Selected Stories

Peasants

I

NIKOLAI CHIKILDEYEV, a waiter in the Slavyansky Bazaar, a hotel in Moscow, had fallen ill. His legs went numb and his walk was affected, so that one day, as he was going along the corridor carrying a trayful of ham and peas, he stumbled and fell. He was obliged to give up his job. Whatever money he and his wife had was spent on doctors; they had nothing to live on; he grew dull without work and decided that as things stood he ought to return to his village. At home even illness is easier to bear, and it is cheaper to live there. Not without reason is it said: “There is succor in the very walls of a home.”

He arrived in his village, Zhukovo, toward evening. In his memories of his childhood he had pictured his home as bright, cozy, comfortable, but now, going into the hut, he was positively scared: it was so dark, crowded, and unclean. His wife Olga and his daughter Sasha, who had come with him, stared in perplexity at the large, filthy oven, which occupied almost half the room and was black with soot and flies. What a lot of flies! The stove was lopsided, the log beams in the walls were on a slant, and the hut looked as if it were about to collapse. In the foremost corner of the room, near the ikons, bottle labels and scraps of newspaper were pasted on the walls instead of pictures. The poverty! The poverty! None of the grownups was at home; everyone was out reaping. On the oven sat a flaxen-haired girl of eight, unwashed and apathetic; she did not even look at them as they came in. Below her a white cat was rubbing itself against the oven fork.

“Pussy, pussy!” Sasha called coaxingly. “Pussy!”

“She can’t hear you,” said the little girl. “She’s gone deaf.”

“Why?”

“Oh, somebody hit her.”

Nikolai and Olga realized at a glance what life was like here, but said nothing to each other; silently they put down their bundles, and silently went out into the street. Their hut was the third from the end and seemed the poorest and oldest looking; the second was not much better; but the last one had a metal roof and curtains at the windows. That hut, not enclosed, stood apart; it was a tavern. The huts stood all in one row, and the entire little village—quiet, and dreamy, with willows, elders, and mountain ash peeping out from the yards—had a pleasant look.

Behind the peasants’ farmsteads there began an abrupt, steep descent to the river, with huge stones jutting out here and there through the clay. Down the slope, paths wound about these stones and the pits dug by potters; pieces of broken pottery, some red, some brown, lay in heaps, and below there stretched a broad, level, bright-green meadow, already mown, over which the peasants’ cattle were now wandering. The river, a verst from the village, meandered between wonderful leafy banks; beyond it was another broad meadow, a herd of cattle, long files of white geese, then, just as on the hither side, a steep rise, and at the top, on a hill, there was a village with a church that had five domes, and, at a little distance, a manor house.

“How lovely it is here!” said Olga, crossing herself at the sight of the church. “Heavens, what space!”

Just at that moment the bells began ringing for vespers (it was Saturday evening). Down below, two little girls who were lugging a pail of water looked round at the church to listen to the tolling of the bells.

“About this time they are serving dinner at the Slavyan-sky Bazaar,” Nikolai said dreamily.

Sitting on the edge of the ravine, Nikolai and Olga watched the sunset, and saw how the gold and crimson sky was reflected in the river, in the church windows, and in the very air around them, which was soft and still and inexpressibly pure, as it never was in Moscow. And when the sun had set and the herd went past, bleating and lowing, geese flew across from the other side of the river—then all was silent; the soft light faded from the air, and the evening darkness rapidly descended.

Meanwhile Nikolai’s father and mother had returned; two emaciated, bent, toothless old people, both of the same height. The daughters-in-law, Marya and Fyokla, also came home from their work on the estate across the river. Marya, the wife of Nikolai’s brother Kiryak, had six children, and Fyokla, the wife of his brother Denis, who was in the army, had two; when Nikolai entered the hut and saw the whole family—all those big and little bodies moving about on sleeping-shelves, in cradles, and in every corner, and when he saw the greed with which the old man and the women ate black bread, sopping it in water, he realized that he had made a mistake in coming here, sick, with no money, and with a family, too—a mistake!

“And where is brother Kiryak?” he asked, after they had exchanged greetings.

“He’s watchman for a merchant,” his father replied. “He stays there in the woods. He wouldn’t be a bad peasant if he didn’t drink so much.”

“He’s no breadwinner!” said the old woman tearfully. “Our men are a bad lot; they bring nothing into the house, but they take plenty out. Both of them, Kiryak and the old man, drink. No use hiding a sin, he knows his way to the tavern. We must have angered the Queen of Heaven!”

In honor of the guests they set up the samovar. The tea smelled of fish; the sugar was gray and gnawed; cockroaches ran over the bread and the crockery. It was revolting to drink the tea, and the conversation too was revolting—about nothing but sickness and want. And they had not finished drinking their first cups of tea before there came a loud, prolonged, drunken shout from the yard.

“Ma-arya!”

“Looks like Kiryak’s coming,” said the old man. “Speak of the devil. …”

Everyone fell silent. After a little while, again the same shout, harsh and long-drawn-out, as though it were coming out of the earth.

“Ma-arya!”

Mary a, the elder daughter-in-law, turned pale and shrank against the oven, and it was strange to see the look of terror on the face of this powerful, broad-shouldered, homely woman. Her daughter, the pathetic child who had been sitting on the oven, suddenly broke into loud wails.

“What’s the matter with you, pox-head?” shouted Fyokla, a handsome woman, also strong and broad-shouldered. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to kill her!”

Nikolai learned from the old man that Marya was afraid to live in the forest with Kiryak, and that every time he got drunk he came for her, created an uproar, and beat her unmercifully.

“Ma-arya!” The shout sounded close to the door.

“Protect me, for Christ’s sake,” spluttered Marya, breathing as if she had been plunged into very cold water. “Protect me, good people. …”

Every child in the hut began to cry, and, seeing them, Sasha too burst into tears. A drunken cough was heard, and in came a tall, black-bearded peasant wearing a winter cap, and, because his face could not be seen in the dim light of the little lamp, he was terrifying. It was Kiryak. He walked up to his wife, swung his arm, and struck her in the face with his fist. Stunned by the blow, she did not utter a sound, but only cowered, and instantly her nose began to bleed.

“What a disgrace! What a disgrace!” muttered the old man as he clambered up onto the oven. “Before visitors, too. It’s a sin!”

The old woman sat hunched over, silent, lost in thought. Fyokla rocked the cradle. Obviously aware of the terror he aroused and pleased by it, Kiryak seized Marya by the arm and dragged her to the door, snarling like an animal in order to seem more terrible, but at that moment he suddenly caught sight of the guests and stopped.

“Ah, they’ve come,” he said, letting his wife go. “My own brother with his family. …”

He said a prayer before the ikon, staggering and opening wide his bloodshot, drunken eyes.

“My brother and his family have come to the parental home … from Moscow, that is. The ancient capital, that is the city of Moscow … mother of cities. … Excuse me. …”

He sank down on a bench near the samovar and began drinking tea, loudly lapping it from the saucer amid general silence. He drank about a dozen cups, then lay down on the bench and began to snore.

