, you know--there, by God! I had never seen such a face!-- she was a beauty, in a word! I felt quite shaken with pity. Such lovely features; such eyes!. . . But, thank God! she became easier; she fell into a perspiration, seemed to come to her senses, looked round, smiled, and passed her hand over her face. . . . Her sisters bent over her. They ask, 'How are you?' 'All right,' she says, and turns away. I looked at her: she had fallen asleep. 'Well,' I say, 'now the patient should be left alone.' So we all went out on tiptoe; only a maid remained, in case she was wanted. In the parlour there was a samovar standing on the table, and a bottle of rum; in our profession one can't get on without it. They gave me tea; asked me to stop the night. . . . I consented: where could I go, indeed, at that time of night? The old lady kept groaning. 'What is it?' I say; 'she will live; don't worry yourself; you had better take a little rest yourself; it is about two o'clock.' 'But will you send to wake me if anything happens?' 'Yes, yes.' The old lady went away, and the girls, too, went to their own room; they made up a bed for me in the parlour. Well, I went to bed--but I could not get to sleep, for a wonder! for in reality I was very tired. I could not get my patient out of my head. At last I could not put up with it any longer! I got up suddenly; I think to myself, 'I will go and see how the patient is getting on.' Her bedroom was next to the parlour. Well, I got up and gently opened the door--how my heart beat! I looked in: the servant was asleep, her mouth wide open, and even snoring, the wretch! but the patient lay with her face towards me, and her arms flung wide apart, poor girl! I went up to her. . . when suddenly she opened her eyes and stared at me! 'Who is it? Who is it?' I was in confusion. 'Don't be alarmed, mademoiselle,' I say; 'I am the doctor; I have come to see how you feel.' 'You the doctor?' 'Yes, the doctor; your mother sent for me to the town; we have bled you, mademoiselle; now pray go to sleep, and in a day or two, please God! we will set you on your feet again.' 'Ah, yes, yes, doctor, don't let me die. . . please, please.' 'Why do you talk like that? God bless you!' She is in a fever again, I think to myself; I felt her pulse; yes, she was feverish. She looked at me, and then took me by the hand. 'I will tell you why I don't want to die; I will tell you. . . . Now we are alone; and only please don't you. . . not to anyone. . . . Listen. . . .' I bent down; she moved her lips quite to my ear; she touched my cheek with her hair--I confess my head went round--and began to whisper. . . . I could make out nothing of it. . . . Ah, she was delirious!. . . She whispered and whispered, but so quickly, and as if it were not in Russian; at last she finished, and shivering dropped her head on the pillow, and threatened me with her finger. 'Remember, doctor, to no one.' I calmed her somehow, gave her something to drink, waked the servant, and went away."

At this point the doctor again took snuff with exasperated energy, and for a moment was silent and motionless.

"However," he continued, "the next day, contrary to my expectations, the patient was no better. I thought and thought, and suddenly decided to remain there, even though my other patients were expecting me. . . . And you know one can't afford to neglect that; one's practice suffers if one does. But, in the first place, the patient was really in danger; and secondly, to tell the truth, I felt strongly drawn to her. Besides, I liked the whole family. Though they were really badly off, they were singularly, I may say, cultivated people. . . . Their father had been a learned man, an author; he died, of course, in poverty, but he had managed before he died to give his children an excellent education; he left a lot of books too. Either because I looked after the invalid very carefully, or for some other reason; anyway, I can venture to say all the household loved me as if I were one of the family. Meantime the roads were in a worse state than ever; all communications, so to say, were cut off completely; even medicine could with difficulty be got from the town. The sick girl was not getting better. Day after day, and day after day . . . but . . . here. . . ." (The doctor made a brief pause.) "I declare I don't know how to tell you. . . ." (He again took snuff, coughed, and swallowed a little tea.) "I will tell you without beating about the bush. My patient . . . how should I say?. . . Well, she had fallen in love with me . . . or, no, it was not that she was in love . . . however. . . really, how should one say?" (The doctor looked down and grew red.) "No," he went on quickly, "in love, indeed! A man should not over-estimate himself. She was an educated girl, clever and well-read, and I had even forgotten my Latin, one may say, completely. As to appearance" (the doctor looked himself over with a smile), "I am nothing to boast of there either. But God Almighty did not make me a fool; I don't take black for white; I know a thing or two; I could see very clearly, for instance, that Alexandra Andreyevna--that was her name--did not feel love for me, but had a friendly, so to say, inclination--a respect or something for me. Though she herself perhaps mistook this sentiment, anyway this was her attitude; you may form your own judgement of it. But," added the doctor, who had brought out all these disconnected sentences without taking breath, and with obvious embarrassment, "I seem to be wandering rather--you won't understand anything like this. . . . There, with your leave, I will relate it all in order."

He drank off a glass of tea and began in a calmer voice.

"Well, then. My patient kept getting worse and worse. You are not a doctor, my good sir; you cannot understand what passes in a doctor's heart, especially at first, when he begins to suspect that the disease is getting the upper hand of him. What becomes of his belief in himself? You suddenly grow so timid; it's indescribable. You fancy then that you have forgotten everything you knew, and that the patient has no faith in you, and that other people begin to notice how distracted you are, and tell you the symptoms with reluctance; that they are looking at you suspiciously, whispering. . . . Ah! it's horrid! There must be a remedy, you think, for this disease, if one could find it. Isn't this it? You try--no, that's not it! You don't allow the medicine the necessary time to do good. . . . You clutch at one thing, then at another. Sometimes you take up a book of medical prescriptions--here it is, you think! Sometimes, by Jove, you pick one out by chance, thinking to leave it to fate. . . . But meantime a fellow-creature's dying, and another doctor would have saved him. 'We must have a consultation,' you say; 'I will not take the responsibility on myself.' And what a fool you look at such times! Well, in time you learn to bear it; it's nothing to you. A human being has died--but it's not your fault; you treated him by the rules. But what's still more torture to you is to see blind faith in you, and to feel yourself that you are not able to be of use. Well, it was just this blind faith that the whole of Alexandra Andreyevna's family had in me; they had forgotten to think that their daughter was in danger. I, too, on my side assure them that it's nothing, but meantime my heart sinks into my boots. To add to our troubles, the roads were in such a state that the coachman was gone for whole days together to get medicine. And I never left the patient's room; I could not tear myself away; I tell her amusing stories, you know, and play cards with her. I watch by her side at night. The old mother thanks me with tears in her eyes; but I think to myself, 'I don't deserve your gratitude.' I frankly confess to you--there is no object in concealing it now--I was in love with my patient. And Alexandra Andreyevna had grown fond of me; she would not sometimes let anyone be in her room but me. She began to talk to me, to ask me questions: where I had studied, how I lived, who are my people, whom I go to see. I feel that she ought not to talk; but to forbid her to--to forbid her resolutely, you know--I could not. Sometimes I held my head in my hands, and asked myself, 'What are you doing, you brute?' And she would take my hand and hold it, give me a long, long look, and turn away, sigh, and say, 'How good you are!' Her hands were so feverish, her eyes so large and languid. . . . 'Yes,' she says, 'you are a good, kind man; you are not like our neighbours. No, you are not like that. Why did I not know you till now!' 'Alexandra Andreyevna, calm yourself,' I say. 'I feel, believe me. . . . I don't know how I have gained . . . but there, calm yourself. All will be right; you will be well again.' And meanwhile I must tell you," continued the doctor, bending forward and raising his eyebrows, "that they associated very little with the neighbours, because the smaller people were not on their level, and pride hindered them from being friendly with the rich. I tell you, they were an exceptionally cultivated family; so you know it was gratifying for me. She would only take her medicine from my hands. She would lift herself up, poor girl, with my aid, take it, and gaze at me. . . . My heart felt as if it were bursting. And meanwhile she was growing worse and worse, worse and worse, all the time; she will die, I think to myself; she must die. Believe me, I would sooner have gone to the grave myself; and here were her mother and sisters watching me, looking into my eyes. . . and their faith in me was wearing away. 'Well? how is she?' 'Oh, all right, all right!' All right, indeed! My mind was failing me. Well, I was sitting one night alone again by my patient. The maid was sitting there too and snoring away in full swing; I can't find fault with the poor girl, though; she was worn out, too. Alexandra Andreyevna had felt very unwell all the evening; she was very feverish. Until midnight she kept tossing about; at last she seemed to fall asleep; at least, she lay still without stirring. The lamp was burning in the corner before the holy image. I sat there, you know, with my head bent; I even dozed a little. Suddenly it seemed as though someone touched me in the side; I turned round. . . . Good God! Alexandra Andreyevna was gazing with intent eyes at me . . . her lips parted, her cheeks seemed burning. 'What is it?' 'Doctor, shall I die?' 'Merciful Heavens!' 'No, doctor, no; please don't tell me I shall live . . . don't say so. . . If you knew. . . . Listen! for God's sake don't conceal my real position,' and her breath came so fast. 'If I can know for certain that I must die. . . then I will tell you all--all!' 'Alexandra Andreyevna, I beg you!' 'Listen; I have not been asleep at all. I have been looking at you a long while. For God's sake!. . . I believe in you; you are a good man, an honest man; I entreat you by all that is sacred in the world--tell me the truth! If you knew how important it is for me. . . . Doctor, for God's sake tell me. . . . Am I in danger?' 'What can I tell you, Alexandra Andreyevna, pray?' 'For God's sake, I beseech you!' 'I can't disguise from you,' I say, 'Alexandra Andreyevna: you are certainly in danger; but God is merciful.' 'I shall die, I shall die.' And it seemed as though she were pleased; her face grew so bright; I was alarmed. 'Don't be afraid, don't be afraid! I am not frightened of death at all.' She suddenly sat up and leaned on her elbow. 'Now. . . yes, now I can tell you that I thank you with my whole heart. . . that you are kind and good-- that I love you!' I stare at her, like one possessed; it was terrible for me, you know. 'Do you hear, I love you!' 'Alexandra Andreyevna, how have I deserved----' 'No, no, you don't--you don't understand me!' And suddenly she stretched out her arms, and taking my head in her hands, she kissed it. Believe me, I almost screamed aloud. I threw myself on my knees, and buried my head in the pillow. She did not speak; her fingers trembled in my hair; I listen; she is weeping. I began to soothe her, to assure her. . . . I really don't know what I did say to her. 'You will wake up the girl,' I say to her; 'Alexandra Andreyevna, I thank you . . . believe me . . . calm yourself.' 'Enough, enough!' she persisted; 'never mind all of them; let them wake, then; let them come in--it does not matter; I am dying, you see. . . . And what do you fear? why are you afraid? Lift up your head. Or, perhaps, you don't love me; perhaps I am wrong. In that case, forgive me.' 'Alexandra Andreyevna, what are you saying!. . . I love you, Alexandra Andreyevna.' She looked straight into my eyes and opened her arms wide. 'Then take me in your arms.' I tell you frankly, I don't know how it was I did not go mad that night. I feel that my patient is killing herself; I see that she is not fully herself; I understand, too, that if she did not consider herself on the point of death, she would never have thought of me; and, indeed, say what you will, it's hard to die at twenty without having known love; this was what was torturing her; this was why, in despair, she caught at me--do you understand now? But she held me in her arms and would not let me go. 'Have pity on me, Alexandra Andreyevna, and have pity on yourself,' I say. 'Why,' she says; 'what is there to think of? You know I must die.' This she repeated incessantly. 'If I knew that I should return to life, and be a proper young lady again, I should be ashamed . . . of course, ashamed . . . but why now?' 'But who has said you will die?' 'Oh, no, leave off! you will not deceive me; you don't know how to lie--look at your face.' 'You shall live, Alexandra Andreyevna; I will cure you; we will ask your mother's blessing . . . we will be united--we will be happy.' 'No, no, I have your word; I must die . . . you have promised me . . . you have told me.' It was cruel for me--cruel for many reasons. And see what trifling things can do sometimes; it seems nothing at all, but it's painful. It occurred to her to ask me what is my name; not my surname, but my first name. I must needs be so unlucky as to be called Trifon. Yes, indeed; Trifon Ivanich. Every one in the house called me doctor. However, there's no help for it. I say, 'Trifon, mademoiselle.' She frowned, shook her head, and muttered something in French--ah, something unpleasant, of course!--and then she laughed--disagreeably, too. Well, I spent the whole night with her in this way. Before morning I went away, feeling as though I were mad. When I went again into her room it was daytime, after morning tea. Good God! I could scarcely recognize her; people are laid in their grave looking better than that. I swear to you, on my honour, I don't understand--I absolutely don't understand--now, how I lived through that experience. Three days and nights my patient still lingered on. And what nights! What things she said to me! And on the last night--only imagine to yourself--I was sitting near her and kept praying to God for one thing only: 'Take her,' I said, 'quickly, and me with her.' Suddenly the old mother comes unexpectedly into the room. I had already the evening before told her--the mother--there was little hope, and it would be well to send for a priest. When the sick girl saw her mother she said, 'It's very well you have come; look at us, we love one another--we have given each other our word.' 'What does she say, doctor? what does she say?' I turned livid. 'She is wandering,' I say; 'the fever.' But she: 'Hush, hush; you told me something quite different just now, and have taken my ring. Why do you pretend? My mother is good--she will forgive--she will understand--and I am dying. I have no need to tell lies; give me your hand.' I jumped up and ran out of the room. The old lady, of course, guessed how it was.

"I will not, however, weary you any longer, and to me, too, of course, it's painful to recall all this. My patient passed away the next day. God rest her soul!" the doctor added, speaking quickly and with a sigh. "Before her death she asked her family to go out and leave me alone with her.

" 'Forgive me,' she said; 'I am perhaps to blame towards you . . . my illness . . . but believe me, I have loved no one more than you . . . do not forget me . . . keep my ring.'

The doctor turned away; I took his hand.

"Ah!" he said, "let us talk of something else, or would you care to play preference for a small stake? It is not for people like me to give way to exalted emotions. There's only one thing for me to think of: how to keep the children from crying and the wife from scolding. Since then, you know, I have had time to enter into lawful wedlock, as they say. Yes; I took a merchant's daughter--seven thousand for her dowry. Her name's Akulina; it goes well with Trifon. She is an ill-tempered woman, I must tell you, but luckily she's asleep all day. . . . Well, shall it be preference?"

We sat down to preference for kopek points. Trifon Ivanich won two rubles and a half from me and went home late, well pleased with his success.

 

 

FOR THE AUTUMN, woodcocks often take refuge in old gardens of lime-trees. There are a good many such gardens among us, in the province of Orel. Our forefathers, when they selected a place for habitation, invariably marked out two acres of good ground for an orchard, with avenues of lime-trees. Within the last fifty, or seventy years at most, these mansions--"noblemen's nests," as they call them--have gradually disappeared off the face of the earth; the houses are falling to pieces, or have been sold for the building materials; the stone out-buildings have become piles of rubble; the apple-trees are dead and turned into fire-wood, the hedges and fences are pulled up. Only the lime-trees grow in all their glory as before, and with ploughed fields all round them, tell a tale to this light-hearted generation of "our fathers and brothers who have lived before us."

A magnificent tree is such an old lime-tree. Even the merciless axe of the Russian peasant spares it. Its leaves are small, its powerful limbs spread wide in all directions; there is perpetual shade under them. Once, as I was wandering about the fields after partridges with Yermolai, I saw some way off a deserted garden, and turned into it. I had hardly crossed its borders when a snipe rose up out of a bush with a clatter. I fired my gun, and at the same instant, a few paces from me, I heard a shriek; the frightened face of a young girl peeped out for a second from behind the trees, and instantly disappeared. Yermolai ran up to me. "Why are you shooting here? There is a landlord living here."

Before I had time to answer him, before my dog had had time to bring me, with dignified importance, the bird I had shot, swift footsteps were heard, and a tall man with moustaches came out of the thicket and stopped, with an air of displeasure, before me. I made my apologies as best I could, gave him my name, and offered him the bird that had been killed on his domains.

"Very well," he said to me with a smile; "I will take your game, but only on one condition: that you will stay and dine with us."

I must confess I was not greatly delighted at his proposition, but it was impossible to refuse.

"I am a landowner here, and your neighbour, Radilov; perhaps you have heard of me?" continued my new acquaintance; "today is Sunday, and we shall be sure to have a decent dinner, otherwise I would not have invited you."

I made such a reply as one does make in such circumstances, and turned to follow him. A little path that had lately been cleared soon led us out of the grove of lime-trees; we came into the kitchen-garden. Between the old apple-trees and thick gooseberry bushes were rows of curly whitish-green cabbages; the hop twined its tendrils round high poles; there were thick ranks of brown twigs tangled over with dried peas; large flat pumpkins seemed rolling on the ground; cucumbers showed yellow under their dusty angular leaves; tall nettles were waving along the hedge; in two or three places grew clumps of Tartar honeysuckle, elder, and wild rose--the remnants of former flower-beds. Near a small fish-pond, full of reddish and slimy water, we saw the well, surrounded by puddles. Ducks were busily splashing and waddling about these puddles; a dog blinking and twitching in every limb was gnawing a bone in the meadow, where a piebald cow was lazily chewing the grass, from time to time flicking its tail over its lean back. The little path turned to one side; from behind thick willows and birches we caught sight of a little grey old house, with a boarded roof and a winding flight of steps. Radilov stopped short.

"But," he said, with a good-humoured and direct look in my face, "on second thoughts . . . perhaps you don't care to come and see me, after all. In that case----"

I did not allow him to finish, but assured him that, on the contrary, it would be a great pleasure to me to dine with him.

"Well, you know best."

We went into the house. A young man in a long coat of stout blue cloth met us on the steps. Radilov at once told him to bring Yermolai some vodka; my huntsman made a respectful bow to the back of the munificent host. From the hall, which was decorated with various parti-coloured pictures and bird cages, we went into a small room--Radilov's study. I took off my hunting accoutrements, and put my gun in a corner; the young man in the long-skirted coat busily brushed me down.

"Well, now let us go into the drawing-room," said Radilov cordially. "I will make you acquainted with my mother."

I walked after him. In the drawing-room, on the sofa in the centre, was sitting an old lady of medium height, in a cinnamon-coloured dress and a white cap, with a thinnish, kind old face, and a timid, mournful expression.

"Here, mother, let me introduce to you our neighbour. . . ."

The old lady got up and made me a bow, not letting go out of her withered hands a fat worsted reticule that looked like a sack.

"Have you been long in our neighbourhood?" she asked in a weak and gentle voice, blinking her eyes.

"No, not long."

"Do you intend to remain here long?"

"Till the winter, I think."

The old lady said no more.

"And here," interposed Radilov, indicating to me a tall and thin man, whom I had not noticed on entering the drawing-room, "is Fyodor Mikheich. . . . Come, Fyodor, give the visitor a specimen of your art. Why have you hidden yourself away in that corner?"

Fyodor Mikheich got up at once from his chair, fetched a wretched little fiddle from the window, took the bow-- not by the end, as is usual, but by the middle--put the fiddle to his chest, shut his eyes, and fell to dancing, singing a song, and scraping on the strings. He looked about seventy; a thin nankin overcoat flapped pathetically about his dry and bony limbs. He danced, at times skipping boldly, and then dropping his little bald head with his scraggy neck stretched out, stamping his feet on the ground, and sometimes bending his knees with obvious difficulty. A voice cracked with age came from his toothless mouth.

Radilov must have guessed from the expression of my face that Fyodor's "art" did not give me much pleasure.

"Very good, old man, that's enough," he said. "You can go and reward yourself."

Fyodor Mikheich at once laid down the fiddle on the window-sill, bowed first to me as the guest, then to the old lady, then to Radilov, and went away.

"He, too, was a landowner," my new friend continued, "and a rich one, too, but he ruined himself--so he lives now with me. But in his day he was considered the most dashing fellow in the province; he eloped with two married ladies; he used to keep singers, and sang himself, and danced like a master. . . . But won't you take some vodka? Dinner is just ready."

A young girl, the same that I had caught a glimpse of in the garden, came into the room.

"And here is Olga!" observed Radilov, slightly turning his head; "let me present you. . . . Well, let us go in to dinner."

We went in and sat down to the table. While we were coming out of the drawing-room and taking our seats, Fyodor Mikheich, whose eyes were bright and nose rather red after his "reward," sang Raise the Cry of Victory. They laid a separate cover for him in a corner on a little table without a table-napkin. The poor old man could not boast of very nice habits, and so they always kept him at some distance from society. He crossed himself, sighed, and began to eat like a shark. The dinner was in reality not bad, and in honour of Sunday was accompanied, of course, with shaking jelly and Spanish puffs of pastry. At the table Radilov, who had served ten years in an infantry regiment and had been in Turkey, fell to telling anecdotes; I listened to him with attention, and secretly watched Olga. She was not very pretty; but the tranquil and resolute expression of her face, her broad, white brow, her thick hair, and especially her brown eyes--not large, but clear, sensible and lively-- would have made an impression on anyone in my place. She seemed to be following every word Radilov uttered--not so much sympathy as passionate attention was expressed on her face. Radilov in years might have been her father; he called her by her Christian name, but I guessed at once that she was not his daughter. In the course of conversation he referred to his deceased wife-- "her sister," he added, indicating Olga. She blushed quickly and dropped her eyes. Radilov paused a moment and then changed the subject. The old lady did not utter a word during the whole of dinner; she ate scarcely anything herself, and did not press me to partake. Her features had an air of timorous and hopeless expectation, that melancholy of old age which it pierces one's heart to look upon. At the end of dinner Fyodor Mikheich was beginning to "celebrate" the hosts and guests, but Radilov looked at me and asked him to be quiet; the old man passed his hand over his lips, began to blink, bowed, and sat down again, but only on the very edge of his chair. After dinner I returned with Radilov to his study.

In people who are constantly and intensely preoccupied with one idea, or one emotion, there is something in common, a kind of external resemblance in manner, however different may be their qualities, their abilities, their position in society, and their education. The more I watched Radilov, the more I felt that he belonged to the class of such people. He talked of husbandry, of the crops, of war, of the gossip of the district and the approaching elections; he talked without constraint, and even with interest; but suddenly he would sigh and drop into a chair, and pass his hand over his face, like a man wearied out by a tedious task. His whole nature--a good and warm-hearted one, too--seemed saturated through, steeped in some one feeling. I was amazed by the fact that I could discover in him neither a passion for eating, nor for wine, nor for sport, nor for Kursk nightingales, nor for epileptic pigeons, nor for Russian literature, nor for trotting-hacks, nor for Hungarian coats, nor for cards, nor billiards, nor for dances, nor trips to the provincial town or the capital, nor for paper factories and beet-sugar refineries, nor for painted pavilions, nor for tea, nor for trace-horses trained to hold their heads askew, nor even for fat coachmen belted under their very armpits-- those magnificent coachmen whose eyes, for some mysterious reason, seem rolling and starting out of their heads at every movement. . . . "What sort of landlord is this, then?" I thought. At the same time he did not in the least pose as a gloomy man discontented with his destiny; on the contrary, he seemed full of indiscriminating good-will, cordial and even offensive readiness to become intimate with every one he came across. In reality you felt at the same time that he could not be friends, nor be really intimate with anyone, and that he could not be so, not because in general he was independent of other people, but because his whole being was for a time turned inwards upon himself. Looking at Radilov, I could never imagine him happy either now or at any time. He, too, was not handsome; but in his eyes, his smile, his whole being, there was something, mysterious and extremely attractive--yes, mysterious is just what it was. So that you felt you would like to know him better, to get to love him. Of course, at times the landlord and the man of the steppes peeped out in him; but all the same he was a capital fellow.

We were beginning to talk about the new marshal of the district, when suddenly we heard Olga's voice at the door: "Tea is ready." We went into the drawing-room. Fyodor Mikheich was sitting as before in his corner between the little window and the door, his legs curled up under him. Radilov's mother was knitting a stocking. From the opened windows came a breath of autumn freshness and the scent of apples. Olga was busy pouring out tea. I looked at her now with more attention than at dinner. Like provincial girls as a rule, she spoke very little, but at any rate I did not notice in her any of their anxiety to say something fine, together with their painful consciousness of stupidity and helplessness; she did not sigh as though from the burden of unutterable emotions, nor cast up her eyes, nor smile vaguely and dreamily. Her look expressed tranquil self-possession, as if she were taking breath after great happiness or great excitement. Her carriage and her movements were resolute and free. I liked her very much.

I fell again into conversation with Radilov. I don't recollect what brought us to the familiar observation that often the most insignificant things produce more effect on people than the most important.

"Yes," Radilov agreed, "I have experienced that in my own case. I, as you know, have been married. It was not for long--three years; my wife died in child-birth. I thought that I should not survive her; I was fearfully miserable, broken down, but I could not weep--I wandered about like one possessed. They decked her out, as they always do, and laid her on a table--in this very room. The priest came, the deacons came, began to sing, to pray, and to burn incense; I bowed to the ground, but did not shed a single tear. My heart seemed turned to stone--and my head too--I was heavy all over. So passed my first day. Would you believe it? I even slept in the night. The next morning I went in to look at my wife: it was summertime, the sunshine fell upon her from head to foot, and it was so bright. Suddenly I saw. . ." (here Radilov gave an involuntary shudder) "what do you think? One of her eyes was not quite shut, and on this eye a fly was crawling. . . . I fell down in a heap, and when I came to myself, I began to weep and weep . . . I could not stop myself. . . ."

Radilov was silent. I looked at him, then at Olga. . . . I can never forget the expression of her face. The old lady had laid the stocking down on her knees and taken a handkerchief out of her reticule; she was stealthily wiping away her tears. Fyodor Mikheich suddenly got up, seized his fiddle, and in a wild and hoarse voice began to sing a song. He wanted doubtless to restore our spirits; but we all shuddered at his first note, and Radilov asked him to be quiet.

"Still what is past, is past," he continued; "we cannot recall the past, and in the end . . . all is for the best in this world below. . . as I think Voltaire said," he added hurriedly.

"Yes," I replied, "of course. Besides, every trouble can be endured, and there is no position so terrible that there is no escape from it."

"Do you think so?" said Radilov. "Well, perhaps you are right. I recollect I lay once in the hospital in Turkey half dead; I had typhus fever. Well, our quarters were nothing to boast of--of course, in time of war--and we had to thank God for what we had! Suddenly they bring in more sick--where are they to put them? The doctor goes here and there--there is no room left. So he comes up to me and asks the attendant, 'Is he alive?' He answers, 'He was alive this morning.' The doctor bends down, listens; I am breathing. The good man could not help saying, 'Well, what an absurd constitution; the man's dying; he's certain to die, and he keeps hanging on, lingering, taking up space for nothing, and keeping out others.' Well, I thought to myself, 'So you're in a bad way, Mikhail Mikhalich. . . .' And, after all, I got well, and am alive till now, as you may see for yourself. You are right, to be sure."

"In any case I am right," I replied; "even if you had died, you would just the same have escaped from your horrible position."

"Of course, of course," he added, with a violent blow of his fist on the table. "One has only to come to a decision. . . . What is the use of being in a horrible position?. . . What is the good of delaying, lingering?"

Olga rose quickly and went out into the garden.

"Well, Fyodor, a dance!" cried Radilov.

Fyodor jumped up and walked about the room with that artificial and peculiar motion which is affected by the man who plays the part of a goat with a tame bear. He sang meanwhile, "At our gates. . . ."

The rattle of a racing droshky sounded in the drive, and in a few minutes a tall, broad-shouldered and stoutly made man, the freeholder Ovsyanikov, came into the room.

But Ovsyanikov is such a remarkable and original personage that, with the reader's permission, we will put off speaking about him till the next sketch. And now I will only add for myself that the next day I started off hunting at earliest dawn with Yermolai, and returned home after the day's sport was over . . . that a week later I went again to Radilov's, but did not find him or Olga at home, and within a fortnight I learned that he had suddenly disappeared, left his mother, and gone away somewhere with his sister-in-law. The whole province was excited, and talked about this event, and I only then completely understood the expression of Olga's face while Radilov was telling us his story. It was breathing not with sympathetic suffering only: it was burning with jealousy.

Before leaving the country I called on old Madame Radilova. I found her in the drawing-room; she was playing cards with Fyodor Mikheich.

"Have you news of your son?" I asked her at last.

The old lady began to weep. I made no more inquiries about Radilov.

 

 

PICTURE to yourselves, gentle readers, a stout, tall man of seventy, with a face reminding one somewhat of the face of Krilov, our writer of fables, clear and intelligent eyes under overhanging brows, dignified in bearing, slow in speech, and deliberate in movement: there you have Ovsyanikov. He wore an ample blue overcoat with long sleeves, buttoned all the way up, a lilac silk handkerchief round his neck, brightly polished boots with tassels, and altogether resembled in appearance a well-to-do merchant. His hands were handsome, soft, and white; he often fumbled with the buttons of his coat as he talked. With his dignity and his composure, his good sense and his indolence, his uprightness and his obstinacy, Ovsyanikov reminded me of the Russian boyars of the times before Peter the Great. . . . The national holiday dress would have suited him well. He was one of the last men left of the old time. All his neighbours had a great respect for him, and considered it an honour to be acquainted with him. His fellow-freeholders almost worshipped him, and took off their hats to him from a distance: they were proud of him. Generally speaking, in these days, it is difficult to tell a freeholder from a peasant; his husbandry is almost worse than the peasant's; his calves are wretchedly small; his horses are only half alive; his harness is made of rope. Ovsyanikov was an exception to the general rule, though he did not pass for a wealthy man. He lived alone with his wife in a clean and comfortable little house, kept a few servants, whom he dressed in the Russian style and called his "workmen." They were employed also in ploughing his land. He did not attempt to pass for a nobleman, did not affect to be a landlord; never, as they say, forgot himself; he did not take a seat at the first invitation to do so, and he never failed to rise from his seat on the entrance of a new guest, but with such dignity, with such stately courtesy, that the guest involuntarily made him a more deferential bow. Ovsyanikov adhered to the antique usages, not from superstition (he was naturally rather independent in mind), but from habit. He did not, for instance, like carriages with springs, because he did not find them comfortable, and preferred to drive in a racing droshky, or in a pretty little trap with leather cushions, and he always drove his good bay himself (he kept none but bay horses). His coachman, a young, rosy-cheeked fellow, his hair cut round, in a dark-blue belted coat and a low sheepskin cap, sat respectfully beside him. Ovsyanikov always had a nap after dinner and visited the bathhouse on Saturdays; he read none but religious books and used gravely to fix his round silver spectacles on his nose when he did so; he got up and went to bed early. He shaved his beard, however, and wore his hair in an outlandish style. He always received visitors cordially and affably, but he did not bow down to the ground, nor fuss over them and press them to partake of every kind of dried and salted delicacy. "Wife!" he would say deliberately, not getting up from his seat, but only turning his head a little in her direction, "bring the gentlemen a little of something to eat." He regarded it as a sin to sell wheat: it was the gift of God. In the year '40, at the time of the general famine and terrible scarcity, he shared all his store with the surrounding landlords and peasants; the following year they gratefully repaid their debt to him in kind. The neighbours often had recourse to Ovsyanikov as arbitrator and mediator between them, and they almost always acquiesced in his decision, and listened to his advice. Thanks to his intervention, many had conclusively settled their boundaries. But after two or three tussles with lady-landowners, he announced that he declined 'all mediation between persons of the feminine gender. He could not bear the flurry and excitement, the chatter of women and the "fuss." Once his house had somehow got on fire. A workman ran to him in headlong haste shrieking, "Fire, fire!" "Well, what are you screaming about?" said Ovsyanikov tranquilly, "give me my cap and my stick." He liked to break in his horses himself. Once a spirited horse he was training bolted with him down a hillside to a precipice. "Come, there, there, you young colt, you'll kill yourself!" said Ovsyanikov soothingly to him, and an instant later he flew over the precipice together with the racing droshky, the boy who was sitting behind, and the horse. Fortunately, the bottom of the ravine was covered with heaps of sand. No one was injured; only the horse sprained a leg. "Well, you see," continued Ovsyanikov in a calm voice as he got up from the ground, "I told you so." He had found a wife to match him. Tatyana Ilyinichna Ovsyanikova was a tall woman, dignified and taciturn, always dressed in a cinnamon-coloured silk dress. She had a cold air, though none complained of her severity, but, on the contrary, many poor creatures called her their mother and benefactress. Her regular features, her large dark eyes, and her delicately cut lips, bore witness even now to her once celebrated beauty. Ovsyanikov had no children.

I made his acquaintance, as the reader is already aware, at Radilov's, and two days later I went to see him. I found him at home, sitting in a large leather arm-chair and reading the Lives of the Saints. A grey cat was purring on his shoulder. He received me, according to his habit, with stately cordiality. We fell into conversation.

"But tell me the truth, Luka Petrovich," I said to him, among other things, "weren't things better of old, in your time?"

"In some ways, certainly, things were better, I should say," replied Ovsyanikov "we lived more easily, there was a greater abundance of everything. All the same, things are better now, and they will be better still for your children, please God."

"I had expected you, Luka Petrovich, to praise the old times."

"No, I have no special reason to praise old times. Here, for instance, though you are a landlord now, and just as much a landlord as your grandfather was, you have not the same power--and, indeed, you are not yourself the same kind of man. Some noblemen still oppress us; but, of course, it is impossible to help that altogether. Where there are mills grinding there will be flour. No; I don't see now what I have experienced myself in my youth."

"What, for instance?"

"Well, for instance, I will tell you about your grandfather. He was an overbearing man; he oppressed us poor folk. You know, perhaps--indeed, you surely know your own estates--that bit of land that runs from Chepligin to Malinin--you have it under oats now. Well, you know, it is ours--it is all ours. Your grandfather took it away from us; he rode by on his horse, pointed to it with his hand, and said, 'My property,' and took possession of it. My father (God rest his soul!) was a just man; he was a hot-tempered man, too; he would not put up with it--indeed, who does like to lose his property?--and he laid a petition before the court. But he was alone: the others did not appear--they were afraid. So they reported to your grandfather that 'Pyotr Ovsyanikov is making a complaint against you that you were pleased to take away his land.' Your grandfather at once sent his huntsman Baush with a troop of men. . . . Well, they seized my father and carried him to your estate. I was a little boy at that time; I ran after him barefoot. What happened? They brought him to your house and flogged him right under your windows. And your grandfather stands on the balcony and looks on; and your grandmother sits at the window and looks on, too. My father cries out, 'Gracious lady, Marya Vasilyevna, intercede for me! Have mercy on me!' But her only answer was to keep getting up to have a look at him. So they exacted a promise from my father to give up the land, and bade him be thankful they let him go alive. So it has remained with you. Go and ask your peasants--what do they call the land, indeed? It's called 'The Cudgelled Land,' because it was gained by the cudgel. So you see from that, we poor folks can't bewail the old order very much."

I did not know what answer to make Ovsyanikov, and I had not the courage to look him in the face.

"We had another neighbour who settled amongst us in those days, Komov, Stepan Niktopolionich. He used to worry my father out of his life; when it wasn't one thing, it was another. He was a drunken fellow, and fond of treating others; and when he was drunk he would say in French, 'C'est bon,' lick his lips, and then make the holy images blush. He would send to all the neighbours to ask them to come to him. His horses stood always in readiness, and if you wouldn't go he would come after you himself at once!. . . And he was such a strange fellow! In his sober times he was not a liar; but when he was drunk he would begin to relate how he had three houses in Petersburg--one red, with one chimney; another yellow, with two chimneys; and a third blue, with no chimneys; and three sons (though he had never even been married), one in the infantry, another in the cavalry, and the third his own master. . . . And he would say that in each house lived one of his sons; that admirals visited the eldest, and generals the second, and the third only Englishmen! Then he would get up and say, 'To the health of my eldest son; he is the most dutiful!' and he would begin to weep. Woe to anyone who refused to drink the toast! 'I'll shoot you!' he would say; 'and I won't let you be buried!. . .' Then he would jump up and scream, 'Dance, God's people, for your pleasure and my diversion!' Well, then, you must dance; if you had to die for it, you must dance. He thoroughly worried his serf-girls to death. Sometimes all night long till morning they would be singing in chorus, and the one who made the most noise would have a prize. If they began to be tired, he would lay his head down in his hands and begin moaning, 'Ah, poor forsaken orphan that I am! They want to abandon me!' And the stable men would wake the girls up at once. He took a liking to my father; what was he to do? He almost drove my father into his grave, and would actually have driven him into it, but (thank Heaven!) he died himself; in one of his drunken fits he fell off the pigeon-house. . . . There, that's what our sweet little neighbours were like!"

"How the times have changed!" I observed.

"Yes, yes," Ovsyanikov assented. "And there is this to be said--in the old days the nobility lived more sumptuously. I'm not speaking of the real grandees now. I used to see them in Moscow. They say such people are scarce nowadays."

"Have you been in Moscow?"

"I used to stay there long, very long ago. I am now in my seventy-third year; and I went to Moscow when I was sixteen."

Ovsyanikov sighed.

"Whom did you see there?"

"I saw a great many grandees-- and everyone saw them; they kept open house for the wonder and admiration of all! Only no one came up to Count Alexei Grigoryevich Orlov-Chesmensky. I often saw Alexei Grigoryevich; my uncle was a steward in his service. The count was pleased to live in Shabolovka, near the Kaluga Gate. He was a grand gentleman! Such stateliness, such gracious condescension you can't imagine! and it's impossible to describe it. His figure alone was worth something, and his strength, and the look in his eyes! Till you knew him, you did not dare come near him--you were afraid, overawed indeed; but directly you came near him he was like sunshine warming you up and making you quite cheerful. He allowed every man access to him in person, and he was devoted to every kind of sport. He drove himself in races and outstripped everyone, and he would never get in front at the start, so as not to offend his adversary; he would not cut it short, but would pass him at the finish; and he was so pleasant--he would soothe his adversary, praising his horse. He kept tumbler-pigeons of a first-rate kind. He would come out into the court, sit down in an arm-chair, and order them to let loose the pigeons; and his men would stand all round on the roofs with guns to keep off the hawks. A large silver basin of water used to be placed at the count's feet, and he looked at the pigeons reflected in the water. Beggars and poor people were fed in hundreds at his expense; and what a lot of money he used to give away!. . . When he got angry, it was like a clap of thunder. Everyone was in a great fright, but there was nothing to weep over; look round a minute after, and he was all smiles again! When he gave a banquet he made all Moscow drunk!--and see what a clever man he was! you know he beat the Turk. He was fond of wrestling too; strong men used to come from Tula, from Kharkov, from Tambov, and from everywhere to him. If he threw anyone he would pay him a reward; but if anyone threw him, he perfectly loaded him with presents, and kissed him on the lips. . . .

"And once, during my stay at Moscow, he arranged a hunting party such as had never been in Russia before; he sent invitations to all the hunters in the whole empire, and fixed a day for it, and gave them three months' notice. They brought with them dogs and grooms; well, it was an army of people--a regular army! First they had a banquet in the usual way, and then they set off into the open country. The people flocked there in thousands! And what do you think?. . . Your grandfather's dog outran them all."

"Wasn't that Milovidka?" I inquired.

"Milovidka, Milovidka!. . . So the count began to ask him. 'Give me your dog,' says he; 'take what you like for her.' 'No, count,' he said, 'I am not a tradesman; I've never sold a rag; for honour's sake I am ready to part with my wife even, but not with Milovidka. I would give myself into bondage first.' And Alexei Grigoryevich praised him for it. 'I like you for it,' he said. Your grandfather took her back in the coach with him, and when Milovidka died, he buried her in the garden with music at the burial--yes, and put a stone with an inscription on it over the dog."

"Then, Alexei Grigoryevich did not oppress anyone," I observed.

"Yes, it is always like that: those who can only just keep themselves afloat are the ones to drag others under."

"And what sort of a man was this Baush?" I asked after a short silence.

"Why, how comes it you have heard about Milovidka, and not about Baush? He was your grandfather's chief huntsman and whipper-in. Your grandfather was as fond of him as of Milovidka. He was a desperate fellow, and whatever order your grandfather gave him, he would carry it out in a minute--he'd have run on to a sword at his bidding. . . . And when he halloed . . . it was something like a tally-ho in the forest. And then he would suddenly turn obstinate, get off his horse, and lie down on the ground . . . and directly the dogs ceased to hear his voice, it was all over! They would give up the hottest scent, and wouldn't go on for anything. Ay, ay, your grandfather did get angry! 'Damn me, if I don't hang the scoundrel! I'll turn him inside out, the antichrist! I'll stuff his heels down his gullet, the cut-throat!' And it ended by his going up to find out what he wanted; why he wouldn't halloo to the hounds? Usually, on such occasions, Baush asked for some vodka, drank it up, got on his horse, and began to halloo as lustily as ever again."

"You seem to be fond of hunting, too, Luka Petrovich?"

"I should have been--certainly, not now; now my time is over--but in my young days. . . . But you know it was not an easy matter in my position. It's not suitable for people like us to go trailing after noblemen. Certainly you may find in our class some drinking, good-for-nothing fellow who associates with the gentry--but it's a queer sort of enjoyment. He only brings shame on himself. They mount him on a wretched stumbling nag, keep knocking his hat off on to the ground and cut at him with a whip, pretending to whip the horse, and he must laugh at everything, and be a laughing-stock for the others. No, I tell you, the lower your station, the more reserved must be your behaviour, or else you disgrace yourself directly.

