Selected Stories

Agafya

DURING MY STAY in the district of S—— I often used to go to the kitchen gardens of Dubovo to visit the gardener, Savva Stukach, or simply Savka. These kitchen gardens were my favorite spot for so-called “general” fishing—setting out with no thought of the day or hour of my return, supplied with every sort of fishing gear and a stock of provisions. As a matter of fact, it was not so much the fishing that appealed to me as the peaceful rambling, the meals at no set time, the conversations with Savka, and being for so long face to face with the serene summer nights.

Savka was a fellow of twenty-five, tall, handsome, sound as flint. He could read and write, rarely drank vodka, and had the reputation of being a sensible, reasonable fellow; but as a worker this brawny young man was not worth a penny. His powerful muscles, stout as ropes, were imbued with an invincible sloth. Like everyone in his village, he lived in his own hut and had his own plot of land, which he neither tilled nor sowed; nor did he work at any trade. His old mother picked up alms under windows, and he himself lived like a bird of the air: in the morning he did not know what he would eat at midday. It was not that he lacked energy, will, or compassion for his mother, but simply that he felt no inclination for work and did not see the value of it. … His entire being breathed serenity, and an innate, almost artistic passion for the purposeless, careless life. When Savka’s healthy young body was physiologically impelled to muscular work, he briefly gave himself up to some sort of unrestricted but trifling occupation such as whittling superfluous pegs, or chasing a peasant woman until he caught her. His favorite posture was one of concentrated immobility. He was capable of standing in one place, his eyes fixed on one spot, for hours at a stretch without stirring. He never moved except on impulse, and then only when an occasion presented itself for swift, violent action: catching a running dog by the tail, pulling off a woman’s kerchief, or jumping over a big hole. It need hardly be said that with such economy of movement Savka was as poor as Job and lived worse than any landless peasant. As time went on he must have accumulated tax arrears and, young and healthy as he was, the village commune sent him to be watchman and scarecrow in the community kitchen gardens—a job for an old man. No matter how much they laughed at him for his premature old age, he did not care a bit. This peaceful occupation, conducive to stationary contemplation, exactly suited his nature.

One fine May evening I happened to be at Savka’s. I remember lying near the shack on a torn, threadbare sledgerug, from which there rose a heavy, sultry fragrance of dry grass. With my hands clasped under my head I gazed before me. A wooden pitchfork lay at my feet; beyond it Savka’s dog, Kutka, stood out like a black splotch, and not more than a dozen feet from him the ground abruptly ended in the steep bank of a little river. Lying thus I could not see the river, but only the tips of a dense growth of willow bushes on the hither side, and the sinuous, gnawed-looking edges of the opposite bank. Beyond the bank, on a dark knoll in the distance, the huts of Savka’s village huddled together like frightened young partridges. Behind the hill the afterglow of the evening sunset was fading from the sky. A single strip of pale crimson remained, and even that was beginning to be covered with little clouds, like ashes on the embers.

On the right of the kitchen gardens a shadowy grove of alder trees quivered and softly whispered in the fitful breeze, and on the left there stretched a boundless field. There, where the eye no longer could distinguish field from sky, a bright light glimmered. Not far from me sat Savka, his legs tucked under him like a Turk, his head bent, as he gazed pensively at Kutka. Our hooks, with live bait on them, had long been in the river, and there was nothing left for us to do but abandon ourselves to the repose which Savka, never tired and always rested, loved so much. The afterglow had not yet faded from the sky, but already the summer night was enfolding nature in its tender, soothing embrace.

Everything was sinking into the first deep sleep with the exception of one night bird in the grove, a bird not known to me, who indolently uttered a protracted, articulate cry that sounded like: “Did you see Ni-ki-ta?” and then answered himself with: “I saw! I saw! I saw!”

“Why is it that the nightingales aren’t singing tonight?” I asked Savka.

He slowly turned toward me. His features were coarse, but his face was as serene, gentle, and expressive as a woman’s. Then he gazed with mild, dreamy eyes at the grove and the willows, slowly pulled a reed pipe from his pocket, put it to his mouth and piped the note of the female nightingale. And instantly, as if in answer to his piping, came the cry of the corn crake from the opposite bank.

“There’s a nightingale for you!” laughed Savka. “Drag-drag! Drag-drag! Just like dragging at a hook, but I bet he thinks he’s singing too.”

“I like that bird,” I said. “You know, when the birds migrate, the corn crake does not fly, but runs along the ground. It flies only over rivers and seas, otherwise it goes on foot.”

“How do you like that, dog!” Savka murmured, with a respectful glance in the direction of the corn crake.