They started going to bed. Because he was sick, Nikolai was to sleep on the oven with the old man. Sasha lay down on the floor, and Olga went with the women into the shed.

“Ay-ay, dearie,” she said, lying down on the hay beside Marya. “Tears won’t help your trouble. You have to bear it, and that’s all. In the Scriptures it is written: ‘Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’ … Ay-ay, dearie.”

Then in a low, singsong voice she told them about Moscow, about her life there, how she had worked in rooming houses as a chambermaid.

“And in Moscow the houses are big, made of stone,” she said, “and there are many, many churches, forty times forty, dearie, and in the houses they’re all gentry, so fine and so proper!”

Marya told her that not only had she never been to Moscow, but she had never even been in their own district town; she could neither read nor write, and knew no prayers, not even “Our Father.” Both she and Fyokla, the other sister-in-law who sat listening a little way off, were exceedingly backward and could understand nothing. They both disliked their husbands; Marya was afraid of Kiryak, and whenever he stayed with her she shook with terror, and always got a headache from the vodka and tobacco fumes of which he reeked. And Fyokla, when asked if she missed her husband, spitefully replied, “He can go to the devil!”

They talked a little, then fell silent.

It was chilly, and near the shed a cock, crowing with all his might, kept them from sleeping. When the bluish morning light began to show through the cracks, Fyokla quietly got up and went out, and they could hear the thud of her bare feet as she ran off somewhere.

II

Olga went to church and took Marya with her. They were both in good spirits as they walked down the path to the meadow. Olga liked the wide sweep of country, and Marya felt that in her sister-in-law she had found someone close and akin to her. The sun was rising. Low over the meadow skimmed a drowsy hawk. The river looked murky; here and there a mist hovered over it, but on the farther side a strip of light already lay across the hill, the church sparkled, and in the garden of the manor house the rooks cawed indignantly.

“The old man’s not so bad,” Marya told her, “but Granny’s strict; she’s free with her hand. Our own grain lasted till Shrovetide, but now we buy flour at the tavern—so she’s angry; she says we eat too much.”

“Ay-ay, dearie! You have to bear it, and that’s all. It is written: ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden.’”

Olga spoke in a prim, singsong voice, and her gait was that of a pilgrim woman, rapid and bustling. Every day she read the Gospel, read it aloud like a sexton; much of it she did not understand, but the sacred words moved her to tears, and such words as “behold” and “verily” she pronounced with a sweet faintness of heart She believed in God, in the Holy Virgin, in the saints; she believed that it was wrong to offend anyone—whether simple people, Germans, gypsies, or Jews—and woe even to those who did not pity animals; she believed it was so written in the Scriptures; and when she uttered phrases from Holy Writ, even though she did not understand them, her face grew tender, compassionate, radiant.

“Where do you come from?” Marya asked her.

“I’m from the province of Vladimir. But I was taken to Moscow long ago, when I was eight years old.”

They came to the river. On the opposite side a woman stood at the water’s edge taking off her clothes. Marya recognized her.

“That’s our Fyokla,” she said. “She’s been across the river to the manor yard—to the stewards. She’s a hussy, and foul-mouthed—that’s what she is!”

Black-browed Fyokla, with her hair hanging loose, still young and agile as a girl, sprang from the shore and began flailing the water with her legs, sending out waves in all directions.

“A foul-mouthed hussy!” Marya repeated.

A rickety log footbridge spanned the river, and just below it, in the clean transparent water, swam a shoal of broad-headed chub. Dew shimmered on the green bushes reflected in the water. There was a gust of warm air; it was soothing. What a beautiful morning! And how beautiful life could be in this world if it were not for poverty—terrible, everlasting poverty, from which there is no escape! Only to look around at the village was vividly to recall all that had happened yesterday, and the enchantment of the happiness that seemed to surround them instantly vanished.

When they reached the church Marya stood in the entrance and did not dare to go farther; nor did she dare to sit down, though they only began ringing for the service after eight o’clock. She remained standing the whole time.

While the Gospel was being read the crowd suddenly parted to make way for the squire’s family; two young girls wearing white dresses and broad-brimmed hats came in, and with them a plump, rosy little boy in a sailor suit. Olga was moved by their appearance; from the first glance she decided that they were well-bred, cultivated, handsome people. But Marya sullenly and despairingly looked at them from under her brows as if they were not human beings, but monsters that might trample her if she did not make way for them.

And every time the deacon intoned in his bass voice, it seemed to her that she heard the cry “Ma-arya!” and she shuddered.

III

The arrival of visitors became known in the village, and by the time the service was over a great many people had gathered in the hut. The Leonychevs, the Matveichevs, and the Ilyichovs came to make inquiries about relations who were working in Moscow. All the Zhukovo boys who could read and write were packed off to Moscow and hired out as waiters and bellboys (just as those from the village on the other side of the river were apprenticed only to bakers). Such had been the custom since the days of serfdom, when a certain Luka Ivanych—a Zhukovo peasant who was now a legendary figure—had been head butler in one of the Moscow clubs, and would take none but fellow villagers into his service; and these in turn, as they rose in position, sent for their kinsmen and found places for them in teahouses and restaurants, and from that time on the village of Zhukovo was never called anything but “Toadyville” or “Lackeytown” by the inhabitants of the neighboring villages. Nikolai had been taken to Moscow when he was eleven, and Ivan Makarych, one of the Matveichevs, who was then a headwaiter at the Hermitage Garden, found a place for him.

And now, addressing the Matveichevs, Nikolai said sanctimoniously, “Ivan Makarych is my benefactor, and I am bound to pray for him day and night, as it was through him that I have become a good man.”

“God bless you!” tearfully exclaimed a tall old woman, the sister of Ivan Makarych. “We have heard nothing of him, the dear man.”

“Last winter he was in service at Omon’s, but this season there was a rumor that he was somewhere out of town, in a garden restaurant. … He has aged! It used to be that he would bring home ten rubles a day in the summertime, but now things are quiet everywhere, and it’s hard on the old man.”

The women looked at Nikolai’s pale face, at his feet shod in felt boots, and mournfully said, “You’re no breadwinner, Nikolai Osipych; you’re no breadwinner! No, indeed!”

They all made much of Sasha. She was going on eleven, but was so small and thin that she looked no more than seven. Among the other little girls, dressed in long faded smocks, sunburned, with shaggy, cropped hair, she, with her white skin, her large dark eyes, and a little red ribbon in her hair, seemed droll, like some little wild creature that had been caught in the fields and brought into the hut.

“She can read, too,” Olga boasted, looking tenderly at her daughter. “Read something, child!” she said, getting the Gospels from the corner. “You read, and the good Christian folk will listen.”

The testament, an old, heavy volume with soiled edges, was bound in leather and gave off an odor as of monks coming into the hut.