"Yes," continued Ovsyanikov with a sigh, "there's many a gallon of water has flowed down to the sea since I have been living in the world; times are different now. Especially I see a great change in the nobility. The smaller landlords have all either become officials, or at any rate do not stop here; as for the larger owners, there's no making them out. I have had experience of them--the larger landlords--in cases of settling boundaries. And I must tell you, it does my heart good to see them: they are courteous and affable. Only this is what astonishes me: they have studied all the sciences, they speak so fluently that your heart is melted, but they don't understand the actual business in hand; they don't even perceive what's their own interest; some bailiff, a bond servant, drives them just where he pleases. There's Korolyov--Alexander Vladimirovich--for instance; you know him, perhaps--isn't he every inch a nobleman? He is handsome, rich, has studied at the 'versities, and travelled, I think, abroad; he speaks simply and easily, and shakes hands with us all. You know him?. . . Well, listen then. Last week we assembled at Beryozovka at the summons of the mediator, Nikifor Ilyich. And the mediator, Nikifor Ilyich, says to us: 'Gentlemen, we must settle the boundaries; it's disgraceful; our district is behind all the others; we must get to work.' Well, so we got to work. There followed discussions, disputes, as usual; our attorney began to make objections. But the first to make an uproar was Porfiry Ovchinnikov. . . . And what had the fellow to make an uproar about?. . . He hasn't an acre of ground; he is acting as representative of his brother. He bawls, 'No, you shall not impose on me! no, you shan't drive me to that! give the plans here! give me the surveyor's plans, the Judas's plans here!' 'But what is your claim, then?' 'Oh, you think I'm a fool! Indeed! do you suppose I am going to lay bare my claim to you offhand? No, let me have the plans here--that's what I want!' And he himself is banging his fist on the plans all the time. Then he mortally offended Marfa Dmitrievna. She shrieks out, 'How dare you asperse my reputation?' 'Your reputation,' says he; 'I shouldn't like my chestnut mare to have your reputation.' They poured him out some Madeira at last, and so quieted him; then others begin to make a row. Alexander Vladimirovich Korolyov, the dear fellow, sat in a corner nibbling the knob of his cane, and only shook his head. I felt ashamed; I could hardly sit it out. 'What must he be thinking of us?' I said to myself. When, behold! Alexander Vladimirovich has got up, and shows signs of wanting to speak. The mediator exerts himself, says, 'Gentlemen, gentlemen, Alexander Vladimirovich wishes to speak.' And I must do them this credit: they were all silent at once. And so Alexander Vladimirovich began and said 'that we seemed to have forgotten what we had come together for; that, indeed, the fixing of boundaries was indisputably advantageous for owners of land, but actually what was its object? To make things easier for the peasant, so that he could work and pay his dues more conveniently; that now the peasant hardly knows his own land, and often goes to work five miles away; and one can't expect too much of him.' Then Alexander Vladimirovich said 'that it was disgraceful in a landowner not to interest himself in the well-being of his peasants; that in the end, if you look at it rightly, their interests and our interests are inseparable; if they are well off we are well off, and if they do badly we do badly, and that, consequently, it was injudicious and wrong to disagree over trifles'. . . and so on--and so on. . . . There, how he did speak! He seemed to go right to your heart. . . . All the gentry hung their heads; I myself, faith, it nearly brought me to tears. To tell the truth, you would not find sayings like that in the old books even. . . . But what was the end of it? He himself would not give up four acres of peat marsh, and wasn't willing to sell it. He said, 'I am going to have my people drain that marsh, and set up a cloth factory on it, with all the latest improvements. I have already,' he said, 'fixed on that place; I have thought out my plans on the subject.' And if only that had been the truth, it would be all very well; but the simple fact is, Alexander Vladimirovich's neighbour, Anton Karasikov, had refused to buy over Korolyov's bailiff for a hundred rubles. And so we separated without having done anything. But Alexander Vladimirovich considers to this day that he is right, and still talks of the cloth factory; but he does not start draining the marsh."

"And how does he manage in his estate?"

"He is always introducing new ways. The peasants don't speak well of him--but it's useless to listen to them. Alexander Vladimirovich is doing right."

"How's that, Luka Petrovich? I thought you kept to the old ways."

"I--that's another thing. You see I am not a nobleman or a landlord. What sort of management is mine?. . . Besides, I don't know how to do things differently. I try to act according to justice and the law, and leave the rest in God's hands! Young gentlemen don't like the old methods; I think they are right. . . . It's the time to take in ideas. Only this is the pity of it; the young are too theoretical. They treat the peasant like a doll; they turn him this way and that way; twist him about and throw him away. And their bailiff, a serf, or some German overseer, gets the peasant under his thumb again. Now, if any one of the young gentlemen would set us an example, would show us, 'See, this is how you ought to manage!'. . . What will be the end of it? Can it be that I shall die without seeing the new methods? . . . How can it be that the old is dead, but the young is not born!"

I did not know what reply to make to Ovsyanikov. He looked round, drew himself nearer to me, and went on in an undertone:

"Have you heard talk of Vasily Nikolaich Lubozvonov?"

"No, I haven't."

"Explain to me, please, what sort of strange creature he is. I can't make anything of it. His peasants have described him, but I can't make any sense of their tales. He is a young man, you know; it's not long since he received his heritage from his mother. Well, he arrived at his estate. The peasants were all collected to stare at their master. Vasily Nikolaich came out to them. The peasants looked at him--strange to relate! the master wore plush pantaloons like a coachman, and he had on boots with trimming at the top; he wore a red shirt and a coachman's long coat, too; he had let his beard grow, and had such a strange hat and such a strange face-- could he be drunk? No, he wasn't drunk, and yet he didn't seem quite right. 'Good health to you, lads!' he says; 'God keep you!' The peasants bow to the ground, but without speaking; they began to feel frightened, you know. And he, too, seemed timid. He began to make a speech to them. 'I am a Russian,' he says, 'and you are Russians; I like everything Russian. . . . Russia,' says he, 'is my heart, and my blood, too, is Russian. . . .' Then he suddenly gives the order: 'Come, lads, sing a Russian national song!' The peasants' legs shook under them with fright; they were utterly stupefied. One bold spirit did begin to sing, but he sat down at once on the ground and hid himself behind the others. . . . And what is so surprising is this: we have had landlords like that, dare-devil gentlemen, regular rakes, of course; they dressed pretty much like coachmen, and danced themselves and played on the guitar, and sang and drank with their house-serfs and feasted with the peasants; but this Vasily Nikolaich is like a girl; he is always reading books or writing, or else declaiming poetry aloud--he never addresses any one; he is shy, walks by himself in his garden; seems either bored or sad. The old bailiff at first was in a thorough scare; before Vasily Nikolaich's arrival he made the round of all the peasants' houses; he bowed to all of them--one could see the cat knew whose butter he had eaten! And the peasants were full of hope; they thought, 'Fiddlesticks, my friend!--now they'll make you answer for it, my dear; they'll lead you a dance now, you robber!. . .' But instead of this it has turned out--how shall I explain it to you?--God Almighty could not account for how things have turned out! Vasily Nikolaich summoned him to his presence and says, blushing himself and breathing quick, you know, 'Be upright in my service; don't oppress any one--do you hear?' And since that day he has never asked to see him in person again! He lives on his own property like a stranger. Well, the bailiff gets off again, and the peasants don't dare to go to Vasily Nikolaich; they are afraid. And do you see what's a matter for wonder again: the master even bows to them and looks graciously at them; but he seems to turn their stomachs with fright! What do you say to such a strange state of things, your honour? Either I have grown stupid in my old age, or something. . . . I can't understand it."

I said to Ovsyanikov that Mr. Lubozvonov must certainly be ill.

"Ill, indeed! He's as broad as he's long--God bless him! and such a dignified face, too, though he is so young. . . . Well, God knows!" And Ovsyanikov gave a deep sigh.

"Come, putting the nobles aside," I began, "what have you to tell me about the freeholders, Luka Petrovich?"

"No, you must let me off that," he said hurriedly. "Truly. . . I could tell you . . . but what's the use!" Ovsyanikov waved his hand. "We had better have some tea. . . . We are common peasants and nothing more; but when we come to think of it, what else could we be?"

He ceased talking. Tea was served. Tatyana Ilyinichna rose from her place and sat down nearer to us. In the course of the evening she several times went noiselessly out and as quietly returned. Silence reigned in the room. Ovsyanikov drank cup after cup with gravity and deliberation.

"Mitya has been to see us today," said Tatyana Ilyinichna in a low voice.

Ovsyanikov frowned.

"What does he want?"

"He came to ask forgiveness."

Ovsyanikov shook his head.

"Come, tell me," he went on, turning to me, "what is one to do with relations? And to abandon them altogether is impossible. . . . Here God has bestowed on me a nephew. He's a fellow with brains--a smart fellow--I don't dispute that; he has had a good education, but I don't expect much good to come of him. He went into a government office; threw up his position--didn't get on fast enough, if you please. . . . Does he suppose he's a noble? And even noblemen don't come to be generals all at once. So now he is living without an occupation: And that, even, would not be such a great matter--except that he has taken to litigation! He gets up petitions for the peasants, writes memorials; he instructs the village delegates, drags the surveyors over the coals, frequents drinking houses, is seen in taverns with townsmen and scavengers. He's bound to come to grief before long. The constables and police captains have threatened him more than once already. But he luckily knows how to turn it off--he makes them laugh; but then he boils their kettle for them. . . . But there, isn't he sitting in your little room?" he added, turning to his wife; "I know you, you see; you're so soft-hearted--you will always take his part."

Tatyana Ilyinichna dropped her eyes, smiled and blushed.

"Well, I see it is so," continued Ovsyanikov. "Fie! you spoil the boy! Well, tell him to come in. . . . So be it, then; for the sake of our good guest I will forgive the silly fellow. Go, tell him to come in."

Tatyana Ilyinichna went to the door and cried, "Mitya!"

Mitya, a young man of twenty-eight, tall, well-made, and curly-headed, came into the room and, seeing me, stopped short in the doorway. His costume was in the German style, but the unnatural size of the puffs on his shoulders was enough alone to prove convincingly that the tailor who had cut it was a Russian.

"Well, come in, come in," began the old man; "why are you bashful? You must thank your aunt--you're forgiven. Here, your honour, I commend him to you," he continued, pointing to Mitya; "he's my own nephew, but I don't get on with him at all. The end of the world is coming!" (We bowed to one another.) "Well, tell me what is this you have got mixed up in? What is the complaint they are making against you? Explain it to us."

Mitya obviously did not care to explain matters and justify himself before me.

"Later on, uncle," he muttered.

"No, not later--now," pursued the old man. . . . "You are ashamed, I see, before this gentleman; all the better--it's only what you deserve. Speak, speak; we are listening."

"I have nothing to be ashamed of," began Mitya spiritedly, with a toss of his head. "Be so good as to judge for yourself, uncle. Some freeholders of Reshetilovo came to me and said, 'Defend us, brother.' 'What is the matter?' 'This is it: our grain stores were in perfect order--in fact, they could not be better; all at once a government inspector came to us with orders to inspect the granaries. He inspected them and said, "Your granaries are in disorder--serious neglect; it's my duty to report it to the authorities." "But what does the neglect consist in?" "That's my business," he says. . . . We met together and decided to tip the official in the usual way; but old Prokhorich prevented us. He said, "No; that's only giving him a taste for more. Come; after all, haven't we any justice?" We obeyed the old man, and the official got in a rage, and made a complaint, and wrote a report. So now we are called up to answer to his charges.' 'But are your granaries actually in order?' I asked. 'God knows they are in order; and the legal quantity of corn is in them.' 'Well, then,' says I, 'you have nothing to fear'; and I drew up a document for them. Though it is not yet known in whose favour it will be decided. And as to the complaints they have made to you about me over that affair--it's very easy to understand that--every man's shirt is nearest to his own skin."

"Everyone's, indeed--but not yours seemingly," said the old man in an undertone. "But what plots have you been hatching with the Shutolomov peasants?"

"How do you know anything of it?"

"Never mind; I do know of it."

"And there, too, I am right--judge for yourself again. A neighbouring landowner, Bespandin, has ploughed over four acres of the Shutolomov peasants' land. 'The land's mine,' he says. The Shutolomov people are on the rent-system; their landlord has gone abroad--who is to stand up for them? Tell me yourself? But the land is theirs beyond dispute; they've been bound to it for ages and ages. So they came to me and said, 'Write us a petition.' So I wrote one. And Bespandin heard of it and began to threaten me. 'I'll break every bone in that Mitya's body, and knock his head off his shoulders.' We shall see how he will knock it off; it's still on, so far."

"Come, don't boast; it's in a bad way, your head," said the old man. "You're a mad fellow altogether!"

"Why, uncle, what did you tell me yourself?"

"I know, I know what you will say," Ovsyanikov interrupted him; "of course a man ought to live uprightly, and he is bound to succour his neighbour. Sometimes one must not spare oneself. But do you always behave in that way? Don't they take you to the tavern, eh? Don't they treat you; bow to you, eh? 'Mitya,' they say, 'help us, and we will prove our gratitude to you.' And they slip a silver ruble or note into your hand. Eh? doesn't that happen? Tell me, doesn't that happen?"

"I am certainly to blame in that," answered Mitya, rather confused; "but I take nothing from the poor, and I don't act against my conscience."

"You don't take from them now; but when you are badly off yourself, then you will. You don't act against your conscience--fie on you! Of course, they are all saints whom you defend!. . . Have you forgotten Boris Perekhodov? Who was it looked after him? Who took him under his protection--eh?"

"Perekhodov suffered through his own fault, certainly."

"He appropriated the public money. That's no joke!"

"But, consider, uncle, his poverty, his family."

"Poverty, poverty. . . . He's a drunkard, a quarrelsome fellow; that's what it is!"

"He took to drink through trouble," said Mitya, dropping his voice.

"Through trouble, indeed! Well, you might have helped him, if your heart was so warm to him, but there was no need for you to sit in taverns with the drunken fellow yourself. Though he did speak so finely . . . a prodigy, to be sure!"

"He was a very good fellow."

"Everyone is good with you. But did you send him?. . ." pursued Ovsyanikov, turning to his wife; "Come, you know?"

Tatyana Ilyinichna nodded.

"Where have you been lately?" the old man began again.

"I have been in the town."

"You have been doing nothing but playing billiards, I wager, and drinking tea, and strumming the guitar, and running to and fro about the government offices, drawing up petitions in little back-rooms, flaunting about with merchants' sons? That's it, of course? Tell us!"

"Perhaps that is about it," said Mitya with a smile.

"Ah! I had almost forgotten--Funtikov, Anton Parfenich asks you to dine with him next Sunday."

"I shan't go to see that old tub. He gives you costly fish and puts rancid butter on it. God bless him!"

"And I met Fedosya Mikhailovna."

"What Fedosya is that?"

"She belongs to Garpenchenko, the landowner, who bought Mikulino by auction. Fedosya is from Mikulino. She lived in Moscow as a dress-maker, paying her service in money, and she paid her service-money accurately--a hundred and eighty-two rubles and a half a year. . . . And she knows her business; she got good orders in Moscow. But now Garpenchenko has taken her back, and he retains her here, but does not provide any duties for her. She would be prepared to buy her freedom, and has spoken to the master, but he will not give any decisive answer. You, uncle, are acquainted with Garpenchenko . . . so couldn't you just say a word to him? And Fedosya would give a good price for her freedom."

"Not with your money, I hope? Hey? Well, well, all right; I will speak to him, I will speak to him. But I don't know," continued the old man with a troubled face; "this Garpenchenko, God forgive him! is a shark; he buys up debts, lends money at interest, purchases estates at auctions. . . . And who brought him into our parts? Ugh, I can't bear these new-comers! One won't get an answer out of him very quickly. However, we shall see."

"Try to manage it, uncle."

"Very well, I will see to it. Only you take care; take care of yourself! There, there, don't defend yourself. God bless you! God bless you! Only take care for the future, or else, Mitya, upon my word, it will go ill with you. Upon my word, you will come to grief. I can't always screen you . . . and I myself am not a man of influence. There, go now, and God be with you!"

Mitya went away. Tatyana Ilyinichna went out after him.

"Give him some tea, you soft-hearted creature," cried Ovsyanikov after her. "He's not a stupid fellow," he continued, "and he has a good heart, but I feel afraid for him. . . . But pardon me for having so long kept you occupied with such details."

The door from the hall opened. A short grizzled little man came in, in a velvet coat.

"Ah, Frants Ivanich!" cried Ovsyanikov, "good day to you. Is God merciful to you?"

Allow me, gentle reader, to introduce to you this gentleman.

Frants Ivanich Lejeune, my neighbour, and a landlord of Orel province, had arrived at the respectable position of a Russian nobleman in a not quite ordinary way. He was born in Orleans of French parents, and had gone with Napoleon, on the invasion of Russia, in the capacity of a drummer. At first all went smoothly, and our Frenchman arrived in Moscow with his head held high. But on the return journey poor Monsieur Lejeune, half-frozen and without his drum, fell into the hands of some peasants of Smolensk. The peasants shut him up for the night in an empty cloth factory, and the next morning brought him to an ice-hole near the dyke, and began to beg the drummer "de la grrrrande armée" to oblige them, in other words, to swim under the ice. Monsieur Lejeune could not agree to their proposition, and in his turn began to try to persuade the Smolensk peasants, in the dialect of France, to let him go to Orleans. "There, messieurs," he said, "my mother is living, une tendre mère." But the peasants, doubtless through their ignorance of the geographical position of Orleans, continued to offer him a journey under water along the course of the meandering river Gniloterka, and had already begun to encourage him with slight blows on the vertebrae of the neck and back, when suddenly, to the indescribable delight of Lejeune, the sound of bells was heard, and there came along the dyke a huge sledge with a striped rug over its excessively high dickey, harnessed with three roan horses. In the sledge sat a stout and red-faced landlord in a wolfskin pelisse.

"What is it you are doing there?" he asked the peasants.

"We are drowning a Frenchman, your honour."

"Ah!" replied the landlord indifferently, and he turned away.

"Monsieur! Monsieur!" shrieked the poor fellow.

"Ah, ah!" observed the wolfskin pelisse reproachfully, "you came with twenty nations into Russia, burnt Moscow, tore down--you damned heathen!--the cross from Ivan the Great, and now--mossoo, mossoo, indeed! now you turn tail! You are paying the penalty of your sins!. . . Go on, Filka!"

The horses were starting.

"Stop, though!" added the landlord. "Eh? you mossoo, do you know anything of music?"

"Sauvez-moi, sauvez-moi, mon bon monsieur!" repeated Lejeune.

"There, see what a wretched people they are! Not one of them knows Russian! Muzeek, muzeek, savey muzeek voo? savey? Well, speak, do! Compreny? savey muzeek voo? on the piano, zhooey savey?"

Lejeune comprehended at last what the landlord meant, and persistently nodded his head.

"Oui, monsieur, oui, oui, je suis musicien; je joue tous les instruments possibles! Oui, monsieur. . . . Sauvez-moi, monsieur!"

"Well, thank your lucky star!" replied the landlord. "Lads, let him go, here's a twenty-kopek piece for vodka."

"Thank you, your honour, thank you. Take him, your honour."

They sat Lejeune in the sledge. He was gasping with delight, weeping, shivering, bowing, thanking the landlord, the coachman, the peasants. He had nothing on but a green jacket with pink ribbons, and it was freezing very hard. The landlord looked at his blue and benumbed limbs in silence, wrapped the unlucky fellow in his own pelisse, and took him home. The household ran out. They soon thawed the Frenchman, fed him, and clothed him. The master conducted him to his daughters.

"Here, children!" he said to them, "a teacher is found for you. You were always entreating me to have you taught music and the French jargon; here you have a Frenchman, and he plays on the piano. . . . Come, mossoo," he went on, pointing to a wretched little instrument he had bought five years before of a Jew, whose special line was Eau-de-Cologne, "give us an example of your art; zhooey!"

Lejeune, with a sinking heart, sat down on the music-stool; he had never touched a piano in his life.

"Zhooey, zhooey!" repeated the landlord.

In desperation, the unhappy man beat on the keys as though on a drum, and played at hazard. "I quite expected," he used to tell afterwards, "that my deliverer would seize me by the collar and throw me out of the house." But, to the utmost amazement of the unwilling improvisor, the landlord, after waiting a little, patted him good-humouredly on the shoulder.

"Good, good," he said; "I see your attainments; go now and rest yourself."

Within a fortnight Lejeune had gone from this landlord's to stay with another, a rich and cultivated man. He gained his friendship by his bright and gentle disposition, was married to a ward of his, went into a government office, rose to the nobility, married his daughter to Lobizanyev, a landowner of Orel, and a retired dragoon and versifier, and settled himself on an estate in Orel.

It was this same Lejeune, or rather, as he is called now, Frants Ivanich, who, when I was there, came in to see Ovsyanikov, with whom he was on friendly terms.

But perhaps the reader is already weary of sitting with me at the Ovsyanikov's, and so I will become eloquently silent.

 

 

"LET US GO TO LGOV," Yermolai, whom the reader knows already, said to me one day; "there we can shoot ducks to our heart's content."

Although wild duck offers no special attraction for a genuine sportsman, still, through lack of other game at the time (it was the beginning of September; snipe were not on the wing yet, and I was tired of running across the fields after partridges), I acted upon my huntsman's suggestion, and we went to Lgov.

Lgov is a large village of the steppes, with a very old stone church with a single cupola, and two mills on the swampy little river Rosota. Five miles from Lgov, this river becomes a wide swampy pond, overgrown at the edges, and in places also in the centre, with thick reeds. Here, in the creeks or rather pools between the reeds, live and breed a countless multitude of ducks of all possible kinds--quackers, half-quackers, pintails, teals, divers, etc. Small flocks are for ever flitting about and swimming on the water, and at a gun-shot, they rise in such clouds that the hunter involuntarily clutches his hat with one hand and utters a prolonged "phew!" I walked with Yermolai along the bank; but, in the first place, the duck is a wary bird, and is not to be met quite close to the bank; and secondly, even when some straggling and inexperienced teal exposed itself to our shots and lost its life, our dogs were not able to get it out of the thick reeds; in spite of their most devoted efforts they could neither swim nor tread on the bottom, and only cut their precious noses on the sharp reeds for nothing.

"No," was Yermolai's comment at last, "it won't do; we must get a boat. Let us go back to Lgov."

We went back. We had only gone a few paces when a rather wretched-looking setter-dog ran out from behind a bushy willow to meet us, and behind him appeared a man of middle height, in a blue and much worn greatcoat, a yellow waistcoat, and pantaloons of a nondescript grey colour, hastily tucked into high boots full of holes, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and a single-barrelled gun on his shoulder. While our dogs, with the ordinary Chinese ceremonies peculiar to their species, were sniffing at their new acquaintance, who was obviously ill at ease, held his tail between his legs, dropped his ears back, and kept turning round and round, showing his teeth--the stranger approached us and bowed with extreme civility. He appeared to be about twenty-five; his long dark hair, perfectly saturated with kvas, stood up in stiff tufts; his small brown eyes twinkled genially; his face was bound up in a black handkerchief, as though for toothache; his countenance was all smiles and amiability.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he began in a soft and insinuating voice; "I am a hunter of these parts--Vladimir. . . . Having heard of your presence, and having learnt that you proposed to visit the shores of our pond, I resolved, if it were not displeasing to you, to offer you my services."

The hunter Vladimir uttered those words for all the world like a young provincial actor in the rôle of leading lover. I agreed to his proposition, and before we had reached Lgov I had succeeded in learning his whole history. He was a freed house-serf; in his tender youth had been taught music, then served as valet, could read and write, had read--so much I could discover--some few trashy books, and existed now, as many do exist in Russia, without a farthing of ready money; without any regular occupation; fed by manna from heaven, or something hardly less precarious. He expressed himself with extraordinary elegance, and obviously plumed himself on his manners; he must have been devoted to the fair sex, too, and in all probability popular with them: Russian girls love fine talking. Among other things, he gave me to understand that he sometimes visited the neighbouring landlords, and went to stay with friends in the town, where he played preference, and that he was acquainted with people in the metropolis. His smile was masterly and exceedingly varied; what specially suited him was a modest, contained smile which played on his lips as he listened to any other man's conversation. He was attentive to you; he agreed with you completely, but still he did not lose sight of his own dignity, and seemed to wish to give you to understand that he could, if occasion arose, express convictions of his own. Yermolai, not being very refined, and quite devoid of "subtlety," began to address him with coarse familiarity. The fine irony with which Vladimir used "sir" in his reply was worth seeing.

"Why is your face tied up?" I inquired. "Have you a toothache?"

"No," he answered; "it was a most disastrous consequence of carelessness. I had a friend, a good fellow, but not a bit of a sportsman, as sometimes occurs. Well, one day he said to me, 'My dear friend, take me out shooting; I am curious to learn what this diversion consists in.' I did not like, of course, to refuse a comrade; I procured him a gun and took him out shooting. Well, we shot a little in the ordinary way; at last we thought we would rest. I sat down under a tree; but he began instead to play with his gun, pointing it at me meantime. I asked him to leave off, but in his inexperience he did not attend to my words, the gun went off, and I lost half my chin, and the index finger of my right hand."

We reached Lgov. Vladimir and Yermolai had both decided that we could not shoot without a boat.

"Suchok (i.e., the Twig) has a punt," observed Vladimir, "but I don't know where he has hidden it. We must go to him."

"To whom?" I asked.

"The man lives here; Suchok is his nickname."

Vladimir went with Yermolai to Suchok's. I told them I would wait for them at the church. While I was looking at the tombstones in the churchyard, I stumbled upon a blackened, four-cornered urn with the following inscription on one side in French: "Ci git Théophile Henri vicomte de Blangy"; on the next: "Under this stone is laid the body of a French subject, Count Blangy; born 1737, died 1799, in the 62nd year of his age"; on the third: "Peace to his ashes"; and on the fourth:

Under this stone there lies from France an emigrant.
Of high descent was he, and also of talent.
A wife and kindred murdered he bewailed,
And left his land by tyrants cruel assailed;
The friendly shores of Russia he attained,
And hospitable shelter here he gained;
Children he taught; their parents' cares allayed;
Here, by God's will, in peace he has been laid.

The approach of Yermolai with Vladimir and the man with the strange nickname, Suchok, broke in on my meditations.

Bare-legged, ragged and dishevelled, Suchok looked like a discharged house-serf of sixty years old.

"Have you a boat?" I asked him.

"I have a boat," he answered in a hoarse, cracked voice; "but it's a very poor one."

"How so?"

"Its boards are split apart, and the rivets have come off the cracks."

"That's no great disaster!" interposed Yermolai; "we can stuff them up with tow."

"Of course you can," Suchok assented.

"And who are you?"

"I am the fisherman of the manor."

"How is it, when you're a fisherman, your boat is in such bad condition?"

"There are no fish in our river."

"Fish don't like slimy marshes," observed my huntsman, with the air of an authority.

"Come," I said to Yermolai, "go and get some tow, and make the boat right for us as soon as you can."

Yermolai went off.

"Well, in this way we may very likely go to the bottom," I said to Vladimir.

"God is merciful," he answered. "Anyway, we must suppose that the pond is not deep."

"No, it is not deep," observed Suchok, who spoke in a strange, far-away voice, as though he were in a dream, "and there's sedge and mud at the bottom, and it's all overgrown with sedge. But there are deep holes, too."

"But if the sedge is so thick," said Vladimir, "it will be impossible to row."

"Who thinks of rowing in a punt? One has to punt it. I will go with you; my pole is there--or else one can use a wooden spade."

"With a spade it won't be easy; you won't touch the bottom perhaps in some places," said Vladimir.

"It's true; it won't be easy."

I sat down on a tombstone to wait for Yermolai. Vladimir moved a little to one side out of respect to me, and also sat down. Suchok remained standing in the same place, his head bent and his hands clasped behind his back, according to the old habit of house-serfs.

"Tell me, please," I began, "have you been the fisherman here long?"

"It is seven years now," he replied, rousing himself with a start.

"And what was your occupation before?"

"I was coachman before."

"Who dismissed you from being coachman?"

"The new mistress."

"What mistress?"

"Oh, that bought us. Your honour does not know her, Alyona Timofeyevna; she is so fat . . . not young."

"Why did she decide to make you a fisherman?"

"God knows. She came to us from her estate in Tambov, gave orders for all the household to come together, and came out to us. We first kissed her hand, and she said nothing; she was not angry. . . . Then she began to question us in order: 'How are you employed? what duties have you?' She came to me in my turn; so she asked, 'What have you been?' I say, 'Coachman.' 'Coachman? Well, a fine coachman you are; only look at you! You're not fit for a coachman, but be my fisherman, and shave your beard. On the occasions of my visits provide fish for the table; do you hear?. . .' So since then I have been enrolled as a fisherman. 'And mind you keep my pond in order.' But how is one to keep it in order?"

"Whom did you belong to before?"

"To Sergei Sergeich Pekhterev. We came to him by inheritance. But he did not own us long; only six years altogether. I was his coachman . . . but not in town, he had others there--only in the country."

"And were you always a coachman from your youth up?"

"Always a coachman? Oh, no! I became a coachman in Sergei Sergeich's time, but before that I was a cook-- but not town cook; only a cook in the country."

"Whose cook were you, then?"

"Oh, my former master's, Afanasy Nefedich, Sergei Sergeich's uncle. Lgov was bought by him, by Afanasy Nefedich, but it came to Sergei Sergeich by inheritance from him."

"Whom did he buy it from?"

"From Tatyana Vasilyevna."

"What Tatyana Vasilyevna was that?"

"Why, that died last year in Bolkhov . . . that is, at Karachev, an old maid. . . . She had never married. Don't you know her? We came to her from her father, Vasily Semyonich. She owned us a goodish while . . . twenty years."

"Then were you cook to her?"

"At first, to be sure, I was cook, and then I was coffee-bearer."

"What were you?"

"Coffee-bearer."

"What sort of duty is that?"

"I don't know, your honour. I stood at the sideboard, and was called Anton instead of Kuzma. The mistress ordered that I should be called so."

"Your real name, then, is Kuzma?"

"Yes."

"And were you coffee-bearer all the time?"

"No, not all the time; I was an actor, too."

"Really?"

"Yes, I was. . . . I played in the theatre. Our mistress set up a theatre of her own."

"What kind of parts did you take?"

"What did you please to say?"

"What did you do in the theatre?"

"Don't you know? Why, they take me and dress me up; and I walk about dressed up, or stand, or sit down there as it happens, and they say, 'See, this is what you must say,' and I say it. Once I represented a blind man. . . . They laid little peas under each eyelid. . . . Yes, indeed."

"And what were you afterwards?"

"Afterwards I became a cook again."

"Why did they degrade you to being a cook again?"

"My brother ran away."

"Well, and what were you under the father of your first mistress?"

"I had different duties; at first I found myself a page; I have been a postilion, a gardener, and a whipper-in."

"A whipper-in?. . . And did you ride out with the hounds?"

"Yes, I rode with the hounds, and was nearly killed; I fell off my horse, and the horse was injured. Our old master was very severe; he ordered them to flog me and to send me to learn a trade to Moscow, to a shoemaker."

"To learn a trade? But you weren't a child, I suppose, when you were a whipper-in?"

"I was twenty and over then."

"But could you learn a trade at twenty?"

"I suppose one could, some way, since the master ordered it. But he luckily died soon after, and they sent me back to the country."

"And when were you taught to cook?"

Suchok lifted his thin yellowish little old face and grinned.

"Is that a thing to be taught?. . . Women can cook."

"Well," I commented, "you have seen many things, Kuzma, in your time! What do you do now as a fisherman, seeing there are no fish?"

"Oh, your honour, I don't complain. And, thank God, they made me a fisherman. Why, another old man like me--Andrei Pupir--the mistress ordered to be put into the paper factory, as a ladler. 'It's a sin,' she said, 'to eat bread in idleness.' And Pupir had even hoped for favour; his cousin's son was clerk in the mistress's counting-house; he had promised to send his name up to the mistress, to remember him; a fine way he remembered him!. . . And Pupir fell at his knees before my eyes."

"Have you a family? Have you been married?"

"No, your honour, I have never been married. Tatyana Vasilyevna--God rest her soul!--did not allow anyone to marry. 'God forbid!' she said sometimes, 'here am I living single; what indulgence! What are they thinking of!' "

"What do you live on now? Do you get wages?"

"Wages, your honour!. . . Victuals are given me, and thanks be to Thee, Lord! I am very contented. May God give our lady long life!"

Yermolai returned.

"The boat is repaired," he announced churlishly. "Go after your pole--you there!"

Suchok ran to get his pole. During the whole time of my conversation with the poor old man, the hunter Vladimir had been staring at him with a contemptuous smile.

"A stupid fellow," was his comment, when the latter had gone off; "an absolutely uneducated fellow; a peasant, nothing more. One cannot even call him a house-serf, and he was boasting all the time. How could he be an actor, be pleased to judge for yourself! You were pleased to trouble yourself for no good in talking to him."

A quarter of an hour later we were sitting in Suchok's punt. The dogs we left in a hut in charge of my coachman. We were not very comfortable, but hunters are not a fastidious race. At the rear end, which was flattened and straight, stood Suchok, punting; I sat with Vladimir on the planks laid across the boat, and Yermolai ensconced himself in front, in the very prow. In spite of the tow, the water soon made its appearance under our feet. Fortunately, the weather was calm and the pond seemed slumbering.

We floated along rather slowly. The old man had difficulty in drawing his long pole out of the sticky mud; it came up all tangled in green threads of water-sedge; the flat round leaves of the water-lily also hindered the progress of our boat. At last we got up to the reeds, and then the fun began. Ducks flew up noisily from the pond, scared by our unexpected appearance in their domains, shots sounded at once after them; it was a pleasant sight to see these short-tailed game turning somersaults in the air, splashing heavily into the water. We could not, of course, get at all the ducks that were shot; those which were slightly wounded swam away; some which had been killed fell into such thick reeds that even Yermolai's little lynx eyes could not discover them, yet by dinner-time our boat was nevertheless filled to the brim with game.

Vladimir, to Yermolai's great satisfaction, did not shoot at all well; he seemed surprised after each unsuccessful shot, looked at his gun and blew down the barrel, seemed puzzled, and at last explained to us the reason why he had missed his aim. Yermolai, as always, shot triumphantly; I--rather badly, after my custom. Suchok looked on at us with the eyes of a man who has been the servant of others from his youth up; now and then he cried out, "There, there, there's another little duck"; and he constantly rubbed his back, not with his hands, but by a peculiar movement of the shoulder-blades. The weather kept magnificent; curly white clouds moved calmly high above our heads, and were reflected clearly in the water; the reeds were whispering around us; here and there the pond sparkled in the sunshine like steel.

We were preparing to return to the village, when suddenly a rather unpleasant adventure befell us.

For a long time we had been aware that the water was gradually filling our punt. Vladimir was entrusted with the task of baling it out by means of a ladle, which my thoughtful huntsman had stolen to be ready for any emergency from a peasant woman who was staring away in another direction. All went well so long as Vladimir did not neglect his duty. But just at the end the ducks, as if to take leave of us, rose in such flocks that we scarcely had time to load our guns. In the heat of the sport we did not pay attention to the state of our punt--when suddenly Yermolai. in trying to reach a wounded duck, leaned his whole weight on the boat's edge; at his over-eager movement our old tub veered on one side, began to fill, and majestically sank to the bottom, fortunately not in a deep place. We cried out, but it was too late; in an instant we were standing in the water up to our necks, surrounded by the floating bodies of the slaughtered ducks. I cannot help laughing now when I recollect the scared white faces of my companions (probably my own face was not particularly rosy at that moment), but I must confess at the time it did not enter my head to feel amused. Each of us kept his gun above his head, and Suchok, no doubt from the habit of imitating his masters, lifted his pole above him. The first to break the silence was Yermolai.

"Curse it!" he muttered, spitting into the water; "here's a go. It's all you, you old devil!" he added, turning wrathfully on Suchok; "you've such a boat!"

"It's my fault," stammered the old man.

"Yes; and you're a nice one," continued my huntsman, turning his head in Vladimir's direction; "what were you thinking of? Why weren't you baling out?"

But Vladimir was not equal to a reply: he was shaking like a leaf, his teeth were chattering, and his smile was utterly meaningless. What had become of his fine language, his feeling of fine distinctions, and of his own dignity!

The accursed punt rocked feebly under our feet. At the instant of our ducking the water seemed terribly cold to us, but we soon got hardened to it. When the first shock had passed off, I looked round me; the reeds rose up in a circle ten paces from us; in the distance above their tops the bank could be seen. "It looks bad," I thought.

"What are we to do?" I asked Yermolai.

"Well, we'll take a look round; we can't spend the night here," he answered. "Here, you, take my gun," he said to Vladimir.

Vladimir obeyed without a word.

"I will go and find the ford," continued Yermolai, as though there must infallibly be a ford in every pond; he took the pole from Suchok. and went off in the direction of the bank, warily sounding the depth as he walked.

"Can you swim?" I asked him.

"No, I can't," his voice sounded from behind the reeds. "Then he'll be drowned," remarked Suchok indifferently. He had been terrified at first, not by the danger, but by our anger, and now, completely reassured, he drew a long breath from time to time, and seemed not to be aware of any necessity for moving from his present position.

"And he will perish without doing any good," added Vladimir piteously.

Yermolai did not return for more than an hour. That hour seemed an eternity to us. At first we kept calling to him very energetically; then his answering shouts grew less frequent; at last he was completely silent. The bells in the village began ringing for evening service. There was not much conversation between us; indeed, we tried not to look at one another. The ducks hovered over our heads; some seemed disposed to settle near us, but suddenly rose up into the air and flew away quacking. We began to grow numb. Suchok shut his eyes as though he were disposing himself to sleep.

At last, to our indescribable delight, Yermolai returned.

"Well?"

"I have been to the bank; I have found the ford. Let us go."

We wanted to set off at once; but he first brought some string out of his pocket and out of the water, tied the slaughtered ducks together by their legs, took both ends in his teeth, and moved slowly forward; Vladimir came behind him, and I behind Vladimir, and Suchok brought up the rear. It was about two hundred paces to the bank. Yermolai walked boldly and without stopping (so well had he noted the track), only occasionally crying out, "More to the left--there's a hole here to the right!" or "Keep to the right--you'll sink in there to the left. Sometimes the water was up to our necks, and twice poor Suchok, who was shorter than all the rest of us, got a mouthful and spluttered. "Come, come, come!" Yermolai shouted roughly to him--and Suchok, scrambling, hopping and skipping, managed to reach a shallower place, but even in his greatest extremity was never so bold as to clutch at the skirt of my coat. Worn out, muddy and wet, we at last reached the bank.

Two hours later we were all sitting, as dry as circumstances would allow, in a large hay barn, preparing for supper. The coachman Iyegudiel, an exceedingly deliberate man, heavy in gait, cautious and sleepy, stood at the entrance, zealously plying Suchok with snuff (I have noticed that coachmen in Russia very quickly make friends); Suchok was taking snuff with frenzied energy, in quantities to make him ill; he was spitting, sneezing, and apparently enjoying himself greatly. Vladimir had assumed an air of languor; he leaned his head on one side, and spoke little. Yermolai was cleaning our guns. The dogs were wagging their tails at a great rate in the expectation of porridge; the horses were stamping and neighing in the out-building. . . . The sun had set; its last rays were broken up into broad tracts of purple; golden clouds were drawn out over the heavens into finer and ever finer threads, like a fleece washed and combed out. . . . There was the sound of singing in the village.

 

 

IT WAS a glorious July day, one of those days which only come after many days of fine weather. From earliest morning the sky is clear; the sunrise does not glow with fire; it is suffused with a soft roseate flush. The sun, not fiery, not red-hot as in time of stifling drought, not dull purple as before a storm, but with a bright and genial radiance, rises peacefully behind a long and narrow cloud, shines out freshly, and plunges again into its lilac mist. The delicate upper edge of the strip of cloud flashes in little gleaming snakes; their brilliance is like beaten silver. But, lo! the dancing rays flash forth again, and in solemn joy, as though flying upward, rises the mighty orb. About midday there is wont to be, high up in the sky, a multitude of rounded clouds, golden-grey, with soft white edges. Like islands scattered over an overflowing river, that bathes them in its unbroken reaches of deep transparent blue, they scarcely stir; farther down the heavens they are in movement, packing closer; now there is no blue to be seen between them, but they are themselves almost as blue as the sky, filled full with light and heat. The colour of the horizon, a faint pale lilac, does not change all day, and is the same all round; nowhere is there storm gathering and darkening; only somewhere rays of bluish colour stretch down from the sky; it is a sprinkling of scarce perceptible rain. In the evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and undefined as smoke, lie streaked with pink, facing the setting sun; in the place where it has gone down, as calmly as it rose, a crimson glow lingers briefly over the darkening earth, and, softly flashing like a candle carried carelessly, the evening star flickers in the sky. On such days all the colours are softened, bright but not glaring; everything is suffused with a kind of touching tenderness. On such days the heat is sometimes very great; often it is even "steaming" on the slopes of the fields, but a wind dispels this growing sultriness, and whirling eddies of dust--sure sign of settled, fine weather--move along the roads and across the fields in high white columns. In the pure dry air there is a scent of wormwood, rye in blossom, and buckwheat; even an hour before nightfall there is no moisture in the air. It is for such weather that the farmer longs, for harvesting his wheat. . . .