Knowing how much Savka enjoyed listening, I told him all I had learned about the corn crake from sportsmen’s books. From the corn crake I imperceptibly passed to the migration of birds. Savka listened attentively, his unblinking eyes fixed on me, smiling all the while.

“In which country are the birds most at home,” he asked, “ours or yonder?”

“Ours, of course. The bird is born here, and hatches its little ones here in its native country; they only fly over there to escape freezing.”

“Interesting!” said Savka, stretching himself. “No matter what a person talks about, it’s always interesting. Now, you take a bird, or a man … or take this little stone—there’s something to think about in all of them. … Ah, if I’d known, sir, that you were coming, I wouldn’t have told a woman to come here tonight. One of them asked to come today. …”

“Oh, please, don’t let me interfere!” I said. “I can even lie down in the grove. …”

“Well, really, it’s too bad! She wouldn’t have died if she’d waited till tomorrow. … If she would just sit here and listen to the conversation—but all she wants to do is slobber. You can’t talk sense with her here.”

“Is it Darya you’re expecting?” I asked after a pause.

“No. … A new one asked to come … Agafya Strelchikha. …”

Savka said this in his usual impassive, somewhat flat voice, as if he were talking of tobacco or gruel, and I started in amazement. I knew Agafya Strelchikha. … She was a young peasant woman of nineteen or twenty who, not more than a year before, had married a railway signalman, a fine young fellow. She lived in the village, and her husband came home to her from the line every night.

“All these goings on with women will end badly, my boy.” I sighed.

“Well, maybe….”

After a moment’s thought Savka added, “I’ve said so to the women, but they pay no attention. … It’s their foolishness—and they don’t care!”

A silence followed. … Meanwhile the darkness was growing thicker, and objects began to lose their contours. The strip of sky behind the hill had completely disappeared and the stars grew brighter and more luminous. The mournful, monotonous chirping of the grasshoppers, the corncrake’s cry, the calling of the quails, did not destroy the night’s tranquillity but, on the contrary, only served to swell the great monotone. The soft sounds, enchanting to the ear, seemed not to come from birds and insects, but from the stars looking down upon us from the sky. …

Savka was the first to break the silence. Slowly he withdrew his gaze from black Kutka, looked at me and said, “I see it’s getting dull for you, sir. Let’s have supper.”

Without waiting for an answer he crawled on his stomach into the shanty, rummaged about in it, causing the whole structure to tremble like a leaf, then crawled out again and set before me my vodka and an earthenware bowl containing baked eggs, rye cakes fried in fat, a piece of black bread, and other things. … We drank from a crooked little glass that would not stand, then set to work on the food. … Coarse gray salt, greasy, muddy-looking cakes, and eggs like rubber, but how savory!

“You live like a wretched fellow, but you have all sorts of good things,” I said, pointing to the bowl. “Where do you get them?”

“The women bring them,” Savka mumbled.

“Why is it that they bring them to you?”

“Oh … out of pity.”

Not only Savka’s menu, but his clothing, too, bore traces of feminine “pity.” That evening I noticed he had on a new worsted belt, and round his dirty neck a bright crimson ribbon from which hung a copper cross. I knew that the fair sex had a weakness for Savka, and knew, too, that he did not like talking about it, so I did not pursue my inquiry. Besides, there was no time to talk. Kutka, who had been rubbing against us, patiently waiting for scraps, suddenly pricked up her ears and growled. In the distance we heard the intermittent splashing of water.

“Someone’s coming by the ford,” said Savka.

Two or three minutes later Kutka growled again, and made a coughing sound.

“Tsst!” her master hissed at her.

In the darkness there was the muffled sound of timid footsteps, and the silhouette of a woman appeared from the grove. Although it was dark, I recognized her—it was Agafya Strelchikha. She diffidently approached us, then stopped, breathing heavily. She was breathless, probably not so much from walking as from fear and the unpleasant feeling everyone experiences when fording a river at night. Seeing not one but two persons near the shanty, she uttered a faint cry and stepped back.

“Oh … it’s you!” Savka said, stuffing a rye cake into his mouth.

“I … I—” she murmured, dropping a bundle of some sort onto the ground and darting a glance at me. “Yakov sends you his greetings, and he told me to give you … here’s something for you. …”

“Now, why do you lie? Yakov!” Savka laughed. “There’s no need to lie; the gentleman knows why you came. Sit down and have something.”

Agafya looked askance at me and irresolutely sat down.

“I began to think you weren’t coming this evening,” said Savka after a prolonged silence. “Why do you just sit there? Eat! Or shall I give you a drop of vodka?”

“What an idea!” laughed Agafya. “Do you think you’ve got some sort of a drunkard here?”

“Oh, have a drink. … It warms the heart. … There!”

Savka handed her the crooked glass. She drank the vodka slowly, without eating anything, then loudly blew out her breath.