Sasha raised her eyebrows and in a loud singsong began, “‘And when they were departed, behold, the angel of the Lord … appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother

“‘The young child and his mother,’” Olga repeated, flushing with emotion.

“‘And flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word. …’”

At these words Olga could not restrain her tears and began to weep. Seeing her, Marya gave a sob, then Ivan Makarych’s sister followed their example. The old man coughed and fussed about, looking for something to give his little granddaughter, but he could find nothing, and gave it up with a wave of his hand. When the reading was over the neighbors returned to their homes, deeply moved and very much pleased with Olga and Sasha.

Because it was a holiday, the family spent the whole day at home. The old woman, who was called Granny by her husband and daughters-in-law, as well as by her grandchildren, tried to do everything herself. She lit the oven, set out the samovar, even carried the midday meal to the men in the fields, and then grumbled that they were wearing her out with work. She continually worried for fear someone should eat too much or sit idle. At one time she would hear the tavernkeeper’s geese going along the back of the huts to her kitchen garden and would run out with a long stick, and, standing by her cabbages, which were as withered and scraggy as herself, would spend half an hour shrilly railing at them. At another time she would imagine that a crow was stealing up on her chickens, and she would rush at it with loud words of imprecation. She scolded and grumbled from morning till night, often raising such an outcry that passers-by stopped in the street.

She treated the old man unkindly, calling him a good-for-nothing, a scourge. He was a shiftless, unreliable peasant, and perhaps if she had not nagged him continually he would not have worked at all, but would only have sat on the stove and talked. He told his son at great length about certain enemies of his, complained of the insults from neighbors that he had to put up with every day, and he was tiresome to listen to.

“Yes,” he would say, standing arms akimbo, “yes … a week after the Exaltation of the Cross I sold my hay at thirty kopecks a pood, of my own free will. … Yes. … Well. … All right, so you see, I’m taking my hay in the morning, of my own free will, not bothering anyone, and in an evil hour I see the village headman, Antip Sedelnikov, coming out of the tavern. ‘Where are you taking it, you so and so?’ he says, and fetches me one on the ear.”

Kiryak had a racking headache from drinking and was ashamed to face his brother.

“What vodka will do!” he muttered, shaking his throbbing head. “You must forgive me, brother and sister, for Christ’s sake. I’m not happy about it myself.”

Because it was a holiday they bought a herring at the tavern and made a broth from the head. At midday they sat down to drink tea, and drank cup after cup until they all perspired; after that they began on the broth, all helping themselves from one pot. But the herring itself Granny hid away.

In the evening a potter was firing pots on the slope. Down in the meadow the girls got up a round dance and sang songs; someone played an accordion. On the other side of the river too, one kiln was burning, girls were singing, and from a distance it sounded sweet and melodious. In and about the tavern the peasants created an uproar, singing in drunken, discordant voices, and swearing so that Olga could only shudder and say, “Oh, Holy Fathers!”

She was amazed that the cursing was so incessant, that those who swore the loudest and most continually were the old men, who were close to death. And the children and young girls listened to this foul language without being in the least perturbed; they had apparently grown accustomed to it in their cradles.

It was past midnight, and the fires in the kilns on both sides of the river had died down, but on the meadow below and in the tavern the revelry continued. The old man and Kiryak, walking arm in arm, both drunk and bumping against each other, went up to the shed where Olga and Marya were lying.

“Leave her be,” the old man urged, “leave her be. … She’s a quiet woman. … It’s a sin. …”

“Ma-arya!” shouted Kiryak.

“Leave her be. … It’s a sin. … She’s not a bad woman.”

They stood by the shed for a moment and then went on.

“I lo-ove the flowers of the fi-ield,” the old man suddenly began singing in a high piercing tenor. “I lo-ove to gather them in the meadows!”

Then he spat, and with a filthy oath went into the hut.

IV

Granny stationed Sasha near her kitchen garden and told her to take care that the geese did not get in. It was a hot August day. The tavernkeeper’s geese could steal into the garden from the back, but at the moment they were occupied with other matters; they were picking up oats near the tavern, peacefully chatting, and only the gander craned his neck as though wishing to see whether the old woman with the stick was coming. There were other geese that could have come up from below, but now they were feeding far on the other side of the river, a long white garland of them stretched across the meadow. Sasha stood there for a while, grew restless, and, seeing that the geese were not coming, walked away to the slope.

There she saw Marya’s eldest daughter, Motka, standing motionless on a large rock, staring at the church. Marya had borne thirteen children, but only six were living, all girls, not a single boy, and the eldest was eight Motka, barefooted and wearing a long smock, stood with the sun blazing down on her head, but she seemed to be as unaware of it as though she had turned to stone. Sasha stood beside her and looked at the church.

“God lives in the church,” she said. “People have lamps and candles, but God has little red and green and blue ikon lamps, like tiny eyes. At night God walks in the church, and the Holy Mother of God and Saint Nikolai walk with him—thump, thump, thump they go! And the watchman is dreadfully scared! … Ay-ay, dearie,” she added, in imitation of her mother. “And when the end of the world comes, then all the churches will fly up to heaven.”

“E-e-ven the be-ells?” Motka asked in her deep voice, drawling every syllable.

“Even the bells. And when the end of the world comes, the good people will go to paradise, and the mean ones will burn in an eternal and undying fire, dearie. To my mama, and to Marya, too, God will say: ‘You never harmed anyone, so you go to the right, to paradise’; but to Kiryak and Granny He’ll say: ‘You go to the left, into the fire.’ And whoever doesn’t keep their fast in Lent will go into the fire, too.”

She looked up at the sky, opening her eyes wide, and said, “Look at the sky and don’t blink your eyes—and you’ll see the angels.”

Motka, too, peered at the sky, and a minute passed in silence.

“See them?” Sasha asked.

“No, I don’t,” replied Motka in her deep voice.

“But I do. Wee little angels flying through the sky, and their tiny wings go flip-flop, like mosquitos.”

Motka stared at the ground and thought about this, then she asked, “Is Granny going to burn?”

“She is, dearie.”

From the rock down to the very bottom the even slope was covered with soft green grass that made one long to lie upon it or to touch it with one’s hands. Sasha lay down and rolled to the bottom. Motka, with a solemn, stern expression, took a deep breath, lay down, and rolled after her, her smock climbing up to her shoulders.

“What fun it is!” said Sasha with delight.

They walked up to the top to roll down again, but at that moment they heard the shrill, familiar voice. Oh, how awful it was! Granny, toothless, bent and bony, her short gray hair flying in the wind, was driving the geese out of the kitchen garden with a long stick.

“They have trampled all the cabbages, the devils!” she shrieked. “You thrice-cursed, you pests, may you drop dead!”