On just such a day I was once out grouse-shooting in the Chernov District of the province of Tula. I started and shot a fair amount of game; my full game-bag cut my shoulder mercilessly; but already the evening glow had faded, and the cool shades of twilight were beginning to grow thicker and to spread across the sky, which was still bright, though no longer lighted up by the rays of the setting sun, when I at last decided to turn back homewards. With swift steps I passed through the long stretch of brushwood, clambered up a hill, and instead of the familiar plain I expected to see, with the oak wood on the right and the little white church in the distance, I saw before me a scene completely different, and quite new to me. A narrow valley lay at my feet, and directly facing me a dense wood of aspen-trees rose up like a thick wall. I stood still in perplexity, looked round me . . . . "Aha!" I thought, "I have somehow come wrong; I kept too much to the right," and surprised at my own mistake, I rapidly descended the hill. I was at once plunged into a disagreeable clinging mist, exactly as though I had gone down into a cellar; the thick high grass at the bottom of the valley, all drenched with dew, was white like a smooth table-cloth; one felt afraid somehow to walk on it. I made haste to get on the other side and walked along beside the aspen wood, bearing to the left. Bats were already hovering over its slumbering tree-tops, mysteriously flitting and quivering across the clear obscure of the sky; a young belated hawk flew in swift, straight course upwards, hastening to its nest. "Here, directly I get to this corner," I thought to myself, "I shall find the road at once; but I have come a verst out of my way!"

I did at last reach the end of the wood, but there was no road of any sort there; some kind of low bushes overgrown with long grass extended far and wide before me; behind them in the far, far distance could be discerned a tract of wasteland. I stopped again. "Well? Where am I?" I began ransacking my brain to recall how and where I had been walking during, the day. . . . Ah! but these are the bushes at Parakhin," I cried at last; "of course! then this must be Sindeyev wood. But how did I get here? So far? . . . Strange! Now I must bear to the right again."

I went to the right through the bushes. Meantime the night had crept close and grown up like a storm-cloud; it seemed as though, with the mists of evening, darkness was rising up on all sides and flowing down from overhead. I had come upon some sort of little, untrodden, overgrown path; I walked along it, gazing intently before me. Soon all was blackness and silence around--only the quail's cry was heard from time to time. Some small night-bird, flitting noiselessly near the ground on its soft wings, almost flapped against me and scurried away in alarm. I came out on the further side of the bushes and made my way along a field by the hedge. By now I could hardly make out distant objects; the field showed dimly-white around; beyond it rose up a sullen darkness, which seemed moving up closer in huge masses every instant. My steps gave a muffled sound in the air that grew colder and colder. The pale sky began again to grow blue--but it was the blue of night. The tiny stars glimmered and twinkled in it.

What I had been taking for a wood turned out to be a dark round hillock. "But where am I, then?" I repeated again aloud, standing still for the third time and looking inquiringly at my spot and tan English dog, Dianka by name, certainly the most intelligent of four-footed creatures. But the most intelligent of four-footed creatures only wagged her tail, blinked her weary eyes dejectedly, and gave me no sensible advice. I felt myself disgraced in her eyes and pushed desperately forward, as though I had suddenly guessed which way I ought to go; I scaled the hill and found myself in a hollow of no great depth, ploughed round.

A strange sensation came over me at once. This hollow had the form of an almost perfect cauldron, with sloping sides; at the bottom of it were some great white stones standing upright--it seemed as though they had crept there for some secret council--and it was so still and dark in it, so flat and mute, so dreary and weird seemed the sky, overhanging it, that my heart sank. Some little animal was whining feebly and piteously among the stones. I made haste to get out again on to the hillock. Till then I had not quite given up all hope of finding the way home; but at this point I finally decided that I was utterly lost, and without any further attempt to make out the surrounding objects, which were almost completely plunged in darkness, I walked straight forward, by the aid of the stars, at random. . . For about half an hour I walked on in this way, though I could hardly move one leg before the other. It seemed as if I had never been in such a deserted country in my life; nowhere was there the glimmer of a fire, nowhere a sound to be heard. One sloping hillside followed another; fields stretched endlessly upon fields; bushes seemed to spring up out of the earth under my very nose. I kept walking and was just making up my mind to lie down somewhere till morning, when suddenly I found myself on the edge of a horrible precipice.

I quickly drew back my lifted foot, and through the almost opaque darkness I saw far below me a vast plain. A long river skirted it in a semicircle, turned away from me; its course was marked by the steely reflection of the water still faintly glimmering here and there. The hill on which I found myself terminated abruptly in an almost overhanging precipice, whose gigantic profile stood out black against the dark-blue waste of sky, and directly below me, in the corner formed by this precipice and the plain near the river, which was there a dark, motionless mirror, under the lee of the hill, two fires side by side were smoking and throwing up red flames. People were stirring round them, shadows hovered, and sometimes the front of a small curly head was lighted up by the glow.

I found out at last where I had got to. This plain was well known in our parts under, the name of Bezhin Meadow. . . . But there was no possibility of returning home, especially at night; my legs were sinking under me from weariness. I decided to get down to the fires and to wait for the dawn in the company of these men, whom I took for drovers. I got down successfully, but I had hardly let go of the last branch I had grasped, when suddenly two large shaggy white dogs rushed angrily barking upon me. The sound of ringing boyish voices came from round the fires; two or three boys quickly got up from the ground. I called back in response to their shouts of inquiry. They ran up to me and at once called off the dogs, who were specially struck by the appearance of my Dianka. I came down to them.

I had been mistaken in taking the figures sitting round the fires for drovers. They were simply peasant boys from a neighbouring village, who were in charge of a drove of horses. In hot summer weather they drive the horses out at night to graze in the open country: the flies and gnats would give them no peace in the daytime; they drive out the drove towards evening, and drive them back in the early morning: it's a great treat for the peasant boys. Bare-headed, in old sheepskin coats, they bestride the most spirited nags, and scurry along with merry cries and hooting and ringing laughter, swinging their arms and legs and leaping into the air. The fine dust is stirred up in yellow clouds and moves along the road; the tramp of hoofs in unison resounds afar; the horses race along, pricking up their ears; in front of all, with his tail in the air and thistles in his tangled mane, prances some shaggy chestnut, constantly shifting his paces as he goes.

I told the boys I had lost my way. They made way for me and I sat down with them. They asked me where I came from, and then were silent for a little. Then we talked a little again. I lay down under a bush, whose shoots had been nibbled off, and began to look round. It was a marvellous picture; about the fire a red ring of light quivered and seemed to swoon away in the embrace of a background of darkness; the flame flaring up from time to time cast swift flashes of light beyond the boundary of this circle; a fine tongue of light licked the dry twigs and died away at once; long thin shadows, in their turn breaking in for an instant, danced right up to the very fires; darkness was struggling with light. Sometimes, when the fire burnt low and the circle of light shrank together, suddenly out of the encroaching darkness a horse's head was thrust in, bay, with striped markings, or all white, stared with intent blank eyes upon us, nipped hastily the long grass, and drawing back again, vanished instantly. One could only hear it still munching and snorting. From the circle, of light it was hard to make out what was going on in the darkness; everything close at hand seemed shut off by an almost black curtain; but farther away hills and forests were dimly visible in long blurs upon the horizon.

The dark unclouded sky stood, inconceivably immense, triumphant, above us in all its mysterious majesty. One felt a sweet oppression at one's heart, breathing in that peculiar, overpowering, yet fresh fragrance--the fragrance of a summer night in Russia. Scarcely a sound was to be heard around. Only at times, in the river near, the sudden splash of a big fish leaping, and the faint rustle of a reed on the bank, swaying lightly as the ripples reached it. The fires alone kept up a subdued crackling.

The boys sat round them: there, too, sat the two dogs. who had been so eager to devour me. They could not for long after reconcile themselves to my presence, and, drowsily blinking and looking askance at the fire, they growled now and then with an unwonted sense of their own dignity; first they growled, and then whined a little, as though deploring the impossibility of carrying out their desires. There were altogether five boys: Fedya, Pavlusha, llyusha, Kostya and Vanya. (From their talk I learnt their names, and I intend now to introduce them to the reader.)

The first and eldest of all, Fedya, one would take to be about fourteen. He was a well-made boy, with good-looking, delicate, rather small features, curly fair hair, bright eyes, and a perpetual half-merry, half-careless smile. He belonged, by all appearances, to a well-to-do family, and had ridden out to the meadow not through necessity, but for amusement. He wore a gay print shirt, with a yellow border; a short new overcoat slung round his neck was almost slipping off his narrow shoulders; a comb hung from his blue belt. His boots, coming a little way up the leg, were certainly, his own----not his father's. The second boy, Pavlusha, had tangled black hair, grey eyes, broad cheek-bones, a pale face pitted with small-pox, a large but well-cut mouth; his head altogether was large--"a beer-barrel head," as they say --and his figure was square and clumsy. He was not a good-looking boy--there's no denying it!--and yet I liked him; he looked very sensible and straightforward, and there was a vigorous ring in his voice. He had nothing to boast of in his attire; it consisted simply of a homespun shirt and patched trousers. The face of the third, Ilyusha, was rather uninteresting; it was a long face, with short-sighted eyes and a hooknose: it expressed a kind of dull, fretful uneasiness; his tightly-drawn lips seemed rigid; his contracted brow never relaxed; he seemed continually blinking from the firelight. His flaxen--almost white--hair hung out in thin wisps under his low felt hat, which he kept pulling down with both hands over his ears. He had on new bast shoes and leggings; a thick string, wound three times round his figure, carefully held together his neat black smock. Neither he nor Pavlusha looked more than twelve years old. The fourth, Kostya, a boy of ten, aroused my curiosity by his thoughtful and sorrowful look. His whole face was small, thin, freckled, pointed at the chin like a squirrel's; his lips were barely perceptible; but his great black eyes, that shone with liquid brilliance, produced a strange impression: they seemed trying to express something for which the tongue--his tongue, at least--had no words. He was undersized and weakly, and dressed rather poorly. The remaining boy, Vanya, I had not noticed at first; he was lying on the ground, peacefully curled up under a square mat, and, only occasionally thrust his curly brown head out from under it; this boy was seven years old at the most.

So I lay under the bush at one side and looked at the boys. A small pot was hanging over one of the fires; in it potatoes were cooking. Pavlusha was looking after them, and on his knees he was trying them by poking a splinter of wood into the boiling water. Fedya was lying leaning on his elbow and smoothing out the skirts of his coat. Ilyusha was sitting beside Kostya, and still kept blinking constrainedly. Kostya's head drooped despondently, and he looked away into the distance. Vanya did not stir under his mat. I pretended to be asleep. Little by little, the boys began talking again.

At first they gossiped of one thing and another, the work of tomorrow, the horses; but suddenly Fedya turned to Ilyusha, and, as though taking up again an interrupted conversation, asked him:

"Come then, so you've seen the goblin?"

"No, I didn't see him, and no one ever can see him," answered Ilyusha in a weak hoarse voice, the sound of which was wonderfully in keeping with the expression of his face; "I heard him. Yes, and not I alone."

"Where does he live--in your place?" asked Pavlusha.

"In the old paper mill."

"Why, do you go to the factory?"

"Of course we do. My brother Avdyushka and I, we are paper-glazers."

"Well!--factory-hands!"

"Well, how did you hear him, then?" asked Fedya.

"It was like this. It happened that I and my brother Avdyushka, with Fyodor Mikheyevsky, and Ivashka the Squint-Eyed, and the other Ivashka who comes from the Red Hills, and Ivashka Sukhorukov, too--and there were some other boys there as well--there were ten of us boys there altogether--the whole shift, that is--it happened that we spent the night at the paper mill; that's to say, it didn't happen, but Nazarov, the overseer, kept us. 'Why,' said he, 'should you waste time going home, boys; there's a lot of work tomorrow, so don't go home, boys.' So we stopped, and were all lying down together, and Avdyushka had just begun to say, 'I say, boys, suppose the goblin were to come?' And before he'd finished saying so, someone suddenly began walking over our heads; we were lying down below, and he began walking upstairs overhead, where the wheel is. We listened: he walked; the boards seemed to be bending under him, they creaked so; then he crossed over, above, our heads; all of a sudden the water began to drip and drip over the wheel; the wheel rattled and rattled and again began to turn, though the sluices of the conduit above had been let down. We wondered who could have lifted them up so that the water could run; anyway, the wheel turned and turned a little, and then, stopped. Then he went to the door overhead and began coming downstairs, and came down, not hurrying himself; the stairs seemed to groan under him, too. . . . Well, he came right down to our door, and waited and waited . . . and all of a sudden the door simply flew open. We were in a fright; we looked--there was nothing. Suddenly what if the net on one of the vats didn't begin moving; it got up and went rising and ducking and moving in the air as though someone were stirring with it, and then it was in its place again. Then, at another vat, a hook came off its nail, and then was on its nail again; and then it seemed as if someone came to the door and suddenly coughed and choked like a sheep, but so loudly!. . . We all fell down in a heap and huddled against one another. Just weren't we in a fright that night!"

"I say!" murmured Pavlusha, "what did he cough for?"

"I don't know; perhaps it was the damp." All were silent for a little.

"Well," inquired Fedya, "are the potatoes done?"

Pavlusha tried them.

"No, they are raw. . . . My, what a splash!" he added, turning his face in the direction of the river; "that must be a pike. . . . And there's a star falling."

"I say, I can tell you something, brothers," began Kostya in a shrill little voice; "listen what my Dad told us the other day."

"Well, we are listening," said Fedya with a patronizing air.

"You know Gavrila, I suppose, the carpenter up in the big village?"

"Yes, we know him."

"And do you know why he is so sorrowful always, never speaks? do you know? I'll tell you why he's so sorrowful; he went one day, Daddy said, he went, brothers, into the forest nutting. So he went nutting into the forest and lost his way; he went on--God only can tell where he got to. So he went on and on, brothers--but 'twas no good!--he could not find the way; and so night came on out of doors. So he sat down under a tree. 'I'll wait till morning,' thought he. He sat down and began to drop asleep. So, as he was falling asleep, suddenly he heard someone call him. He looked up; there was no one. He fell asleep again; again he was called. He looked and looked again; and in front of him there sat a mermaid on a branch, swinging herself, and calling him to her, and simply dying with laughing; she laughed so. . . . And the moon was shining bright, so bright, the moon shone so clear--everything could be seen plain, brothers. So she called him, and she herself was as bright and as white sitting on the branch as some dace or a roach, or like some little carp, so white and silvery. . . . Gavrila the carpenter almost fainted, brothers, but she laughed without stopping, and kept beckoning him to her like this. Then Gavrila was just getting up; he was just wanting to go up to the mermaid, brothers, but-- the Lord put it into his heart, doubtless--he crossed himself. . . . And it was so hard for him to make that cross, brothers; he said, 'My hand was simply like a stone; it would not move.' Ugh! the horrid witch!. . . So when he made the cross, brothers, the mermaid, she left off laughing, and all at once how she did cry. . . . She cried, brothers, and wiped her eyes with her hair, and her hair was green as any hemp. So Gavrila looked and looked at her, and at last he fell to questioning her. 'Why are you weeping, wild thing of the woods?' And the mermaid began to speak to him like this: 'If you had not crossed yourself, man,' she says, 'you should have lived with me in gladness of heart to the end of your days; and I weep, I am grieved at heart because you crossed yourself; but I will not grieve alone; you, too, shall grieve at heart to the end of your days.' Then she vanished, brothers, and at once it was plain to Gavrila how to get out of the forest. . . . Only since then he goes always sorrowful, as you see."

"Ugh!" said Fedya after a brief silence; "but how can such an evil thing of the woods ruin a Christian soul--he did not listen to her?"

"Strange, isn't it?" said Kostya. "Gavrila said that her voice was as shrill and plaintive as a toad's."

"Did your father tell you that himself?" Fedya went on.

"Yes. I was lying in the loft; I heard it all."

"It's a strange thing. Why should he be sorrowful?. . . But I suppose she liked him, since she called him."

"Ay, she liked him!" put in Ilyusha. "Yes, indeed! she wanted to tickle him to death, that's what she wanted. That's what they do, those mermaids."

"There ought to be mermaids here, too, I suppose," observed Fedya.

"No," answered Kostya, "this is a clear, open place. There's one thing, though: the river's near."

All were silent. Suddenly from out of the distance came a prolonged, resonant, almost wailing sound, one of those inexplicable sounds of the night, which break upon a profound stillness, rise upon the air, linger, and slowly die away at last. You listen: it is as though there were nothing, yet it echoes still. It is as though someone had uttered a long, long cry upon the very horizon, as though some other had answered him with shrill harsh laughter in the forest, and, a faint, hoarse hissing hovers over the river. The boys looked roundabout shivering. . . .

"Christ's aid be with us!" whispered Ilyusha.

"Ah, you craven crows!" cried Pavlusha; "what are you frightened of? Look, the potatoes are done." (They all came up to the pot and began to eat the smoking potatoes; only Vanya did not stir.) "'Well, aren't you coming?" said Pavlusha.

But he did not creep out from under his mat. The pot was soon completely emptied.

"Have you heard, boys," began Ilyusha, "what happened with us at Varnavitsi?"

"Near the dam?" asked Fedya.

"Yes, yes, near the dam, the broken-down dam. That is a haunted place, such a haunted place, and so lonely. All round there are pits and quarries, and there are always snakes in pits."

"Well, what did happen? Tell us."

"Well, this is what happened. You don't know, perhaps, Fedya, but there a drowned man was buried; he was drowned long, long ago, when the water was still deep; only his grave can still be seen, though it can only just be seen . . . just a little mound. . . . So one day the bailiff called the huntsman Yermil, and says to him, 'Go to the post, Yermil.' Yermil always goes to the post for us; he has let all his dogs die; they never will live with him, for some reason, and they have never lived with him, though he's a good huntsman, and everyone likes him. So Yermil went to the post, and he stayed a bit in the town, and when he rode back, he was a little tipsy. It was night, a fine night; the moon was shining. . . . So Yermil rode across the dam; his way lay there. So, as he rode along, he saw, on the drowned man's grave, a little lamb, so white and curly and pretty, running about. So Yermil thought, 'I will take him,' and he got down and took him in his arms. But the little lamb didn't take any notice. So Yermil goes back to his horse, and the horse stares at him, and snorts and shakes his head; however, he said 'wo' to him and sat on him with the lamb, and rode on again; he held the lamb in front of him. He looks at him, and the lamb looks him straight in the face, like this. Yermil the huntsman felt upset. 'I don't remember,' he said, 'that lambs ever look at any one like that'; however, he began to stroke it like this on its wool and to say, 'Chucky! chucky!' And the lamb suddenly showed its teeth and said too, 'Chucky! chucky!' "

The boy who was telling the story had hardly uttered this last word, when suddenly both dogs got up at once, and, barking convulsively, rushed away from the fire and disappeared in the darkness. All the boys were alarmed. Vanya jumped up from under his mat. Pavlusha ran shouting after the dogs. Their barking quickly grew fainter in the distance. There was the noise of the uneasy tramp of the frightened drove of horses. Pavlusha shouted aloud, "Hey, Sery! Zhuchka!" In a few minutes the barking ceased; Pavlusha's voice sounded still in the distance. A little more time passed; the boys kept looking about in perplexity, as though expecting something to happen. Suddenly the tramp of a galloping horse was heard; it stopped short at the pile of wood, and, hanging on to the mane, Pavlusha sprang nimbly off it. Both the dogs also leaped into the circle of light and at once sat down, their red tongues hanging out.

"What was it? what was it?" asked the boys.

"Nothing," answered Pavlusha, waving his hand to his horse; "I suppose the dogs scented something. I thought it was a wolf," he added, calmly drawing deep breaths into his chest.

I could not help admiring Pavlusha. He was very fine at that moment. His ugly face, animated by his swift ride, glowed with hardihood and determination. Without even a switch in his hand, he had, without the slightest hesitation, rushed out into the night alone to face a wolf. "What a splendid fellow!" I thought, looking at him.

"Have you seen any wolves, then?" asked the trembling Kostya.

"There are always a good many of them here;" answered Pavlusha; "but they are only troublesome in the winter."

He crouched down again before the fire. As he sat down on the ground, he laid his hand on the shaggy head of one of the dogs. For a long while the flattered brute did not turn his head, gazing sidewise with grateful pride at Pavlusha.

Vanya lay down under his mat again.

"What dreadful things you were telling us, Ilyusha!" began Fedya, whose part it was, as the son of a well-to-do peasant, to lead the conversation. (He spoke little himself, apparently afraid of lowering his dignity.) "And then some evil spirit set the dogs barking. . . . Certainly I have heard that place of yours was haunted."

"Varnavitsi? I should think it was haunted! More than once, they say, they have seen the old master there--the late master. He wears, they say, a long skirted coat, and keeps groaning like this, and looking for something on the ground. Once grandfather Trofimich met him. 'What,' says he, 'your honour, Ivan Ivanich, are you pleased to look for on the ground?'"

"He asked him?" put in Fedya in amazement.

"Yes, he asked him."

"Well, I call Trofimich a brave fellow after that. . . . Well, what did he say?"

" 'I am looking for the herb that cleaves all things,' says he. But he speaks so thickly, so thickly. 'And what, your honour, Ivan Ivanich, do you want with the herb that cleaves all things?' 'The tomb weighs on me; it weighs on me, Trofimich; I want to get away--away.

"My word!" observed Fedya, "he didn't get enough out of life, I suppose."

"What a marvel!" said Kostya. "I thought one could only see the departed on All Hallows' Day."

"One can see the departed any time," Ilyusha interposed with conviction. From what I could observe, I judged he knew the village superstitions better than the others. "But on All Hallows' Day you can see the living too; those, that is, whose turn it is to die that year. You need only sit in the church porch and keep looking at the road. They will come by you along the road; those, that is, who will die that year. Last year old Ulyana went to the porch."

"Well, did she see anyone?" asked Kostya inquisitively.

"To be sure she did. At first she sat a long, long while, and saw no one and heard nothing . . . only it seemed as if some dog kept whining and whining somewhere. . . . Suddenly she looks up: a boy comes along the road with only a shirt on. She looked at him. It was Ivashka Fedoseyev."

"He who died in the spring?" put in Fedya.

"Yes, he. He came along and never lifted up his head. But Ulyana knew him. And then she looks again: a woman came along. She stared and stared at her. . . . Ah, God Almighty! . . . it was herself coming along the road; Ulyana herself."

"Could it be herself?" asked Fedya.

"Yes, by God, herself."

"Well, but she is not dead yet, you know?"

"But the year is not over yet. And only look at her; her life hangs on a thread."

All were still again. Pavlusha threw a handful of dry twigs on to the fire. They were soon charred by the suddenly leaping flame; they cracked and smoked, and began to contract, curling up their burning ends. Gleams of light in broken flashes glanced in all directions, especially upwards. Suddenly, a white dove flew straight into the bright light, fluttered round and round in terror, bathed in the red glow, and disappeared with a whirr of its wings.

"It's lost its home, I suppose," remarked Pavlusha. "Now it will fly till it gets somewhere, where it can rest till dawn."

"Why, Pavlusha," said Kostya, "might it not be a just soul flying to heaven?"

Pavlusha threw another handful of twigs on to the fire.

"Perhaps," he said at last.

"But tell us, please, Pavlusha," began Fedya, "did you in Shalamov also see the heavenly portent?"*

*This is what the peasants call an eclipse--Author's Note.

"When the sun could not be seen? Yes, indeed."

"Were you frightened, too?"

"Yes; and we weren't the only ones. Our master, though he talked to us beforehand and said there would be a heavenly portent, yet when it got dark, they say he himself was frightened out of his wits. And in the house-serfs' cottage the old woman, directly it grew dark, broke all the dishes in the oven with the poker. "Who will eat now?" she said; "the last day has come." So the soup was running all about the place. And in the village there were such tales about among us: that white wolves would run over the earth and would eat men, that a bird of prey would pounce down on us, and that they would even see Trishka."*

*The popular belief in Trishka is probably derived from some tradition of Antichrist--Author's Note.

"What is Trishka?" asked Kostya.

"Why, don't you know?" interrupted Ilyusha warmly. "Why, brother, where have you been brought up, not to know Trishka? You're a stay-at-home, one-eyed lot in your village, really! Trishka will be a marvellous man, who will come one day, and he will be such a marvellous man that they will never be able to catch him, and never be able to do anything with him; he will be such a marvellous man. The people will try to take him; for example, they will come after him with sticks, they will surround him, but he will blind their eyes so that they fall upon one another. They will put him in prison, for example; he will ask for a little water to drink in a bowl; they will bring him the bowl, and he will plunge into it and vanish from their sight. They will put chains on him, but he will only clap his hands--they will fall off him. So this Trishka will go through villages and towns; and this Trishka will be a wily man; he will lead astray Christ's people . . . and they will be able to do nothing to him. . . . He will be such a marvellous wily man."

"Well, then," continued Pavlusha in his deliberate voice, "that's what he's like. And so they expected him in our parts. The old men declared that directly the heavenly portent began, Trishka would come. So the heavenly portent began. All the people were scattered over the street, in the fields, waiting to see what would happen. Our place, you know, is open country. They look; and suddenly down the mountain-side from the big village comes a man of some sort; such a strange man, with such a wonderful head that all scream, 'Oy, Trishka is coming! Oy, Trishka is coming!' and all run in all directions! Our elder crawled into a ditch; his wife stumbled on the door-board and screamed with all her might; she terrified her yard-dog so that he broke away from his chain and over the hedge and into the forest it went; and Kuzka's father, Dorofeyich, ran into the oats, lay down there, and began to cry like a quail. 'Perhaps,' says he, 'the Enemy, the Destroyer of Souls, will spare the birds, at least.' So they were all in such a scare! But he that was coming was our cooper Vavila; he had bought himself a new pitcher and had put the empty pitcher over his head."

All the boys laughed; and again there was a silence for a while, as often happens when people are talking in the open air. I looked out into the solemn, majestic stillness of the night; the dewy freshness of late evening had been succeeded by the dry heat of midnight; the darkness still had long to lie in a soft curtain over the slumbering fields; there was still a long while left before the first whisperings, the first dewdrops of dawn. There was no moon in the heavens; it rose late at that time. Countless golden stars, twinkling in rivalry, seemed all running softly towards the Milky Way, and truly, looking at them, you were almost conscious of the whirling, never-resting motion of the earth. . . . A strange, harsh, painful cry sounded twice together over the river, and a few moments later, was repeated farther down. . . .

Kostya shuddered. "What was that?"

"That was a heron's cry," replied Pavlusha tranquilly. "A heron," repeated Kostya. . . . "And what was it, Pavlusha, I heard yesterday evening?" he added, after a short pause; "you perhaps will know."

"What did you hear?"

"I will tell you what I heard. I was going from Stony Ridge to Shashkino; I went first through our walnut wood, and then passed by a little pool--you know where there's a sharp turn down to the ravine--there is a water-pit there, you know; it is quite overgrown with reeds; so I went near this pit, brothers, and suddenly from it came a sound of someone groaning, and piteously, so piteously: oo-oo, oo-oo! I was in such a fright, my brothers; it was late, and the voice was so miserable. I felt as if I should cry myself. . . . What could that have been, eh?"

"It was in that pit the thieves drowned Akim the forester last summer," observed Pavlusha; "so perhaps it was his soul lamenting."

"Oh, dear, really, brothers," replied Kostya, opening wide his eyes, which were round enough before, "I did not know they had drowned Akim in that pit. Shouldn't I have been frightened if I'd known!"

"But they say there are little, tiny frogs," continued Pavlusha, "who cry piteously like that."

"Frogs? Oh, no, it was not frogs, certainly not." (The heron again uttered a cry above the river.) "Ugh, there it is!" Kostya cried involuntarily; "it is just like a wood-spirit shrieking."

"The wood-spirit does not shriek, it is dumb," put in Ilyusha; "it only claps its hands and rattles."

"And have you seen it then, the wood-spirit?" Fedya asked him ironically.

"No, I have not seen it, and God preserve me from seeing it; but others have seen it. Why, one day it misled a peasant in our parts, and led him through the woods and all in a circle in one field. . . . He scarcely got home till daylight."

"Well, and did he see it?"

"Yes. He says it was a big, big creature, dark, shapeless, as if it were standing behind a tree; you could not make it out well; it seemed to hide away from the moon, and kept staring and staring with its great eyes, and winking and winking them. . . ."

"Ugh!" exclaimed Fedya with a slight shiver, and a shrug of the shoulders; "pfoo!"

"And how does such an unclean brood come to exist in the world," said Pavlusha; "it's a wonder."

"Don't speak ill of it; take care, it will hear you," said Ilyusha.

Again there was a silence.

"Look, look, brothers," suddenly came Vanya's childish voice; "look at God's little stars; they are swarming like bees!"

He put his fresh little face out from under his mat, leaned on his little fist, and slowly lifted up his large soft eyes. The eyes of all the boys were raised to the sky, and they were not lowered quickly.

"Well, Vanya," began Fedya caressingly, "is your sister Anyutka well?"

"Yes, she is very well," replied Vanya with a slight lisp.

"You ask her, why doesn't she come to see us?"

"I don't know."

"You tell her to come."

"Very well."

"Tell her I have a present for her."

"And a present for me, too?"

"Yes, you, too."

Vanya sighed.

"No; I don't want one. Better give it to her; she is so kind to us at home."

And Vanya laid his head down again on the ground. Pavlusha got up and took the empty pot in his hand.

"Where are you going?" Fedya asked him.

"To the river, to get water; I want some water to drink."

The dogs got up and followed him.

"Take care you don't fall into the river!" Ilyusha cried after him.

"Why should he fall in?" said Fedya. "He will be careful."

"Yes, he will be careful. But all kinds of things happen; he will stoop over, perhaps, to draw the water, and the water-spirit will clutch him by the hand, and drag him into the depths. Then they will say, 'The boy fell into the water.' Fell in, indeed!. . . There, he has gone in among the reeds," he added, listening.

The reeds certainly "shished," as they call it among us, as they were parted.

"But is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina has been mad ever since she fell into the water?"

"Yes, ever since. . . . How dreadful she is now! But they say she was a beauty before then. The water-spirit bewitched her. I suppose he did not expect they would get her out so soon. So down there at the bottom he bewitched her."

(I had met this Akulina more than once. Covered with rags, fearfully thin, with face as black as coal, blear-eyed and for ever grinning, she would stay whole hours in one place in the road, stamping with her feet, pressing her fleshless hands to her breast, and slowly shifting from one leg to the other, like a wild beast in a cage. She understood nothing that was said to her, and only chuckled spasmodically from time to time.)

"But they say," continued Kostya, "that Akulina threw herself into the river because her lover had deceived her."

"Yes, that was it."

"And do you remember Vasya?" added Kostya, mournfully.

"What Vasya?" asked Fedya.

"Why, the one who was drowned," replied Kostya, "in this very river. Ah, what a boy he was! What a boy he was! His mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And she seemed to have a foreboding, Feklista did, that harm would come to him from the water. Sometimes, when Vasya went with us boys in the summer to bathe in the river, she used to be trembling all over. The other women did not mind; they passed by with the pails, and went on, but Feklista put her pail down on the ground, and set to calling him, 'Come back, come back, my little joy; come back, my darling!' And no one knows how he was drowned. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was there haymaking; suddenly she hears as though someone was blowing bubbles through the water, and behold! there was only Vasya's little cap to be seen swimming on the water. You know since then Feklista has not been right in her mind: she goes and lies down at the place where he was drowned; she lies down, brothers, and sings a song--you remember Vasya was always singing a song like that--so she sings it, too, and weeps and weeps, and bitterly rails against God."

"Here is Pavlusha coming," said Fedya.

Pavlusha came up to the fire with a full pot in his hand.

"Boys," he began after a short silence, "something bad happened."

"Oh, what?" asked Kostya hurriedly.

"I heard Vasya's voice."

They all seemed to shudder.

"What do you mean? what do you mean?" stammered Kostya.

"I don't know. Only I went to stoop down to the water; suddenly I hear my name called in Vasya's voice, as though it came from below water, 'Pavlusha, Pavlusha, come here.' I came away. But I fetched the water, though." '

"Ah, God have mercy upon us!" said the boys, crossing themselves.

"It was the water-spirit calling you, Pavlusha," said Fedya; "we were just talking of Vasya."

"Ah, it's a bad omen," said Ilyusha, deliberately.

"Well, never mind, don't bother about it," Pavlusha declared stoutly, and he sat down again; "no one can escape his fate."

The boys were still. It was clear that Pavlusha's words had produced a strong impression on them. They began to lie down before the fire as though preparing to go to sleep.

"What is that?" asked Kostya, suddenly lifting his head.

Pavlusha listened.

"It's the curlews flying and whistling."

"Where are they flying to?"

"To a land where, they say, there is no winter."

"But is there such a land?"

"Yes."

"Is it far away?"

"Far, far away, beyond the warm seas."

Kostya sighed and shut his eyes.

More than three hours had passed since I first came across the boys. The moon at last had risen; I did not notice it at first; it was such a tiny crescent. This moonless night was as solemn and hushed as it had been at first. . . . But already many stars, that not long before had been high up in the heavens, were setting over the earth's dark rim; everything around was perfectly still, as it is only still towards morning; all was sleeping the deep unbroken sleep that comes before daybreak. Already the fragrance in the air was fainter; once more a dew seemed falling. . . . How short are nights in summer!. . . The boys' talk died down when the fires did. The dogs even were dozing; the horses, so far as I could make out in the hardly perceptible, faintly shining light of the stars, were asleep with downcast heads. . . . I fell into a state of weary unconsciousness, which passed into sleep.

A fresh breeze passed over my face. I opened my eyes; the morning was beginning. The dawn had not yet flushed the sky, but already it was growing light in the east. Everything had become visible, though dimly visible, around. The pale-grey sky was growing light and cold and bluish; the stars twinkled with a dimmer light, or disappeared; the earth was wet, the leaves covered with dew, and from the distance came sounds of life and voices, and a light morning breeze went fluttering over the earth. My body responded to it with a faint shudder of delight. I got up quickly and went to the boys. They were all sleeping, as though they were tired out, round the smouldering fire; only Pavlusha half rose and gazed intently at me.

I nodded to him, and walked homewards beside the misty river. Before I had walked two miles, already all around me, over the wide dew-drenched prairie, and in front, from forest to forest, where the hills were growing green again, and behind, over the long dusty road and the sparkling bushes, flushed with the red glow, and the river faintly blue now under the lifting mist, flowed fresh streams of burning light, first pink, then red and golden. . . . All things began to stir, to awaken, to sing, to flutter, to speak. On all sides thick drops of dew sparkled in glittering diamonds; to welcome me, pure and clear as though bathed in the freshness of morning, came the notes of a bell, and suddenly there rushed by me, driven by the boys I had parted from, the drove of horses, refreshed and rested. . . .

Sad to say, I must add that in that year Pavlusha met his end. He was not drowned; he was killed by a fall from his horse. Pity! he was a splendid fellow!

 

 

I WAS RETURNING from hunting in a jolting little trap, and overcome by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is well known that the heat is often more insupportable on such days than in bright days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and was shaken about, resigning myself with sullen fortitude to being persecuted by the fine white dust which was incessantly raised from the beaten road by the warped and creaking wheels, when suddenly my attention was aroused by the extraordinary uneasiness and agitated movements of my coachman, who had till that instant been more soundly dozing than I. He began tugging at the reins, moved uneasily on the box, and started shouting to the horses, staring all the while in one direction. I looked round. We were driving through a wide ploughed plain; low hills, also ploughed over, ran in gently sloping, swelling waves over it; the eye took in some five versts of deserted country; in the distance the round-scolloped tree-tops of some small birch copses were the only objects to break the almost straight line of the horizon. Narrow paths ran over the fields, disappeared into the hollows, and wound round the hillocks. On one of these paths, which happened to run into our road five hundred paces ahead of us, I made out a kind of procession. At this my coachman was looking.

It was a funeral. In front, in a little cart harnessed with one horse and advancing at a walking pace, came the priest; beside him sat the deacon driving: behind the cart four peasants, bareheaded, carried the coffin covered with a white cloth; two women followed the coffin. The shrill wailing voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened; she was intoning a dirge. Very dismal sounded this chanted, monotonous, hopelessly-sorrowful lament among the empty fields. The coachman whipped up the horses; he wanted to get in front of this procession. To meet a corpse on the road is a bad omen. And he did succeed in galloping ahead beyond this path before the funeral had had time to turn out of it into the highroad; but we had hardly got a hundred paces beyond this point, when suddenly our trap jolted violently, heeled on one side, and all but overturned. The coachman pulled up the galloping horses, and spat with a gesture of his hand.

"What is it?" I asked.

My coachman got down without speaking or hurrying himself.

"But what is it?"

"The axle is broken . . . it caught fire," he replied gloomily, and he suddenly arranged the collar on the off-side horse with such indignation that it was almost pushed over, but it stood its ground, snorted, shook itself, and tranquilly began to scratch its foreleg below the knee with its teeth.

I got out and stood for some time on the road, a prey to a vague and unpleasant feeling of helplessness. The right wheel was almost completely bent in under the trap, and it seemed to turn its centre-piece upwards in dumb despair.

"What are we to do now?" I said at last.

"That's what's the cause of it!" said my coachman, pointing with his whip to the funeral procession, which had just turned into the highroad and was approaching us. "I have always noticed that," he went on; "it's a true sign--'meet a corpse'--yes indeed."

And again he began worrying the off-side horse, who, seeing his ill-humour, resolved to remain perfectly quiet, and contented itself with discreetly switching its tail now and then. I walked up and down a little while, and then stopped again before the wheel.

Meanwhile the funeral had come up to us. Quietly turning off the road on to the grass, the mournful procession moved slowly past us. My coachman and I took off our caps, saluted the priest, and exchanged glances with the bearers. They moved with difficulty under their burden, their broad chests standing out under the strain. Of the two women who followed the coffin, one was very old and pale; her set face, terribly distorted as it was by grief, still kept an expression of grave and severe dignity. She walked in silence, from time to time lifting her wasted hand to her thin drawn lips. The other, a young woman of five-and-twenty, had her eyes red and moist and her whole face swollen with weeping: as she passed us she ceased wailing and hid her face in her sleeve. . . . But when the funeral had got round us and turned again into the road, her piteous, heart-piercing lament began again. My coachman followed the measured swaying of the coffin with his eyes in silence. Then he turned to me.

"It's Martin, the carpenter, they're burying," he said; "Martin of Ryabaya."

"How do you know?"

"I know by the women. The old one is his mother, and the young one's his wife."

"Has he been ill, then?"

"Yes . . . fever. The day before yesterday the overseer sent for the doctor, but they did not find the doctor at home. He was a good carpenter; he drank a bit, but he was a good carpenter. See how upset his good woman is. . . . But, there; women's tears don't cost much, you know. Women's tears are only water . . . yes, indeed."

And he bent down, crept under the side-horse's trace, and seized the wooden yoke that passes over the horses' heads with both hands.

"Anyway," I observed, "what are we going to do?" My coachman just supported himself with his knee on the shaft-horse's shoulder, twice gave the back-strap a shake, and straightened the pad; then he crept out of the side-horse's trace again, and giving it a blow on the nose as he passed, went up to the wheel. He went up to it, and, never taking his eyes off it, slowly took out of the skirts of his coat a box, slowly pulled open its lid by a strap, slowly thrust into it his two fat fingers (which pretty well filled it up), rolled and rolled up some snuff, and creasing up his nose in anticipation, helped himself to it several times in succession, accompanying the snuff-taking every time by a prolonged sneezing. Then, his streaming eyes blinking faintly, he relapsed into profound meditation.

"Well?" I said at last.

My coachman thrust his box carefully into his pocket, brought his hat forward on to his brows without the aid of his hand by a movement of his head, and gloomily got up on the box.

"What are you doing?" I asked him, somewhat bewildered.

"Pray be seated," he replied calmly, picking up the reins.

"But how can we go on?"

"We will go on now."

"But the axle?"

"Pray be seated."

"But the axle is broken."

"It is broken; but we will get to the settlement . . . at a walking pace, of course. Over here, beyond the copse, on the right, is a settlement; they call it Yudino."

"And do you think we can get there?"

My coachman did not vouchsafe me a reply.

"I had better walk," I said.

"As you like. . . ." And he flourished his whip. The horses started.

We did succeed in getting to the settlement, though the right front wheel was almost off, and turned in a very strange way. On one hillock it almost flew off, but my coachman shouted in a voice of exasperation, and we descended it in safety.