“She brought something,” Savka said in a jocular, condescending tone as he untied the bundle. “Women can never come without bringing something. Ah, a pie and potatoes! … They live well!” he sighed and turned to me. “They’re the only ones in the whole village who’ve still got potatoes left from the winter!”

In the darkness I did not see Agafya’s face, but from the movement of her head and shoulders it seemed to me that she could not take her eyes from Savka’s face. To avoid being the third person at a tryst, I decided to go for a walk and got up. But at that moment two low, contralto notes of a nightingale were heard in the grove. Half a minute later there was a high, tiny trill, and thus having tried its voice, the bird began to sing. Savka jumped up and listened.

“It’s the same one as yesterday!” he said. “Wait a minute! …” and noiselessly he ran into the grove.

“But what do you want with it?” I called after him. “Stop!”

With a wave of a hand, as if to say, “Don’t shout!” he disappeared into the darkness. Savka was an excellent hunter and fisherman when he liked, but here too his talents were expended as fruitlessly as his strength. He was too lazy to do things in the conventional way and vented his passion for sport in idle tricks. For instance, he would catch nightingales with his bare hands, shoot pike with a fowling piece, and spend whole hours trying with all his might to catch a little fish with a big hook.

Left alone with me Agafya coughed, and repeatedly passed her hand over her forehead. She was beginning to feel a little drunk from the vodka.

“How are you getting on, Agasha?” I asked when the prolonged silence made it awkward not to speak.

“Very well, thank God. … You won’t tell anyone, sir—” she suddenly added in a whisper.

“It’s all right,” I reassured her. “But aren’t you being reckless, Agasha? What if Yakov finds out?”

“He won’t find out. …”

“But if he suddenly——”

“No. … I’ll be home before he is. He’s on the line now, and won’t return till the mail train brings him; I can hear it coming from here.”

Agafya again passed her hand over her forehead and looked in the direction of the grove where Savka had vanished. The nightingale was singing. Some night bird flew down close to the ground, was startled by our presence, fluttered its wings, and flew to the other side of the river.

Soon the nightingale stopped singing, but Savka did not return. Agafya got up, restlessly took a few steps, and sat down again.

“What’s the matter with him?” She could not contain herself. “The train won’t wait till tomorrow! I ought to be going right now!”

“Savka!” I shouted. “Savka!”

I was not answered by so much as an echo. Agafya began to shift about anxiously, and again got up.

“It’s time I was going!” she exclaimed in an agitated voice. “The train will soon be here. I know when the trains come in!”

The poor girl was not mistaken. In less than a quarter of an hour a sound was heard in the distance. Agafya kept her eyes fixed on the grove, moving her hands impatiently.

“Well, where is he?” she said with a nervous laugh. “Where can he have gone? I’m going! Really, sir, I must go!”

Meanwhile the sound was growing more distinct; the rattling of the wheels could be distinguished from the heavy gasps of the locomotive. A whistle was heard, then the hollow rumble of the train crossing the bridge … and in a moment all was still.

“I’ll wait a minute longer …” sighed Agafya, resolutely sitting down again. “So be it. I’ll wait.”

At last Savka appeared in the darkness, softly humming. His bare feet made no sound on the friable earth of the kitchen gardens.

“Now, what do you say to that for luck?” he laughed merrily. “I just got to the bush and started to take aim with my hand when he stopped singing! Ah, you bald dog, you! I waited and waited for him to sing again, but—what do I care. …”

Savka awkwardly threw himself to the ground beside Agafya, catching her by the waist with both hands to keep his balance.

“And why are you scowling like a stepchild?” he asked her.

With all his soft-heartedness and good nature, Savka disdained women. He treated them in a negligent, lofty manner, and even went so far as to laugh contemptuously at their feelings for him. God knows, perhaps this scornful treatment was one of the causes of his powerful, irresistible fascination for the village Dulcineas. He was handsome and well built; his eyes always shone with a gentle friendliness, even when he was looking at a woman he held in contempt, but this fascination was not to be accounted for by external qualities alone. In addition to a favorable exterior and an original manner, one may assume that the touching role of acknowledged failure and unfortunate exile from his own hut to the kitchen gardens had an even greater influence upon the women.

“Now, tell the gentleman what you came here for!” Savka went on, still holding Agafya by the waist. “Come on, tell him, you wedded woman! Ho-ho! … Shall we have another drop of vodka, friend Agasha?”

I got up and, making my way between the vegetable beds, walked the length of the kitchen gardens. The dark beds looked like large, smoothed graves. They smelled of turned earth and the tender dampness of plants freshly covered with dew. … On the left the red light was still gleaming; it winked genially and seemed to smile.