She caught sight of the little girls, threw down her stick, picked up a switch, and, seizing Sasha by the neck with fingers that were dry and hard as spikes, began thrashing her. Sasha wept with pain and terror, while the gander, waddling and craning his neck, went up to the old woman and hissed at her; when he returned to the flock all the geese welcomed him with a “ga-ga-ga” of approbation. Then Granny proceeded to whip Motka, whose smock was again rolled up. With loud cries of despair, Sasha ran to the hut to complain. Motka followed, weeping in her deep voice, without wiping away her tears, and her face was as wet as if it had been splashed with water.

“Holy Fathers!” Olga cried in amazement when the two children came into the hut. “Queen of Heaven!”

Sasha began telling what had happened; at that moment Granny came in screaming and swearing; Fyokla flew into a rage, and the hut was in an uproar.

“Never mind, never mind!” Olga, pale and upset, comforted Sasha, stroking her head. “She’s your grandmother; it’s a sin to be angry with her. Never mind, child.”

Nikolai, worn out by the perpetual clamor, the hunger, the suffocating fumes, the stench, by now loathing and despising the poverty, and ashamed of his parents before his wife and daughter, swung his legs off the oven, and in a tearful, fretful voice said to his mother, “You must not beat her! You have no right to beat her!”

“A-ah, you’re going to die there on that oven anyway, you good-for-nothing!” Fyokla spitefully shouted at him. “The devil brought you here, you spongers!”

Sasha and Motka, and all the little girls in the hut, skulked in a corner on top of the oven behind Nikolai’s back, and from there listened to everything in silent terror, and the beating of their little hearts could be heard. When there is someone in a family who has been ill, long and hopelessly ill, there come oppressive moments when all those close to him, fearfully, secretly, in the depths of their souls, long for his death; only children dread the death of someone close to them, and are always horrified at the thought. And now the little girls, scarcely breathing, stared at Nikolai with sorrowful expressions on their faces; they were thinking that he would die before long; they felt like crying, and longed to say something kind and comforting to him.

He pressed close to Olga, as though seeking her protection, and in a low, trembling voice said, “Olga, dear, I can’t bear it here any longer. I haven’t the strength. For God’s sake, for the sake of Christ in heaven, write to your sister, Klavdia Abramovna. Let her sell and pawn everything she has, and send us the money, so we can go away from here. Oh Lord,” he went on in anguish, “if only I could have a glimpse of Moscow! To see Mother Moscow, if only in my dreams!”

When evening came and the hut grew dark, it was so dismal that even to speak was difficult. Granny, still wrathful, soaked rye crusts in a cup and sucked them for a full hour. After milking the cow, Marya brought in a pail of milk and set it on a bench; then Granny very slowly poured it from the pail into jugs, taking her time, evidently well-pleased that now, during the Fast of the Assumption, no one could drink milk, and all of it would be left untouched. She poured the least little bit into a saucer for Fyokla’s baby. When she and Marya carried the jugs down to the cellar, Motka suddenly roused herself, slipped down from the stove, and, going to the bench where the wooden cup full of crusts was standing, splashed some milk from the saucer into it.

When Granny returned she sat down to her crusts. Sasha and Motka watched her from the top of the oven, and they were glad that she was eating forbidden food and now would surely go to hell; it consoled them, and they lay down to sleep. As she dozed off, Sasha visualized the Last Judgment: a fire burning in an enormous stove that resembled a potter’s kiln, and the Evil One, all black, with horns like a cow’s, driving Granny into the fire with a long stick, just as she herself had driven the geese.

V

On the day of the Feast of the Assumption, between ten and eleven in the evening, the girls and boys making merry down in the meadow suddenly raised a cry, and ran screaming in the direction of the village. People sitting on the brink of the slope at first could not make out what was wrong.

“Fire! Fire!” Desperate cries were heard from below. “We’re burning!”

Those who were sitting above looked back, and a terrifying, extraordinary spectacle met their gaze. From the thatched roof of one of the end huts rose a column of flame seven feet high, swirling and scattering sparks in all directions like a spraying fountain. All at once the whole roof burst into brilliant flame, and they heard the crackling of the fire.

The light of the moon was obscured, and now the entire village was bathed in a quivering red glow; black shadows moved over the ground, there was a smell of burning, and those who ran up from below were panting and trembling so that they could not speak; they collided with one another, fell down, and, unaccustomed to the bright light, could hardly see and did not recognize one another. It was frightening. What was particularly horrifying was that above the fire pigeons were flying in the smoke, and in the tavern, where they were still unaware of the fire, people were singing and playing the accordion as though nothing had happened.

“Uncle Semyon’s place is on fire!” someone shouted in a loud, harsh voice.

Marya, her teeth chattering, was running about near her hut, weeping and wringing her hands, though the fire was a long way off, at the other end of the village. Nikolai came out wearing felt boots, and the children ran about in their little smocks. Near the village policeman’s hut a sheet of iron was struck. Boom! Boom! Boom! floated through the air; and this repeated unremitting sound wrung the heart and made one turn cold. The old women stood about holding the ikons. Sheep, calves, and cows were driven out of the yards into the street; chests, sheepskins, tubs were carried out. A black stallion that was kept apart from the herd because he kicked and injured the horses was set free and ran through the village once or twice, neighing and pawing the ground, then stopped short near a cart and started kicking it with his hind legs.

The bells in the church on the other side of the river began to ring.

It was hot near the burning hut, and so light that every blade of grass on the ground was clearly visible. Semyon, a red-headed peasant with a large nose, wearing a jacket and a cap pulled down to his ears, sat on one of the chests they had succeeded in dragging out; his wife lay face down, unconscious and moaning. A little old man of eighty with a long beard, who resembled a gnome—not one of the villagers, but apparently in some way concerned with the fire—was walking about without a cap, carrying a white bundle in his arms; the blaze was reflected on his bald spot. The village headman, Antip Sedelnikov, black-haired and swarthy as a gypsy, went up to the hut with an ax and smashed the windows one after another—no one knew why—then began chopping the porch.

“Women, water!” he shouted. “Bring the engines here! Get a move on!”

The peasants who had just been carousing in the tavern pulled up the engine. They were drunk and kept stumbling and falling; they all looked helpless and had tears in their eyes.

“Girls, water!” shouted the headman, who was drunk, too. “Get a move on, girls!”

The women and girls ran down to where there was a spring and hauled pails and tubs of water up the hill, and after pouring it into the engine, ran down again. Olga, Marya, Sasha, and Motka all carried water. The women and boys pumped the water, the hose hissed, and the headman, directing it now at the door, now at the windows, controlled the stream with his finger, which made it hiss even more sharply.

“Brave fellow, Antip!” voices shouted approvingly. “Keep it up!”

Antip plunged into the burning hut and shouted from within, “Pump! Come on—exert yourselves, good Christians, in this unfortunate catastrophe!”

The peasants stood in a crowd staring at the fire and doing nothing. No one knew what to do, no one knew how to do anything, though there were stacks of grain and hay, piles of fagots, and sheds near by. Kiryak and old Osip, his father, both tipsy, stood there, too. And, as though to justify his idleness, the old man said to the woman lying on the ground, “Why take it so hard, friend? The hut’s insured—why worry?”