Yudino settlement consisted of six little low-pitched huts, the walls of which had already begun to slant, though they had certainly not been long built; the backyards of some of the huts were not even fenced in with a hedge. As we drove into this settlement we did not meet a single living soul; there were no hens even to be seen in the street, and no dogs, but one black crop-tailed cur, which at our approach leaped hurriedly out of a perfectly dry and empty trough, to which it must have been driven by thirst, and at once, without barking, rushed headlong under a gate. I went up to the first hut, opened the door into the outer room, and called for the master of the house. No one answered me. I called once more; the hungry mewing of a cat sounded behind the other door. I pushed it open with my foot; a thin cat ran up and down near me, its green eyes glittering in the dark. I put my head into the room and looked round; it was empty, dark, and smoky. I returned to the yard, and there was no one there either. . . . A calf lowed behind the paling; a lame grey goose waddled a little away. I passed on to the second hut. Not a soul in the second hut either. I went into the yard. . . .

In the very middle of the yard, in the glaring sunlight, there lay, with his face on the ground and a cloak thrown over his head, a boy, as it seemed to me. In a thatched shed a few paces from him a thin little nag with broken harness was standing near a wretched little cart. The sunshine falling in streaks through the narrow cracks in the dilapidated roof striped his shaggy, reddish-brown coat in small bands of light. Above, in the high birdhouse, starlings were chattering and looking down inquisitively from their airy home. I went up to the sleeping figure and began to awaken him.

He lifted his head, saw me, and at once jumped up on to his feet . . . . "What? what do you want? what is it?" he muttered, half asleep.

I did not answer him at once; I was so much impressed by his appearance.

Picture to yourself a little creature of fifty years old, with a little round wrinkled face, a sharp nose, little, scarcely visible brown eyes, and thick curly black hair, which stood out on his tiny head like the cap on the top of a mushroom. His whole person was excessively thin and weakly, and it is absolutely impossible to translate into words the extraordinary strangeness of his expression.

"What do you want?" he asked me again. I explained to him what was the matter; he listened, slowly blinking, without taking his eyes off me.

"So cannot we get a new axle?" I said finally; "I will gladly pay for it."

"But who are you? Hunters, eh?" he asked, scanning me from head to foot.

"Hunters."

"You shoot the fowls of heaven, I suppose?. . . the wild things of the woods?. . . And is it not a sin to kill God's birds, to shed the innocent blood?"

The strange old man spoke in a very drawling tone. The sound of his voice also astonished me. There was none of the weakness of age to be heard in it; it was marvellously sweet, young and almost feminine in its softness.

"I have no axle," he added after a brief silence. "That thing will not suit you." He pointed to his cart. "You have, I expect, a large trap."

"But can I get one in the village?"

"Not much of a village here!. . . No one has an axle. . . . And there is no one at home either; they are all at work. You must go on," he announced suddenly; and he lay down again on the ground.

I had not at all expected this conclusion.

"Listen, old man," I said, touching him on the shoulder; "do me a kindness, help me."

"Go on, in God's name! I am tired; I have driven into the town," he said, and drew his cloak over his head.

"But pray do me a kindness," I said. "I . . . I will pay for it."

"I don't want your money."

"But please, old man."

He half raised himself and sat up, crossing his thin legs.

"I could take you perhaps to the clearing. Some merchants have bought the forest here--God be their judge! They are cutting down the forest, and they have built a counting-house there--God be their judge! You might order an axle of them there, or buy one ready-made."

"Splendid!" I cried delighted; "splendid! let us go."

"An oak axle, a good one," he continued, not getting up from his place.

"And is it far to this clearing?"

"Three versts."

"Come, then! we can drive there in your trap."

"Oh, no. . . ."

"Come, let us go," I said; "let us go, old man! The coachman is waiting for us in the road."

The old man rose unwillingly and followed me into the street. We found my coachman in an irritable frame of mind; he had tried to water his horses, but the water in the well, it appeared, was scanty in quantity and bad in taste, and water is the first consideration with coachmen. . . . However, he grinned at the sight of the old man, nodded his head and cried, "Hallo! Kasyan! good health to you!"

"Good health to you, Erofei, upright man!" replied Kasyan in a dejected voice.

I at once made known his suggestion to the coachman; Erofei expressed his approval of it and drove into the yard. While he was busy deliberately unharnessing the horses, the old man stood leaning with his shoulders against the gate and looking disconsolately first at him and then at me. He seemed in some uncertainty of mind; he was not very pleased, as it seemed to me, at our sudden visit.

"So they have made you settle here too?" Erofei asked him suddenly, lifting the wooden arch of the harness.

"Yes."

"Ugh!" said my coachman between his teeth. "You know Martin the carpenter. . . . Of course, you know Martin of Ryabaya?"

"Yes."

"Well, he is dead. We have just met his coffin."

Kasyan shuddered.

"Dead?" he said, and his head sank dejectedly.

"Yes, he is dead. Why didn't you cure him, eh? You know, they say you cure folks; you're a doctor."

My coachman was apparently laughing and jeering at the old man.

"And is this your trap, pray?" he added, with a shrug of his shoulders in its direction.

"Yes."

"Well, a trap . . . a fine trap!" he repeated, and taking it by the shafts, almost turned it completely upside down. "A trap!. . . But what will you drive in to the clearing?. . . You can't harness our horses in these shafts; our horses are all too big."

"I don't know," replied Kasyan, "what you are going to drive; that beast perhaps," he added with a sigh.

"That?" broke in Erofei, and going up to Kasyan's nag, he tapped it disparagingly on the back with the third finger of his right hand. "See," he added contemptuously, "it's asleep, the scarecrow!"

I asked Erofei to harness it as quickly as he could. I wanted to drive myself with Kasyan to the clearing; grouse are fond of such places. When the little cart was quite ready, and I, together with my dog, had been installed in its warped wicker body, and Kasyan huddled up into a little ball, with still the same dejected expression on his face, had taken his seat in front, Erofei came up to me and whispered with an air of mystery:

"You did well, your honour, to drive with him. He is such a queer fellow; he's cracked, you know, and his nickname is the Flea. I don't know how you managed to make out what he said . . . ."

I tried to say to Erofei that so far Kasyan had seemed to me a very sensible man; but my coachman continued at once in the same voice:

"But you keep a look-out where he is driving you to. And, your honour, be pleased to choose the axle yourself; be pleased to choose a sound one. . . . Well, Flea," he added aloud, "could I get a bit of bread in your house?"

"Look about; you may find some," answered Kasyan. He pulled the reins and we rolled away.

His little horse, to my genuine astonishment, did not go badly. Kasyan preserved an obstinate silence the whole way, and made abrupt and unwilling answers to my questions. We quickly reached the clearing, and then made our way to the counting-house, a lofty cottage standing by itself over a small gully, which had been dammed up and converted into a pool. In this counting-house I found two young merchants' clerks, with snow-white teeth, sweet and soft eyes, sweet and subtle words, and sweet and wily smiles. I bought an axle of them and returned to the clearing. I thought that Kasyan would stay with the horse and await my return; but he suddenly came up to me.

"Are you going to shoot birds, eh?" he said.

"Yes, if I come across any."

"I will come with you. . . . Can I?"

"Certainly, certainly."

So we went together. The land cleared was about a verst in length. I must confess I watched Kasyan more than my dogs. He had been aptly called "Flea." His little black uncovered head (though his hair, indeed, was as good a covering as any cap) seemed to flash hither and thither among the bushes. He walked extraordinarily swiftly, and seemed always hopping up and down as he moved; he was for ever stooping down to pick herbs of some kind, thrusting them into his bosom, muttering to himself, and constantly looking at me and my dog with such a strange searching gaze. Among low bushes and in clearings there are often little grey birds which constantly flit from tree to tree, and which whistle as they dart away. Kasyan mimicked them, answered their calls; a young quail flew from between his feet, chirruping, and he chirruped in imitation of him; a lark began to fly down above him, moving his wings and singing melodiously; Kasyan joined in his song. He did not speak to me at all. . . .

The weather was glorious, even more so than before; but the heat was no less. Over the clear sky the high thin clouds were hardly stirred, yellowish-white, like snow lying late in spring, flat and drawn out like rolled-up sails. Slowly but perceptibly their fringed edges, soft and fluffy as cotton-wool, changed at every moment; they were melting away, even these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. I strolled about the clearing for a long while with Kasyan. Young shoots, which had not yet had time to grow more than a yard high, surrounded the low blackened stumps with their smooth slender stems; and spongy funguses with grey edges--the same of which they make tinder---clung to these; strawberry plants flung their rosy tendrils over them; mushrooms squatted close in groups. The feet were constantly caught and entangled in the long grass that was parched in the scorching sun; the eyes were dazzled on all sides by the glaring metallic glitter of the young reddish leaves of the trees; on all sides were the variegated blue clusters of vetch, the golden cups of blood-wort, and the half-lilac, half-yellow blossoms of the heart's-ease. In some places near the disused paths, on which the tracks of wheels were marked by streaks on the fine bright grass, rose piles of wood, blackened by wind and rain, laid in yard-lengths; there was a faint shadow cast from them in slanting oblongs; there was no other shade anywhere. A light breeze rose, then sank again; suddenly it would blow straight in the face and seem to be rising; everything would begin to rustle merrily, to nod, to shake around one; the supple tops of the ferns bow down gracefully, and one rejoices in it, but at once it dies away again, and all is at rest once more. Only the grasshoppers chirrup in chorus with frenzied energy, and wearisome is this unceasing, sharp, dry sound. It is in keeping with the persistent heat of midday; it seems akin to it, as though evoked by it out of the glowing earth.

Without having started one single covey we at last reached another clearing. There the aspen-trees had only lately been felled, and lay stretched mournfully on the ground, crushing the grass and small undergrowth below them; on some the leaves were still green, though they were already dead, and hung limply from the motionless branches; on others they were crumpled and dried up. Fresh golden-white chips lay in heaps round the stumps that were covered with bright drops; a peculiar, very pleasant pungent odour rose from them. Farther away, nearer the wood, sounded the dull blows of the axe, and from time to time, bowing and spreading wide its arms, a bushy tree fell slowly and majestically to the ground.

For a long time I did not come upon a single bird; at last a corn-crake flew out of a thick clump of young oak across the wormwood springing up round it. I fired; it turned over in the air and fell. At the sound of the shot, Kasyan quickly covered his eyes with his hand, and he did not stir till I had reloaded the gun and picked up the bird. When I had moved farther on, he went up to the place where the wounded bird had fallen, bent down to the grass, on which some drops of blood were sprinkled, shook his head, and looked in dismay at me. . . . I heard him afterwards whispering, "A sin!. . . Ah, yes, it's a sin!"

The heat forced us at last to go into the wood. I flung myself down under a high nut bush, over which a slender young maple gracefully stretched its light branches. Kasyan sat down on the thick trunk of a felled birch-tree. I looked at him. The leaves faintly stirred overhead, and their thin greenish shadows crept softly to and fro over his feeble body, muffled in a dark coat, and over his little face. He did not lift his head. Bored by his silence, I lay on my back and began to admire the tranquil play of the tangled foliage on the background of the bright, far-away sky. A marvellously sweet occupation it is to lie on one's back in a wood and gaze upwards! You may fancy you are looking into a bottomless sea; that it stretches wide below you; that the trees are not rising out of the earth, but, like the roots of gigantic weeds, are dropping--falling straight down into those glassy, limpid depths; the leaves on the trees are at one moment transparent as emeralds, the next, they condense into golden, almost black green. Somewhere, afar off, at the end of a slender twig, a single leaf hangs motionless against the blue patch of transparent sky, and beside it another trembles with the motion of a fish on the line, as though moving of its own will, not shaken by the wind. Round white clouds float calmly across, and calmly pass away like submarine islands; and suddenly, all this ocean, this shining ether, these branches and leaves steeped in sunlight--all is rippling, quivering in fleeting brilliance, and a fresh trembling whisper awakens like the tiny, incessant splash of suddenly stirred eddies. One does not move--one looks, and no word can tell what peace, what joy, what sweetness reigns in the heart. One looks: the deep, pure blue stirs on one's lips a smile, innocent as itself; like the clouds over the sky, and, as it were, with them, happy memories pass in slow procession over the soul, and still one fancies one's gaze goes deeper and deeper, and draws one with it up into that peaceful, shining immensity, and that one cannot be brought back from that height, that depth. . . .

"Master, master!" cried Kasyan suddenly in his musical voice.

I raised myself in surprise: up till then he had scarcely replied to my questions, and now he suddenly addressed me of himself.

"What is it?" I asked.

"What did you kill the bird for?" he began, looking me straight in the face.

"What for? Corn-crake is game; one can eat it."

"That was not what you killed it for, master, as though you were going to eat it! You killed it for amusement."

"Well, you yourself, I suppose, eat geese or chickens?"

"Those birds are provided by God for man, but the corn-crake is a wild bird of the woods; and not he alone; many they are, the wild things of the woods and the fields, and the wild things of the rivers and marshes and moors, flying on high or creeping below; and a sin it is to slay them; let them live their allotted life upon the earth. But for man another food has been provided; his food is other, and other his sustenance: bread, the good gift of God, and the water of heaven, and the tame beasts that have come down to us from our fathers of old."

I looked in astonishment at Kasyan. His words flowed freely; he did not hesitate for a word; he spoke with quiet inspiration and gentle dignity, sometimes closing his eyes.

"So is it sinful, then, to kill fish, according to you?" I asked.

"Fishes have cold blood," he replied with conviction. "The fish is a dumb creature; it knows neither fear nor rejoicing. The fish is a voiceless creature. The fish does not feel; the blood in it is not living. . . . Blood," he continued after a pause, "blood is a holy thing! God's sun does not look upon blood; it is hidden away from the light . . . it is a great sin to bring blood into the light of day; a great sin and horror. . . . Ah, a great sin!"

He sighed, and his head drooped forward. I looked, I confess, in absolute amazement at the strange old man. His language did not sound like the language of a peasant; the common people do not speak like that, nor those who aim at fine speaking. His speech was meditative, grave, and curious. . . . I had never heard anything like it.

"Tell me, please, Kasyan," I began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, "what is your occupation?"

He did not answer my question at once. His eyes strayed uneasily for an instant.

"I live as the Lord commands," he brought out at last; "and as for occupation--no, I have no occupation. I've never been very clever from a child; I work when I can; I'm not much of a workman--how should I be? I have no health; my hands are awkward. But in the spring I catch nightingales."

"You catch nightingales?. . . But didn't you tell me that we must not touch any of the wild things of the woods and the fields, and so on?"

"We must not kill them, of a certainty; death will take its own without that. Look at Martin the carpenter; Martin lived, and his life was not long, but he died; his wife now grieves for her husband, for her little children. . . . Neither for man nor beast is there any charm against death. Death does not hasten, nor is there any escaping it; but we must not aid death. . . . And I do not kill nightingales--God forbid! I do not catch them to harm them, to spoil their lives, but for the pleasure of men, for their comfort and delight."

"Do you go to Kursk to catch them?"

"Yes, I go to Kursk, and farther, too, at times. I pass nights in the marshes, or at the edge of the forests; I am alone at night in the fields, in the thickets; there the curlews call and the hares squeak and the wild ducks lift up their voices. . . . I note them at evening; at morning I give ear to them; at daybreak I cast my net over the bushes. . . . There are nightingales that sing so pitifully sweet . . . yea, pitifully."

"And do you sell them?"

"I give them to good people."

"And what are you doing now?"

"What am I doing?"

"Yes, how are you employed?"

The old man was silent for a little.

"I am not employed at all. . . . I am a poor workman. But I can read and write."

"You can read?"

"Yes, I can read and write. I learnt, by the help of God and good people."

"Have you a family?"

"No, not a family."

"How so?. . . Are they dead, then?"

"No, but . . . I have never been lucky in life. But all that is in God's hands; we are all in God's hands; and a man should be righteous--that is all! Upright before God, that is it."

"And you have no kindred?"

"Yes . . . well . . . ."

The old man was confused.

"Tell me, please," I began: "I heard my coachman ask you why you did not cure Martin. You cure disease?"

"Your coachman is a righteous man," Kasyan answered thoughtfully, "but not without sin either. They call me a doctor. Me a doctor, indeed! And who can heal the sick? That is all a gift from God. But there are . . . yes, there are herbs, and there are flowers; they are of use, of a certainty. There is plantain, for instance, a herb good for man; there is bud-marigold too; it is not sinful to speak of them: they are holy herbs of God. Then there are others not so; and they may be of use, but it's a sin; and to speak of them is a sin. Still, with prayer, maybe. . . . And doubtless there are such words. . . . But who has faith, shall be saved," he added, dropping his voice.

"You did not give Martin anything?" I asked.

"I heard of it too late," replied the old man. "But what of it! Each man's destiny is written from his birth. The carpenter Martin was not to live; he was not to live upon the earth: that was what it was. No, when a man is not to live on the earth, him the sunshine does not warm like another, and him the bread does not nourish and make strong; it is as though something is drawing him away. . . . Yes; God rest his soul!"

"Have you been settled long amongst us?" I asked him after a short pause.

Kasyan started.

"No, not long; about four years. In the old master's time we always lived in our old houses, but the trustees made us settle here. Our old master was a kind heart, a man of peace--the Kingdom of Heaven be his! The trustees doubtless judged righteously."

"And where did you live before?"

"At Fair Springs."

"Is it far from here?"

"A hundred versts."

"Well, were you better off there?"

"Yes . . . yes, there, there was open country, with rivers; it was our home; here we are cramped and parched up. . . . Here we are strangers. There at home, at Fair Springs, you could get up on to a hill--and ah, my God, what a sight you could see! Streams and meadows and forests, and there was a church, and then came more meadows beyond. You could see far, very far. Yes, how far you could look--you could look and look, ah, yes! Here, doubtless, the soil is better; it is clay--good fat clay, the peasants say; for me the corn grows well enough everywhere."

"Tell me, old man, you would like to visit your birthplace again?"

"Yes, I should like to see it. Still, all places are good. I am a man without kin, a restless man. And, after all, do you gain much, pray, by staying at home? But, behold! as you walk, and as you walk," he went on, raising his voice, "the heart grows lighter, of a truth. And the sun shines upon you, and you are in the sight of God, and the singing comes more tunefully. Here, you look-- what herb is growing; you look on it--you pick it. Here water runs, perhaps--spring water, a source of pure holy water; so you drink of it--you look on it, too. The birds of heaven sing. . . . And beyond Kursk come the steppes, that steppe-country; ah, what a marvel, what a delight for man! what freedom, what a blessing of God! And they go on, folks tell, even to the warm seas where dwells the sweet-voiced bird, the Hamayune, and from the trees the leaves fall not, neither in autumn nor in winter, and apples grow of gold, on silver branches, and every man lives in uprightness and content. And I would go even there. . . . Have I journeyed so little already! I have been to Romni and to Simbirsk the fair city, and even to Moscow of the golden cupolas; I have been to the good nurse Oka, and to the dove Tsna, and to our mother Volga, and many folks, good Christians, have I seen, and noble cities I have visited. . . . Well, I would go thither . . . yes . . . and more, too . . . and I am not the only one, I a poor sinner . . . many other Christians go in bast shoes, roaming over the world, seeking truth, yea!. . . For what is there at home? No righteousness in man--it's that."

These last words Kasyan uttered quickly, almost unintelligibly; then he said something more which I could not catch at all, and such a strange expression passed over his face that I involuntarily recalled the epithet "cracked." He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to himself again.

"What sunshine!" he murmured in a low voice. "It is a blessing, oh, Lord! What warmth in the woods!"

He gave a movement of the shoulders and fell into silence. With a vague look round him he began softly to sing. I could not catch all the words of his slow chant; I heard the following:

They call me Kasyan,
But my nickname's the Flea.

"Oh!" I thought, "so he improvises." Suddenly he started and ceased singing, looking intently at a thick part of the wood. I turned and saw a little peasant girl, about eight years old, in a blue frock, with a checked handkerchief over her head, and a woven bark basket in her little bare sunburnt hand. She had certainly not expected to meet us; she had, as they say, "stumbled upon" us, and she stood motionless in a shady recess among the thick foliage of the nut-trees, looking dismayed at me with her black eyes. I had scarcely time to catch a glimpse of her; she dived behind a tree.

"Annushka! Annushka! come here, don't be afraid!" cried the old man caressingly.

"I'm afraid," came her shrill voice.

"Don't be afraid, don't be afraid; come to me."

Annushka left her hiding place in silence, walked softly round--her little childish feet scarcely sounded on the thick grass--and came out of the bushes near the old man. She was not a child of eight, as I had fancied at first from her diminutive stature, but a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her whole person was small and thin, but very neat and graceful, and her pretty little face was strikingly like Kasyan's own, though he was certainly not handsome. There were the same thin features, and the same strange expression, shy and confiding, melancholy and shrewd, and her gestures were the same. . . . Kasyan kept his eyes fixed on her; she took her stand by his side.

"Well, have you been picking any mushrooms?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered with a shy smile.

"Did you find many?"

"Yes." (She stole a swift look at him and smiled again.)

"Are there white ones?"

"Yes."

"Show me, show me . . . ." (She slipped the basket off her arm and half lifted the big burdock leaf which covered up the mushrooms.) "Ah!" said Kasyan, bending down over the basket; "what splendid ones! Well done, Annushka!"

"She's your daughter, Kasyan, isn't she?" I asked. (Annushka's face flushed faintly.)

"No, well, a relative," replied Kasyan with affected indifference. "Come, Annushka, run along," he added at once, "run along, and God be with you! And take care."

"But why should she go on foot?" I interrupted. "We could take her with us."

Annushka blushed like a poppy, grasped the rope handle of her basket with both hands, and looked in trepidation at the old man.

"No, she will get there all right," he answered in the same languid and indifferent voice. "Why not?. . . She will get there. . . . Run along."

Annushka went rapidly away into the forest, Kasyan looked after her, then looked down and smiled, to himself. In this prolonged smile, in the few words he had spoken to Annushka, and in the very sound of his voice when he spoke to her, there was an intense, indescribable love and tenderness. He looked again in the direction she had gone, again smiled to himself, and, passing his hand across his face, nodded his head several times.

"Why did you send her away so soon?" I asked him. "I would have bought her mushrooms."

"Well, you can buy them there at home just the same, sir, if you like," he answered, for the first time using the formal "sir" in addressing me.

"She's very pretty, your girl."

"No . . . only so-so," he answered with seeming reluctance, and from that instant he relapsed into the same uncommunicative mood as at first.

Seeing that all my efforts to make him talk again were fruitless,. I went off into the clearing. Meantime the heat had somewhat abated; but my ill-success continued, and I returned to the settlement with nothing but one corncrake and the new axle. Just as we were driving into the yard, Kasyan suddenly turned to me.

"Master, master," he began, "do you know I have done you a wrong; it was I cast a spell to keep all the game off."

"How so?"

"Oh, I can do that. Here you have a well-trained dog and a good one, but he could do nothing. When you think of it, what are men? what are they? Here's a beast; what have they made of him?"

It would have been useless for me to try to convince Kasyan of the impossibility of "casting a spell" on game, and so I made him no reply. Meantime we had turned into the yard.

Annushka was not in the hut: she had had time to get there before us and to leave her basket of mushrooms. Erofei fitted in the new axle, first exposing it to a severe and most unjust criticism; and an hour later I set off, leaving a small sum of money with Kasyan, which at first he was unwilling to accept, but afterwards, after a moment's thought, holding it in his hand, he put it in his bosom. In the course of this hour he had scarcely uttered a single word; he stood as before, leaning against the gate. He made no reply to the reproaches of my coachman, and took leave very coldly of me.

Directly I turned round, I could see that my worthy Erofei was in a gloomy frame of mind. . . . To be sure, he had found nothing to eat in the village; the water for his horses was bad. We drove off. With dissatisfaction expressed even in the back of his head, he sat on the box, burning to begin to talk to me. While waiting for me to begin by some question, he confined himself to a low muttering in an undertone, and some rather caustic instructions to the horses. "A village," he muttered; "call that a village? You ask for a drop of kvas--not a drop of kvas even. Ah, Lord!. . . And the water--simply filth!" (He spat loudly.) "Not a cucumber, nor kvas, nor nothing. . . Now, then!" he added aloud, turning to the right trace-horse; "I know you, you humbug." (And he gave him a cut with the whip.) "That horse has learnt to shirk his work entirely, and yet he was a willing beast once. Now, then--look alive!"

"Tell me, please, Erofei," I began, "what sort of a man is Kasyan?"

Erofei did not answer me at once: he was, in general, a reflective and deliberate fellow; but I could see directly that my question was soothing and cheering to him.

"The Flea?" he said at last, gathering up the reins; "he's a queer fellow; yes, a crazy chap; such a queer fellow, you wouldn't find another like him in a hurry. You know, for example, he's for all the world like our roan horse here; he gets out of everything--out of work, that's to say. But then, what sort of workman could he be?. . . He's hardly body enough to keep his soul in . . . but still, of course. . . . He's been like that from a child up, you know. At first he followed his uncles' business as a carrier--there were three of them in the business; but then he got tired of it, you know--he threw it up. He began to live at home, but he could not keep at home long; he's so restless--a regular flea, in fact. He happened, by good luck, to have a kind master--he didn't worry him. Well, so ever since he has been wandering about like a lost sheep. And then, he's so strange; there's no understanding him. Sometimes he'll be as silent as a post, and then he'll begin talking, and God knows what he'll say! Is that good manners, pray? He's an absurd fellow, that he is. But he sings well, for all that."

"And does he cure people, really?"

"Cure people! How could he? A fine sort of doctor! Though he did cure me of the king's evil, I must own. . . . But how can he? He's a stupid fellow, that's what he is," he added after a moment's pause.

"Have you known him long?"

"A long while. I was his neighbour at Sichovka up at Fair Springs."

"And what of that girl--who met us in the wood, Annushka--what relation is she to him?"

Erofei looked at me over his shoulder and grinned all over his face.

"He, he!. . . yes, they are relations. She is an orphan; she has no mother, and it's not even known who her mother was. But she must be a relation; she's too much like him. Anyway, she lives with him. She's a smart girl, there's no denying; a good girl; and as for the old man, she's simply the apple of his eye; she's a good girl. And, do you know, you wouldn't believe it, but do you know, he'll probably start teaching Annushka to read. Well, well! that's quite like him; he's such an extraordinary fellow, such a changeable fellow; there's no reckoning on him, really. . . . Eh! eh! eh!" my coachman suddenly interrupted himself, and stopping the horses, he bent over on one side and began sniffing. "Isn't there a smell of burning? Yes! Why, that new axle, I do declare!. . . I thought I'd greased it. . . . We must get on to some water; why, here is a puddle, just right."

And Erofei slowly got off his seat, untied the pail, went to the pool, and coming back, listened with a certain satisfaction to the hissing of the box of the wheel as the water suddenly touched it. . . . Six times during some ten versts he had to pour water on the smouldering axle, and it was quite evening when we got home at last.

 

 

TWELVE miles from my place lives an acquaintance of mine, a landowner and a retired officer in the Guards--Arkady Pavlich Penochkin. He has a great deal of game on his estate, a house built after the design of a French architect, and servants dressed after the English fashion; he gives capital dinners, and a cordial reception to visitors, and, with all that, one goes to see him reluctantly. He is a sensible and practical man, has received an excellent education, has been in the service, mixed in the highest society, and is now devoting himself to his estate with great success. Arkady Pavlich is, to judge by his own words, severe but just; he looks after the good of his subjects and punishes them---for their good. "One has to treat them like children," he says on such occasions; "their ignorance, mon cher; il faut prendre cela en considération." When this so-called painful necessity arises, he eschews all sharp or violent gestures, and prefers not to raise his voice, but with a straight blow in the culprit's face, says calmly, "I believe I asked you to do something, my friend?" or "What is the matter, my boy? what are you thinking about?" while he sets his teeth a little, and the corners of his mouth are drawn. He is not tall, but has an elegant figure, and is very good-looking; his hands and nails are kept perfectly exquisite; his rosy cheeks and lips are simply the picture of health. He has a ringing, light-hearted laugh, and there is sometimes a very genial twinkle in his clear brown eyes. He dresses in excellent taste; he orders French books, prints, and papers, though he's no great lover of reading himself: he has hardly as much as waded through the The Wandering Jew. He plays cards in masterly style. Altogether, Arkady Pavlich is reckoned one of the most cultivated gentlemen and most eligible matches in our province; the ladies are perfectly wild over him, and especially admire his manners. He is wonderfully well conducted, wary as a cat, and has never from his cradle been mixed up in any scandal, though he is fond of making his power felt, intimidating or snubbing a nervous man, when he gets a chance. He has a positive distaste for doubtful society-- he is afraid of compromising himself; in his lighter moments, however, he will avow himself a follower of Epicurus, though as a rule he speaks slightingly of philosophy, calling it foggy food fit for German brains or, at times, simply rot. He is fond of music, too; at the card-table he is given to humming through his teeth, but with feeling; he knows by heart some snatches from Lucia and Les Somnambules, but he is always apt to sing everything a little sharp. The winters he spends in Petersburg. His house is kept in extraordinarily good order; the very grooms feel his influence, and every day not only rub the harness and brush their coats, but even wash their faces. Arkady Pavlich's house-serfs have, it is true, something of a hang-dog look; but among us Russians there's no knowing what is sullenness and what is sleepiness. Arkady Pavlich speaks in a soft, agreeable voice, with emphasis and, as it were, with satisfaction; he brings out each word through his handsome perfumed moustaches; he uses a good many French expressions too, such as: Mais c'est impayable! Mais comment donc! and so on. For all that, I, for one, am never over-eager to visit him, and if it were not for the grouse and the partridges, I should probably have dropped his acquaintance altogether. One is possessed by a strange sort of uneasiness in his house; the very comfort is distasteful to one, and every evening when a befrizzed valet makes his appearance in a blue livery with heraldic buttons, and begins, with cringing servility, drawing off one's boots, one feels that if his pale, lean figure could suddenly be replaced by the amazingly broad cheeks and incredibly thick nose of a stalwart young labourer fresh from the plough, who has yet had time in his ten months of service to tear his new nankin coat open at every seam, one would be unutterably overjoyed, and would gladly run the risk of having one's whole leg pulled off with the boot. . . .

In spite of my dislike for Arkady Pavlich, I once happened to pass a night in his house. The next day I ordered my carriage to be ready early in the morning, but he would not let me start without a regular breakfast in the English style, and conducted me into his study. With our tea they served us cutlets, boiled eggs, butter, honey, cheese, and so on. Two footmen in clean white gloves swiftly and silently anticipated our faintest desires. We sat on a Persian divan. Arkady Pavlich was arrayed in loose silk trousers, a black velvet smoking jacket, a red fez with a blue tassel, and yellow Chinese slippers without heels. He drank his tea, laughed, scrutinized his finger-nails, smoked, propped himself up with cushions, and was altogether in an excellent humour. After making a hearty breakfast with obvious satisfaction, Arkady Pavlich poured himself out a glass of red wine, lifted it to his lips, and suddenly frowned.

"Why was not the wine warmed?" he asked rather sharply of one of the footmen.

The footman stood stock-still in confusion, and turned white.

"Didn't I ask you a question, my friend?" Arkady Pavlich resumed tranquilly, never taking his eyes off the man.

The luckless footman fidgeted in his place, twisted the napkin, and uttered not a word.

Arkady Pavlich dropped his head and looked up at him thoughtfully from under his eyelids.

"Pardon, mon cher," he observed, patting my knee amicably, and again he stared at the footman. "You can go," he added after a short silence, raising his eyebrows, and he rang the bell.

A stout, swarthy, black-haired man, with a low forehead and eyes positively lost in fat, came into the room.

"About Fyodor . . . make the necessary arrangements," said Arkady Pavlich in an undertone, and with complete composure.

"Yes, sir," answered the fat man, and he went out.

"Volà, mon cher, les désagréments de la campagne," Arkady Pavlich remarked gaily. "But where are you off to? Stop, you must stay a little."

"No," I answered; "it's time I was off."

"Nothing but sport! Oh, you sportsmen! And where are you going to shoot just now?"

"Forty versts from here, at Ryabovo."

"Ryabovo? By Jove! now in that case I will come with you. Ryabovo's only five versts from my village Shipilovka, and it's a long while since I've been over to Shipilovka; I've never been able to get the time. Well, this is a piece of luck; you can spend the day shooting in Ryabovo and come on in the evening to me. Ce sera charmant. We'll have supper together--we'll take the cook with us, and you'll stay the night with me. Capital! capital!" he added without waiting for my answer. "C'est arrangé. . . . Hey, you there! Have the carriage brought out, and look sharp. You have never been in Shipilovka? I should be ashamed to suggest your putting up for the night in my bailiff's cottage, but you're not particular, I know, and at Ryabovo you'd have slept in some hayloft. . . . We will go, we will go!"

And Arkady Pavlich hummed some French song.

"You don't know, I dare say," he pursued, swaying from side to side; "I've some peasants there who pay rent. It's the custom of the place--what was I to do? They pay their rent very punctually, though. I should, I'll own, have put them back to payment in labour, but there's so little land. I really wonder how they manage to make both ends meet. However, c'est leur affaire. My steward there's a fine fellow, une forte tête, a man of real administrative power! You shall see. . . . Really, how luckily things have turned out!"

There was no help for it. Instead of nine o'clock in the morning, we started at two in the afternoon. Hunters will sympathize with my impatience. Arkady Pavlich liked, as he expressed it, to be comfortable when he had the chance, and he took with him such a supply of linen, dainties, wearing apparel, perfumes, pillows, and dressing-cases of all sorts, that a careful and self-denying German would have found enough to last him for a year. Every time we went down a steep hill, Arkady Pavlich addressed some brief but powerful remarks to the coachman, from which I was able to deduce that my worthy friend was a thorough coward. The journey was, however, performed in safety, except that, in crossing a lately-repaired bridge, the trap with the cook in it broke down, and he got squeezed in the stomach against the hind wheel.

Arkady Pavlich was alarmed in earnest at the sight of the fall of Karem, his home-made professor of the culinary art, and he sent at once to inquire whether his hands were injured. On receiving a reassuring reply to this query, his mind was set at rest immediately. With all this, we were rather a long time on the road; I was in the same carriage as Arkady Pavlich, and towards the end of the journey I was a prey to deadly boredom, especially as in a few hours my companion ran perfectly dry of subjects, of conversation, and even fell to expressing his liberal views on politics. At last we did arrive--not at Ryabovo, but at Shipilovka; it happened so somehow. I could have got no shooting now that day in any case, and so, raging inwardly, I submitted to my fate.

The cook had arrived a few minutes before us, and apparently had had time to arrange things and prepare those whom it concerned, for on our very entrance within the village boundaries we were met by the village bailiff (the steward's son), a stalwart, red-haired peasant of seven feet; he was on horseback, bareheaded, and wearing a new overcoat, not buttoned up. "And where's Sofron?" Arkady Pavlich asked him. The bailiff first jumped nimbly off his horse, bowed to his master till he was bent double, and said, "Good health to you, Arkady Pavlich, sir!" then raised his head, shook himself, and announced that Sofron had gone to Perov, but they had sent after him.

"Well, come along after us," said Arkady Pavlich. The bailiff deferentially led his horse to one side, clambered on to it, and followed the carriage at a trot, his cap in his hand. We drove through the village. A few peasants in empty carts happened to meet us; they were driving from the threshing-floor and singing songs, swaying backwards and forwards, and swinging their legs in the air; but at the sight of our carriage and the bailiff they were suddenly silent, took off their winter caps (it was summertime) and got up as though waiting for orders. Arkady Pavlich nodded to them graciously. A flutter of excitement had obviously spread through the village. Peasant women in check petticoats flung splinters of wood at indiscreet or over-zealous dogs; an old lame man with a beard that began just under his eyes pulled a horse away from the well before it had drunk, gave it, for some obscure reason, a blow on the side, and fell to bowing low. Boys in long shirts ran with a howl to the huts, flung themselves on their bellies on the high door-sills, with their heads down and legs in the air, rolled over with the utmost haste into the dark outer rooms, from which they did not reappear again. Even the hens sped in a hurried scuttle to the turning; one bold cock with a black throat like a satin waistcoat and a red tail, curving up to his very comb, stood his ground in the road, and even prepared for a crow, then suddenly took fright and scuttled off, too. The steward's cottage stood apart from the rest in the middle of a thick green patch of hemp. We stopped at the gates. Mr. Penochkin got up, flung off his cloak with a picturesque motion, and got out of the carriage, looking affably about him. The steward's wife met us with low curtseys, and came up to kiss the master's hand. Arkady Pavlich let her kiss it to her heart's content, and mounted the steps. In the outer room, in a dark corner, stood the bailiff's wife, and she too curtsied, but did not venture to approach his hand. In the cold hut, as it is called--to the right of the outer room--two other women were still busily at work; they were carrying out all the rubbish, empty tubs, sheepskins stiff as boards, greasy pots, a cradle with a heap of rags and a baby covered with spots, and sweeping out the dirt with steam-bath besoms. Arkady Pavlich sent them away, and installed himself on a bench under the holy images. The coachmen began bringing in the trunks, bags, and other conveniences trying each time to subdue the noise of their heavy boots.

Meantime Arkady Pavlich began questioning the bailiff about the crops, the sowing, and other agricultural subjects. The bailiff gave satisfactory answers, but spoke with a sort of heavy awkwardness, as though he were buttoning up his coat with benumbed fingers. He stood at the door and kept looking round on the watch to make way for the nimble footman. Behind his powerful shoulders I managed to get a glimpse of the steward's wife in the outer room surreptitiously belabouring some other peasant woman. Suddenly a cart rumbled up and stopped at the steps; the steward came in.

This man, as Arkady Pavlich said, of real administrative power, was short, broad-shouldered, grey, and thick-set, with a red nose, little blue eyes, and a beard of the shape of a fan. We may observe, by the way, that ever since Russia has existed, there has never yet been an instance of a man who has grown rich and prosperous without a big, bushy beard; sometimes a man may have had a thin, wedge-shape beard all his life; but then he begins to get one all at once, it is all round his face like a halo--one wonders where the hair has come from! The steward must have been making merry at Perov: his face was unmistakably flushed, and there was a smell of spirits about him.

"Ah, our father, our gracious benefactor!" he began in a sing-song voice, and with a face of such deep feeling that it seemed every minute as if he would burst into tears; "at last you have graciously deigned to come to us . . . your hand, your honour's hand," he added, his lips protruded in anticipation. Arkady Pavlich gratified his desire. "Well, brother Sofron, how are things going with you?" he asked in a friendly voice.

"Ah, our father!" cried Sofron; "how should they go ill? how should things go ill, now that you, our father, our benefactor, graciously deign to lighten our poor village with your presence, to make us happy till the day of our death? Thank the Lord for thee, Arkady Pavlich! thank the Lord for thee! All is right by your gracious favour."

At this point Sofron paused, gazed upon his master, and, as though carried away by a rush of feeling (tipsiness had its share in it, too), begged once more for his hand, and whined more than before.

"Ah, you, our father, our benefactor . . . and. . . . There, God bless me! I'm a regular fool with delight. . . . God bless me! I look and can't believe my eyes! Ah, our father!"

Arkady Pavlich glanced at me, smiled, and asked, "N'est-ce pas que c'est touchant?"

"But, Arkady Pavlich, your honour," resumed the indefatigable steward; "what are you going to do? You'll break my heart, your honour; your honour didn't graciously let me know of your visit. Where are you to put up for the night? You see here it's dirty, nasty."

"Nonsense, Sofron, nonsense!" Arkady Pavlich responded with a smile; "it's all right here."

"But, our father, all right--for whom? For peasants like us it's all right; but for you . . . oh, our father, our gracious protector! oh, you . . . our father!. . . Pardon an old fool like me; I'm off my head, bless me! I'm gone clean crazy."

Meanwhile supper was served; Arkady Pavlich began to eat. The old man packed his son off, saying he smelt too strong.

"Well, settled the division of land, old chap, hey?" inquired Mr. Penochkin, obviously trying to imitate the peasant speech, with a wink to me.

"We've settled the land shares, your honour; all by your gracious favour. Day before yesterday the list was made out. The Khlinov folks made themselves disagreeable about it at first. . . they were disagreeable about it, certainly. They wanted this . . . and they wanted that . . . and God knows what they didn't want! but they're a set of fools, your honour!--an ignorant lot. But we, your honour, graciously please you, gave an earnest of our gratitude, and satisfied Mikolai Mikolaich, the mediator; we acted in everything according to your orders, your honour; as you graciously ordered, so we did, and nothing did we do unbeknown to Yegor Dmitrich."

"Yegor reported to me," Arkady Pavlich remarked with dignity.

"To be sure, your honour--Yegor Dmitrich, to be sure."

"Well, then, now I suppose you're satisfied."

Sofron had only been waiting for this.

"Ah, you are our father, our benefactor!" he began in the same sing-song as before. "Indeed, now, your honour . . . why, for you, our father, we pray day and night to God Almighty. . . . There's too little land, of course . . . ."

Penochkin cut him short.

"There, that'll do, that'll do, Sofron; I know you're eager in my service. Well, and how goes the threshing?"

Sofron sighed.

"Well, our father, the threshing's none too good. But there, your honour, Arkady Pavlich, let me tell you about a little matter that came to pass." (Here he came closer to Mr. Penochkin, with his arms apart, bent down, and screwed up one eye.) "There was a dead body found on our land."

"How was that?"