I heard a happy laugh. It was Agafya. … “And the train?” I thought. “The train came in long ago.”

I waited a little longer, then went back to the shanty. Savka was sitting motionless, Turkish style, and in a soft, scarcely audible voice was humming a song that consisted of words of one syllable, something like, “Fie on you, out on you … I and you. …” Agafya, intoxicated by the vodka, Savka’s scornful caresses, and the sultry night, was lying on the ground beside him, spasmodically pressing her face to his knees. She was so carried away by her feelings that she did not even notice my arrival.

“Agasha, the train came in long ago!” I said.

“It’s time—time you were gone,” said Savka with a shake of his head as he caught my thought. “What are you sprawling here for? You’re shameless!”

Agafya started, raised her head from his knees, glanced at me, and sank down beside him again.

“You ought to have gone long ago!” I said

Agafya turned round and got up on one knee. … She was suffering. For a moment her whole figure, as far as I could make out in the darkness, expressed conflict and vacillation. There was an instant when she seemed to recover her senses and drew herself up in order to rise to her feet, then some invincible and implacable force smote her whole body, and she threw herself down beside Savka.

“He can go to the devil!” she said with a wild throaty laugh, in which was heard her reckless determination, helplessness, and pain.

I quietly wandered off to the grove, and from there down to the river where our fishing lines were set. The river slept. A soft, double-petaled flower on a long stalk gently touched my cheek, like a child who wants to let you know he is not sleeping. To pass the time I felt for one of the lines and pulled it. It was slack and yielded to my touch—nothing had been caught. The opposite bank and the village were not visible. A light gleamed in one of the huts, but soon went out. I groped my way along the bank until I found a hollow I had seen in the daylight, and sat down in it as in an armchair. I sat there for a long time. … I watched the stars grow misty and lose their radiance, felt a cool breath pass over the earth, like a faint sigh stirring the leaves of the slumbering willows. …

“A-ga-fya!” came a hollow voice from the village. “A-ga-fya!”

The anxious husband had returned home, and in his alarm, was seeking his wife in the village. At that moment, from the kitchen gardens came the sound of unrestrained laughter: the wife had forgotten herself and, in her intoxication, sought to compensate for the torment that awaited her the next day, with these few hours of happiness.

I fell asleep. …

When I awoke Savka was sitting beside me lightly shaking my shoulder. The river, the grove, and both banks, green and washed, trees, fields—all were bathed in the bright morning light. Through the slender tree trunks the rays of the newly risen sun beat upon my back.

“So that’s how you catch fish?” Savka laughed. “Come, get up!”

I got up, had a delightful stretch, and my waking lungs greedily began to drink in the moist, fragrant air.

“Has Agasha gone?” I asked.

“There she is,” Savka replied, pointing in the direction of the ford.

I looked and saw Agafya. Disheveled, her kerchief slipping from her head, she was crossing the river, holding up her skirt. Her legs were scarcely moving. …

“‘The cat knows whose beard it licks!’” muttered Savka with a wink. “She goes back dragging her tail. … Sly as cats, these women, and skittish as hares. … She didn’t go, the silly woman, in the evening when we told her to! Now she’ll catch it; and they’ll have me up in court. … Another flogging on account of women. …”

Agafya stepped onto the bank and went across the field toward the village. At first she walked rather boldly, but soon agitation and fear got the upper hand: she turned round apprehensively, stopped, and took a deep breath.

“You sure are scared!” Savka laughed wryly as he gazed at the bright green trail left by Agafya in the dewy grass. “She don’t want to go! That husband’s been waiting for a good hour. … Did you see him?”

Savka spoke the last words with a smile, but they sent a chill through my heart. In the village, near the last hut, Yakov stood in the road staring straight at his returning wife. He did not stir, but was as motionless as a post. What was he thinking as he watched her? What words was he preparing for the meeting? Agafya stood still for a while, looked back again as if expecting help from us, then went on. I have never before seen anyone, drunk or sober, move as she did. It was as though she were shriveling under her husband’s gaze. At one moment she walked in a zigzag, then raised and lowered her feet, bending her knees and swinging her arms, then moved backwards. After she had gone perhaps a hundred paces she looked round once more and sat down.

“You ought at least to hide behind a bush,” I said to Savka. “If the husband catches sight of you …”

“He knows anyway who it is Agasha has been to. … The women don’t go to the kitchen gardens at night for cabbages—everyone knows that.”

I glanced at Savka’s face. It was pale and contracted with a look of squeamish pity such as one sees on the faces of those watching tortured animals.

“What’s fun for the cat is tears for the mouse. …” he sighed.

Agafya suddenly jumped up, shook her head, and with a bold step went toward her husband. Evidently she had mustered strength and was resolved.

—1886