Semyon, addressing himself now to one person, now to another, kept telling how the fire had started. “That same old man, the one with the bundle, a house serf of General Zhukov’s—at the general’s, may he rest in peace, he was a cook—he came over this evening. ‘Let me stay the night,’ he says. Well, we had a glass, to be sure. … The wife got busy with the samovar—we were going to give the old man some tea, and in an unlucky hour she set the samovar in the entry, and the sparks from the chimney, you see, must have gone straight to the roof, to the thatch. That’s how it was. We were nearly burnt up ourselves. The old man’s cap was burned up; it’s a shame!”

The sheet iron was struck unremittingly, and the bells continued ringing in the church on the other side of the river. Olga, flushed and breathless, looking with horror at the red sheep and at the pink pigeons flying through the smoke, kept running down the slope and up again. It seemed to her that the ringing sound had penetrated her soul like a sharp thorn, that the fire would never end, that Sasha was lost. … And when the roof of the hut fell in with a crash, the thought that now the entire village would surely burn made her feel weak, and she could no longer go on carrying water, but sat down at the edge of the slope, setting the buckets nearby; beside her and down below the peasant women sat wailing as though for the dead.

Stewards and workmen came in two carts from the estate across the river, bringing a fire engine with them. A very young student in an unbuttoned white tunic rode up on horseback. The pounding of axes was heard; then a ladder was placed against the burning frame of the building and five men climbed it at once, led by the young student, who was red in the face and, in the tone of one accustomed to putting out fires, shouted in a hoarse, strident voice. They pulled the house to pieces a log at a time, dismantled and dragged away the cow shed, the wattled fence, and a stack of hay that stood near by.

“Don’t let them break it down!” Grim voices rang out in the crowd. “Don’t let them!”

Kiryak headed for the hut with a determined air, as though intending to prevent the newcomers from breaking it up, but one of the workmen turned him back and struck him on the neck. There was a laugh, and the workman struck him again. Kiryak fell and crawled back into the crowd on all fours.

Two beautiful girls wearing hats—probably the young student’s sisters—arrived from across the river. They stood a little way off, watching the fire. The logs that had been pulled away were no longer burning, but continued to give off a heavy smoke; the student, who was working the hose, turned the water first on these logs, then on the peasants, then on the women hauling the water.

“Geoiges!” the girls called to him reproachfully, alarmed, “Georges!”

The fire was over. And only when they began to disperse did they notice that it was already dawn, that everyone looked pale and somewhat swarthy, as people do in the early morning when the last stars are fading. As they parted, the peasants laughed and made jokes about General Zhukov’s cook and the cap that had burned up; they already wanted to turn the fire into a jest, and even seemed sorry that it had ended so soon.

“You put out the fire very nicely, sir,” Olga said to the student “You should come to us in Moscow. We have fires there ‘most every day.”

“Oh, are you from Moscow?” one of the young ladies asked.

“I certainly am. My husband was a waiter at the Slavyansky Bazaar, miss. And this is my daughter.” She pointed to Sasha, who was huddled up to her trying to keep warm. “She, too, is a Moscow girl, miss.”

Both young ladies said something in French to the student and he gave Sasha a twenty-kopeck piece. Seeing this, old Osip’s face lit up with hope.

“Thank God there was no wind, Your Honor,” he said to the student, “or we’d all have been burned out in no time. Your Honor, good gentlefolk,” he added sheepishly, lowering his voice, “the dawn is chilly. … Something to warm a man … a half-bottle to Your Honor’s health. …”

They did not give him anything; he cleared his throat and drifted off toward home. Olga stood at the top of the slope and watched the two carts fording the river, and the gentlefolk walking across the meadow; a carriage was waiting for them on the other side. When she returned to the hut she rapturously described them to her husband.

“Such good people! And so beautiful! The young ladies—like cherubs!”

“I hope they burst!” said the sleepy Fyokla maliciously.

VI

Marya considered herself unfortunate, and used to say she longed to die. Fyokla, on the contrary, found everything in this life to her liking: the poverty, the filth, the everlasting strife. She ate whatever was given her, without discrimination; slept anywhere and on anything that came to hand; and she would empty the slops right by the porch, splashing them out from the doorway, then walk barefoot through the puddle. From the very first day she conceived a hatred for Olga and Nikolai simply because they did not like this life. “I’d like to see what you’re going to eat here, you Moscow gentry, you!” she would say malevolently. “I’d just like to see!”

One morning—it was by then the beginning of September—Fyokla, vigorous, handsome, and rosy from the cold, brought up two pails of water; at the time, Marya and Olga were sitting at the table drinking tea.

“Enjoy your tea!” exclaimed Fyokla jeeringly. “What fine ladies!” she added, setting the pails down. “They’ve taken up the style of drinking tea every day now. Better watch out you don’t blow up with your tea-drinking!” she went on, looking at Olga with hatred. “That’s how she got her bloated mug in Moscow, the fat slob!”

With a swing of the yoke she struck Olga on the shoulder, and the two sisters-in-law could only clasp their hands and say, “Oh, Holy Fathers!”

Then Fyokla went to the river to wash the clothes, cursing so loudly all the way that she could be heard inside the hut.

The day passed; then began the long autumn evening. In the hut they were winding silk; all except Fyokla, who had gone across the river. They got the silk from a factory near by, and the whole family worked together to earn next to nothing—some twenty kopecks a week.

“We were better off when we had masters,” the old man said as he wound the silk. “You worked, you ate, you slept, everything in its turn. For dinner they gave you shchi and kasha, for supper more shchi and kasha. And plenty of cabbage and cucumbers; you could eat to your heart’s content, as much as you liked. There was more strictness, too. Everyone knew his place.”

The hut was lighted by one little lamp, which smoked and burned dimly. When someone stood in front of the lamp and a large shadow fell across the window, the bright moonlight could be seen. Speaking unhurriedly, old Osip told them how people used to live before the Emancipation; how in these very places, where life was now so poor and dreary, they used to hunt with harriers, borzois, bird-dogs, and when they went out as beaters the peasants were given vodka; how whole wagonloads of slaughtered fowl were sent to Moscow for the young masters; how the bad serfs were flogged or sent away to the Tver estate, while the good serfs were rewarded. And Granny too had something to tell. She remembered everything, absolutely everything. She told about her mistress, a kind, God-fearing woman, whose husband was a lecher and a rake, and all of whose daughters made unfortunate marriages: one married a drunkard, another a commoner, the third eloped (Granny herself, a young girl at the time, had helped with the elopement), and all three had died early of grief, as did their mother. And remembering these things, Granny actually shed a tear.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and they all started.

“Uncle Osip, let me stay the night!”