"I can't think myself, your honour; it seems like the doing of the evil one. But, luckily, it was found near the boundary; on our side of it, to tell the truth. I ordered them to drag it on to the neighbour's strip of land at once, while it was still possible, and set a watch there, and sent word round to our folks. 'Mum's the word,' says I. But I explained how it was to the police officer in case of the worst. 'You see how it was,' says I; and of course I had to treat him and slip some notes into his hand . . . . Well, what do you say, your honour? We shifted the burden on to other shoulders; you see a dead body's a matter of two hundred rubles, as sure as death."

Mr. Penochkin laughed heartily at his steward's cunning, and said several times to me, indicating him with a nod, "Quel gaillard, ah?"

Meantime it was quite dark out of doors; Arkady Paylich ordered the table to be cleared, and hay to be brought in. The valet spread out sheets for us and arranged pillows; we lay down. Sofron retired after receiving his instructions for the next day. Arkady Pavlich, before falling asleep, talked a little more about the first-rate qualities of the Russian peasant, and at that point made the observation that since Sofron had had the management of the place, the Shipilovka peasants had never been one kopek in arrears. . . The watchman struck his board; a baby, who apparently had not yet had time to be imbued with a sentiment of dutiful self-abnegation, began crying somewhere in the cottage . . . we fell asleep.

The next morning we got up rather early; I was getting ready to start for Ryabovo, but Arkady Pavlich was anxious to show me his estate, and begged me to remain. I was not averse myself to seeing more of the first-rate qualities of that man of administrative power--Sofron-- in their practical working. The steward made his appearance. He wore a blue loose coat, girded with a red belt. He talked much less than on the previous evening, kept an alert, intent eye on his master's face, and gave connected and sensible answers. We set off with him to the threshing-floor. Sofron's son, the seven-foot bailiff, by every external sign a very slow-witted fellow, walked after us also, and we were joined farther on by the village constable, Fedoseyich, a retired soldier, with immense moustaches, and an extraordinary expression of face; he looked as though he had had some startling shock of astonishment a very long while ago, and had never quite got over it. We took a look at the threshing-floor, the barn, the corn-stacks, the out-buildings, the windmill, the cattle-shed, the vegetables, and the hempfields; everything was, as a fact, in excellent order; only the dejected faces of the peasants rather puzzled me. Sofron had had an eye to the ornamental as well as the useful; he had planted all the ditches with willows, between the stacks he had made little paths to the threshing-floor and strewn them with fine sand; on the windmill he had constructed a weathercock of the shape of a bear with his jaws open and a red tongue sticking out; he had attached to the brick cattle-shed something of the nature of a Greek façade, and on it inscribed in white letters: "Construt in the village Shipilovka 1 thousand eight Hunderd fortieth year. This cattle-shed." Arkady Pavlich was quite touched, and fell to expatiating in French to me upon the advantages of the system of rent-payment, adding, however, that labour-dues came more profitable to the owner--"but, after all, that wasn't everything." He began giving the steward advice how to plant his potatoes, how to prepare cattle-food, and so on. Sofron heard his master's remarks out with attention, sometimes replied, but did not now address Arkady Pavlich as his father, or his benefactor, and kept insisting that there was too little land; that it would be a good thing to buy more. "Well, buy some then," said Arkady Pavlich; "I've no objection; in my name, of course." To this Sofron made no reply; he merely stroked his beard.

"And now it would be as well to ride down to the copse," observed Mr. Penochkin. Saddle-horses were led out to us at once; we went off to the copse, or, as they call it about us, the "enclosure." This "enclosure" proved to be a dense virgin forest, for which Arkady Pavlich applauded Sofron and clapped him on the shoulder. In regard to forestry, Arkady Pavlich clung to the Russian ideas, and told me on that subject an amusing--in his words--anecdote, of how a jocose landowner had given his forester a good lesson by pulling out nearly half his beard, by way of a proof that growth is none the thicker for being uprooted. In other matters, however, neither Sofron nor Arkady Pavlich objected to innovations. On our return to the village, the steward took us to look at a winnowing-machine he had recently ordered from Moscow. The winnowing-machine did certainly work beautifully, but if Sofron had known what a disagreeable incident was in store for him and his master on this last excursion, he would doubtless have stopped at home with us.

This was what happened. As we came out of the barn the following spectacle confronted us. A few paces from the door, near a filthy pool, in which three ducks were splashing unconcernedly, there stood two peasants-- one, an old man of sixty, the other, a lad of twenty--both in patched homespun shirts, barefoot, and with a cord tied round their waists for belts. The village constable Fedoseyich was busily engaged with them, and would probably have succeeded in inducing them to retire if we had lingered a little longer in the barn, but catching sight of us, he drew himself up and stood at attention. Close by stood the bailiff gaping, his fists hanging irresolute. Arkady Pavlich frowned, bit his lip, and went up to the suppliants. They both prostrated themselves at his feet in silence.

"What do you want? What are you asking about?" he inquired in a stern voice, a little through his nose. (The peasants glanced at one another, and did not utter a syllable, only blinked a little as if the sun were in their faces, and their breathing came quicker.)

"Well, what is it?" Arkady Pavlich said again; and turning at once to Sofron, "Of what family?"

"The Tobolev family," the steward answered slowly.

"Well, what do you want?" Mr. Penochkin said again; "have you lost your tongues, or what? Tell me, you, what is it you want?" he added, with a nod at the old man. "And don't be afraid, stupid."

The old man craned forward his dark-brown wrinkled neck, opened his bluish twitching lips, and in a hoarse voice uttered the words, "Protect us, lord!" and again bent his forehead to the earth. The young peasant prostrated himself too. Arkady Pavlich looked at their bent necks with an air of dignity, threw back his head, and stood with his legs rather wide apart. "What is it? Whom do you complain of?"

'Have mercy, lord! Let us breathe. . . . We are tormented to death quite." (The old man spoke with difficulty.)

"Who worries you?"

"Sofron Yakovlich, your honour."

Arkady Pavlich was silent a minute.

"What's your name?"

"Antip, your honour:'

"And who's this?"

"My son, your honour."

Arkady Pavlich was silent again; he pulled his moustaches.

"Well! and how has he tormented you?" he began again, looking over his moustaches at the old man.

Your honour, he has ruined us utterly. Two sons, your honour, he's sent for recruits out of turn, and now he is taking the third also. Yesterday, your honour, our last cow was taken from the yard, and my old wife was beaten by his worship here." (He pointed to the bailiff.)

"Hm!" commented Arkady Pavlich.

"Let him not destroy us to the end, gracious protector!"

Mr. Penochkin scowled. "What's the meaning of this?" he asked his steward in a low voice, with an air of displeasure.

"He's a drunken fellow, sir," answered the steward, even more deferentially than ever, "and lazy, too. He's never been out of arrears this five years back, sir.

"Sofron Yakovlich paid the arrears for me, your honour," the old man went on; "it's the fifth year's come that he's paid it, he's paid it--and he's brought me into slavery to him, your honour, and here--"

"And why did you get into arrears?" Mr. Penochkin asked threateningly. (The old man's head sank.) "You're fond of drinking, hanging about the taverns, I dare say." (The old man opened his mouth to speak.) "I know you," Arkady Pavlich went on emphatically; "you think you've nothing to do but drink, and lie on the stove, and let steady peasants answer for you."

"And he's an impudent fellow, too," the steward threw in.

"That's sure to be so; it's always the way; I've noticed it more than once. The whole year round, he's drinking and abusive, and then he falls at one's feet."

"Your honour, Arkady Pavlich," the old man began despairingly, "have pity, protect us; when have I been impudent? Before God Almighty, I swear it was beyond my strength. Sofron Yakovlich has taken a dislike to me; for some reason he dislikes me--God be his judge! He will ruin me utterly, your honour. . . . The last . . . here. . . the last boy . . . and him he. . . ." (A tear glistened in the old man's wrinkled yellow eyes.) "Have pity, gracious lord, defend us!"

"And it's not us only. . ." the young peasant began. . .

Arkady Pavlich flew into a rage at once.

"And who asked your opinion, hey? Till you're spoken to, hold your tongue. How dare you? Silence, I tell you, silence!. . . Why, upon my word, this is simply mutiny! No, my friend, I don't advise you to mutiny on my domain . . . on my . . . ." (Arkady Pavlich stepped forward, but probably recollected my presence, turned round, and put his hands in his pockets.) "Je vous demande bien pardon, mon cher," he said. with a forced smile, dropping his voice significantly. "C'est le mauvais côté de la médaille. . . . There, that'll do, that'll do," he went on, not looking at the peasants; "I'll see to it . . . that'll do, you can go." (The peasants did not rise.) "Well, haven't I told you . . . that'll do. You can go, I tell you."

Arkady Pavlich turned his back on them. "Nothing but vexation," he muttered between his teeth, and strode with long steps homewards. Sofron followed him. The village constable opened his eyes wide, looking as if he were just about to take a tremendous leap into space. The bailiff drove a duck away from the puddle. The suppliants remained as they were a little, then looked at each other, and, without turning their heads, went on their way.

Two hours later I was at Ryabovo, and making ready to begin shooting, accompanied by Anpadist, a peasant I knew well. Penochkin had been out of humour with Sofron up to the time I left. I began talking to Anpadist about the Shipilovka peasants, and Mr. Penochkin, and asked him whether he knew the steward there.

"Sofron Yakovlich?. . . Ugh!"

"What sort of man is he?"

"He's not a man; he's a dog; you couldn't find another brute like him between here and Kursk."

"How is that?"

"Why, Shipilovka's hardly reckoned as--what's his name?--Mr. Penkin's at all; he's not the master there; Sofron's the master."

"Really?"

"He's master, just as if it were his own. The peasants all about are in debt to him; they work for him like slaves; he'll send one off with the waggons; another, another way. . . . He harries them out of their lives."

"They haven't much land, I suppose?"

"Not much land! He rents two hundred acres from the Khlinov peasants alone, and two hundred and eighty from our folks; there's more than three hundred and seventy-five acres he's got. And he doesn't only traffic in land; he does a trade in horses and stock, and pitch, and butter, and hemp, and one thing and the other. . . . He's sharp, awfully sharp, and rich too, the beast! But what's bad--he beats them. He's a brute, not a man; a dog, I tell you; a cur, a regular cur; that's what he is!"

"How is it they don't make complaints of him?"

"I dare say, the master'd be pleased! There's no arrears; so what does he care? I should like to see anyone try to complain," he added after a brief pause. "No, he'd let you know . . . yes, you'd better not try it at all. . . . No, he'd let you know . . . .

I thought of Antip, and told him what I had seen.

"There," commented Anpadist, "he will eat him up now; he'll simply eat the man up. The bailiff will beat him now. Such a poor, unlucky chap, come to think of it! And what's his offence?. . . He had some wrangle on a village meeting with him, the steward, and he lost all patience, I suppose, and of course he wouldn't stand it. . . . A great matter, truly, to make so much of! So he began pecking at him, Antip. Now he'll eat him up altogether. You see, he's such a dog. Such a cur--God forgive my transgressions!--he knows whom to fall upon. The old men that are a bit richer, that have big, working families, he doesn't touch, the red-headed devil! But there's all the difference here! Why he's sent Antip's sons for recruits out of turn, the heartless ruffian, the cur! God forgive my transgressions!"

We went on our way.

Salzbrunn, Silesia, July 1847

 

 

IT WAS AUTUMN. For some hours I had been strolling across country with my gun, and should probably not have returned till evening to the tavern on the Kursk highroad where my troika was awaiting me, had not an exceedingly fine and persistent rain, which had worried me all day with the obstinacy and ruthlessness of some old maiden lady, driven me at last to seek at least a temporary shelter somewhere in the neighbourhood. While I was still deliberating in which direction to go, my eye suddenly fell on a low shanty near a field sown with peas. I went up to the shanty, glanced under the thatched roof, and saw an old man so infirm that he reminded me at once of the dying goat Robinson Crusoe found in a cave on his island. The old man was squatting on his heels, his little dim eyes half-closed, while hurriedly, but carefully, like a hare (the poor fellow had not a single tooth), he munched a dry, hard pea, incessantly rolling it from side to side. He was so absorbed in this occupation that he did not notice my entrance.

"Grandfather! hey, grandfather!" said I. He ceased munching, lifted his eyebrows high, and with an effort opened his eyes.

"What?" he mumbled in a broken voice.

"Where is there a village near?" I asked.

The old man fell to munching again. He had not heard me. I repeated my question louder than before.

"A village?. . . But what do you want?"

"Why, shelter from the rain."

"What?"

"Shelter from the rain."

"Ah!" (He scratched his sunburnt neck.) "Well, now, you go," he said suddenly, waving his hands indefinitely, "so . . . as you go by the copse--see, as you go--there'll be a road; you pass it by, and keep right on to the right, keep right on, keep right on, keep right on. . . . Well, there will be Ananyevo. Or else you'd go to Sitovka."

I followed the old man with difficulty. His moustaches muffled his voice, and his tongue, too, did not obey him readily.

"Where are you from?" I asked him.

"What?"

"Where are you from?"

"Ananyevo."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm watchman."

"Why, what are you watching?"

"The peas."

I could not help smiling.

"Really!--how old are you?"

"God knows."

"Your sight's failing, I expect."

"What?"

"Your sight's failing, I daresay?"

"Yes, it's failing. At times I can hear nothing."

"Then how can you be a watchman, eh?"

"Oh, my elders know about that."

"Elders!" I thought, and I gazed not without compassion at the poor old man. He fumbled about, pulled out of his bosom a bit of coarse bread, and began sucking it like a child, with difficulty moving his sunken cheeks.

I walked in the direction of the copse, turned to the right, kept on, kept right on as the old man had advised me, and at last got to a large village with a stone church in the new style, i. e., with columns, and a spacious manor house, also with columns. While still some way off I noticed through the fine network of falling rain a cottage with a deal roof, and two chimneys, higher than the others, in all probability the dwelling of the village elder; and towards it I bent my steps in the hope of finding, in this cottage, a samovar, tea, sugar, and some not absolutely sour cream. Escorted by my half-frozen dog, I went up the steps into the outer room, opened the door, and instead of the usual appurtenances of a cottage, I saw several tables, heaped up with papers, two red cupboards, bespattered inkstands, pewter boxes of blotting sand weighing half a hundredweight, long penholders, and so on. At one of the tables was sitting a young man of twenty with a swollen, sickly face, diminutive eyes, a greasy-looking forehead, and seemingly endless sideburns. He was dressed, as one would expect, in a grey nankin coat, shiny with wear at the waist and the collar.

"What do you want?" he asked me, flinging his head up like a horse taken unexpectedly by the nose.

"Does the bailiff live here . . . or--"

"This is the principal office of the manor," he interrupted. "I'm the clerk on duty. Didn't you see the sign-board? That's what it was put up for."

"Where could I dry my clothes here? Is there a samovar anywhere in the village?"

"Samovars, of course," replied the young man in the grey coat with dignity; "go to Father Timofey's, or to the servants' cottage, or else to Nazar Tarasich, or to Agrafena, the poultry-woman."

"Who are you talking to, you blockhead? Can't you let me sleep, dummy!" shouted a voice from the next room.

"Here's a gentleman's come in to ask where he can dry himself."

"What sort of a gentleman?"

"I don't know. With a dog and a gun."

A bedstead creaked in the next room. The door opened, and there came in a stout, short man of fifty, with a bull neck, goggle eyes, extraordinarily round cheeks, and his whole face positively shining with sleekness.

"What is it you wish?" he asked me.

"To dry my things."

"There's no place here."

"I didn't know this was the counting-house; I am willing, though, to pay. . . ."

"Well, perhaps it could be managed here," rejoined the fat man; "won't you come inside here?" (He led me into another room, but not the one he had come from.) "Would this do for you?"

"Very well. . . . And could I have tea and cream?"

"Certainly, at once. If you'll meantime take off your things and rest, the tea shall be got ready this minute."

"Whose property is this?"

"Madame Losnyakova's, Elena Nikolayevna."

He went out. I looked round: against the partition separating my room from the office stood a huge leather sofa; two high-backed chairs, also covered in leather, were placed on both sides of the solitary window which looked out on the village street. On the walls, covered with a green paper with pink patterns on it, hung three immense oil paintings. One depicted a setter-dog with a blue collar, bearing the inscription: "This is my consolation"; at the dog's feet flowed a river; on the opposite bank of the river a hare of quite disproportionate size with ears cocked up was sitting under a pine-tree. In another picture two old men were eating a melon; behind the melon was visible in the distance a Greek temple with the inscription: "The Temple of Satisfaction." The third picture represented the half-nude figure of a woman in a recumbent position en raccourci, with red knees and very big heels. My dog had, with supernatural efforts, crawled under the sofa, and apparently found a great deal of dust there, as he kept sneezing violently. I went to the window. Boards had been laid across the street in a slanting direction from the manor house to the counting-house--a very useful precaution, as, thanks to our rich black soil and the persistent rain, the mud was terrible. In the grounds of the manor house, which stood with its back to the street, there was the constant going and coming there always is about manor houses: maids in faded chintz gowns flitted to and fro; house-serfs sauntered through the mud, stood still and scratched their spines meditatively; the constable's horse, tied up to a post, lashed his tail lazily, and with his nose high up, gnawed at the hedge; hens were clucking; sickly turkeys kept up an incessant gobble-gobble. On the steps of a dark crumbling outbuilding, probably the bath-house, sat a stalwart lad with a guitar, singing with some spirit the well-known ballad:

I'm leaving this enchanting spot
To go into the desert. . . .

The fat man came into the room.

"They're bringing you in your tea," he told me with an affable smile.

The young man in the grey coat, the clerk on duty, laid on the old card-table a samovar, a tea-pot, a tumbler on a broken saucer, a jug of cream, and a bunch of Bolkhovo biscuit rings hard as flint. The fat man went out.

"What is he?" I asked the clerk; "the bailiff?"

"No, sir; he was the chief cashier, but now he has been promoted to be head-clerk."

"Haven't you got a bailiff, then?"

"No, sir. There's a steward, Mikhail Vikulov, but no bailiff."

"Is there a manager, then?"

"Yes; a German, Lindamandol, Karlo Karlich; only he does not manage the estate."

"Who does manage it, then?"

"Our mistress herself."

"You don't say so. And are there many of you in the office?"

The young man reflected.

"There are six of us."

"Who are they?" I inquired.

"Well, first there's Vasily Nikolayevich, the head-cashier; then Pyotr, one clerk; Pyotr's brother, Ivan, another clerk; the other Ivan, a clerk; Konstantin Narkizov, another clerk; and me here--there's a lot of us, you can't count all of them."

"I suppose your mistress has a great many serfs in her house?"

"No, not to say a great many."

"How many, then?"

"I dare say it runs up to about a hundred and fifty."

We were both silent for a little.

"I suppose you write a good hand, eh?" I began again. The young man grinned from ear to ear, went into the office and brought in a sheet covered with writing.

"This is my writing," he announced, still with the same smile on his face.

I looked at it; on the square sheet of greyish paper there was written, in a good bold hand, the following document:

"ORDER

"From the Chief Office of the Manor of Ananyevo
to the Steward, Mikhaii Vikulov. No. 209

"Whereas some person unknown entered the garden at Ananyevo last night in an intoxicated condition, and with unseemly songs waked the French governess, Madame Engène, and disturbed her, and whether the watchman saw anything, and who were on watch in the garden and permitted such disorderliness: as regards all the above-written matters, your orders are to investigate in detail, and report immediately to the Office.

"Head-Clerk. NIKOLAI KHVOSTOV."

A huge heraldic seal was attached to the order, with the inscription: "Seal of the Chief Office of the Manor of Ananyevo"; and below stood the signature: "To be executed exactly, Elena Losnyakova."

"Your lady signed it herself, eh?" I queried.

"To be sure; she always signs herself. Without that the order would be of no effect."

"Well, and now shall you send this order to the steward?"

"No. sir. He'll come himself and read it. That's to say, it'll be read to him; you see, he's no scholar." (The clerk on duty was silent again for a while.) "But what do you say?" he added, simpering; "is it well written?"

"Very well written."

"It wasn't composed, I must confess, by me. Konstantin is the great one for that."

"What? . . . Do you mean the orders have first to be composed among you?"

"Why, how else could we do? Couldn't write them off straight without making a fair copy.

"And what salary do you get?" I inquired.

"Thirty-five rubles, and five rubles for boots."

"And are you satisfied?"

"Of course I am satisfied. It's not everyone can get into an office like ours. It was God's will, in my case, to be sure; I'd an uncle who was in service as a butler."

"And you're well off?"

"Yes, sir. Though, to tell the truth," he went on with a sigh, "a place at a merchant's, for instance, is better for the likes of us. At a merchant's they're very well off.

Yesterday evening a merchant came to us from Venev, and his man got talking to me. . . . Yes, that's a good place, no doubt about it; a very good place."

"Why? Do the merchants pay more wages?"

"Lord preserve us! Why, a merchant would sooner give you the sack if you asked him for wages. No, at a merchant's you must live on trust and on fear. He'll give you food, and drink, and clothes, and all. If you give him satisfaction, he'll do more. . . . Talk of wages, indeed! You don't need them. And a merchant, too, lives in plain, Russian style, like ourselves; you go with him on a journey--he has tea, and you have it; what he eats, you eat. A merchant . . . one can put up with; a merchant's a very different thing from what a gentleman is; a merchant's not whimsical; if he's out of temper, he'll give you a blow, and there it ends. He doesn't nag nor sneer. But with a gentleman it's a woeful business! Nothing's as he likes it--this is not right, and that he can't fancy. You hand him a glass of water or something to eat. 'Ugh, the water stinks! the dish stinks!' You take it out, stay a minute outside the door, and bring it back. 'Come, now, that's good; this doesn't stink now.' And as for the ladies, I tell you, the ladies are something beyond everything! . . . and the young ladies above all!. . ."

"Fedyushka!" came the fat man's voice from the office. The clerk went out quickly. I drank a glass of tea, lay down on the sofa, and fell asleep. I slept for two hours.

When I woke, I meant to get up, but I was overcome by laziness; I closed my eyes, but did not fall asleep again. On the other side of the partition, in the office, they were talking in subdued voices. Unconsciously I began to listen.

"Quite so, quite so, Nikolai Eremeich," one voice was saying; "quite so. One can't but take that into account; yes, certainly!. . . Hm!" (The speaker coughed.)

"You may believe me, Gavrila Antonich," replied the fat man's voice: "don't I know how things are done here? Judge for yourself."

"Who does, if you don't, Nikolai Eremeich? You're, one may say, the first person here. Well, then, how's it to be?" pursued the voice I did not recognize; "what decision are we to come to, Nikolai Eremeich? Allow me to put the question."

"What decision, Gavrila Antonich? The thing depends, so to say, on you; you don't seem over-anxious."

"Upon my word, Nikolai Eremeich, what do you mean? Our business is trading, buying; it's our business to buy. That's what we live by, Nikolai Eremeich, one may say."

"Eight rubles a measure," said the fat man emphatically.

A sigh was audible.

"Nikolai Eremeich, sir, you ask a heavy price."

"Impossible, Gavrila Antonich, to do otherwise; I speak as before God Almighty; impossible."

Silence followed.

I got up softly and looked through a crack in the partition. The fat man was sitting with his back to me. Facing him sat a merchant, a man about forty, lean and pale, who looked as if he had been rubbed with oil. He was incessantly fingering his beard, and very rapidly blinking and twitching his lips.

"Wonderful the young green crops this year, one may say," he began again; "I've been going about everywhere admiring them. All the way from Voronezh. they've come up wonderfully, first-class, one may say."

"The crops are pretty fair, certainly," answered the head-clerk; "but you know the saying, Gavrila Antonich, autumn bids fair, but spring may be foul."

"That's so, indeed, Nikolai Eremeich; all is in God's hands; it's the absolute truth what you've just remarked, sir. . . . But perhaps your visitor's awake now."

The fat man turned round . . . listened. . . .

"No, he's asleep. He may, though. . ."

He went to the door.

"No, he's asleep," he repeated and went back to his place.

"Well, so what are we to say, Nikolai Eremeich?" the merchant began again; "we must bring our little business to a conclusion. Let it be so, Nikolai Eremeich, let it be so," he went on, blinking incessantly; "two grey notes and a white for your favour, and there" (he nodded in the direction of the house), "six and a half. Done, eh?"

"Four grey notes," answered the clerk.

"Come, three, then."

"Four greys. and no white."

"Three, Nikolai Eremeich."

"Three and a half, and not a farthing less."

"Three, Nikolai Eremeich."

"You're not talking sense, Gavrila Antonich."'

"My, what a pig-headed fellow!" muttered the merchant. "Then I'd better arrange it with the lady herself."

"That's as you like," answered the fat man; "far better, I should say. Why should you worry yourself, after all? Much better, indeed!"

"Well, well! Nikolai Eremeich. I lost my temper for a minute! That was nothing but talk."

"No, really, why. . . ."

"Nonsense, I tell you. . . . I tell you I was joking. Well, take your three and a half; there's no doing anything with you."

"I ought to have got four, but I was in too great a hurry--like an ass!" muttered the fat man.

"Then up there at the house, six and a half, Nikolai Eremeich; the corn will be sold for six and a half?"

"Six and a half, as we said already."'

"Well, your hand on that then, Nikolai Eremeich" (the merchant clapped his outstretched fingers into the clerk's palm). "And good-bye, in God's name!" (The merchant got up.) "So then, Nikolai Eremeich, sir, I'll go now to your lady, and bid them send up my name, and so I'll say to her, 'Nikolai Eremeich,' I'll say, 'has made a bargain with me for six and a half.' "

"That's what you must say, Gavrila Antonich."

"And now, allow me."

The merchant handed the clerk a small roll of notes, bowed, shook his head, picked up his hat with two fingers, shrugged his shoulders, and, with a sort of undulating motion, went out, his boots creaking after the approved fashion. Nikolai Eremeich went to the wall, and, as far as I could make out, began sorting the notes handed him by the merchant. A red head, adorned with thick whiskers, was thrust in at the door.

"Well?" asked the head; "all as it should be?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

The fat man made an angry gesture with his hand, and pointed to my room.

"Ah, all right!" responded the head, and vanished.

The fat man went up to the table, sat down, opened a book, took out a reckoning frame, and began shifting the beads to and fro as he counted, using not the forefinger but the third finger of his right hand, which has a much more showy effect.

The clerk on duty came in.

"What is it?"

"Sidor is here from Goloplyoki."

"Oh! ask him in. Wait a bit, wait a bit. . . . First go and look whether the strange gentleman's still asleep, or whether he has waked up."

The clerk on duty came cautiously into my room. I laid my head on my game-bag, which served me as a pillow, and closed my eyes.

"He's asleep," whispered the clerk on duty, returning to the office.

The fat man muttered something.

"Well, send Sidor in," he said at last.

I got up again. A peasant of about thirty, of huge stature, came in--a red-cheeked, vigorous-looking fellow, with brown hair, and a short curly beard. He crossed himself, praying to the holy image, bowed to the head-clerk, held his hat before him in both hands, and stood erect.

"Good day, Sidor," said the fat man, tapping with the reckoning beads.

"Good day to you, Nikolai Eremeich."

"Well, what are the roads like?"

"Pretty fair, Nikolai Eremeich. A bit muddy." (The peasant spoke slowly and not loud.)

"Wife quite well?"

"She's all right!"

The peasant gave a sigh and shifted one leg forward. Nikolai Eremeich put his pen behind his ear, and blew his nose.

"Well, what have you come about?" he proceeded to inquire, putting his check handkerchief into his pocket.

"Why, they do say, Nikolai Eremeich, they're asking for carpenters from us."

"Well, aren't there any among you, hey?"

"To be sure there are, Nikolai Eremeich; our place is right in the woods; our earnings are all from the wood, to be sure. But it's the busy time, Nikolai Eremeich. Where's the time to come from?"

"The time to come from! Busy time! I dare say, you're so eager to work for outsiders, and don't care to work for your mistress. It's all the same!"

"The work's all the same, certainly, Nikolai Eremeich, but. . . ."

"Well?"

"The pay's . . . very. . . ."

"What next! You've been spoiled; that's what it is."

"And what's more, Nikolai Eremeich, there'll be only a week's work, but they'll keep us hanging on a month. One time there's not material enough, and another time they'll send us into the garden to weed the path."

"What of it? Our lady herself is pleased to give the order, so it's useless you and me talking about it."

Sidor was silent; he began shifting from one leg to the other.

Nikolai Eremeich put his head on one side, and began busily playing with the reckoning beads.

"Our peasants, Nikolai Eremeich. . ." Sidor began at last, hesitating over each word, "sent word to your honour . . . there is . . . see here. . ." (He thrust his big hand into the bosom of his coat and began to pull out a folded linen kerchief with a red border.)

"What are you thinking of? Goodness, idiot, are you out of your senses?" the fat man interposed hurriedly. "Go on; go to my cottage," he continued, almost shoving the bewildered peasant out; "ask for my wife there . . . she'll give you some tea; I'll be round directly; go on. For goodness' sake, I tell you, go on."

Sidor went away.

"Ugh! . . . what a bear!" the head-clerk muttered after him, shaking his head, and set to work again on his reckoning frame.

Suddenly shouts of "Kuprya! Kuprya! there's no knocking down Kuprya!" were heard in the street and on the steps, and a little later there came into the counting-house a small man of sickly appearance, with an extraordinarily long nose and large staring eyes, who carried himself with a great air of superiority. He was dressed in a ragged little old surtout, with a plush collar and diminutive buttons. He carried a bundle of fire-wood on his shoulder. Five house-serfs were crowding round him, all shouting, "Kuprya! there's no suppressing Kuprya! Kuprya's been turned stoker; Kuprya's turned a stoker!" But the man in the coat with the plush collar did not pay the slightest attention to the uproar made by his companions, and was not in the least out of countenance. With measured steps he went up to the stove, flung down his load, straightened himself, took out of his tail-pocket a snuffbox, and with round eyes began helping himself to a pinch of dry trefoil mixed with ashes. At the entrance of this noisy party the fat man had at first knitted his brows and risen from his seat, but, seeing what it was, he smiled, and only told them not to shout. "There's a hunter," said he, "asleep in the next room." "What, sort of hunter?" two of them asked with one voice.

"A gentleman,"

"Ah!"

"Let them make a row," said the man with the plush collar, waving his arms: "what do I care, so long as they don't touch me? They've turned me into a stoker. . . ."

"A stoker! a stoker!" the others put in gleefully.

"It's the mistress's orders," he went on with a shrug of his shoulders; "but just you wait a bit . . . they'll turn you into swineherds yet. But I've been a tailor, and a good tailor too, learnt my trade in the best house in Moscow, and worked for generals, and nobody can take that from me. And what have you to boast of? What? You're a pack of idlers, not worth your salt; that's what you are! Turn me off! I shan't die of hunger; I shall be all right; give me a passport. I'd send a good rent home, and satisfy the masters. But what would you do? You'd die off like flies, that's what you'd do!"

"That's a nice lie!" interposed a pock-marked lad with white eye-lashes, a red cravat, and ragged elbows. "You went off with a passport sharp enough, but never a halfpenny of rent did the masters see from you, and you never earned a kopek for yourself, you just managed to crawl home again and you've never had a new rag on you since."

"Ah, well, what could one do, Konstantin Narkizich," responded Kuprya; "a man falls in love--a man's ruined and done for! You go through what I have, Konstantin Narkizich, before you blame me!"

"And you picked out a nice one to fall in love with!-- a regular fright."

"No, you mustn't say that, Konstantin Narkizich."

"Who's going to believe that? I've seen her, you know; I saw her with my own eyes last year in Moscow."

"Last year she had gone off a little, certainly," observed Kuprya.

"No, gentlemen, I tell you what," a tall, thin man, with a face spotted with pimples, a valet probably, from his frizzed and pomatumed head, remarked in a careless and disdainful voice; "let Kuprya Afanasyich sing us his song. Come on, now; begin Kuprya Afanasyich."

"Yes! yes!" put in the others. "Hooray for Alexandra! That's one for Kuprya; 'pon my soul. . . . Sing away, Kuprya! . . You're a regular brick, Alexandra!" (Serfs often use feminine terminations in referring to a man as an expression of endearment.) "Sing away!"

"This is not the place to sing," Kuprya replied firmly; "this is the manor counting-house."

"And what's that to do with you? you've got your eye on a place as clerk, eh?" answered Konstantin with a coarse laugh. "That's what it is!"

"Everything rests with the mistress," observed the poor wretch.

"There, that's what he's got his eye on! a fellow like him! oo! oo! a!"

And they all roared; some rolled about with merriment. Louder than all laughed a lad of fifteen, probably the son of an aristocrat among the house-serfs; he wore a waistcoat with bronze buttons, and a cravat of lilac colour, and had already managed to fill out his waistcoat.

"Come, tell us, confess now, Kuprya," Nikolai Eremeich began complacently, obviously tickled and diverted himself; "is it bad being stoker? Is it an easy job, eh?"

"Nikolai Eremeich," began Kuprya, "you're head-clerk among us now, certainly; there's no disputing that, no; but you know you have been in disgrace yourself, and you, too, have lived in a peasant's hut."

"You'd better look out and not forget yourself in my place," the fat man interrupted emphatically; "people joke with a fool like you; you ought, you fool, to have sense, and be grateful to them for taking notice of a fool like you."

"It was a slip of the tongue, Nikolai Eremeich; I beg your pardon. . . ."

"Yes, indeed, a slip of the tongue."

The door opened and a little servant boy ran in.

"Nikolai Eremeich, Mistress wants you."

"Who's with the mistress?" he asked the servant boy.

"Aksinya Nikitishna, and a merchant from Venev."

"I'll be there this minute. And you, brothers," he continued in a persuasive voice, "better move off out of here with the newly-appointed stoker; if the German pops in, he'll make a complaint for certain."

The fat man smoothed his hair, coughed into his hand, which was almost completely hidden in his coat-sleeve, buttoned himself, and set off with long strides to see the lady of the manor. In a little while the whole party trailed out after him, together with Kuprya. My old friend, the clerk on duty, was left alone. He set to work mending the pens, and dropped asleep in his chair. A few flies promptly seized the opportunity and settled on his mouth. A mosquito alighted on his forehead, and, stretching its legs out with a regular motion, slowly buried its sting into his flabby flesh. The same red head with whiskers showed itself again at the door, looked in, looked again, and then came into the office, together with the rather ugly body belonging to it.

"Fedyushka! eh, Fedyushka! always asleep," said the head.

The clerk on duty opened his eyes and got up from his seat.

"Nikolai Eremeich has gone to the mistress?"

"Yes, Vasily Nikolayevich."

"Ah! ah!" thought I; "this is he, the head-cashier."

The head-cashier began walking about the room. He really slunk rather than walked, and altogether resembled a cat. An old black frock-coat with very narrow skirts hung about his shoulders; he kept one hand in his bosom, while the other was for ever fumbling about his high, tight horse-hair cravat, and he turned his head with a certain effort. He wore noiseless kid boots, and trod very softly.

"The landlord, Yagushkin, was asking for you today," added the clerk on duty.

"Hm, asking for me? What did he say?"

"Said he'd go to Tyutyurev this evening and would wait for you. 'I want to discuss some business with Vasily Nikolayevich,' said he, but what the business was he didn't say; 'Vasily Nikolayevich will know,' says he."

"Hm!" replied the head-cashier, and he went up to the window.

"Is Nikolai Eremeich in the counting-house?" a loud voice was heard asking in the outer room, and a tall man, apparently angry, with an irregular but bold and expressive face, and rather clean in his dress, stepped over the threshold.

"Isn't he here?" he inquired, looking rapidly round.

"Nikolai Eremeich is with the mistress," responded the cashier. "Tell me what you want, Pavel Andreich; you can tell me. . . . What is it you want?"

"What do I want? You want to know what I want?" (The cashier gave a sickly nod.) "I want to give him a lesson, the fat, greasy villain, the scoundrelly tell-tale!. . . I'll give him a tale to tell!"

Pavel flung himself into a chair.

"What are you saying, Pavel Andreich! Calm yourself. . . . Aren't you ashamed? Don't forget whom you're talking about, Pavel Andreich!" lisped the cashier.

"Forget whom I'm talking about? What do I care for his being made head-clerk? A fine person they've found to promote, there's no denying that! They've let the goat loose in the kitchen-garden, you may say!"

"Hush, hush, Pavel Andreich, hush! drop that . . . what rubbish are you talking?"

"So Master Fox is beginning to fawn? I will wait for him," Pavel said with passion, and he struck a blow on the table. "Ah, here he's coming!" he added with a look at the window; "Speak of the devil. Welcome, welcome!" (He got up.)

Nikolai Ererneich came into the counting-house. His face was shining with satisfaction, but he was rather taken aback at seeing Pavel Andreich.

"Good day to you, Nikolai Eremeich," said Pavel in a significant tone, advancing deliberately to meet him.

The head-clerk made no reply. The face of the merchant showed itself in the doorway.

"What, won't you deign to answer me?" pursued Pavel. "But no . . . no," he added; "that's not it; there's no getting anything by shouting and abuse. No, you'd better tell me in a friendly way, Nikolai Eremeich; what do you persecute me for? what do you want to ruin me for? Come, speak, speak."

"This is no fit place to come to an understanding with you." the head-clerk answered in some agitation, "and no fit time. But I must say I wonder at one thing: what makes you suppose. I want to ruin you, or that I'm persecuting. you? And if you come to that, how can I persecute you? You're not in my counting-house."

"I should hope not," answered Pavel; "that would be the last straw! But why are you humbugging, Nikolai Eremeich?. . . You understand me, you know."

"No, I don't understand."

"Yes, you do understand."

"No, by God, I don't understand!"

"Swearing, too! Well, tell us, since it's come to that: have you no fear of God? Why can't you let the poor girl live in peace? What do you want of her?"

"Whom are you talking of?" the fat man asked with feigned amazement.

"Ugh! doesn't know; what next? I'm talking of Tatyana. Have some fear of God--what do you want to revenge yourself for? You ought to be ashamed: married man like you, with children as big as I am; it's a very different thing with me. . . . I mean marriage: I'm acting straightforwardly."

"How am I to blame in that, Pavel Andreich? The mistress won't permit you to marry; it's her seignorial will! What have I to do with it?"

"Why, haven't you been plotting with that old hag, the housekeeper, eh? Haven't you been telling tales, eh? Tell me, aren't you bringing all sorts of stories up against the defenceless girl? I suppose it's not your doing that she's been degraded from laundrymaid to washing dishes in the scullery? And it's not your doing that she's beaten and dressed in sackcloth?. . . You ought to be ashamed, you ought to be ashamed--an old man like you! You know there's a paralytic stroke always hanging over you. . . . You will have to answer to God."

"You're abusive, Pavel Andreich, you're abusive. . . . You shan't have a chance to be insolent much longer."

Pavel fired up.

"What? You dare to threaten me?" he said passionately. "You think I'm afraid of you. No, my man, I'm not come to that! What have I to be afraid of? I can make my bread everywhere. For you, now, it's another thing! It's only here you can live and tell tales, and filch. . . ."

"Fancy the conceit of the fellow!" interrupted the clerk, who was also beginning to lose patience; "an apothecary's assistant, simply an apothecary's assistant, a wretched leech; and listen to him--fie upon you! You're a high and mighty personage!"

"Yes, an apothecary's assistant, and except for this apothecary's assistant you'd have been rotting in the graveyard by now. It was some devil drove me to cure him," he added between his teeth.

"You cured me? No, you tried to poison me; you dosed me with aloes," the clerk put in.

"What was I to do if nothing but aloes had any effect on you?"

"The use of aloes is forbidden by the Board of Health," pursued Nikolai. "I'll lodge a complaint against you yet. . . . You tried to do me in--that was what you did! But the Lord suffered it not."

"Hush, now, that's enough, gentlemen," the cashier was beginning. . . .

"Stand off!" bawled the clerk. "He tried to poison me! Do you understand that?"

"That's very likely. . . . Listen, Nikolai Eremeich," Pavel began in despairing accents. "For the last time, I beg you. . . . You forced me to it--I can't stand it any longer. Let us alone, do you hear? or else, by God, it'll go ill with one or other of us!"

The fat man flew into a rage.

"I'm not afraid of you!" he shouted; "do you hear, milksop? I got the better of your father; I broke his horns-- a warning to you; take care!"

"Don't talk of my father, Nikolai Eremeich."

"I like that! who are you to give me orders?"

"I tell you, don't talk of him!"

"And I tell you, don't forget yourself! However necessary you think yourself, if our lady has a choice between us it's not you'll be kept, my dear! Nobody's allowed to mutiny, mind!" (Pavel was shaking with fury.) "As for the wench, Tatyana, she deserves . . . wait a bit, she'll get something worse!"

Pavel dashed forward with uplifted fists, and the clerk rolled heavily on the floor.

"Handcuff him, handcuff him," groaned Nikolai Eremeich. . . .

I won't take upon myself to describe the end of this scene; I fear I have wounded the reader's delicate susceptibilities as it is.

The same day I returned home. A week later I heard that Madame Losnyakova had kept both Pavel and Nikolai in her service, but had sent away the girl Tatyana; it appeared she was not wanted.

 

 

I WAS COMING back from hunting one evening alone in a racing droshky. I was eight versts from home; my good trotting-mare galloped bravely along the dusty road, pricking up her ears with an occasional snort; my weary dog stuck close to the hind wheels, as though he were fastened there. A tempest was coming on. In front, a huge purplish storm-cloud slowly rose from behind the forest; long grey rain-clouds flew over my head and to meet me; the willows stirred and whispered restlessly. The suffocating heat changed suddenly to a damp chilliness; the darkness rapidly thickened. I gave the horse a lash with the reins, descended a steep slope, pushed across a dry watercourse overgrown with brushwood, mounted the hill, and drove into the forest. The road ran before me, bending between thick hazel bushes, now enveloped in darkness; I advanced with difficulty. The droshky jumped up and down over the hard roots of the ancient oaks and limes, which continually intersected a pair of deep ruts--the tracks of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A violent wind suddenly began to roar overhead; the trees blustered; big drops of rain fell with slow tap and splash on the leaves; there came a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. The rain fell in torrents. I went on at a walk, and soon was forced to stop; my horse foundered; I could not see an inch before me. I managed to take refuge somehow in a spreading bush. Crouching down and covering my face, I waited patiently for the storm to blow over, when suddenly, in a flash of lightning, I saw a tall figure on the road. I began to stare intently in that direction--and again the figure seemed to spring out of the ground near my droshky.

"Who's that?" inquired a ringing voice.

"Why, who are you?"

"I'm the forester here."

I mentioned my name.

"Oh, I know! Are you on your way home?"

"Yes. But, you see, in such a storm. . . ."

"Yes, there is a storm," replied the voice.

A pale flash of lightning lit up the forester from head to foot; a brief crashing clap of thunder followed at once upon it. The rain lashed with redoubled force.

"It won't be over just directly," the forester went on.

"What's to be done?"

"I'll take you to my hut, if you like," he said abruptly.

"That would be a service."

"Please to take your seat."

He went up to the mare's head, took her by the bit, and pulled her up. We set off. I held on to the cushion of the droshky, which rocked "like a boat on the sea," and called my dog. My poor mare splashed with difficulty through the mud, slipped and stumbled; the forester hovered before the shafts to right and to left like a ghost. We drove rather a long while; at last my guide stopped. "Here we are home, sir," he observed in a quiet voice. The gate creaked; some puppies barked a welcome. I raised my head, and in a flash of lightning I made out a small hut in the middle of a large yard, fenced in with hurdles. From the one little window there was a dim light. The forester led his horse up to the steps and knocked at the door. "Coming, coming!" we heard a little shrill voice; there was the patter of bare feet, the bolt creaked, and a girl of twelve, in a little smock tied round the waist with list, appeared in the doorway with a lantern in her hand.

"Show the gentleman a light," he said to her; "and I will put your droshky in the shed."

The little girl glanced at me, and went into the hut. I followed her.

The forester's hut consisted of one room, smoky, low-pitched, and empty, without curtains or partition. A tattered sheepskin hung on the wall. On the bench lay a single-barrelled gun; in the corner lay a heap of rags; two great pots stood near the oven. A pine splinter was burning on the table, flickering up and dying down mournfully. In the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, suspended from the end of a long horizontal pole. The little girl put out the lantern, sat down on a tiny stool, and with her right hand began swinging the cradle, while with her left she attended to the smouldering pine splinter. I looked round--my heart sank within me: it's not cheering to go into a peasant's hut at night. The baby in the cradle breathed hard and fast.

"Are you all alone here?" I asked the little girl.

"Yes," she uttered, hardly audibly.

"You're the forester's daughter?"

"Yes," she whispered.

The door creaked, and the forester, bending his head, stepped across the threshold. He lifted the lantern from the floor, went up to the table, and lighted a candle.

"I dare say you're not used to the splinter light?" said he, and he shook back his curls.

I looked at him. Rarely has it been my fortune to behold such a heroic creature. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and built in marvellous proportion. His powerful muscles stood out in strong relief under his wet homespun shirt. A curly, black beard hid half of his stern and manly face; small brown eyes looked out boldly from under broad eyebrows which met in the middle. He stood before me, his arms held lightly akimbo.

I thanked him, and asked his name.

"My name's Foma," he answered, "and my nickname's Biryuk" (i.e., lone wolf).*

*The name Biryuk is used in the Orel province to denote a solitary, misanthropic man--Author's Note.

"Oh, you're Biryuk."

I looked with redoubled curiosity at him. From my Yermolai and others I had often heard stories about the forester Biryuk, whom all the peasants of the surrounding districts feared as they feared fire. According to them there had never been such a master of his business in the world before. "He won't let you carry off a handful of brushwood; he'll drop upon you like a fall of snow, whatever time it may be, even in the middle of the night, and you needn't think of resisting him--he's strong, and cunning as the devil. . . . And there's no getting at him anyhow; neither by brandy nor by money; there's no snare he'll walk into. More than once good folks have planned to put him out of the world, but no--it's never come off."

That was how the neighbouring peasants spoke of Biryuk.

"So you're Biryuk," I repeated; "I've heard talk of you, brother. They say you show no mercy to anyone."

"I do my duty," he answered grimly; "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing."

He took an axe from his girdle and began splitting splinters.

"Have you no wife?" I asked him.

"No," he answered, with a vigorous sweep of the axe.

"She's dead, I suppose?"

"No . . . yes . . . she's dead," he added, and turned away. I was silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me.

"She ran away with a townsman who happened to pass by," he brought out with a bitter smile. The little girl hung her head; the baby waked up and began crying; the little girl went to the cradle. "There, give it him," said Biryuk, thrusting a dirty feeding-bottle into her hand. "Him, too, she abandoned," he went on in an undertone, pointing to the baby. He went up to the door, stopped and turned round.

"A gentleman like you," he began, "wouldn't care for our bread, I dare say, and except bread, I've--"

"I'm not hungry."

"Well, that's for you to say. I would have heated the samovar, but I've no tea. . . . I'll go and see how your horse is getting on."

He went out and slammed the door. I looked round again. The hut struck me as more melancholy than ever. The bitter smell of stale smoke choked my breathing unpleasantly. The little girl did not stir from her place, and did not raise her eyes; from time to time she jogged the cradle, and timidly pulled her slipping smock up on to her shoulder; her bare legs hung motionless.

"What's your name?" I asked her.

"Ulita," she said, her mournful little face drooping more than ever.

The forester came in and sat down on the bench.

"The storm's passing over," he observed after a brief silence; "if you wish it, I will guide you out of the forest."

I got up; Biryuk took his gun and examined the firepan.

"What's that for?" I inquired.

"There's mischief in the forest. . . . They're cutting a tree down on Mare's Ravine," he added, in reply to my look of inquiry.

"Could you hear it from here?"

"I can hear it outside."

We went out together. The rain had ceased. Heavy masses of storm-cloud were still huddled in the distance; from time to time there were long flashes of lightning; but here and there overhead the dark-blue sky was already visible; stars twinkled through the swiftly flying clouds. The outline of the trees, drenched with rain and stirred by the wind, began to stand out in the darkness. We listened. The forester took off his cap and bent his head. . . . "There!" he said suddenly, and he stretched out his hand: "see what a night he's pitched on." I had heard nothing but the rustle of the leaves. Biryuk led the mare out of the shed. "But, perhaps," he added aloud, "this way I shall miss him." "I'll go with you . . . if you like?" "Certainly," he answered, and he backed the horse in again; "we'll catch him in a trice, and then I'll take you. Let's be off." We started, Biryuk in front, I following him. Heaven only knows how he found out his way, but he only stopped once or twice, and then merely to listen to the strokes of the axe. "There," he muttered, "do you hear? do you hear?" "Why, where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We went down into the ravine; the wind was still for an instant; the rhythmical strokes reached my hearing distinctly. Biryuk glanced at me and shook his head. We went farther through the wet bracken and nettles. A slow muffled crash was heard. . . .

"He's felled it," muttered Biryuk. Meantime the sky had grown clearer and clearer; there was a faint light in the forest. We clambered at last out of the ravine.

"Wait here a little," the forester whispered to me. He bent down, and raising his gun above his head, vanished among the bushes. I began listening with strained attention. Across the continual roar of the wind faint sounds from close by reached me; there was a cautious blow of an axe on the brushwood, the crash of wheels, the snort of a horse. . . .

"Where are you off to? Stop!" the iron voice of Biryuk thundered suddenly. Another voice was heard in a pitiful shriek, like a trapped hare. . . . A struggle was beginning.

"No, you don't," Biryuk said panting; "you're not going to get off. . . ." I rushed in the direction of the noise, and ran up to the scene of the conflict, stumbling at every step. A felled tree lay on the ground, and near it Biryuk was busily engaged holding the thief down and binding his hands behind his back with a kerchief. I came closer. Biryuk got up and set him on his feet. I saw a peasant drenched with rain, in tatters, and with a long dishevelled beard. A sorry little nag, half covered with a stiff mat, was standing by, together with a rough cart. The forester did not utter a word; the peasant too was silent; his head was shaking.

"Let him go," I whispered in Biryuk's ear; "I'll pay for the tree."

Without a word Biryuk took the horse by the mane with his left hand; in his right he held the thief by the belt. "Now turn round, you rat!" he said grimly.

"The axe there, take it," muttered the peasant.

"No reason to lose it, certainly," said the forester, and he picked up the axe. We started. I walked behind. . . . The rain began sprinkling again, and soon fell in torrents. With difficulty we made our way to the hut. Biryuk pushed the captured horse into the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot in the kerchief, and made him sit down in a corner. The little girl, who had fallen asleep near the oven, jumped up and began staring at us in silent terror. I sat down on the locker.

"Ugh, what a downpour!" remarked the forester; "you will have to wait till it's over. Won't you lie down?"

"Thanks."

"I would have shut him in the store loft, on your honour's account," he went on, indicating the peasant; "but you see the bolt--"

"Leave him here; don't touch him," I interrupted.

The peasant stole a glance at me from under his brows. I vowed inwardly to set the poor wretch free, come what might. He sat without stirring on the locker. By the light of the lantern I could make out his worn, wrinkled face, his overhanging yellow eyebrows, his restless eyes, his thin limbs. . . . The little girl lay down on the floor, just at his feet, and again dropped asleep. Biryuk sat at the table, his head in his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner. . . . the rain pattered on the roof and streamed down the windows; we were all silent.

"Foma Kuzmich," said the peasant suddenly in a thick, broken voice; "Foma Kuzmich!"

"What is it?"

"Let me go."

Biryuk made no answer.

"Let me go . . . hunger drove me to it; let me go."

"I know you," retorted the forester severely; "your set's all alike--all thieves."

"Let me go," repeated the peasant. "Our manager. . . we're ruined, that's what it is--let me go!"

"Ruined, indeed! Nobody need steal."

"Let me go, Foma Kuzmich. . . . Don't destroy me. Your manager, you know yourself, will have no mercy on me; that's what it is."

Biryuk turned away. The peasant was shivering as though he were in the throes of fever. His head was shaking, and his breathing came in broken gasps.

"Let me go," he repeated with mournful desperation. "Let me go; by God, let me go! I'll pay; see, by God, I will! By God, it was through hunger!. . . the little ones are crying, you know yourself. It's hard for us, see."

"You needn't go stealing, for all that."

"My horse," the peasant went on, "my poor little horse, at least . . . our only beast . . . let it go."

"I tell you I can't. I'm not a free man; I'm made responsible. You oughtn't to be spoilt, either."

"Let me go! It's through want, Foma Kuzmich, want--and nothing else--let me go!"

"I know you!"

"Oh, let me go!"

"Ugh, what's the use of talking to you! sit quiet, or else you'll catch it. Don't you see the gentleman, hey?"

The poor wretch hung his head. . . . Biryuk yawned and laid his head on the table. The rain still persisted. I was waiting to see what would happen.

Suddenly the peasant stood erect. His eyes were glittering, and his face flushed dark red. "Well, do your worst, then; eat me up and be damned," he began, his eyes puckering up and the corners of his mouth dropping; "come, cursed destroyer of men's souls! drink Christian blood, drink."

The forester turned round.

"I'm speaking to you, barbarian, blood-sucker, you!"

"Are you drunk or what, to set to being abusive?" began the forester, puzzled. "Are you out of your senses, hey?"

"Drunk! not at your expense, cursed destroyer of souls--brute, brute, brute!"

"Ah, you--I'll show you!"

"What's that to me? It's all one; I'm done for; what can I do without a horse? Kill me--it's the same in the end; whether it's through hunger or like this--it's all one. Ruin us all--wife, children . . . kill us all at once. But, wait a bit, we'll get at you!"

Biryuk got up.

"Kill me; kill me," the peasant went on in savage tones, "kill me; come, come, kill me (The little girl jumped up hastily from the ground and stared at him.) "Kill me, kill me!"

"Silence!" thundered the forester, and he took two steps forward.

"Stop, Foma, stop," I shouted; "leave him alone. . . . Peace be with him."

"I won't be silent," the luckless wretch went on. "It's all the same--ruin anyway--you destroyer of souls, you brute; you've not come to ruin yet. . . . But wait a bit; you won't have long to boast of; they'll wring your neck; wait a bit!"

Biryuk clutched him by the shoulder. I rushed to help the peasant. . . .

"Leave off, master!" the forester shouted to me.

I should not have feared his threats, and already had my fist in the air; but to my intense amazement, with one pull he tugged the kerchief off the peasant's elbows, took him by the scruff of the neck, thrust his cap over his eyes, opened the door, and shoved him out.

"Go to the devil with your horse!" he shouted after him; "but mind, next time. . . ."

He came back into the hut and began rummaging in the corner.

"Well, Biryuk," I said at last, "you've astonished me; I see you're a splendid fellow."

"Oh, stop that, master," he cut me short with an air of vexation; "please don't speak of it. But I'd better see you on your way now," he added; "I suppose you won't wait for the rain to stop. . . ."

In the yard there was the rattle of the wheels of the peasant's cart.

"He's off!" he muttered; "I'll show him. . . ."

Half an hour later he parted from me at the edge of the wood.

 

 

I HAVE already had the honour, kind readers, of introducing to you several of my neighbours; let me now seize a favourable opportunity (it is always a favourable opportunity with us writers) to make known to you two more gentlemen, on whose lands I often used to go shooting--very worthy, well-intentioned persons, who enjoy universal esteem in several districts.

First I will describe to you the retired Major-General Vyacheslav Illarionovich Khvalinsky. Picture to yourselves a tall and once slender man, now inclined to corpulence, but not in the least decrepit or even elderly, a man of ripe age; in his very prime, as they say. It is true the once regular and even now rather pleasing features of his face have undergone some change; his cheeks are flabby; there are close wrinkles like rays about his eyes; a few teeth no longer are, as Saadi, according to Pushkin, used to say; his light-brown hair--at least, all that is left of it--has assumed a purplish hue, thanks to a composition bought at the Romni horse-fair of a Jew who gave himself out as an Armenian; but Vyacheslav Illarionovich has a smart walk and a ringing laugh, jingles his spurs and curls his moustaches, and finally speaks of himself as an old cavalry man, whereas we all know that really old men never talk of being old. He usually wears a frock-coat buttoned up to the top, a high cravat, starched collars, and grey sprigged trousers of a military cut; he wears his hat tilted over his forehead, leaving all the back of his head exposed. He is a good-natured man, but of rather curious notions and principles. For instance, he can never treat noblemen of no wealth or standing as equals. When he talks to them, he usually looks sideways at them, his cheek pressed hard against his stiff white collar, and suddenly he turns and silently fixes them with a clear stony stare, while he moves the whole skin of his head under his hair; he even has a way of his own in pronouncing many words; he never says, for instance: "Thank you, Pavel Vasilyich," or "This way, if you please, Mikhailo Ivanich," but always: "Fanks, Pa'l 'Asilich," or " 'Is way, please, Mil, 'Vanich." With persons of the lower grades of society, his behaviour is still more quaint; he never looks at them at all, and before making known his desires to them, or giving an order, he repeats several times in succession, with a puzzled, far-away air: "What's your name?. . . what, what's your name?" with extraordinary sharp emphasis on the first word, which gives the Russian phrase a rather close resemblance to the call of a quail. He is very fussy and terribly close-fisted, but manages his land badly; he had chosen as overseer on his estate a retired quartermaster, a Little Russian, and a man of really exceptional stupidity. None of us, though, in the management of land, has ever surpassed a certain great Petersburg dignitary, who, having perceived from the reports of his steward that the drying sheds in which the corn was dried on his estate were often liable to catch fire, whereby he lost a great deal of grain, gave the strictest orders that for the future they should not put the sheaves in till the fire had been completely put out! This same great personage conceived the brilliant idea of sowing his fields with poppies, as the result of an apparently simple calculation; poppy being dearer than rye, he argued, it is consequently more profitable to sow poppy. He it was, too, who ordered his women serfs to wear tiaras after a pattern bespoken from Petersburg; and to this day the peasant women on his lands do actually wear the tiaras, only they wear them over their kerchiefs. . . . But let us return to Vyacheslav Illarionovich. Vyacheslav Illarionovich is a devoted admirer of the fair sex, and directly he catches sight of a pretty woman in the promenade of his district town, he is promptly off in pursuit, but falls at once into a sort of limping gait--that is the remarkable feature of the case. He is fond of playing cards, but only with people of a lower standing; they toady him with "Your Excellency" in every sentence, while he can scold them and find fault to his heart's content. When he chances to play with the governor or any official personage, a marvellous change comes over him: he is all nods and smiles; he looks them in the face; he seems positively flowing with honey. He even loses without grumbling. Vyacheslav Illarionovich does not read much; when he is reading he incessantly works his moustaches and eyebrows up and down, as if a wave were passing from below upwards over his face. This undulatory motion in Vyacheslav Illarionovich's face is especially marked when (before company, of course) he happens to be reading the columns of the Journal des Débats. In the gubernia elections he plays a rather important part, but on grounds of economy he declines the honourable dignity of marshal. "Gentlemen," he usually says to the noblemen who press that office upon him, and he speaks in a voice filled with condescension and self-sufficiency: "I am much indebted for the honour; but I have made up my mind to consecrate my leisure to solitude." And, as he utters these words, he turns his head several times to right and to left, and then, with a dignified air, adjusts his chin and his cheek over his cravat. In his young days he served as adjutant to some very important person, whom he never speaks of except by his Christian name and patronymic; they do say he fulfilled other functions than those of an adjutant; that, for instance, in full parade get-up, buttoned up to the chin, he had to lather his chief in his bath--but one can't believe everything one hears. General Khvalinsky is not, however, fond of talking himself about his career in the army, which is certainly rather curious; it seems that he had never seen active service. General Khvalinsky lives in a small house alone; he has never known the joys of married life, and consequently he is still regarded as a possible match, and indeed a very eligible one. But he has a housekeeper, a dark-eyed, dark-browed, plump, fresh-looking woman of five-and-thirty with a moustache; she wears starched dresses even on weekdays, and on Sundays puts on muslin sleeves as well. Vyacheslav Illarionovich is at his best at the large invitation dinners given by gentlemen of the neighbourhood in honour of the governor and other dignitaries: then he is, one may say, in his natural element. On these occasions he usually sits, if not on the governor's right hand, at least at no great distance from him; at the beginning of dinner he is more disposed to nurse his sense of personal dignity, and, sitting back in his chair, he loftily scans the necks and stand-up collars of the guests, without turning his head, but towards the end of the meal he unbends, begins smiling in all directions (he had been all smiles for the governor from the first), and sometimes even proposes the toast in honour of the fair sex, the ornament of our planet, as he says. General Khvalinsky shows to advantage, too, at all solemn public functions, inspections, assemblies, and exhibitions; no one in church goes up for the benediction with such style. Vyacheslav Illarionovich's servants are never noisy and clamorous on the breaking up of assemblies or in crowded thoroughfares; as they make a way for him through the crowd or call his carriage, they say in an agreeable guttural baritone, "By your leave, by your leave allow General Khvalinsky to pass," or "Call for General Khvalinsky's carriage." Khvalinsky's carriage is, it must be admitted, of a rather queer design, and the footmen's liveries are rather threadbare (that they are grey, with red facings, it is hardly necessary to remark); his horses, too, have seen a good deal of hard service in their time; but Vyacheslav Illarionovich has no pretensions to splendour, and goes so far as to think it beneath his rank to make an ostentation of wealth. Khvalinsky has no special gift of eloquence, or possibly has no opportunity of displaying his rhetorical powers, as he has a particular aversion, not only for disputing, but for discussion in general, and assiduously avoids long conversation of all sorts, especially with young people. This was certainly judicious on his part; the worst of having to do with the younger generation is that they are so ready to forget the proper respect and submission due to their superiors. In the presence of persons of high rank Khvalinsky is for the most part silent, while with persons of a lower rank, whom to judge by appearances he despises, though he constantly associates with them, his remarks are sharp and abrupt, expressions such as the following occurring incessantly: "That's a piece of folly, what you're saying now," or "I feel myself compelled, sir, to remind you," or "You ought to realize with whom you are dealing," and so on. He is peculiarly dreaded by post-masters, officers of the local boards, and superintendents of posting stations. He never entertains anyone in his house, and lives, as the rumour goes, like a miser. For all that, he's an excellent country gentleman, "An old soldier, a disinterested fellow, a man of principle, vieux grognard," his neighbours say of him. The provincial prosecutor alone permits himself to smile when General Khvalinsky's excellent and solid qualities are referred to before him-- but what will not envy drive men to!. . .

However, we will pass now to another landed proprietor.

Mardary Apollonich Stegunov has no sort of resemblance to Khvalinsky; I hardly think he has ever served under government in any capacity, and he has never been reckoned handsome. Mardary Apollonich is a little, fattish, bald old man of a respectable corpulence, with a double chin and little soft hands. He is very hospitable and jovial; lives, as the saying is, for his comfort; summer and winter alike, he wears a striped wadded dressing-gown. There's only one thing in which he is like General Khvalinsky: he too is a bachelor. He owns five hundred souls. Mardary Apollonich's interest in his estate is of a rather superficial description; not to be behind the age, he ordered a threshing-machine from Butenop's in Moscow, locked it up in a barn, and then felt his mind at rest on the subject. Sometimes on a fine summer day he would have out his racing droshky, and drive off to his fields, to look at the crops and gather corn-flowers. Mardary Apollonich's existence is carried on in quite the old style. His house is of an old-fashioned construction; in the hall there is, of course, a smell of kvas, tallow candles, and leather; close at hand, on the right, there is a sideboard with cockroaches and towels; in the dining-room, family portraits, flies, a great pot of geraniums, and a squeaky piano; in the drawing-room, three sofas, three tables, two looking-glasses, and a wheezy clock of tarnished enamel with engraved bronze hands; in the study, a table piled up with papers, and a bluish-coloured screen covered with pictures cut out of various works of last century; a bookcase full of musty books, spiders, and black dust; a puffy arm-chair; an Italian window; a sealed-up door into the garden. . . . Everything, in short, just as it always is. Mardary Apollonich has a multitude of servants, all dressed in the old-fashioned style: in long blue full coats, with high collars, pantaloons of a muddy hue, and shortish yellow waistcoats. They address visitors as "father." His estate is under the superintendence of a steward, a peasant with a beard that covers the whole of his sheepskin; his household is managed by a stingy, wrinkled old woman, whose face is always tied up in a cinnamon-coloured handkerchief. In Mardary Apollonich's stable there are thirty horses of various kinds; he drives out in a coach built on the estate, that weighs four tons. He receives visitors very cordially, and entertains them sumptuously; in other words, thanks to the stupefying powers of our national cookery, he deprives them of all capacity for doing anything but playing preference. For his part, he never does anything, and has even given up reading the Dream Book. But there are a good many of our landed gentry in Russia exactly like this. It will be asked: "What is my object in talking about him?" Well, by way of answering that question, let me describe to you one of my visits at Mardary Apollonich's.

I arrived one summer evening at seven o'clock. An evening service was only just over; the priest, a young man, apparently very timid, and only lately come from the seminary, was sitting in the drawing-room near the door, on the extreme edge of a chair. Mardary Apollonich received me as usual, very cordially; he was genuinely delighted to see any visitor, and indeed he was the most good-natured of men altogether. The priest got up and took his hat.

"Wait a bit, wait a bit, father," said Mardary Apollonich, not yet leaving go of my hand; "don't go. I have sent for some vodka for you."

"I never drink it, sir," the priest muttered in confusion, blushing up to his ears.

"What nonsense!" answered Mardary Apollonich; "A priest, too! Mishka! Yushka! vodka for the father!"

Yushka, a tall, thin old man of seventy, came in with a glass of vodka on a dark-coloured tray, with a few patches of flesh colour on it, all that was left of the original enamel.

The priest began to decline.

"Come, drink it up, father, no ceremony; it's too bad of you," observed the landowner reproachfully.

The poor young man had to obey.

"There, now, father, you may go."

The priest began to bow himself out.

"There, there, that'll do, get along with you."

"A capital fellow," pursued Mardary Apollonich, looking after him, "I like him very much; there's only one thing--he's young yet. Spends so much time on his sermons that he hasn't learned to drink. But how are you, my dear sir? What have you been doing? How are you? Let's come out on to the balcony--such a lovely evening."

We went out on the balcony, sat down, and began to talk. Mardary Apollonich glanced below, and suddenly fell into a state of tremendous excitement.

"Whose hens are those? whose hens are those?" he shouted. "Whose are those hens roaming about in the garden?. . . Whose are those hens? How many times I've forbidden it! How many times I've spoken about it!"

Yushka ran out.

"What disorder!" protested Mardary Apollonich; "it's horrible!"

The unlucky hens, two speckled and one white with a topknot, as I still remember, went on stalking tranquilly about under the apple-trees, occasionally giving vent to their feelings in a prolonged clucking, when suddenly Yushka, bareheaded and stick in hand, with three other house-serfs of mature years, flew at them simultaneously. Then the fun began. The hens clucked, flapped their wings, hopped, raised a deafening cackle; the house-serfs ran, tripping up and tumbling over; their master shouted from the balcony like one possessed, "Catch 'em, catch 'em! Catch 'em, catch 'em! Catch 'em, catch 'em, catch 'em! Whose are those hens?"

At last one servant succeeded in catching the hen with the topknot, tumbling upon it, and at the very same moment a little girl of eleven, with dishevelled hair, and a dry branch in her hand, jumped over the garden-fence from the village street.

"Ah, we see now whose hens!" cried the landlord in triumph. "They're Yermil the coachman's hens! he's sent his Natalka for them. He didn't sent Parasha though," the landlord added in a low voice with a significant snigger. "Hey, Yushka! let the hens alone; catch Natalka for me."

But before the panting Yushka had time to reach the terrified little girl, the housekeeper suddenly appeared, snatched her by the arm, and slapped her several times on the back.

"That's it! that's it!" cried the master, "tut-tut-tut!. . . And carry off the hens, Avdotya," he added in a loud voice, and he turned with a beaming face, to me; "that was a fine chase, my dear sir, hey? I'm in a regular perspiration, look."

And Mardary Apollonich went off into a series of chuckles.

We remained on the balcony. The evening was really exceptionally fine.

Tea was served us.

"Tell me," I began, "Mardary Apollonich: are those your peasants' huts, out there on the highroad, above the ravine?"

"Yes . . . why do you ask?"

"I wonder at you, Mardary Apollonich. It's really sinful. The huts allotted to the peasants there are wretched cramped little hovels; there isn't a tree to be seen near them; there's not a pond even; there's only one well, and that's no good. Could you really find no other place to settle them? And they say you're taking away the old hemp-grounds, too?"

"And what is one to do with this new division of the lands?" Mardary Apollonich made answer. "Do you know I've this redivision quite on my mind, and I foresee no sort of good from it. And as for my having taken away the hemp-grounds, and their not having dug any ponds, or what not--as to that, my dear sir, I know my own business. I'm a plain man--I go on the old system. To my ideas, when a man's master--he's master; and when he's peasant--he's peasant. That's what I think about it."

To an argument so clear and convincing there was of course no answer.

"And besides," he went on, "those peasants are a wretched lot; they're in disgrace. Particularly two families there; why, my late father--God rest his soul!--couldn't bear them; positively couldn't bear them. And you know my precept is: where the father's a thief, the son's a thief; say what you like. . . . Blood, blood--oh, that's the great thing! I don't mind telling you that I sent quite a few men for soldiers from those two families and tried to get rid of them in other ways. But they breed too damned quickly for me!"

Meanwhile there was a perfect stillness in the air. Only rarely there came a gust of wind, which, as it sank for the last time near the house, brought to our ears the sound of rhythmically repeated blows, seeming to come from the stable. Mardary Apollonich was in the act of lifting a saucer full of tea to his lips, and was just inflating his nostrils to sniff its fragrance--no true-born Russian, as we all know, can drink his tea without this preliminary--but he stopped short, listened, nodded his head, sipped his tea, and laying the saucer on the table, with the most good-natured smile imaginable, murmured as though involuntarily accompanying the blows: "Chucki-chucki-chuck! Chucki-chuck!"

"What is it?" I asked puzzled.

"Oh, by my order, they're punishing a scamp of a fellow. . . . Do you happen to remember Vasya, who waits at the sideboard?"

"Which Vasya?"

"Why, that waited on us at dinner just now. He with the long whiskers."

The fiercest indignation could not have stood against the clear mild gaze of Mardary Apollonich.

"What are you after, young man? what is it?" he said, shaking his head. "Am I a criminal or something, that you stare at me like that? 'Whom he loveth he chasteneth'; you know that."

A quarter of an hour later I had taken leave of Mardary Apollonich. As I was driving through the village I caught sight of Vasya. He was walking down the village street, cracking nuts. I told the coachman to stop the horses and called him up.

"Well, my boy, so they've been punishing you today?" I said to him.

"How did you know?" answered Vasya.

"Your master told me."

"The master himself?"

"What did he order you to be punished for?"

"Oh, I deserved it, father; I deserved it. They don't punish for trifles among us: that's not the way with us-- no, no. Our master's not like that; our master . . . you won't find another master like him in all the province."

"Drive on!" I said to the coachman. "There you have it, old Russia!" I mused on my homeward way.

 

 

ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL advantages of hunting, my dear readers, consists in its forcing you to be constantly moving from place to place, which is highly agreeable for a man of no occupation. It is true that sometimes, especially in wet weather, it's not over-pleasant to roam over by-roads, to cut across country, to stop every peasant you meet with the question, "Hey! my good man! how are we to get to Mordovka?" and at Mordovka to try to extract from a half-witted peasant woman (the working folk are all in the fields) whether it is far to an inn on the highroad, and how to get to it--and then, when you have gone on ten versts farther, instead of an inn, to come upon the deserted village of Khudobubnovo, to the great amazement of a whole herd of pigs, who have been wallowing up to their ears in the black mud in the middle of the village street, without the slightest anticipation of ever being disturbed. There is no great joy either in having to cross planks that dance under your feet; to climb down into ravines; to wade across boggy streams; it is not over-pleasant to tramp twenty-four hours on end through the sea of green that covers the highroads or (which God forbid!) stay for hours stuck in the mud before a striped milestone with the figures 22 on one side and 23 on the other; it is not wholly pleasant to live for weeks together on eggs, milk, and the rye-bread patriots affect to be so fond of. . . . But there is ample compensation for all these inconveniences and discomforts in pleasures and advantages of another sort. Let us come, though, to our story.

After all I have said above, there is no need to explain to the reader how I happened five years ago to be at Lebedyan just in the very thick of the horse-fair. We hunters may often set off on a fine morning from our more or less ancestral roof, in the full intention of returning there the following evening, and little by little, still in pursuit of snipe, may get at last to the blessed banks of the Pechora in the Far North. Besides, every lover of the gun and the dog is a passionate admirer of the noblest animal in the world, the horse. And so I turned up at Lebedyan, stopped at the hotel, changed my clothes, and went out to the fair. (The waiter, a thin lanky youth of twenty, had already informed me in a sweet nasal tenor that his Excellency Prince N--, who purchases the chargers for the X. regiment, was staying at their house; that many other gentlemen had arrived; that some gypsies were to sing in the evenings, and there was to be a performance of Pan Tvardovsky at the theatre; that the horses were fetching good prices; and that there was a fine show of them.)

In the market square there were endless rows of carts drawn up, and behind the carts, horses of every possible kind: racers, stud-horses, dray-horses, cart-horses, posting-hacks, and simple peasants' nags. Some fat and sleek, assorted by colours, covered with striped horse-cloths, and tied up short to high racks, turned furtive glances backward at the too familiar whips of their owners, the horse-dealers; private owners' horses, sent by noblemen of the steppes a hundred or two hundred versts away, in charge of some decrepit old coachman and two or three headstrong stable-boys, shook their long necks, stamped with ennui, and gnawed at the fences; roan horses, from Vyatka, huddled close to one another; race-horses, dapple-grey, raven, and sorrel, with large hindquarters, flowing tails, and shaggy legs, stood in majestic immobility like lions. Connoisseurs stopped respectfully before them. The avenues formed by the rows of carts were thronged with people of every class, age, and appearance; horse-dealers in long blue coats and high caps, with sly faces, were on the look-out for purchasers; gypsies, with bulging eyes and curly heads, scurried up and down, like uneasy spirits, looking into the horses' mouths, lifting up a hoof or a tail, shouting, swearing, acting as go-betweens, casting lots, or hanging about some army horse-contractor in a forage-cap and military cloak, with beaver collar. A stalwart Cossack rode up and down on a lanky gelding with the neck of a stag, offering it for sale "in one lot," that is, saddle, bridle, and all. Peasants, in sheepskins torn at the armpits, were forcing their way desperately through the crowd, or packing themselves by dozens into a cart harnessed to a horse, which was to be "put to the test," or somewhere on one side, with the aid of a wily gypsy, they were bargaining till they were exhausted, clasping each other's hands a hundred times over, each still sticking to his price, while the subject of their dispute, a wretched little jade covered with a shrunken mat, was blinking quite unmoved, as though it was no concern of hers. . . . And, after all, what difference did it make to her who was to have the beating of her? Broad-browed landowners, with dyed moustaches and an expression of dignity on their faces, in Polish hats and cotton overcoats pulled half on, were talking condescendingly with fat merchants in felt hats and green gloves. Officers of different regiments were crowding everywhere; an extraordinarily lanky cuirassier of German extraction was languidly inquiring of a lame horse-dealer "what he expected to get for that chestnut." A fair-haired young hussar, a boy of nineteen, was choosing a trace-horse to match a lean pacer; a post-boy in a low-crowned hat, with a peacock's feather twisted round it, in a brown coat and long leather gloves tied round the arm with narrow, greenish bands, was looking for a shaft-horse. Coachmen were plaiting the horses' tails, wetting their manes, and giving respectful advice to their masters. Those who had completed a stroke of business were hurrying to hotel or to tavern, according to their class. . . . And all the crowd were moving, shouting, bustling, quarrelling and making it up again, swearing and laughing, all up to their knees in the mud. I wanted to buy a set of three horses for my covered trap; mine had begun to show signs of breaking down. I had found two, but had not yet succeeded in picking up a third. After a hotel dinner, which I cannot bring myself to describe (even Aeneas had discovered how painful it is to dwell on sorrows past), I repaired to a café so-called, which was the evening resort of the purchasers of cavalry mounts, horse-breeders, and other persons. In the billiard-room, which was plunged in grey floods of tobacco smoke, there were about twenty men. Here were free-and-easy young landlords in embroidered jackets and grey trousers, with long sideburns and little waxed moustaches, staring about them with gentlemanly insolence; other noblemen in Cossack dress, with extraordinary short necks, and eyes lost in layers of fat, were snorting with distressing distinctness; merchants sat quietly a little apart; officers were chatting freely among themselves. At the billiard-table was Prince N--, a young man of two-and-twenty, with a lively and rather contemptuous face, in a coat hanging open, a red silk shirt, and loose velvet pantaloons; he was playing with the ex-lieutenant, Victor Khlopakov.

The ex-lieutenant, Victor Khlopakov, a little, thinnish, dark man of thirty, with black hair, brown eyes, and a thick snub nose, is a diligent frequenter of elections and horse-fairs. He walks with a skip and a hop, waves his fat hands with a jovial swagger, cocks his cap on one side, and tucks up the sleeves of his military coat, showing the blue-black cotton lining. Mr. Khlopakov knows how to gain the favour of rich scapegraces from Petersburg; smokes, drinks, and plays cards with them; calls them by their Christian names. What they find to like in him it is rather hard to comprehend. He is not clever; he is not amusing; he is not even a buffoon. It is true they treat him with friendly casualness, as a good-natured fellow, but rather a fool; they chum with him for two or three weeks, and then all of a sudden do not recognize him in the street, and he on his side, too, does not recognize them. The chief peculiarity of Lieutenant Khlopakov consists in his continually, for a year, sometimes two at a time, using in season and out of season one expression, which, though not in the least humorous, for some reason or other makes everyone laugh. Eight years ago he used on every occasion to say, "'Umble respecks and gratification," and his patrons of that date used always to fall into fits of laughter and make him repeat " 'Umble respecks and gratification"; then he began to adopt a more complicated expression: "No, that's too, too k'essk'say," and with the same brilliant success; two years later he had invented a fresh saying: "Ne voo excite vooself pa, man of sin, sewn in a sheepskin," and so on. And strange to say! these, as you see, not overwhelmingly witty phrases keep him in food and drink and clothes. (He has run through his property ages ago, and lives solely upon his friends.) There is, observe, absolutely no other attraction about him; he can, it is true, smoke a hundred pipes of Zhukov tobacco in a day, and when he plays billiards, throws his right leg higher than his head, and while taking aim, shakes his cue affectedly; but, after all, not everyone has a fancy for these accomplishments. He can drink, too . . . but in Russia it is hard to gain distinction as a drinker. In short, his success is a complete riddle to me. There is one thing, perhaps: he is discreet; he has no taste for washing dirty linen away from home, never speaks a word against anyone.

"Well," I thought, on seeing Khlopakov, "I wonder what his catchword is now?"

The prince hit the white.

"Thirty love," whined a consumptive marker, with a dark face and rings of lead under his eyes.

The prince sent the yellow with a crash into the farthest pocket.

"Ah!" a stoutish merchant, sitting in the corner at a tottering little one-legged table, boomed approvingly from the depths of his chest, and immediately was overcome by confusion at his own presumption. But luckily no one noticed him. He drew a long breath, and stroked his beard.

"Thirty-six love!" the marker shouted in a nasal voice. "Well, what do you say to that, old man?" the prince asked Khlopakov.

"What! rrrrakaliooon, of course, simply rrrrakaliooooon!"

The prince roared with laughter.

"What? what? Say it again."

"Rrrrrakaliooon!" repeated the ex-lieutenant complacently.

"So that's the catchword!" thought I.

The prince sent the red into the pocket.

"Oh! that's not the way, prince, that's not the way," lisped a fair-haired young officer with red eyes, a tiny nose, and a babyish, sleepy face. "You shouldn't play like that . . . you ought . . . not that way!"

"Eh?" the prince queried over his shoulder.

"You ought to have done it. . . in a triplet."

"Oh, really?" muttered the prince.

"What do you say, prince? Shall we go this evening to hear the gypsies?" the young man hurriedly went on in confusion. "Styoshka will sing. . . . Ilyushka. . . ."

The prince vouchsafed no reply.

"Rrrrrakaliooon, old boy," said Khlopakov. with a sly wink of his left eye.

And the prince exploded.

"Thirty-nine to love," sang out the marker.

"Love! . . . just look, I'll do the trick with that yellow." Khlopakov, fidgeting his cue in his hand, took aim, and missed.

"Eh, rrrakalioon," he cried with vexation.

The prince laughed again.

"What, what, what?"

But Khlopakov, out of coquetry, deigned no reply.

"Your excellency made a miss," observed the marker. "Allow me to chalk the cue. . . . Forty love."

"Yes, gentlemen," said the prince, addressing the whole company, and not looking at any one in particular, "you know, Verzhembitskaya must be called before the curtain tonight."

"To be sure, to be sure, of course," several voices cried in rivalry, amazingly flattered at the chance of answering the prince's speech; "Verzhembitskaya, to be sure. . . ."

"Verzhembitskaya's an excellent actress, far superior to Sopnyakova," whined an ugly little man in the corner, with moustaches and spectacles. Luckless wretch! he was secretly sighing at Sopnyakova's feet, but the prince did not even vouchsafe him a look.

"Wai-ter, hey, a pipe!" a tall gentleman, with regular features and a most majestic manner--in fact, with all the external symptoms of a card-sharper--muttered into his cravat.

A waiter ran for a pipe, and when he came back, announced to his excellency that the groom Baklaga was asking for him.

"Ah! tell him to wait a minute and take him some vodka!"

"Yes, sir."

Baklaga, as I was told afterwards, was the name of a youthful, handsome, and excessively spoiled groom; the prince loved him, made him presents of horses, went out hunting with him, spent whole nights with him. Now you would not know this same prince, who was once a rake and a scapegrace. In what good odour he is now; how straight-laced, how supercilious! How devoted to the government--and, above all, so prudent and judicious!