The little old bald-headed man whose cap had burned, General Zhukov’s cook, walked in. He sat down and listened, then he, too, began to reminisce. Nikolai sat on the oven with his legs hanging down, listening and asking questions about the dishes that had been prepared for the gentry in the old days. They talked of cutlets, chops, various soups and sauces, and the cook, who also remembered everything very well, mentioned dishes that were no longer served; there was one, for instance, made of bulls’ eyes, which was called “Waking up in the morning.”

“And cutlets maréchal, did you make those?”

“No.”

Nikolai shook his head disapprovingly. “A-ah! Fine cooks you were!”

The little girls sitting and lying on the oven gazed down unblinkingly; there seemed to be a great many of them, like cherubs in the clouds. They liked the stories; they sighed, shivered, and turned pale, enraptured at one moment, terrified at the next, and to Granny, whose stories were the most interesting of all, they listened breathlessly, afraid to stir.

Silently they lay down to sleep, and the old people, stirred up and troubled by their reminiscences, were thinking what a fine thing youth was, that no matter what it may have been like, nothing remained in memory but what was vivid, joyous, moving; and how terribly cold was death, which now was not far off—better not to think of it! The little lamp went out. The darkness, the two little windows brightly illumined by the moon, the stillness, and the creaking of die cradle, for some reason all reminded them that life was over, that it was impossible to bring it back. You doze, you slumber, and suddenly you feel a hand on your shoulder, a breath on your cheek—and sleep is gone; your body feels numb from lying still, and thoughts of death creep into your mind. You turn onto the other side—and death is forgotten, but the same old tiresome thoughts of poverty, of fodder, of the rising cost of flour hover in the mind, and before long you again remember that life is over, that it is impossible to bring it back. …

“Oh, Lord!” sighed the cook.

Someone was tapping very gently at the window. Fyokla must have come back. Olga got up, yawning and whispering a prayer, unlocked the door, then pulled the bolt of the outer door. But no one came in; there was only a cold draft of air from the street, and the entry was suddenly bright with moonlight. The silent, deserted street, and the moon itself floating across the sky, could be seen through the open door.

“Who’s there?” called Olga.

“Me,” came the answer. “It’s me.”

Near the door, crouched against the wall, was Fyokla, stark naked. She was shivering with cold, her teeth were chattering, and in the bright moonlight she looked very strange, pale, and beautiful. The shadows that fell upon her and the luster of her skin in the moonlight stood out vividly, and her dark eyebrows and firm young breasts were defined with particular clarity.

“Those wretches on the other side undressed me and turned me out—like this,” she said. “I had to come home without my clothes—naked as the day I was born. Bring me something to put on.”

“But come inside,” Olga said softly; she, too, was beginning to shiver.

“I don’t want the old folks to see.”

Granny was already stirring and mumbling, and the old man asked, “Who’s there?” Olga brought her own shift and skirt, dressed Fyokla, and then they both went quietly into the house, trying not to make a sound with the doors.

“Is that you, you slick one?” Granny angrily muttered, guessing who it was. “Curse you, you nightwalker! I wish you’d drop dead!”

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” whispered Olga, wrapping Fyokla up. “It’s all right, dearie.”

All was quiet again. They always slept badly. Each one was kept awake by something troublesome and persistent: the old man by the pain in his back, Granny by anxiety and malice, Marya by fear, the children by itch and hunger. And now, too, their sleep was troubled; they kept turning from side to side, talking in their sleep, getting up for a drink.

Suddenly Fyokla started howling in a loud, coarse voice, but she quickly controlled herself, and only an occasional sob was heard; then the sobs became softer and more muffled until she was silent From time to time they heard the striking of the hours on the other side of the river, but it was somehow strange—first it struck five, then three.

“Oh, Lord!” sighed the cook.

Looking at the windows it was difficult to tell whether the moon was still shining or whether it was already dawn. Marya got up and went out, and she could be heard milking the cow and saying, “Stea-dy!” Granny, too, went out. It was still dark in the hut, but already possible to discern objects.

Nikolai, who had not slept the whole night, got down from the oven. He took his dress coat out of a green chest, put it on, and went to the window, where he stood stroking the sleeves, fingering the coattails, and smiling. Then he carefully took it off, put it back into the chest, and lay down again.

Marya came in and started lighting the stove. She was evidently half asleep, and was waking up as she walked about. She must have had a dream, or perhaps the stories of the preceding night came to her mind, as, stretching luxuriously before the fire she said, “No, freedom is better.”

VII

The “master,” as they called the district police inspector, had arrived. Both the time and the reason for his coming had been known for a week. There were only forty households in Zhukovo, but the accumulated arrears in zemstvo and state taxes amounted to more than two thousand rubles.

The police inspector stopped at the tavern, drank two glasses of tea, then set out on foot for the headman’s hut, near which stood a crowd of those whose taxes were in arrears. The headman, Antip Sedelnikov, in spite of his youth—he was only a little over thirty—was strict and always sided with the authorities, although he himself was poor and remiss in paying his taxes. It was evident that he liked being headman; he enjoyed a sense of power, which he was incapable of displaying except by his harshness. At the village meetings he was feared and obeyed. It sometimes happened that he would swoop down upon a drunken man in the street or near the tavern, tie his hands behind him, and put him in the lockup. Once he even locked up Granny and kept her there for a whole day and night for cursing at a village meeting to which she had come in Osip’s place. Antip had never lived in a town or read a book, but somehow he had managed to pick up various bookish expressions, and loved to make use of them in conversation; for this he was respected, though not always understood.

When Osip came into the headman’s hut with his tax book, the inspector, a lean old man with long gray side whiskers, wearing a gray tunic, was sitting at a table near the entry, making a note of something. The hut was clean; the walls were decorated with pictures cut out of magazines, and in the most conspicuous place, near the ikon, there was a portrait of Battenberg, the late prince of Bulgaria. Antip Sedelnikov stood by the table with folded arms.

“He owes one hundred and nineteen rubles, Your Honor,” he said, when Osip’s turn came. “Before Easter he paid a ruble, but not a kopeck since.”

The police inspector raised his eyes to Osip and asked, “Why is this, brother?”

“Show God’s mercy, Your Honor,” Osip began, growing excited. “Permit me to say, last year the gentleman from Lyutoretsk said to me, ‘Osip,’ he says, ’sell me your hay. … You sell it,’ he says. Well, why not? I had a hundred poods for sale; the women mowed it on the water-meadow. Well, we struck a bargain. … It was all right and proper.”

He complained of the headman, and kept turning around to the peasants, as though inviting them to bear witness; his face was flushed and covered with perspiration, and his eyes grew sharp and spiteful.

“I don’t know why you’re saying all this,” said the inspector. “I’m asking you—I am asking why you don’t pay your arrears. None of you pay, and am I to be responsible for you?”

“I can’t do it!”

“These words are of no consequence, Your Honor,” said the headman. “The Chikildeyevs are certainly of the needy class, but if you will, please, inquire of the others—the cause of it all is vodka. And they’re a bad lot. Without any sort of comprehension.”

The police inspector made a note of something, and then, in a mild, even tone, as though he were asking for water, said, “Get out.”

He soon drove off; coughing, he climbed into his cheap buggy, and it could be seen even from the look of his long lean back that he had already forgotten about Osip, the village headman, the Zhukovo tax arrears, and was thinking of his own affairs. Before he had gone a verst, Antip was carrying off the samovar from the Chikildeyevs’ hut, with Granny after him, shrilly screaming, straining her lungs.

“I won’t let you! I won’t let you take it, you devil!”

He walked rapidly, taking long strides, and she pursued him, panting, almost falling, a bent and frantic figure, her kerchief fallen to her shoulders, her greenish hair blowing in the wind. All at once she stopped, and, like a real rebel, began beating her breast with her fists and shouting still louder in a sobbing singsong.

“Good Christians, you who believe in God! Dear friends, they have wronged me! My darlings, they’re destroying me! Oh, oh, my dears, save me!”

“Granny, Granny!” said the headman sternly. “Get some sense into your head!”

Without the samovar it became completely gloomy in the Chikildeyevs’ hut. There was something humiliating in this deprivation, something insulting, as though the hut had lost its honor. It would have been better had the headman carried off the table, all the benches, all the pots—it would have seemed less empty. Granny shrieked, Marya wept, and as soon as the little girls saw her they cried, too. The old man, feeling guilty, sat in a corner, downcast and silent. Nikolai, too, was silent. Granny loved him and was sorry for him, but now, forgetting her pity, she attacked him with reproaches and abuse, shaking her fists in his face. She screamed that it was all his fault: why had he sent them so little after bragging in his letters that he was earning fifty rubles a month at the Slavyansky Bazaar? Why had he come here, and with a family, too? If he died, where would they get the money to bury him? … It was pitiful to look at Nikolai, Olga, and Sasha.

The old man sighed heavily, took his cap, and went off to the headman. It was growing dark. Antip Sedelnikov, his cheeks blown out, was soldering something at the stove, and the air was full of fumes. His children, emaciated and unwashed, no better than the Chikildeyevs, were romping about underfoot; his wife, an ugly, freckled, big-bellied woman, was winding silk. It was an unfortunate, wretched family; Antip alone looked alert and handsome. On a bench stood five samovars in a row. The old man said a prayer to Battenberg before he spoke.

“Antip, show heavenly mercy. Give me back the samovar! For Christ’s sake!”

“Bring three rubles and you can have it.”

Antip puffed out his cheeks, the fire hissed and hummed and was reflected in the samovars. The old man began to knead his cap. He thought a moment, then said, “You give it to me!”

The swarthy headman looked as though he were completely black, like a wizard; he turned round to Osip and spoke sternly and rapidly.

“It all depends on the district magistrate. On the twenty-sixth of the month you can state the grounds of your dissatisfaction before the administrative session, verbally or in writing.”

Osip did not understand a word of this, but it satisfied him and he went home.

Ten days later the police inspector came again, stayed for an hour and drove away. During those days the weather was cold and windy; the river had been frozen for some time, but still there was no snow, and the people had no end of trouble because the roads were impassable. On the eve of a holiday some neighbors dropped in at Osip’s to have a talk. They sat in the dark; since it was a sin to work, they did not light the lamp. There were some items of news, all of them quite unpleasant In two or three households the hens had been taken for the tax arrears, sent to the district government office, and there they had died because no one had fed them; sheep had been taken, and while they were being carted away, tied together and moved into different carts at each village, one of them had died. And now they were discussing the question: who was guilty?

“The zemstvo!” said Osip. “Who else?”

“Of course, the zemstvo.”

The zemstvo was blamed for everything—for the arrears, the oppression, the crop failure—though not one of them knew what was meant by the zemstvo. This dated from the time when the rich peasants, owners of factories, shops, and inns, had been delegates to the zemstvo, had grown dissatisfied, and took to inveighing against it in their factories and taverns.

They talked about God not sending the snow; firewood had to be hauled, but it was impossible to drive or walk over the frozen ruts. Formerly, fifteen to twenty years ago and earlier, the talk in Zhukovo had been much more interesting. In those days every old man looked as if he were harboring some sort of secret, as if he knew something, expected something. Then they used to talk of a charter with a golden seal, of the redistribution of land, of new lands, and of buried treasure; they were always hinting at something; now, however, the people of Zhukovo had no secrets at all, their whole life was as though on the palm of the hand for all to see, and they could talk of nothing but want, food, fodder, and the absence of snow. …

They fell silent. And again they recalled the hens and the sheep, and began discussing whose fault it was.

“The zemstvo,” said Osip dejectedly. “Who else?”

VIII

The parish church was nearly six versts away at Kosogorovo, and the peasants went there only when necessary, for a baptism, a wedding, or a funeral. For regular services they went to the church across the river. On holidays, in good weather, the girls dressed in their best and went in a crowd to the service, and it was a gay sight to watch them crossing the meadow in their red, yellow, and green dresses; in bad weather they all stayed home. They went to the parish church in preparation for the sacrament. From each of those who had not managed to take the sacrament during Lent, the priest took fifteen kopecks as he made the rounds of the huts with the cross at Easter.

The old man did not believe in God; in fact, he almost never even thought of Him. He acknowledged the supernatural, but felt that it was the women’s concern, and whenever religion or miracles were discussed in his presence, or a question about such matters was put to him, he would scratch himself and reluctantly say, “Who knows?”

Granny did believe, but her faith was somewhat dim; everything was confused in her memory, and no sooner did she begin to think of sins, of death, of the salvation of the soul, than want and cares took possession of her mind, and she instantly forgot what she had been thinking about. She did not remember any prayers, and usually in the evenings, before lying down to sleep, she would stand before the ikons and whisper, “Holy Mother of Kazan, Holy Mother of Smolensk, Holy Mother of the Three Arms. …”

Marya and Fyokla crossed themselves, fasted, and took communion every year, but without any understanding of what they were doing. The children were not taught to pray, nothing was told them about God, and no moral precepts were instilled into them; they were simply forbidden to eat certain foods on fast days. In other families it was much the same: there were few who believed, few who understood. At the same time they all loved the Holy Scripture, loved it tenderly, reverently; but they had no books, there was no one to read the Bible and explain it to them, and because Olga sometimes read them the Gospels, they respected her and addressed her and Sasha as their superiors.

For church holidays and special services Olga often went to neighboring villages and to the chief town of the district, in which there were two monasteries and twenty-seven churches. She was abstracted while on these pilgrimages, completely forgetting her family, and only when she got home again did she suddenly make the happy discovery that she had a husband and daughter; then, smiling and radiant, she would say, “God has sent me blessings!”