However, the tobacco smoke had begun to make my eyes smart. After hearing Khlopakov's exclamation and the prince's chuckle one last time more, I went off to my room, where, on a narrow, hair-stuffed sofa pressed into hollows, with a high, curved back, my man had already made me up a bed.

The next day I went out to look at the horses in the stables, and began with the famous horse-dealer Sitnikov's. I went through a gate into a yard strewn with sand. Before a wide open stable door stood the horse-dealer himself--a tall, stout man no longer young, in a hareskin coat, with a raised turnover collar. Catching sight of me, he moved slowly to meet me, held his cap in both hands above his head, and in a sing-song voice brought out:

"Ah, our respects to you. You'd like to have a look at the horses, may be?"

"Yes; I've come to look at the horses."

"And what sort of horses, precisely, I make bold to ask?"

"Show me what you have."

"With pleasure."

We went into the stable. Some white pug-dogs got up from the hay and ran up to us, wagging their tails, and a long-bearded old goat walked away with an air of dissatisfaction; three stable-boys, in strong but greasy sheepskins, bowed to us without speaking. To right and to left, in horse-boxes raised above the ground, stood nearly thirty horses, groomed to perfection. Pigeons fluttered cooing about the rafters.

"What, now, do you want a horse for? for driving or for breeding?" Sitnikov inquired of me.

"Oh, I'll see both sorts."

"To be sure, to be sure," the horse-dealer commented, dwelling on each syllable. "Petya, show the gentleman Ermine."

We came out into the yard.

"But won't you let them bring you a bench out of the hut? You don't want to sit down. . . . As you please."

There was the thud of hoofs on the boards, the crack of a whip, and Petya, a swarthy fellow of forty, marked by small-pox, popped out of the stable with a rather well-shaped grey stallion, made it rear, ran twice round the yard with it, and adroitly pulled it up at the right place. Ermine stretched himself, snorted, raised his tail, shook his head, and looked sideways at us.

"A clever beast," I thought.

"Give him his head, give him his head," said Sitnikov, and he stared at me.

"What may you think of him?" he inquired at last.

"The horse's not bad--the forelegs aren't quite sound."

"His legs are first-rate!" Sitnikov rejoined, with an air of conviction; "and his hindquarters . . . just look, sir. . . broad as an oven--you could sleep up there."

"His pasterns are long."

"Long! mercy on us! Start him, Petya, start him, but at a trot, a trot. . . don't let him gallop."

Again Petya ran round the yard with Ermine. None of us spoke for a little.

"There, lead him back," said Sitnikov, "and show us Falcon."

Falcon, a gaunt beast of Dutch extraction with sloping hindquarters, as black as a beetle, turned out to be little better than Ermine. He was one of those beasts of whom fanciers will tell you that "they go chopping and mincing and dancing about," meaning thereby that they prance and throw out their forelegs to right and to left without making much headway. Middle-aged merchants have a great fancy for such horses; their action recalls the swaggering gait of a smart waiter; they do well in single harness for an after-dinner drive; with mincing paces and curved neck they zealously draw a clumsy droshky laden with an overfed coachman, a depressed, dyspeptic merchant, and his lymphatic wife, in a blue silk mantle, with a lilac handkerchief over her head. Falcon, too, I declined. Sitnikov showed me several horses. . . . One at last, a dapple-grey beast of Voyeikov breed, took my fancy. I could not restrain my satisfaction, and patted him on the withers. Sitnikov at once feigned absolute indifference.

"Well, does he go well in harness?" I inquired.

"Oh, yes," answered the horse-dealer carelessly.

"Can I see him?"

"If you like, certainly. Hi, Kuzya, put Pursuer into the droshky!"

Kuzya, the jockey, a real master of horsemanship, drove three times past us up and down the street. The horse went well, without changing its pace or shambling; it had a free action, held its tail high, and covered the ground well.

"And what are you asking for him?" Sitnikov asked an impossible price. We began bargaining on the spot in the street, when suddenly a splendidly matched team of three posting-horses flew noisily round the corner and drew up sharply at the gates before Sitnikov's house. In the smart little, sportsman's trap sat Prince N--; beside him Khlopakov. Baklaga was driving . . . and how he drove! He could have driven them through an ear-ring, the rascal! The bay trace-horses, little, keen, black-eyed, black-legged beasts, were all impatience; they kept rearing--a whistle, and off they would have bolted! The dark-bay shaft-horse stood firmly, its neck arched like a swan's, its breast forward, its legs like arrows, shaking its head and proudly blinking. . . . They were splendid! The tsar Ivan Vasilyevich could not wish for a finer turn-out for an Easter procession!

"Your Excellency, please to come in!" cried Sitnikov. The prince leaped out of the trap. Khlopakov slowly descended on the other side.

"Good morning, friend . . . any horses?"

"You may be sure we've horses for Your Excellency! Pray walk in. Petya, bring out Peacock! and let them get Favourite ready, too. And with you, sir," he went on, turning to me, "we'll settle matters another time. . . . Fomka, a bench for His Excellency."

From a special stable which I had not at first observed they led out Peacock. A powerful dark-sorrel horse, Peacock seemed to fly across the yard with all its legs in the air. Sitnikov even turned away his head and blinked.

"Oh, rrakalion!" piped Khlopakov; "Zhaymsah (j'aime ça)."

The prince laughed.

Peacock was stopped with difficulty; he dragged the stableman about the yard; at last he was pushed against the wall. He snorted, started and reared, while Sitnikov still teased him, brandishing a whip at him.

"What are you looking at? there! oo!" said the horse-dealer with caressing menace, unable to refrain from admiring his horse himself.

"How much?" asked the prince.

"For Your Excellency, five thousand."

"Three."

"Impossible, Your Excellency, upon my word."

"I tell you three, rrakalion," put in Khlopakov.

'I went away without staying to see the end of the bargaining. At the farthest corner of the street I noticed a large sheet of paper fixed on the gate of a little grey house. At the top there was a pen-and-ink sketch of a horse with a tail of the shape of a pipe and an endless neck, and below the hoofs were the following words, written in an old-fashioned hand:

"Here are for sale horses of various colours brought to the Lebedyan fair from the celebrated steppes stud of Anastasy Ivanich Chernobai, landholder of Tambov province. These horses are of excellent sort; broken in to perfection, and free from vice. Purchasers will kindly ask for Anastasy Ivanich himself; should Anastasy Ivanich be absent, then ask for Nazar Kubishkin, the coachman. Gentlemen about to purchase, kindly honour an old man."

I stopped. "Come," I thought, "let's have a look at the horses of the celebrated steppe breeder, Mr. Chernobai."

I was about to go in at the gate, but found that, contrary to the common usage, it was locked. I knocked.

"Who's there? A customer?" whined a woman's voice.

"Yes."

"Coming, sir, coming."

The gate was opened. I beheld a peasant woman of fifty, bareheaded, in boots, and a sheepskin worn open.

"Please to come in, kind sir, and I'll go at once and tell Anastasy Ivanich. . . . Nazar, hey, Nazar!"

"What?" mumbled an old man's voice from the stable.

"Get a horse ready; here's a customer."

The old woman ran into the house.

"A customer, a customer," Nazar grumbled in response; "I've not washed all their tails yet."

"Oh, Arcadia!" thought I.

"Good day, sir, pleased to see you," I heard a rich, pleasant voice saying behind my back. I looked round; before me, in a long-skirted blue coat, stood an old man of medium height, with white hair, a friendly smile, and fine blue eyes.

"You want a horse? By all means, my dear sir, by all means. But won't you step in and drink just a cup of tea with me first?"

I declined and thanked him.

"Well, well, as you please. You must excuse me, my dear sir; you see I'm old-fashioned." (Mr. Chernobai spoke with deliberation, and in a broad Doric.) "Everything with me is done in a plain way, you know. Nazar, hey, Nazar!" he added, not raising his voice, but prolonging each syllable.

Nazar, a wrinkled old man with a little hawk nose and a wedge-shaped beard, showed himself at the stable door.

"What sort of horses is it you're wanting, my dear sir?" resumed Mr. Chernobai.

"Not too expensive; for driving my covered gig."

"To be sure, we have got them to suit you, to be sure. Nazar, Nazar, show the gentleman the grey gelding, you know, that stands at the farthest corner, and the sorrel with the star, or else the other sorrel--foal of Beauty, you know."

Nazar went back to the stable.

"And bring them out by their halters just as they are," Mr. Chernobai shouted after him. "You won't find things with me, my good sir," he went on, with a clear mild gaze into my face, "as they are with the horse-dealers; confound their tricks! They use all sorts of drugs, salt and malted grains; God forgive them! But with me, you will see, sir, everything's above-board; no underhandedness."

The horses were led in; I did not care for them.

"Well, well, take them back, in God's name," said Anastasy Ivanich. "Show us the others."

Others were shown. At last I picked out one, rather a cheap one. We began to bargain over the price. Mr. Chernobai did not get excited; he spoke so reasonably, with such dignity, that I could not help "honouring" the old man; I gave him the earnest-money.

"Well, now," observed Anastasy Ivanich, "allow me to give over the horse to you from hand to hand, after the old fashion: You will thank me for him--as sound and fresh as a nut, a true child of the steppes! Goes well in any harness."

He crossed himself, laid the skirt of his coat over his hand, took the halter, and handed me the horse.

"You're his master now, with God's blessing. And you still won't take a cup of tea?"

"No, I thank you heartily; it's time I was going home."

"That's as you think best. And shall my coachman lead the horse after you?"

"Yes, now, if you please."

"By all means, my dear sir, by all means. Vasily, hey, Vasily! step along with the gentleman, lead the horse, and take the money from him. Well, good-bye, my good sir; God bless you.

"Good-bye, Anastasy Ivanich."

They led the horse home for me. The next day he turned out to be broken-winded and lame. I tried having him put in harness; the horse backed, and if one gave him a flick with the whip he jibbed, kicked, and positively lay down. I set off at once to Mr. Chernobai's. I inquired: "At home?"

"Yes."

"What's the meaning of this?" said I; "here you've sold me a broken-winded horse."

"Broken-winded? God forbid!"

"Yes, and he's lame too, and vicious besides."

"Lame! I know nothing about it: your coachman must have ill-treated him somehow. But before God, I--"

"Look here, Anastasy Ivanich, as things stand, you ought to take him back."

"No, my good sir, don't put yourself in a passion; once gone out of the yard, is done with. You should have looked before, sir."

I understood what that meant, accepted my fate, laughed, and walked off. Luckily, I had not paid very dear for the lesson.

Two days later I left, and in a week I was again at Lebedyan on my way home. In the café I found almost the same persons, and again I came upon Prince N-- at billiards. But the usual change in the fortunes of Mr. Khlopakov had taken place in this interval: the fair-haired young officer had supplanted him in the prince's favours. The poor ex-lieutenant once more tried letting off his catchword in my presence, on the chance it might succeed as before; but, far from smiling, the prince positively scowled and shrugged his shoulders. Mr. Khlopakov looked downcast, shrank into a corner, and began furtively filling himself a pipe. . . .

 

 

GIVE me your hand, gentle reader, and come along with me. It is glorious weather; there is a tender blue in the May sky; the smooth young leaves of the willows glisten as though they had been polished; the wide even road is all covered with that delicate grass with the little reddish stalk that the sheep are so fond of nibbling; to right and to left, over the long sloping hillsides, the. green rye is softly waving; the shadows of small clouds glide in thin long streaks over it. In the distance is the dark mass of forests, the glitter of ponds, yellow patches of villages; larks in hundreds are soaring, singing, falling headlong with outstretched necks, hopping about the clods; the rooks on the highroad stand still, look at you, peck at the earth, let you drive close up, and with two hops lazily move aside. On a hill beyond a ravine a peasant is ploughing; a piebald colt, with a cropped tail and ruffled mane, is running on unsteady legs after its mother; its shrill whinnying reaches us. We drive on into the birch wood, and drink in the strong, sweet, fresh fragrance. Here we are at the boundaries. The coachman gets down; the horses snort; the trace-horses look round; the centre horse in the shafts switches his tail, and turns his head up towards the wooden yoke above it; the great gate opens creaking; the coachman seats himself. . . . Drive on! the village is before us. Passing five homesteads, and turning off to the right, we drop down into a hollow and drive along a dyke, the farther side of a small pond; behind the round tops of the lilacs and apple-trees a wooden roof, once red, with two chimneys, comes into sight; the coachman keeps along the hedge to the left, and to the spasmodic and drowsy baying of three pug-dogs he drives through the wide-open gates, whisks smartly round the broad courtyard past the stable and the barn, gallantly salutes the old housekeeper, who is stepping sideways over the high lintel in the open doorway of the storehouse, and pulls up at last before the steps of a dark house with light windows. . . . We are at Tatyana Borisovna's. And here she is herself opening the window and nodding to us.

"Good day, ma'am!"

Tatyana Borisovna is a woman of fifty, with large, prominent grey eyes, a rather blunt nose, rosy cheeks and a double chin. Her face is brimming over with friendliness and kindness. She was once married, but was soon left a widow. Tatyana Borisovna is a very remarkable woman. She lives on her little property, never leaving it, mixes very little with her neighbours, sees and likes none but young people. She was the daughter of very poor landowners, and received no education; in other words, she does not know French; she has never been in Moscow--and in spite of all these defects, she is so good and simple in her manners, so broad in her sympathies and ideas, so little infected with the ordinary prejudices of country ladies of small means, that one positively cannot help marvelling at her. Indeed, a woman who lives all the year round in the country and does not talk scandal, nor whine, nor curtsey, is never flurried, nor depressed, nor in a flutter of curiosity, is a real marvel! She usually wears a grey taffeta gown and a white cap with lilac streamers: she is fond of good cheer, but not to excess; all the preserving, pickling, and salting she leaves to her housekeeper. "What does she do all day long?" you will ask. "Does she read?" No, she doesn't read, and, to tell the truth, books are not written for her. If there are no visitors with her, Tatyana Borisovna sits by herself at the window knitting a stocking in winter; in summertime she is in the garden, planting and watering her flowers, playing for hours together with her cats, or feeding her doves. She does not take much part in the management of her estate. But if a visitor pays her a call--some young neighbour whom she likes--Tatyana Borisovna is all life directly; she makes him sit down, pours him out some tea, listens to his chat, laughs, sometimes pats his cheek, but says little herself; in trouble or sorrow she comforts and gives good advice. How many people have confided their family secrets and the griefs of their hearts to her, and have wept on her shoulder! At times she sits opposite her visitor, leaning lightly on her elbow, and looks with such sympathy into his face, smiles so affectionately, that he cannot help feeling: "What a dear, good woman you are, Tatyana Borisovna! Let me tell you what is in my heart." One feels happy and warm in her small, snug rooms; in her house it is always, so to speak, fine weather. Tatyana Borisovna is a wonderful woman, but no one wonders at her; her sound good sense, her breadth and firmness, her warm sympathy in the joys and sorrows of others-- in a word, all her qualities are so innate in her; they are no trouble, no effort to her. One cannot fancy her otherwise, and so one feels no need to thank her. She is particularly fond of watching the pranks and follies of young people; she folds her hands under her bosom, throws back her head, puckers up her eyes, and sits smiling at them, then all of a sudden she heaves a sigh and says, "Ah, my children, my children!" Sometimes one longs to go up to her, take hold of her hands and say, "Let me tell you, Tatyana Borisovna, you don't know your own value; for all your simplicity and lack of learning, you're an extraordinary creature!" Her very name has a sweet familiar ring; one is glad to utter it; it calls up a kindly smile at once. How often, for instance, have I chanced to ask a peasant, "Tell me, my friend, how am I to get to Grachovka?" let us say. "Well, sir, you go on first to Vyazovoe, and from there to Tatyana Borisovna's, and from Tatyana Borisovna's anyone will show you the way." And at the name of Tatyana Borisovna the peasant wags his head in quite a special way. Her household is small, in accordance with her means. The house, the laundry, the stores and the kitchen are in the charge of the housekeeper, Agafya, once her nurse, a good-natured, tearful, toothless creature; she has under her two stalwart girls with stout crimson cheeks like Antonov apples. The duties of valet, butler, and waiter are filled by Polikarp, an extraordinary old man of seventy, a queer fellow, full of erudition, once a violinist and worshipper of Viotti, with a personal hostility to Napoleon, or, as he calls him, Bonaparty, and a passion for nightingales. He always keeps five or six of the latter in his room; in early spring he will sit for whole days together by the cage, waiting for the first trill, and when he hears it, he covers his face with his hands and moans, "Oh, piteous, piteous!" and sheds tears in floods. Polikarp has, to help him, his grandson Vasya, a curly-headed, sharp-eyed boy of twelve; Polikarp adores him, and grumbles at him from morning till night. He undertakes his education too. "Vasya," he says, "say Bonaparty was a scoundrel." "And what'll you give me, Granddad?" "What'll I give you?. . . I'll give you nothing. . . . Why, what are you? Aren't you a Russian?" "I'm a Mtsanian, Granddad; I was born in Mtsensk." "Oh, silly dunce! but where is Mtsensk?" "How can I tell?" "Mtsensk's in Russia, silly!" "Well, what then if it is in Russia?" "What then? Why, his Highness the late Prince Mikhail Illarionovich Golenishchev-Kutuzov of Smolensk, with God's aid, graciously drove Bonaparty out of the Russian territories. It's on that event the song was composed: 'Bonaparty's in no mood to dance, he's lost the garters he brought from France. . . .' Do you understand? he liberated your fatherland." "And what's that to do with me?" "Ah! you silly boy! Why, if his Highness Prince Mikhail Illarionovich hadn't driven out Bonaparty, some mounseer would have been beating you about the head with a stick this minute. He'd come up to you like this, and say, 'Koman voo porty voo?' and then a box on the ear!" "But I'd give him one in the belly with my fist." "But he'd go on: 'Bonzhur, bonzhur, veny ici,' and then a cuff on the head." "And I'd give him one in his legs, his bandy legs." "You're quite right, their legs are bandy. . . . Well, but suppose he tied your hands?" "I wouldn't let him; I'd call Mikhei the coachman to help me." "But, Vasya, suppose you weren't a match for the Frenchy even with Mikhei?" "Not a match for him! See how strong Mikhei is!" "Well, and what would you do with him?" "We'd get him on his back, we would." "And he'd shout, 'Pardon, pardon, seevooplay!'" "We'd tell him, 'None of your seevooplays, you old Frenchy!" "Bravo, Vasya!. . . Well, now then, shout, 'Bonaparty's a scoundrel!' " "But you must give me some sugar!" "You scamp!"

Of the neighbouring ladies Tatyana Borisovna sees very little; they do not care about going to see her, and she does not know how to amuse them; the sound of their chatter sends her to sleep; she starts, tries to keep her eyes open, and drops off again. Tatyana Borisovna is not fond of women as a rule. One of her friends, a good, harmless young man, had a sister, an old maid of thirty-eight, a good-natured creature, but exaggerated, affected, and ecstatic. Her brother had often talked to her of their neighbour. One fine morning our old maid has her horse saddled, and, without a word to anyone, sallies off to Tatyana Borisovna's. In her long habit, a hat on her head, a green veil and floating curls, she went into the hall, and passing by the panic-stricken Vasya, who took her for a wood-witch, ran into the drawing-room. Tatyana Borisovna, terrified, tried to rise, but her legs sank under her. "Tatyana Borisovna," began the visitor in a supplicating voice, "forgive my temerity; I am the sister of your friend, Alexei Nikolayevich K----, and I have heard so much about you from him that I resolved to make your acquaintance." "Greatly honoured," muttered the bewildered lady. The sister flung off her hat, shook her curls, seated herself near Tatyana Borisovna, took her by the hand. "So this is she," she began in a pensive voice fraught with feeling. "This is that sweet, clear, noble, holy being! This is she! that woman at once so simple and so deep! How glad I am! how glad I am! How we shall love each other! I can breathe easily at last. I always fancied her just so," she added in a whisper, her eyes riveted on the eyes of Tatyana Borisovna. "You won't be angry with me, will you, my dear kind friend?" "Really, I'm delighted! Won't you have some tea?" The lady smiled patronizingly. "Wie wahr, wie unreflectirt," she murmured as it were to herself. "Let me embrace you, my dear one!"

The old maid stayed three hours at Tatyana Borisovna's, never ceasing talking an instant. She tried to explain to her new acquaintance what a boon to humanity she was. Directly after the unexpected visitor had departed, the poor lady took a bath, drank some lime-flower water, and took to her bed. But the next day the old maid came back, stayed four hours, and left, promising to come to see Tatyana Borisovna every day. Her idea, please to observe, was to develop, to complete the education of so rich a nature, to use her own expression, and she would probably have really been the death of her, if she had not, in the first place, been utterly disillusioned as regards her brother's friend within a fortnight, and secondly, fallen in love with a young student on a visit in the neighbourhood, with whom she at once rushed into a fervid and active correspondence; in her missives she consecrated him, as the manner of such is, to a noble, holy life, offered herself wholly as a sacrifice, asked only for the name of sister, launched into endless descriptions of nature, made allusions to Goethe, Schiller, Bettina and German philosophy, and drove the luckless young man at last to the blackest desperation. But youth asserted itself; one fine morning he woke up with such a furious hatred for "his sister and best of friends" that he almost killed his valet in his passion, and was snappish for a long while after at the slightest allusion to elevated and disinterested passion. From that time forth Tatyana Borisovna began to avoid all intimacy with ladies of the neighbourhood more than ever.

Alas! nothing is lasting on this earth. All I have related as to the way of life of my kind-hearted neighbour is a thing of the past; the peace that used to reign in her house has been destroyed for ever. For more than a year now there has been living with her a nephew, an artist from Petersburg. This is how it came about.

Eight years ago, there was living with Tatyana Borisovna a boy of twelve, an orphan, the son of her brother. This boy, Andryusha, had large, clear, humid eyes, a tiny little mouth, a regular nose, and a fine lofty brow. He spoke in a low, sweet voice, was attentive and coaxing with visitors, kissed his auntie's hand with an orphan's sensibility; and one hardly had time to show oneself before he had put an arm-chair for one. He had no mischievous tricks; he was never noisy; he would sit by himself in a corner with a book, and with such sedateness and propriety, never even leaning back in his chair. When a visitor came in, Andryusha would get up, with a decorous smile and a flush; when the visitor went away he would sit down again, pull out of his pocket a brush and a looking-glass, and brush his hair. From his earliest years he had shown a taste for drawing. Whenever he got hold of a piece of paper, he would ask Agafya the housekeeper for a pair of scissors at once, carefully cut a square piece out of the paper, trace a border round it and set to work; he would draw an eye with an immense pupil, or a Grecian nose, or a house with a chimney and smoke coming out of it in the shape of a corkscrew, a dog, en face, looking rather like a bench, or a tree with two pigeons on it, and would sign it: "Drawn by Andrei Belovzorov, such a day in such a year, in the village of Maliye-Briki." He used to toil with special industry for a fortnight before Tatyana Borisovna's birthday; he was the first to present his congratulations and offer her a roll of paper tied up with a pink ribbon. Tatyana Borisovna would kiss her nephew and undo the knot; the roll was unfolded and presented to the inquisitive gaze of the spectator, a round, boldly sketched temple in sepia, with columns and an altar in the centre; on the altar lay a burning heart and a wreath, while above, on a curling scroll, was inscribed in legible characters: "To my aunt and benefactress, Tatyana Borisovna Bogdanova, from her dutiful and loving nephew, as a token of his deepest affection." Tatyana Borisovna would kiss him again and give him a silver ruble. She did not, though, feel any very warm affection for him; Andryusha's fawning ways were not quite to her taste. Meanwhile, Andryusha was growing up; Tatyana Borisovna began to be anxious about his future. An unexpected incident solved the difficulty to her.

One day eight years ago she received a visit from a certain Mr. Benevolensky, Pyotr Mikhailich, a collegiate councillor with a decoration. Mr. Benevolensky had at one time held an official post in the nearest district town, and had been assiduous in his visits to Tatyana Borisovna; then he had moved to Petersburg, got into a ministry, and attained a rather important position, and on one of the numerous journeys he took in the discharge of his official duties, he remembered his old friend, and came back to see her, with the intention of taking a rest for two days from his official labours "in the bosom of the peace of nature." Tatyana Borisovna greeted him with her usual cordiality, and Mr. Benevolensky. . . . But before we proceed with the rest of the story, gentle reader, let us introduce this new personage to you.

Mr. Benevolensky was a stoutish man, of middle height and mild appearance, with little short legs and little fat hands; he wore a roomy and excessively spruce frockcoat, a high broad cravat, snow-white linen, a gold chain on his silk waistcoat, a gem-ring on his forefinger, and a white wig on his head; he spoke softly and persuasively, trod noiselessly, and had an amiable smile, an amiable look in his eyes, and an amiable way of settling his chin in his cravat; he was, in fact, an amiable person altogether. God had given him a heart, too, of the softest; he was easily moved to tears and to transports; moreover, he was all aglow with disinterested passion for art: disinterested it certainly was, for Mr. Benevolensky, if the truth must be told, knew absolutely nothing about art. One is set wondering, indeed, whence, by virtue of what mysterious uncomprehended forces, this passion had come upon him. He was, to all appearance, a practical, even prosaic person . . . however, we have a good many people of the same sort among us in Russia.

Their devotion to art and artists produces in these people an inexpressible mawkishness; it is distressing to have to do with them and to talk to them; they are perfect logs smeared with honey. They never, for instance, call Raphael, Raphael, or Correggio, Correggio; "the divine Sanzio, the incomparable Allegri," they murmur, and always with the broadest vowels. Every pretentious, conceited, home-bred mediocrity they hail as a genius; "the blue sky of Italy," "the lemons of the South," "the balmy breezes of the banks of the Brenta," are for ever on their lips. "Ah, Vanya, Vanya," or "Oh, Sasha, Sasha," they say to one another with deep feeling, "we must away to the South . . . we are Greeks in soul--ancient Greeks." One may observe them at exhibitions before the works of some Russian painters (these gentlemen, it should be noted, are for the most part passionate patriots). First they step back a couple of paces, and throw back their heads; then they go up to the picture again; their eyes are suffused with an oily moisture. "There you have it, my God!" they say at last, in voices broken with emotion; "there's soul, soul! Ah! what feeling, what feeling! Ah, what soul he has put into it! what a mass of soul!. . . And how he has thought it out! thought it out like a master!" And, oh! the pictures in their own drawing-rooms! Oh, the artists that come to them in the evenings, drink tea, and listen to their conversation! And the views in perspective they make them of their own rooms, with a broom in the foreground, a little heap of dust on the polished floor, a yellow samovar on a table near the window, and the master of the house himself in skull-cap and dressing-gown, with a brilliant streak of sunlight falling on his cheek! Oh, the long-haired nurslings of the Muses, wearing spasmodic and contemptuous smiles, that cluster about them! Oh, the young ladies, with faces of greenish pallor, who squeal over their pianos! For that is the established rule with us in Russia; a man cannot be devoted to one art alone--he must have them all. And so it is not to be wondered at that these gentlemen extend their powerful patronage to Russian literature also, especially to dramatic literature. ---- The Jacob Sannazars are written for them; the struggle of unappreciated talent against the whole world, depicted a thousand times over, still moves them profoundly. . . .

The day after Mr. Benevolensky's arrival, Tatyana Borisovna told her nephew at tea-time to show their guest his drawings. "Why, does he draw?" said Mr. Benevolensky with some surprise, and he turned with interest to Andryusha. "Yes, he draws," said Tatyana Borisovna; "he's so fond of it! and he does it all alone, without a master." "Ah! show me, show me," cried Mr. Benevolensky. Andryusha, blushing and smiling, brought the visitor his sketch-book. Mr. Benevolensky began turning it over with the air of a connoisseur. "Good, young man," he pronounced at last; "good, very good." And he patted Andryusha on the head. Andryusha intercepted his hand and kissed it. "Fancy, now, a talent like that! I congratulate you, Tatyana Borisovna." "But what am I to do, Pyotr Mikhailich? I can't get him a teacher here. To have one from the town is a great expense; our neighbours, the Artamonovs, have a drawing-master, and they say an excellent one, but his mistress forbids his giving lessons to outsiders--says he'll ruin his taste." "Hm," pronounced Mr. Benevolensky; he pondered and looked askance at Andryusha. "Well, we will talk it over," he added suddenly, rubbing his hands. The same day he begged Tatyana Borisovna's permission for an interview with her alone. They shut themselves up together. In half an hour they called Andryusha--Andryusha went in. Mr. Benevolensky was standing at the window with a slight flush on his face and a beaming expression. Tatyana Borisovna was sitting in a corner wiping her eyes.

"Come, Andryusha," she said at last, "you must thank Pyotr Mikhailich; he will take you under his protection; he will take you to Petersburg."

Andryusha almost fainted on the spot.

"Tell me candidly," began Mr. Benevolensky, in a voice filled with dignity and patronizing indulgence; "do you want to be an artist, young man? Do you feel yourself consecrated to the holy service of Art?"

"I want to be an artist, Pyotr Mikhailich," Andryusha declared in a trembling voice.

"I am delighted, if so it be. It will, of course," continued Mr. Benevolensky, "be hard for you to part from your revered aunt; you must feel the liveliest gratitude to her."

"I adore my auntie," Andryusha interrupted, blinking.

"Of course, of course, that's readily understood, and does you great credit; but, on the other hand, consider the pleasure that in the future. . . your success. . . ."

"'Kiss me, Andryusha," muttered the kind-hearted lady. Andryusha flung himself on her neck. "There, now, thank your benefactor."

Andryusha embraced Mr. Benevolensky's stomach, and stretching on tiptoe, reached his hand, which his benefactor was in no hurry to withdraw, and imprinted a kiss upon it. He had, to be sure, to humour the child, and, after all, he deserved it. Two days later, Mr. Benevolensky departed, taking with him his new protégé.

During the first three years of Andryusha's absence he wrote pretty often, sometimes enclosing drawings in his letters. From time to time Mr. Benevolensky added a few words, for the most part of approbation; then the letters began to be less and less frequent, and at last ceased altogether. A whole year passed without a word from her nephew; and Tatyana Borisovna was beginning to be uneasy when suddenly she got the following note:

"Dearest Auntie,--Pyotr Mikhailich, my patron, died three days ago. A severe paralytic stroke has deprived me of my sole support. To be sure, I am now twenty. I have made considerable progress during the last seven years; I have the greatest confidence in my talent, and can make my living by means of it; I do not despair; but all the same send me, if you can, as soon as convenient, 250 rubles. I kiss your hand and remain. . ." etc.

Tatyana Borisovna sent her nephew 250 rubles. Two months later he asked for more; she got together every kopek she had and sent it him. Not six weeks after the second donation he was asking a third time for help, ostensibly to buy colours for a portrait bespoken by Princess Terteresheneva. Tatyana Borisovna refused. "Under these circumstances," he wrote to her, "I propose coming to you to regain my health in the country." And in the May of the same year Andryusha did, in fact, return to Maliye-Briki.

Tatyana Borisovna did not recognize him for the first minute. From his letter she had expected to see a wasted invalid, and she beheld a stout, broad-shouldered fellow, with a big red face and greasy curly hair. The pale, slender little Andryusha had turned into the stalwart Andrei Ivanovich Belovzorov. And it was not only his exterior that was transformed. The modest spruceness, the sedateness and tidiness of his earlier years, was replaced by a careless swagger and slovenliness quite insufferable; he rolled from side to side as he walked, lolled in easy-chairs, put his elbows on the table, stretched and yawned, and behaved rudely to his aunt and the servants. "I'm an artist," he would say; "a free Cossack! That's our sort!" Sometimes he did not touch a brush for whole days together; then the inspiration, as he called it, would come upon him; then he would swagger about as if he were drunk, clumsy, awkward, and noisy; his cheeks were flushed with a coarse colour, his eyes dull; he would launch into discourses upon his talent, his success, his development, the advance he was making . . . . It turned out in actual fact that he had barely talent enough to produce passable portraits. He was a perfect ignoramus, had read nothing; why should an artist read, indeed? Nature, freedom, poetry are his fitting elements; he need do nothing but shake his curls, talk, and suck away at his eternal cigarette! Russian audacity is a fine thing, but it doesn't suit everyone; and Polezhaevs at second-hand, without the genius, are insufferable beings. Andrei Ivanovich went on living at his aunt's; he did not seem to find the bread of charity bitter, notwithstanding the proverb. Visitors to the house found him a mortal nuisance. He would sit at the piano (for, you must know, there was a piano at Tatyana Borisovna's) and begin strumming "The Swift Sledge" with one finger; he would strike some chords, tap on the keys, and for hours together he would howl Varlamov's songs, "The Solitary Pine," or "No, doctor, no, don't come to me," in the most distressing manner, and his eyes seemed to disappear altogether, his cheeks were so puffed out and tense as drums. Then he would suddenly strike up: "Be still, distracting passion's tempest!" Tatyana Borisovna positively shuddered.

"It's a strange thing," she observed to me one day, "the songs they compose nowadays; there's something desperate about them; in my day they were very different. We had mournful songs, too, but it was always a pleasure to hear them. For instance:

Come, come to me in the meadow,
Where I am awaiting thee;
Come, come to me in the meadow,
Where I'm shedding tears for thee. . . .
Alas! thou'rt coming to the meadow,
But too late, dear love, for me!

Tatyana Borisovna smiled archly.

"I agon-ize, I agon-ize!" yelled her nephew in the next room.

"Be quiet, Andryusha!"

"My soul's consumed apart from thee!" the indefatigable singer continued.

Tatyana Borisovna shook her head.

"Ah, these artists! these artists!."

A year has gone by since then. Belovzorov is still living at his aunt's, and still talking of going back to Petersburg. He has grown as broad as he is long in the country. His aunt--who could have imagined such a thing?--idolizes him, and the young girls of the neighbourhood are falling in love with him.

Many of her old friends have given up going to Tatyana Borisovna's.

 

 

I HAVE a neighbour, a young landlord and a young hunter. One fine July morning I rode over to him with a proposition that we should go out grouse-shooting together. He agreed. "Only let's go," he said, "to my underwoods at Zusha; I can seize the opportunity to have a look at Chapligino; you know my oak wood; they're felling timber there." "By all means." He ordered his horse to be saddled, put on a green coat with bronze buttons, stamped with a boar's head, a game-bag embroidered in crewels, and a silver flask, slung a brand-new French gun over his shoulder, turned himself about with some satisfaction before the looking-glass, and called his dog, Espérance, a gift from his cousin, an old maid with an excellent heart, but no hair on her head. We started. My neighbour took with him the village constable, Arkhip, a stout, squat peasant with a square face and jaws of antediluvian proportions, and an overseer he had recently hired from the Baltic provinces, a youth of nineteen, thin, flaxen-haired, and short-sighted, with sloping shoulders and a long neck, Herr Gottlieb von der Kock. My neighbour had himself only recently come into the property. It had come to him by inheritance from an aunt, the widow of a councillor of state Madame Kardon-Katayeva, an excessively stout woman, who even lying in bed sighed and groaned. We reached the underwoods. "You wait for me here at the clearing," said Ardalion Mikhailich (my neighbour), addressing his companions. The German bowed, got off his horse, pulled a book out of his pocket--a novel of Johanna Schopenhauer's, I fancy--and sat down under a bush; Arkhip remained in the sun without stirring a muscle for an hour. We beat about among the bushes, but did not come on a single covey. Ardalion Mikhailich announced his intention of going on to the wood. I myself had no faith, somehow, in our luck that day; I, too, sauntered after him. We got back to the clearing. The German noted the page, got up, put the book in his pocket, and with some difficulty mounted his bob-tailed, broken-winded mare, who neighed and kicked at the slightest touch; Arkhip shook himself, gave a tug at both reins at once, swung his legs, and at last succeeded in starting his torpid and dejected nag. We set off.

I had been familiar with Ardalion Mikhailich's wood from my childhood. I had often strolled in Chapligino with my French tutor, Monsieur Désiré Fleury, the kindest of men (who had, however, almost ruined my constitution for life by dosing me with Leroy's mixture every evening). The whole wood consisted of some two or three hundred immense oaks and ash-trees. Their stately, powerful trunks were magnificently black against the transparent golden green of the nut bushes and mountain ashes; higher up, their wide knotted branches stood out in graceful lines against the clear blue sky, unfolding into a tent overhead; hawks, honey-buzzards and kestrels flew whizzing under the motionless tree-tops; variegated woodpeckers tapped loudly on the stout bark; the blackbird's bell-like trill was heard suddenly in the thick foliage, following on the ever-changing note of the goldhammer; in the bushes below was the chirp and twitter of hedge-warblers, siskins, and peewits; finches ran swiftly along the paths; a hare would steal along the edge of the wood, halting cautiously as he ran; a squirrel would hop sporting from tree to tree, then suddenly sit still, with its tail over its head. In the grass among the high ant-hills under the delicate shade of the lovely, feathery, deep-indented ferns, were violets and lilies of the valley, and funguses, russet, yellow, brown, red and crimson; in the patches of grass among the spreading bushes red strawberries were to be found. . . . And oh, the shade in the wood! In the most stifling heat, at midday, it was like night in the wood: such peace, such fragrance, such freshness. . . . I had spent happy times in Chapligino, and so, I must own, it was with melancholy feelings I entered the wood I knew so well. The ruinous, snowless winter of 1840 had not spared my old friends, the oaks and the ashes; withered, naked, covered here and there with sickly foliage, they struggled mournfully up above the young growth which "took their place, but could never replace them."*

*In 1840 there were severe frosts, and no snow fell up to the very end of December; all the winter corn was frozen, and many splendid oak forests were destroyed by that merciless winter. It will be hard to replace them; the productive force of the land is apparently diminishing; in the "interdicted" wastelands (visited by processions with holy images, and so not to be touched), instead of the noble trees of former days, birches and aspens grow of themselves; and, indeed, they have no idea among us of planting woods at all.--Author's Note.

Some trees, still covered with leaves below, fling their lifeless, ruined branches upwards, as it were, in reproach and despair; in others, stout, dead, dry branches are thrust out of the midst of foliage still thick, though with none of the luxuriant abundance of old; others have fallen altogether, and lie rotting like corpses on the ground. And--who could have dreamed of this in former days?--there was no shade--no shade to be found anywhere in Chapligino! "Ah," I thought, looking at the dying trees: "isn't it shameful and bitter for you?. . ." Koltsov's lines recurred to me:

What has become
Of the mighty voices,
The haughty strength,
The royal pomp?
Where now is the
Wealth of green?. . .

"How is it, Ardalion Mikhailich," I began, "that they didn't fell these trees the very next year? You see they won't give for them now a tenth of what they would have done before."

He merely shrugged his shoulders.

"You should have asked my aunt that; the timber merchants came, offered money down, pressed the matter, in fact."

"Mein Gott! Mein Gott!" von der Kock cried at every step. "Vat a bity, vat a bity!"

"What's a bity?" observed my neighbour with a smile.

"That is; how bitiful, I meant to say."

What particularly aroused his regrets were the oaks lying on the ground--and, indeed, many a miller would have given a good sum for them. But the constable Arkhip preserved an unruffled composure, and did not indulge in any lamentations; on the contrary, he seemed even to jump over them and crack his whip on them with a certain satisfaction.

We were getting near the place where they were cutting down the trees, when suddenly a shout and hurried talk was heard, following on the crash of a falling tree, and a few instants after a young peasant, pale and dishevelled, dashed out of the thicket towards us.

"What is it? where are you running?" Ardalion Mikhailich asked him.

He stopped at once.

"Ah, Ardalion Mikhailich, sir, an accident!"

"What is it?"

"Maxim, sir, crushed by a tree."

"How did it happen?. . . Maxim the foreman?"

"The foreman, sir. We'd started cutting an ash-tree, and he was standing looking on. He stood there a bit, and then off he went to the well for some water--wanted a drink, seemingly--when suddenly the ash-tree began creaking and coming straight towards him. We shout to him, 'Run, run, run!. . .' He should have rushed to one side, but he up and ran straight before him. He was scared, to be sure. The ash-tree covered him with its top branches. But why it fell so soon, the Lord only knows! Perhaps it was rotten at the core."

"And so it crushed Maxim?"

"Yes, sir."

"To death?"

"No, sir, he's still alive--but as good as dead; his arms and legs are crushed. I was running for Seliverstich, for the doctor."

Ardalion Mikhailich told the constable to gallop to the village for Seliverstich, while he himself pushed on at a quick trot to the clearing. I followed him.

We found poor Maxim on the ground. A dozen peasants were standing about him. We got off our horses. He hardly moaned at all; from time to time he opened his eyes wide, looked round, as it were, in astonishment, and bit his lips, fast turning blue. The lower part of his face was twitching; his hair was matted on his brow; his breast heaved irregularly: he was dying. The light shade of a young lime-tree glided softly over his face.

We bent down to him. He recognized Ardalion Mikhailich.

"Please, sir," he said to him, hardly articulately, "send for the priest . . . tell . . . the Lord has punished me . . . arms, legs, all smashed . . . today's . . . Sunday . . . and I. . . I . . . see. . . didn't let the lads off work."

He ceased, out of breath.

"And my money . . . for my wife . . . after deducting. . . . Onisim here knows . . . whom I . . . what I owe."

"We've sent for the doctor, Maxim," said my neighbour; "perhaps you may not die yet."

He tried to open his eyes, and with an effort raised the lids.

"No, I'm dying. Here . . . here it is coming . . . here it. . . . Forgive me, lads, if in any way. . . ."

"God will forgive you, Maxim Andreich," said the peasants thickly with one voice, and they took off their caps; "do you forgive us!"

He suddenly shook his head despairingly, his breast heaved with a painful effort, and he fell back again.

"We can't let him lie here and die, though," cried Ardalion Mikhailich; "lads, give us the mat from the cart, and carry him to the hospital."

Two men ran to the cart.

"I bought a horse . . yesterday," faltered the dying man, "off Efim . . . in Sichovka . . . paid earnest-money . . . so the horse is mine. . . . Give it . . . to my wife. . . ."

They began to move him on to the mat. He trembled all over, like a wounded bird, and stiffened.

"He's dead," muttered the peasants.

We mounted our horses in silence and rode away. The death of poor Maxim set me musing. How wonderfully indeed the Russian peasant dies! The temper in which he meets his end cannot be called indifference or stolidity; he dies as though he were performing a solemn rite, coolly and simply.

A few years ago a peasant belonging to another neighbour of mine in the country got burnt in the drying shed, where the corn is put. (He would have remained there, but a passing townsman pulled him out half-dead; he plunged into a tub of water, and with a run broke down the door of the burning outbuilding.) I went to his hut to see him. It was dark, smoky, stifling, in the hut. I asked, "Where is the sick man?" "There, sir, on the stove," the sorrowing peasant woman answered me in a sing-song voice. I went up; the peasant was lying covered with a sheepskin, breathing heavily. "Well, how do you feel?" The injured man stirred on the stove; burned all over, within sight of death as he was, he tried to rise. "Lie still, lie still . . . lie still. Well, how are you?" "In a bad way, surely," said he. "Are you in pain?" No answer. "Is there anything you want?" No answer. "Shouldn't I send you some tea, or anything." "There's no need." I moved away from him and sat down on the bench. I sat there a quarter of an hour; I sat there half an hour--the silence of the tomb in the hut. In the corner behind the table under the holy images crouched a little girl of five years old, eating a piece of bread. Her mother threatened her every now and then. In the outer room there was coming and going, noise and talk: the brother's wife was chopping cabbage. "Hey, Aksinya," said the injured man at last. "What?" "Some kvas." Aksinya gave him some kvas. Silence again. I asked in a whisper, "Have they given him the sacrament?" "Yes." So, then, everything was in order: he was waiting for death, that was all. I could not bear it, and went away.

Again, I recall how I went one day to the hospital in the village of Krasnogorye to see the surgeon Kapiton, a friend of mine, and an enthusiastic hunter.

This hospital consisted of what had once been the lodge of the manor house; the lady of the manor had founded it herself; in other words, she ordered a blue board to be nailed up above the door with an inscription in white letters: "Krasnogorye Hospital," and had herself handed to Kapiton a lovely album to record the names of the patients in. On the first page of this album one of the toadying parasites of this Lady Bountiful had inscribed the following lines:

Dans ces beaux lieux, où régne l'allégresse,
Ce temple fut ouvert par la Beauté;
De vos seigneurs admirez la tendresse,
Bons habitants de Krasnogoriè!

while another gentleman had written below:

Et moi aussi j'aime la nature!

JEAN KOBYLIATNIKOFF.

The surgeon bought six beds at his own expense, and had set to work in a thankful spirit to heal God's people. Besides him, the staff consisted of two persons: an engraver, Pavel, liable to attacks of insanity, and a one-armed peasant woman, Melikitrisa, who performed the duties of cook. Both of them mixed the medicines and dried and infused herbs; they, too, controlled the patients when they were delirious. The insane engraver was sullen in appearance and sparing of words; at night he would sing a song about "lovely Venus," and would besiege every one he met with a request for permission to marry a girl called Malanya, who had long been dead. The one-armed peasant woman used to beat him and set him to look after the turkeys.

Well, one day I was at Kapiton's. We had begun talking over our last day's shooting, when suddenly a cart drove into the yard, drawn by an exceptionally stout horse, such as are only found belonging to millers. In the cart sat a thick-set peasant, in a new greatcoat, with a beard streaked with grey.

"Hullo, Vasily Dmitrich," Kapiton shouted from the window; "please come in. . . . The miller of Libovshin," he whispered to me.

The peasant climbed groaning out of the cart, came into the surgeon's room, and after looking for the holy images, crossed himself, bowing to them.

"Well, Vasily Dmitrich, any news?. . . But you must be ill; you don't look well."

"Yes, Kapiton Timofeich, there's something not right."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Well, it was like this, Kapiton Timofeich. Not long ago I bought some millstones in the town, so I took them home, and as I went to lift them out of the cart, I strained myself, or something; I'd a sort of rick in the loins, as though something had been torn away, and ever since I've been out of sorts. Today I feel worse than ever."

"Hm," commented Kapiton, and he took a pinch of snuff; "that's a rupture, no doubt. But is it long since this happened?"

"'It's ten days now."

"Ten days?" (The surgeon drew a long inward breath and shook his head.) "Let me examine you. . . . Well, Vasily Dmitrich," he pronounced at last, "I am sorry for you, heartily sorry, but things aren't right with you at all; you're seriously ill; stay here with me; I will do everything I can for my part, though I can't answer for anything."

"So bad as that?" muttered the astounded peasant.

"Yes, Vasily Dmitrich, it is bad; if you'd come to me a day or two sooner, it would have been nothing much; I could have cured you in a trice; but now inflammation has set in; before we know where we are, there'll be mortification."

"But it can't be, Kapiton Timofeich."

"I tell you it is so."

"But how comes it?"

The surgeon shrugged his shoulders.

"And I must die for a trifle like that?"

"I don't say that . . . only you must stay here."

The peasant pondered and pondered, his eyes fixed on the floor, then he glanced up at us, scratched his head, and picked up his cap.

"Where are you off to, Vasily Dmitrich?"

"Where? why, home to be sure, if it's so bad. I must put things to rights, if it's like that."

"But you'll do yourself harm, Vasily Dmitrich; you will, really; I'm surprised how you managed to get here; you must stay here."

"No, brother, Kapiton Timofeich, if I must die, I'll die at home; why die here? I've got a home, and the Lord knows how it will end."

"No one can tell yet, Vasily Dmitrich, how it will end. Of course, there is danger, considerable danger; there's no disputing that . . . but for that reason you ought to stay here."

The peasant shook his head. "No, Kapiton Timofeich, I won't stay . . . but perhaps you will prescribe me a medicine."

"Medicine alone will be no good."

"I won't stay, I tell you."

"Well, as you like. Mind you don't blame me for it afterwards."

The surgeon tore a page out of the album, and, writing out a prescription, gave him some advice as to what he could do besides. The peasant took the sheet of paper, gave Kapiton half a ruble, went out of the room, and took his seat in the cart. "Well, good-bye, Kapiton Timofeich, don't remember evil against me, and remember my orphans, if anything. . . ."

"Oh, do stay, Vasily!"

The peasant simply shook his head, struck the horse with the reins, and drove out of the yard. I went out and looked after him. The road was muddy and full of holes; the miller drove cautiously, without hurry, guiding his horse skilfully, and nodding to the acquaintances he met. Three days later he was dead.

The Russians, in general, meet death in a marvellous way. Many of the dead come back now to my memory. I recall you, my old friend, who left the university without finishing the course, Avenir Sorokoumov, noblest, best of men! I see once again your sickly, consumptive face, your lank brown tresses, your gentle smile, your ecstatic glance, your long limbs; I can hear your weak, caressing voice. You lived at a Great Russian landlord's, called Gur Krupyanikov, taught his children, Fofa and Zyozya, Russian grammar, geography, and history, patiently bore all the ponderous jokes of the said Gur, the coarse familiarities of the butler, the vulgar pranks of the spiteful urchins; with a bitter smile, but without repining, you complied with the caprices of their bored and exacting mother; but to make up for it all, what bliss, what peace was yours in the evening, after supper, when, free at last of all duties, you sat at the window pensively smoking a pipe, or greedily turned the pages of a greasy and mutilated number of some thick magazine, brought you from the town by the land-surveyor-- just such another poor, homeless devil as yourself! How delighted you were then with any sort of poem or novel; how readily the tears started into your eyes; with what pleasure you laughed; what genuine love for others, what generous sympathy for everything good and noble, filled your pure youthful soul! One must tell the truth: you were not distinguished by excessive sharpness of wit; Nature had endowed you with neither memory nor industry; at the university you were regarded as one of the least promising students; at lectures you slumbered, at examinations you preserved a solemn silence; but who was beaming with delight and breathless with excitement at a friend's success, a friend's triumphs? Avenir! Who had a blind faith in the lofty destiny of his friends? who extolled them with pride? who championed them with angry vehemence? who was innocent of envy as of vanity? who was ready for the most disinterested self-sacrifice? who eagerly gave way to men who were not worthy to untie his shoe-laces?. . . That was you, all you, our good Avenir! I remember how broken-heartedly you parted from your comrades, when you were going away to be a tutor in the country; you were haunted by a presentiment of evil.

And, indeed, your lot was a sad one in the country; you had no one there to listen to with veneration, no one to admire, no one to love. . . . The neighbours--rude sons of the steppes, and polished gentlemen alike--treated you as a tutor; some, with rudeness and neglect, others carelessly. Besides, you were not prepossessing in person; you were shy, given to blushing, getting hot and stammering. . . . Even your health was no better for the country air: you wasted like a candle, poor fellow! It is true your room looked out in the garden; wild cherries, apple-trees, and limes strewed their delicate blossoms on your table, your inkstand, your books; on the wall hung a blue silk watch-pocket, a parting present from a kind-hearted, sentimental German governess with flaxen curls and little blue eyes; and sometimes an old friend from Moscow would come out to you and throw you into ecstasies with new poetry, often even with his own. But, oh, the loneliness, the insufferable slavery of a tutor's lot! the impossibility of escape, the endless autumns and winters, the ever-advancing disease!. . . Poor, poor Avenir!

I paid Sorokoumov a visit not long before his death. He was then hardly able to walk. The landlord, Gur Krupyanikov, had not turned him out of the house, but had given up paying him a salary and had taken another tutor for Zyozya. . . . Fofa had been sent to a school of cadets. Avenir was sitting near the window in an old easy-chair. It was exquisite weather. The clear autumn sky was a bright blue above the dark-brown line of bare limes; here and there a few last leaves of lurid gold rustled and whispered about them. The earth had been covered with frost, now melting into dewdrops in the sun, whose ruddy rays fell aslant across the pale grass; there was a faint crisp resonance in the air; the voices of the labourers in the garden reached us clearly and distinctly. Avenir wore a threadbare Bukhara dressing-gown; a green neckerchief threw a deathly hue over his terribly sunken face. He was greatly delighted to see me, held out his hand, began talking and coughing at once. I made him be quiet, and sat down by him. . . . On Avenir's knee lay a manuscript book of Koltsov's poems, carefully copied out; he patted it with a smile. "That's a poet," he stammered, with an effort repressing his cough; and he fell to declaiming in a voice scarcely audible:

Can the eagle's wings
Be chained and fettered?
Can the pathways of heaven
Be closed against him?

I stopped him: the doctor had forbidden him to talk. I knew what would please him. Sorokoumov never, as they say, "kept up" with the science of the day; but he was always anxious to know what results the leading intellects had reached. Sometimes he would get an old friend into a corner and begin questioning him; he would listen and wonder, take every word on trust, and even repeat it all after him. He took a special interest in German philosophy. I began discoursing to him about Hegel (this all happened long ago, as you may gather). Avenir nodded his head approvingly, raised his eyebrows, smiled, and whispered, "I see! I see! ah, that's splendid! splendid! . . ." The childish curiosity of this poor, dying, homeless outcast moved me, I confess, to tears. It must be noted that Avenir, unlike the general run of consumptives, did not deceive himself in regard to his disease. But what of that?--he did not sigh, nor grieve; he did not even once refer to his position. . . .

Rallying his strength, he began talking of Moscow, of old friends, of Pushkin, of the drama, of Russian literature; he recalled our little suppers, the heated debates of our circle; with regret he uttered the names of two or three friends who were dead. . . .

"Do you remember Dasha?" he went on. "Ah, there was a heart of pure gold! What a heart! and how she loved me!. . . What has become of her now? Wasted and fallen away, poor dear, I daresay!"

I had not the courage to disillusion the sick man; and, indeed, why should he know that his Dasha was now broader than she was long, and that she was living under the protection of some merchants, the brothers Kondachkov, that she used powder and paint, and was for ever swearing and scolding?

"But can't we," I thought, looking at his wasted face, "get him away from here? Perhaps there may still be a chance of curing him." But Avenir cut short my suggestion.

"No, brother, thanks," he said; "it makes no difference where one dies. I shan't live till the winter, you see. Why give trouble for nothing? I'm used to this house. It's true the people. . . ."

"They're unkind, eh?" I put in.

"No, not unkind, but wooden-headed creatures. However, I can't complain of them. There are neighbours: there's a Mr. Kasatkin's daughter, a cultivated, kind, charming girl . . . not proud . . . ."

Sorokoumov began coughing again.

"I shouldn't mind anything," he went on, after taking breath, "if they'd only let me smoke my pipe. . . . But I'll have my pipe, if I die for it!" he added, with a sly wink. "Thank God, I have had life enough! I have known so many fine people."

"But you should, at least, write to your relations," I interrupted.

"Why write to them? They can't be any help; when I die they'll hear of it. But, why talk about it . . . I'd rather you'd tell me what you saw abroad."

I began to tell him my experiences. He seemed positively to gloat over my story. Towards evening I left, and ten days later I received the following letter from Mr. Krupyanikov:

"I have the honour to inform you, my dear sir, that your friend, the student living in my house, Mr. Avenir Sorokoumov, died at two o'clock in the afternoon three days ago, and was buried today, at my expense, in the parish church. He asked me to forward you the books and manuscripts enclosed herewith. He was found to have twenty-two rubles and a half, which, with the rest of his belongings, pass into the possession of his relatives. Your friend died fully conscious, and, I may say, with so little sensibility that he showed no signs of regret even when the whole family of us took a last farewell of him. My wife, Kleopatra Alexandrovna, sends you her regards. The death of your friend has, of course, affected her nerves; as regards myself, I am, thank God, in good health, and have the honour to remain your humble servant.

"G. KRUPYANIKOV."

Many more examples recur to me, but one cannot relate everything. I will confine myself to one.

I was present at an old country lady's death-bed; the priest had begun reading the prayers for the dying over her, but, suddenly noticing that the patient seemed to be actually dying, he made haste to give her the cross to kiss. The lady turned away with an air of displeasure. "You're in too great a hurry, father," she said in a voice almost inarticulate; "in too great a hurry." She kissed the cross, put her hand under the pillow and expired. Under the pillow was a silver ruble; she had meant to pay the priest for the service at her own death. . . .

Yes, the Russians die in a remarkable way.

 

 

THE SMALL village of Kolotovka once belonged to a lady known in the neighbourhood by the nickname of Skinflint, in allusion to her keen business habits (her real name is lost in oblivion), but has of late years been the property of a German from Petersburg. The village lies on the slope of a barren hill, which is cut in half from top to bottom by a tremendous ravine. It is a yawning chasm, with shelving sides hollowed out by the action of rain and snow, and it winds along the very centre of the village street; it separates the two sides of the unlucky hamlet far more than a river would do, for a river could, at least, be crossed by a bridge. A few gaunt willows creep timorously down its sandy sides; at the very bottom, which is dry and yellow as copper, lie huge slabs of argillaceous rock. A cheerless position, there's no denying, yet all the surrounding inhabitants know the road to Kolotovka well; they go there often, and are always glad to go.

At the very summit of the ravine, a few paces from the point where it starts as a narrow fissure in the earth, there stands a small square hut. It stands alone, apart from all the others. It is thatched, and has a chimney; one window keeps watch like a sharp eye over the ravine, and on winter evenings when it is lighted from within, it is seen far away in the dim frosty fog, and its twinkling light is the guiding star of many a peasant on his road. A blue board is nailed up above the door; this hut is a tavern, called the "Welcome Resort." Spirits are sold here probably no cheaper than the usual price, but it is far more frequented than any other establishment of the same sort in the neighbourhood. The explanation of this is to be found in the tavern-keeper, Nikolai Ivanich.

Nikolai Ivanich--once a slender, curly-headed and rosy-cheeked young fellow, now an excessively stout, grizzled man with a fat face, sly and good-natured little eyes, and a shiny forehead, with wrinkles like lines drawn all over it--has lived for more than twenty years in Kolotovka. Nikolai Ivanich is a shrewd, acute fellow, like the majority of tavern-keepers. Though he makes no conspicuous effort to please or to talk to people, he has the art of attracting and keeping customers, who find it particularly pleasant to sit at his bar under the placid and genial, though alert eye of the phlegmatic host. He has a great deal of common sense; he thoroughly understands the landowner's conditions of life, the peasant's, and the townsman's. He could give sensible advice on difficult points, but, like a cautious man and an egoist, prefers to stand aloof, and at most--and that only in the case of his favourite customers--by remote hints, dropped, as it were, unintentionally, to lead them into the true way. He is an authority on everything that is of interest or importance to a Russian: on horses and cattle, on timber, bricks, and crockery, on woollen stuffs and on leather, on songs and dances. When he has no customers, he is usually sitting like a sack on the ground before the door of his hut, his thin legs tucked under him, exchanging a friendly greeting with every passer-by. He has seen a great deal in his time: many a score of petty landowners, who used to come to him for spirits, he has seen pass away before him; he knows everything that is done for a hundred miles round, and never gossips, never gives a sign of knowing what is unsuspected by the most keen-sighted police officer. He keeps his own counsel, laughs, and makes his glasses ring. His neighbours respect him; the civilian general Shcherepetenko, the landlord highest in rank in the district, gives him a condescending nod whenever he drives past his little house. Nikolai Ivanich is a man of influence; he made a notorious horse-stealer return a horse he had taken from the stable of one of his friends; he brought the peasants of a neighbouring village to their senses when they refused to accept a new overseer, and so on. It must not be imagined, though, that he does this from love of justice, from devotion to his neighbour--no! he simply tries to prevent anything that might, in any way, interfere with his ease and comfort. Nikolai Ivanich is married, and has children. His wife, a smart, sharp-nosed and keen-eyed townswoman, has grown somewhat stout of late years, like her husband. He relies on her in everything, and she keeps the key of the cash-box. Drunken brawlers are afraid of her: she does not like them; they bring little profit and make a great deal of noise; those who are taciturn and surly in their cups are more to her taste. Nikolai Ivanich's children are still small; the first all died, but those that are left take after their parents; it is a pleasure to look at their intelligent, healthy little faces.

It was an insufferably hot day in July when, slowly dragging my feet along, I went up alongside the Kolotovka ravine with my dog towards the Welcome Resort. The sun blazed, as it were, fiercely in the sky, baking the parched earth relentlessly; the air was thick with stifling dust. Glossy crows and ravens with gaping beaks looked plaintively at the passers-by, as though asking for sympathy; only the sparrows did not droop, but, pluming their feathers, twittered more vigorously than ever as they quarrelled among the hedges, or flew up all together from the dusty road and hovered in grey clouds over the green hempfields. I was tormented by thirst. There was no water near: in Kolotovka, as in many other villages of the steppes, the peasants, having no spring or well, drink a sort of thin mud out of the pond. For no one could call that repulsive beverage water. I wanted to ask for a glass of beer or kvas at Nikolai Ivanich's.

It must be confessed that at no time of the year does Kolotovka present a very cheering spectacle; but it has a particularly depressing effect when the relentless rays of a dazzling July sun pour down full upon the brown, tumble-down roofs of the houses and the deep ravine, and the parched, dusty common over which the thin, long-legged hens are straying hopelessly, and the remains of the old manor house, now a hollow, grey framework of aspen-wood, with holes instead of windows, overgrown with nettles, wormwood, and rank grass, and the pond black, as though charred, and covered with goose feathers, with its edge of half-dried mud, and its broken-down dyke, near which, on the finely trodden, ash-like earth, sheep, breathless and gasping with the heat, huddle dejectedly together, their heads drooping with weary patience, as though waiting for this insufferable heat to pass at last. With weary steps I drew near Nikolai Ivanich's dwelling, arousing in the village children the usual wonder manifested in a concentrated, meaningless stare, and in the dogs an indignation expressed in such hoarse and furious barking that it seemed as if it were tearing their very entrails, and left them breathless and choking, when suddenly in the tavern doorway there appeared a tall peasant without a cap, in a frieze cloak, girt about below his waist with a blue handkerchief. He looked like a house-serf; thick grey hair stood up in disorder above his withered and wrinkled face. He was calling to someone hurriedly, waving his arms, which obviously were not quite under his control. It could be seen that he had been drinking.

"Come, come along!" he stammered, raising his shaggy eyebrows with an effort. "Come, Blinkard, come along! Ah, brother, how you creep along, 'pon my word! It's too bad, brother. They're waiting for you within, and here you crawl along. Come."

"Well, I'm coming, I'm coming!" called a jarring voice, and from behind a hut a little, short, fat, lame man came into sight. He wore a rather tidy cloth coat, pulled half on, and a high pointed cap right over his brows, which gave his round plump face a sly and comic expression. His little yellow eyes moved restlessly about, his thin lips wore a continual forced smile, while his sharp, long nose peered forward saucily in front like a rudder. "I'm coming, my dear fellow." He went hobbling towards the tavern. "What are you calling me for? Who's waiting for me?"

"What am I calling you for?" repeated the man in the frieze coat reproachfully. "You're a queer fish, Blinkard: we call you to come to the tavern, and you ask what for? Here are honest folks all waiting for you: Yakov the Turk, and the Wild Master, and the booth-keeper from Zhizdra. Yakov's got a bet on with the booth-keeper: the stake's a pot of beer--for the one that does best, sings the best, I mean . . . do you see?"

"Is Yakov going to sing?" said the man addressed as Blinkard, with lively interest. "But isn't it your humbug, Gabbler?"

"I'm not humbugging," answered the Gabbler with dignity; "it's you are crazy. I should think he would sing since he's got a bet on it, you precious innocent, you noodle, Blinkard!"

"Well, come in, simpleton!" retorted the Blinkard.

"Then give us a kiss at least, lovey," stammered the Gabbler, opening wide his arms.

"Get out, you great softy!" responded the Blinkard contemptuously, giving him a poke with his elbow, and both, stooping, entered the low doorway.

The conversation I had overheard roused my curiosity exceedingly. More than once rumours had reached me of Yakov the Turk as the best singer in the vicinity, and here was an opportunity all at once of hearing him in competition with another master of the art. I quickened my steps and went into the house.

Few of my readers have probably had an opportunity of getting a good view of any village taverns, but we hunters go everywhere. They are constructed on an exceedingly simple plan. They usually consist of a dark outer shed, and an inner room with a chimney, divided in two by a partition, behind which none of the customers have a right to go. In this partition there is a wide opening cut above a broad oak table. At this table or bar the spirits are served. Sealed up bottles of various sizes stand on the shelves, right opposite the opening. In the front part of the room, devoted to customers, there are benches, two or three empty barrels, and a corner table. Village taverns are for the most part rather dark, and you hardly ever see on their wainscotted walls any of the glaring cheap prints which few huts are without.

When I went into the Welcome Resort, a fairly large party were already assembled there.

In his usual place behind the bar, almost filling up the entire opening in the partition, stood Nikolai Ivanich in a striped print shirt; with a lazy smile on his full face, he poured out with his plump white hand two glasses of spirits for the Blinkard and the Gabbler as they came in; behind him, in a corner near the window, could be seen his sharp-eyed wife. In the middle of the room was standing Yakov the Turk, a thin, graceful fellow of three-and-twenty, dressed in a long skirted coat of blue nankin. He looked a smart factory-hand, and could not, to judge by his appearance, boast of very good health. His hollow cheeks, his large, restless grey eyes, his straight nose, with its delicate mobile nostrils, his pale-brown curls brushed back over the sloping white brow, his full but beautiful, expressive lips, and his whole face betrayed a passionate and sensitive nature. He was in a state of great excitement; he blinked, his breathing was hurried, his hands shook, as though in fever, and he was really in a fever--that sudden fever of excitement which is so well known to all who have to speak and sing before an audience. Near him stood a man of about forty, with broad shoulders and broad jaws, with a low forehead, narrow Tartar eyes, a short flat nose, a square chin, and shining black hair, coarse as bristles. The expression of his face--a swarthy face, with a sort of leaden hue in it--and especially of his pale lips, might almost have been called savage, if it had not been so still and dreamy. He hardly stirred a muscle; he only looked slowly about him like a bull under the yoke. He was dressed in a sort of surtout, not over new, with smooth brass buttons; an old black silk handkerchief was twisted round his immense neck. He was called the Wild Master. Right opposite him, on a bench under the holy images, was sitting Yakov's rival, the booth-keeper from Zhizdra; he was a short, stoutly built man of about thirty, pockmarked and curly-headed, with a blunt, turn-up nose, lively brown eyes, and a scanty beard. He looked-keenly about him, and, sitting with his hands under him, he kept carelessly swinging his legs and tapping with his feet, which were encased in stylish top-boots with a coloured edging. He wore a new thin coat of grey cloth, with a plush collar, in sharp contrast with the crimson shirt below, buttoned close across the chest. In the opposite corner, to the right of the door, a peasant sat at the table in a narrow, shabby smock-frock, with a huge rent on the shoulder. The sunlight fell in a narrow, yellowish streak through the dusty panes of the two small windows, but it seemed as if it struggled in vain with the habitual darkness of the room; all the objects in it were dimly, as it were, patchily lighted up. On the other hand, it was almost cool in the room, and the sense of stifling heat dropped off me like a weary load directly I crossed the threshold.

My entrance, I could see, was at first somewhat disconcerting to Nikolai Ivanich's customers; but observing that he greeted me as a friend, they were reassured, and took no more notice of me. I asked for some beer and sat down in the corner, near the peasant in the ragged smock.

"Well, well," piped the Gabbler, suddenly draining a glass of spirits at one gulp and accompanying his exclamation with the strange gesticulations, without which he seemed unable to utter a single word; "what are we waiting for? If we're going to begin, then begin. Hey, Yakov?"

"Begin, begin," chimed in Nikolai Ivanich approvingly.

"Let's begin, by all means," observed the booth-keeper coolly, with a self-confident smile; "I'm ready."

"And I'm ready," Yakov pronounced in a voice thrilled with excitement.

"Well, begin, lads," whined the Blinkard. But, in spite of the unanimously expressed desire, neither began; the booth-keeper did not even get up from the bench--they all seemed to be waiting for something.

"Begin!" said the Wild Master sharply and sullenly. Yakov started. The booth-keeper pulled down his girdle and cleared his throat.

"But who's to begin?" he inquired in a slightly changed voice addressing the Wild Master, who still stood motionless in the middle of the room, his stalwart legs wide apart and his powerful arms thrust up to the elbow into his breeches pockets.

"You, you, booth-keeper," stammered the Gabbler; "you, to be sure, brother."

The Wild Master looked at him from under his brows. The Gabbler gave a faint squeak, in confusion looked away at the ceiling, twitched his shoulder, and said no more.

"Cast lots," the Wild Master pronounced emphatically; "and the pot on the table."

Nikolai Ivanich bent down, and with a gasp picked up the pot of beer from the floor and set it on the table.

The Wild Master glanced at Yakov and said, "Come!"

Yakov fumbled in his pockets, took out a kopek, and marked it with his teeth. The booth-keeper pulled from under the skirts of his long coat a new leather purse, deliberately untied the string, and shaking out a quantity of small change into his hand, picked out a new kopek. The Gabbler held out his dirty cap, with its broken peak hanging loose; Yakov dropped his kopek in, and the booth-keeper his.

"You must pick out one," said the Wild Master, turning to the Blinkard.

The Blinkard smiled complacently, took the cap in both hands, and began shaking it.

For an instant a profound silence reigned; the kopeks clinked faintly, jingling against each other. I looked round attentively; every face wore an expression of intense expectation; the Wild Master himself showed signs of uneasiness; my neighbour even, the peasant in the tattered smock, craned his neck inquisitively. The Blinkard put his hand into the cap and took out the booth-keeper's kopek; everyone drew a long breath. Yakov flushed, and the booth-keeper passed his hand over his hair.

"There, I said you'd begin," cried the Gabbler; "didn't I say so?"

"There, there, don't cluck," remarked the Wild Master contemptuously. "Begin," he went on, with a nod to the booth-keeper.

"What song am I to sing?" asked the booth-keeper, beginning to be nervous.

"What you choose," answered the Blinkard; "whatever you like."

"What you choose, to be sure," Nikolai Ivanich chimed in, slowly folding his hands on his breast, "you're quite at liberty about that. Sing what you like; only sing well; and we'll give a fair decision afterwards."

"A fair decision, of course," put in the Gabbler, licking the edge of his empty glass.

"Let me clear my throat a bit, fellows," said the booth-keeper, fingering the collar of his coat.

"Come, come, no dilly-dallying--begin!" protested the Wild Master, and he looked down.

The booth-keeper thought a minute, shook his head, and stepped forward. Yakov's eyes were riveted upon him.

But before I enter upon a description of the contest itself, I think it will not be amiss to say a few words about each of the personages taking part in my story. The lives of some of them were known to me already when I met them in the Welcome Resort; I collected some facts about the others later on.

Let us begin with the Gabbler. This man's real name was Evgraf Ivanov; but no one in the whole neighbourhood knew him as anything but the Gabbler, and he himself referred to himself by that nickname, so well did it fit him. Indeed, nothing could have been more appropriate to his insignificant, ever-restless features; he was a dissipated, unmarried house-serf, whose own masters had long ago got rid of him, and who, without any employment, without earning a kopek, found means to get drunk every day at other people's expense. He had a great number of acquaintances who treated him to drinks of spirits and tea, though they could not have said why they did so themselves; for, far from being entertaining in company, he bored everyone with his meaningless chatter, his insufferable familiarity, his spasmodic gestures and incessant, unnatural laugh. He could neither sing nor dance; he had never said a clever, or even a sensible thing in his life; he chattered away, telling lies about everything--a regular Gabbler! And yet not a single drinking party for thirty versts around took place without his lank figure turning up among the guests; so that they were used to him by now, and put up with his presence as a necessary evil. They all, it is true, treated him with contempt; but the Wild Master was the only one who knew how to keep his foolish sallies in check.

The Blinkard was not in the least like the Gabbler. His nickname, too, suited him, though he was no more given to blinking than other people; it is a well-known fact that the Russian peasants have a talent for finding good nicknames. In spite of my endeavours to get more detailed information about this man's past, many passages in his life have remained spots of darkness to me, and probably to many other people; episodes buried, as the bookmen say, in the darkness of oblivion. I could only find out that he was once a coachman in the service of an old childless lady; that he had run away with three horses he was in charge of; had been lost for a whole year, and no doubt, convinced by experience of the drawbacks and hardships of a wandering life, he had gone back, a cripple, and flung himself at his mistress's feet. He succeeded in a few years in smoothing over his offence by his exemplary conduct, and, gradually getting higher in her favour, at last gained her complete confidence, was made a bailiff, and on his mistress's death, turned out--in what way was never known--to have received his freedom. He got admitted into the class of tradesmen; rented patches of market-garden from the neighbours; grew rich, and now was living in ease and comfort. He was a man of experience, who knew on which side his bread was buttered; was more actuated by prudence than by either good or ill nature; had knocked about, understood men, and knew how to turn them to his own advantage. He was cautious, and at the same time enterprising, like a fox; though he was as fond of gossip as an old woman, he never let out his own affairs, while he made everyone else talk freely of theirs. He did not affect to be a simpleton, though, as so many crafty men of his sort do; indeed it would have been difficult for him to take anyone in, in that way; I have never seen a sharper, keener pair of eyes than his tiny cunning "peepers," as they call them in Orel. They were never simply looking about; they were always looking one up and down and through and through. The Blinkard would sometimes ponder for weeks together over some apparently simple undertaking, and again he would suddenly decide on a desperately bold line of action, which one would fancy would bring him to ruin. But it would be sure to turn out all right; everything would go smoothly. He was lucky, and believed in his own luck, and believed in omens. He was exceedingly superstitious in general. He was not liked, because he would have nothing much to do with anyone, but he was respected. His whole family consisted of one little son, whom he idolized, and who, brought up by such a father, is likely to get on in the world. "Little Blinkard'll be his father over again," is said of him already in undertones by the old men, as they sit on their mud walls gossiping on summer evenings, and every one knows what that means; there is no need to say more.

As to Yakov the Turk and the booth-keeper, there is no need to say much about them. Yakov, called the Turk because he actually was descended from a Turkish woman, a prisoner from the war, was by nature an artist in every sense of the word, and by calling, a ladler in a paper factory belonging to a merchant. As for the booth-keeper, his career, I must own, I know nothing of; he struck me as being a smart townsman of the tradesman class, ready to turn his hand to anything. But the Wild Master calls for a more detailed account.

The first impression the sight of this man produced on you was a sense of coarse, heavy, irresistible power. He was clumsily built, "all in one piece," as they say among us, but there was an air of triumphant vigour about him, and--strange to say--his bear-like figure was not without a certain grace of its own, proceeding, perhaps, from his absolutely placid confidence in his own strength. It was hard to decide at first to what class this Hercules belonged: he did not look like a house-serf, nor a townsman, nor an impoverished clerk out of work, nor a small ruined landlord, such as takes to being a huntsman or a fighting man; he was, in fact, quite individual. No one knew where he came from or what brought him into our district; it was said that he came of freeholder stock, and had once been in the government service somewhere, but nothing positive was known about this; and indeed there was no one from whom one could learn--certainly not from him; he was the most silent and morose of men. So much so that no one knew for certain what he lived on; he followed no trade, visited no one, associated with scarcely anyone; yet he had money to spend; little enough, it is true, still he had some. In his behaviour he was not exactly retiring--retiring was not a word that could be applied to him: he lived as though he noticed no one about him, and cared for no one. The Wild Master (that was the nickname they had given him: his real name was Perevlesov) enjoyed an immense influence in the whole district; he was obeyed with eager promptitude, though he had no kind of right to give orders to anyone, and did not himself evince the slightest pretension to authority over the people with whom he came into casual contact. He spoke--they obeyed: strength always has an influence of its own. He scarcely drank at all, had nothing to do with women, and was passionately fond of singing. There was much that was mysterious about this man; it seemed as though vast forces sullenly reposed within him, knowing, as it were, that once roused, once bursting free, they were bound to crush him and everything they came in contact with; and I am greatly mistaken if, in this man's life, there had not been some such outbreak; if it was not owing to the lessons of experience, to a narrow escape from ruin, that he now kept himself so tightly in hand. What especially struck me in him was the combination of a sort of inborn natural ferocity with an equally inborn generosity--a combination I have never met in any other man.

And so the booth-keeper stepped forward, and, half shutting his eyes, began singing in high falsetto. He had a fairly sweet and pleasant voice, though rather hoarse; he played with his voice like a wood-lark, twisting and turning it in incessant roulades and trills up and down the scale, continually returning to the highest notes, which he held and prolonged with special care. Then he would break off, and again suddenly take up the first motive with a sort of go-ahead daring. His modulations were at times rather bold, at times rather comical; they would have given a connoisseur great satisfaction, and have made a German furiously indignant. He was a Russian tenore di grazia, ténor léger. He sang a song to a lively dance-tune, the words of which, all that I could catch through the endless maze of embellishments, ejaculations and repetitions, were as follows:

A tiny patch of land, young lass,
I'll plough for thee,
And tiny crimson flowers, young lass,
I'll sow for thee.

He sang; all listened to him with great attention. He seemed to feel that he had to do with really musical people, and therefore was exerting himself to do his best. And they really are musical in our part of the country; the village of Sergievskoye on the Orel highroad is deservedly noted throughout Russia for its harmonious chorus-singing. The booth-keeper sang for a long while without evoking much enthusiasm in his audience; he lacked the support of a chorus; but at last, after one particularly bold flourish, which set even the Wild Master smiling, the Gabbler could not refrain from a shout of delight. Everyone was roused. The Gabbler and the Blinkard began joining in in an undertone and exclaiming, "Bravely done!. . . Take it, you rogue!. . . Sing it out, you serpent! Hold it! That shake again, you dog, you!. . . May Herod confound your soul!" and so on. Nikolai Ivanich behind the bar was nodding his head from side to side approvingly. The Gabbler at last was swinging his legs, tapping with his feet and twitching his shoulder, while Yakov's eyes fairly glowed like coal, and he trembled all over like a leaf, and smiled nervously. The Wild Master alone did not change countenance, and stood motionless as before; but his eyes, fastened on the booth-keeper, looked somewhat softened, though the expression of his lips was still scornful. Emboldened by the signs of general approbation, the booth-keeper went off in a whirl of flourishes, and began to round off such trills, to turn such shakes off his tongue, and to make such furious play with his throat, that when at last, pale, exhausted, and bathed in hot perspiration, he uttered the last dying note, his whole body flung back, a general united shout greeted him in a violent outburst. The Gabbler threw himself on his neck and began strangling him in his long, bony arms; a flush came out on Nikolai Ivanich's oily face, and he seemed to have grown younger; Yakov shouted like mad, "Capital, capital!" Even my neighbour, the peasant in the torn smock, could not restrain himself, and with a blow of his fist on the table, he cried, "Ha! well done, damn my soul, ha! well done!" And he spat on one side with an air of decision.

"Well, brother, you've given us a treat!" bawled the Gabbler, not releasing. the exhausted booth-keeper from his embraces; "you've given us a treat, there's no denying! You've won, brother, you've won! I congratulate you--the quart's yours! Yakov's miles behind you. . . I tell you: miles . . . take my word for it." (And again he hugged the booth-keeper to his breast.)

"There, let him alone, let him alone; there's no being rid of you. . ." said the Blinkard with vexation; "let him sit down on the bench; he's tired, see. You're a ninny, brother, a perfect ninny! What are you sticking to him like a wet leaf for?"

"Well, then, let him sit down, and I'll drink to his health," said the Gabbler, and he went up to the bar. "At your expense, brother," he added, addressing the booth-keeper.

The latter nodded, sat down on the bench, pulled a piece of cloth out of his cap, and began wiping his face, while the Gabbler, with greedy haste, emptied his glass, and, with a grunt, assumed, after the manner of confirmed drinkers, an expression of careworn melancholy.

"You sing beautifully, brother, beautifully," Nikolai Ivanich observed caressingly. "And now it's your turn, Yakov; mind, now, don't be afraid. We shall see who'll win; we shall see. The booth-keeper sings beautifully, though; 'pon my soul, he does."

"Very beautifully," observed Nikolai Ivanich's wife, and she looked with a smile at Yakov.

"Beautifully, ha!" repeated my neighbour in an undertone.

"Ah, a wild man of the woods!" the Gabbler vociferated suddenly, and going up to the peasant with the rent on his shoulder, he pointed at him with his finger, while he pranced about and went off into an insulting guffaw. "Ha! ha! get along! wild man of the woods! Here's a ragamuffin from the Woodlands! What brought you here?" he bawled amidst laughter.

The poor peasant was abashed, and was just about to get up and make off as fast as he could, when suddenly the Wild Master's iron voice was heard:

"What does the insufferable brute mean?" he articulated, grinding his teeth.

"I wasn't doing nothing," muttered the Gabbler. "I didn't . . . I only. . . ."

"There, all right, shut up!" retorted the Wild Master. "Yakov, begin!"

Yakov took himself by his throat:

"Well, really, brothers . . . something. . . . Hm, I don't know, on my word, what. . . ."

"Come, that's enough; don't be timid. For shame!. . . why go back? Sing the best you can, by God's gift."

And the Wild Master looked down expectant. Yakov was silent for a minute; he glanced round and covered his face with his hand. All had their eyes simply fastened upon him, especially the booth-keeper, on whose face a faint, involuntary uneasiness could be seen through his habitual expression of self-confidence and the triumph of his success. He leant back against the wall, and again put both hands under him, but did not swing his legs as before. When at last Yakov uncovered his face it was pale as a dead man's; his eyes gleamed faintly under their drooping lashes. He gave a deep sigh and began to sing. The first sound of his voice was faint and unequal, and seemed not to come from his chest, but to be wafted from somewhere afar off, as though it had floated by chance into the room. A strange effect was produced on all of us by this trembling, resonant note; we glanced at one another, and Nikolai Ivanich's wife seemed to draw herself up. This first note was followed by another, bolder and prolonged, but still obviously quivering, like a harp-string when suddenly struck by a stray finger it throbs in a last, swiftly dying tremble; the second was followed by a third, and, gradually gaining fire and breadth, the strains swelled into a pathetic melody. "Not one little path ran into the field," he sang, and sweet and mournful it was in our ears. I have seldom, I must confess, heard a voice like it; it was slightly hoarse, and not perfectly true; there was even something morbid about it at first; but it had genuine depth of passion, and youth, and sweetness, and a sort of fascinating, careless, pathetic melancholy. A spirit of truth and fire, a Russian spirit, was sounding and breathing in that voice, and it seemed to go straight to your heart, to go straight to all that was Russ