What went on in the village tormented and revolted her. On Saint Elijah’s Day they drank, at the Assumption they drank, at the Exaltation of the Cross they drank. The Feast of the Intercession was the parish holiday for Zhukovo, and on that occasion the peasants drank for three days; they drank up fifty rubles belonging to the communal fund, and then collected more money for vodka from each household. On the first day the Chikildeyevs slaughtered a sheep and ate it in the morning, at dinner, and in the evening; they ate great quantities of it, and the children got up at night to eat more. Kiryak was terribly drunk all three days; he drank up everything, even his boots and cap, and beat Marya so that they had to pour water over her. Afterwards they were all ashamed and sick.

However, even in Zhukovo, in this “Toadyville,” once a year there was a genuine religious festival. It took place in August, when the ikon of the Life-Giving Mother of God was carried from village to village throughout the district. The day on which it was expected in Zhukovo was still and overcast. The girls in bright holiday dresses set off in the morning to meet the ikon, and toward evening they brought it to the village in a solemn procession with the cross, banners, and singing, while the bells rang out in the church across the river. A great throng of villagers and strangers filled the street; it was noisy, dusty, and crowded. The old man and Granny and Kiryak, eagerly, with outstretched hands, gazed at the ikon, and weeping said, “Protectress! Mother! Protectress!”

It was as though they all suddenly understood that there was no void between heaven and earth, that the rich and powerful had not yet taken possession of everything, that there was still a defense against abuse, bondage, the oppressive, unendurable poverty, and the horrors of vodka.

“Protectress! Mother!” sobbed Marya. “Protectress!”

But the service came to an end, the ikon was carried away, and everything went on as before; and again there was the sound of coarse drunken voices from the tavern.

Only the rich peasants feared death; the richer they grew the less they believed in God and in the salvation of the soul, and only through fear of their earthly end, and to be on the safe side, did they burn candles and have prayers said. The poorer peasants had no fear of death. The old man and Granny were told to their faces that they had lived too long, that it was time for them to die, and they did not mind. Nor did they hesitate to say in Nikolai’s presence that when he died, Fyokla’s husband Denis would be sent home from the army. And Marya, far from fearing death, regretted that it was so long in coming, and was glad when her children died.

They had no fear of death, but had an exaggerated terror of all sickness. It required a mere trifle—an upset stomach, a slight chill—for Granny to wrap herself up, lie on the oven, and start moaning loudly and incessantly, “I am dying!” The old man would rush off for the priest, and Granny would receive the sacrament and extreme unction. They frequently talked about colds, worms, and tumors that moved about in the stomach and rolled up under the heart. Above all, they feared catching cold, and for this reason, even in summer, wore heavy clothing and warmed themselves on the stove. Granny loved being treated, and often drove to the hospital, where she said she was not seventy, but fifty-eight; she thought that if the doctor found out her real age he would not treat her, but would tell her it was time for her to die instead of taking medicine. She generally went to the hospital early in the morning, taking two or three of the little girls with her, and came back in the evening, hungry and bad-tempered, with drops for herself and ointments for the little girls. Once she took Nikolai with her also, and for a fortnight afterwards he took drops and said he felt better.

Granny knew all the doctors, and medical assistants, and quacks for twenty miles round, and not one of them did she like. At the Feast of the Intercession, when the priest made the round of the huts with the cross, the deacon told her that in the town near the prison there lived an old man who had been an army surgeon’s assistant and who was good at working cures; he advised her to try him. Granny took his advice. After the first snowfall she drove to the town and fetched a little old bearded man in a long coat, a converted Jew, whose face was covered with blue veins. Just at that time there were people working in the hut: an old tailor in terrifying spectacles was cutting a waistcoat out of some rags, and two young men were making felt boots out of wool. Kiryak, who had been discharged because of drunkenness and now lived at home, was sitting beside the tailor mending a horse collar. It was crowded, stuffy, and fetid in the hut. The converted Jew examined Nikolai and announced that it would be necessary to cup the patient.

He applied the cups, while the old tailor, Kiryak, and the little girls stood and watched, and it seemed to them that they saw the disease coming out of Nikolai. And Nikolai, too, watched how the cups adhering to his chest gradually filled with dark blood, and he felt as though there actually were something coming out of him, and he smiled with satisfaction.

“That’s fine,” said the tailor. “God grant it will do you good.”

The converted Jew put on twelve cups, then another twelve, drank tea, and drove away. Nikolai began to shiver; his face looked sunken, and, as the women said, shrank up into a little fist; and his fingers turned blue. He wrapped himself up in a quilt and a sheepskin coat, but he felt colder and colder. Toward evening he became restless; he asked to be laid on the floor, and begged the tailor not to smoke. Then he grew still under the sheepskin, and toward morning he died.

IX

Oh, what a cruel, what a long winter!

By Christmas their own grain was used up and they had to start buying flour. Kiryak, who now lived at home, caroused in the evenings, terrifying everyone, and mornings he always was tormented by headache and shame; he was a pitiful sight. Day and night from the cattle shed came the bellowing of the starving cow—a heart-rending sound to Granny and Marya. As if to spite them, there were severe frosts and high snowdrifts continually; and the winter dragged on. At Annunciation there was a real blizzard, and snow fell at Easter.

But after all the winter did come to an end. At the beginning of April there were warm days and frosty nights; winter would not surrender, but one warm day overpowered it at last, and the streams began to flow and the birds to sing. The whole meadow and the bushes near the river were drowned in the spring floods, and the area between Zhukovo and the farther bank was one vast sheet of water, from which, here and there, flocks of wild ducks took wing. The spring sunset, flaming, with magnificent clouds, gave to every evening something extraordinary, novel, and improbable, the sort of thing that seems unbelievable when one sees the very same colors and clouds in a picture.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the cranes, with mournful, summoning cries. Olga stood at the top of the slope and gazed for a long time at the flooded meadow, at the sunshine, at the church, which looked bright and, as it were, rejuvenated; her tears flowed, and she gasped for breath, so passionate was her desire to go away, anywhere, even to the ends of the earth. It was already decided that she should return to Moscow to go into service as a chambermaid, and that Kiryak should go with her to get a job as a porter or something of the sort. Oh, to get away quickly!

When the ground was dry and the weather grew warm they made ready for the journey. Olga and Sasha, with knapsacks on their backs and bast sandals on their feet, left at daybreak; Mary a came out to see them off. Kiryak was not well and remained at home for another week. Olga said a prayer, looking at the church for the last time; she was thinking of her husband, and though she did not weep, her face puckered up and became unsightly, like an old woman’s. During the winter she had grown thin and plain, her hair had turned a little gray, and instead of her former attractive appearance and pleasant smile, her face now had a resigned and sad expression from the sorrows she had lived through, and there was something dull and fixed about her gaze, as if she did not hear.

She was sorry to part from the village and the peasants. She remembered how they had carried Nikolai out, that a service for the repose of his soul had been ordered at almost every cabin, and how everyone had wept, in sympathy with her grief. In the course of the summer and the winter there had been certain hours and days when it seemed that these people lived worse than cattle, and it was terrible to live with them; they were coarse, filthy, dishonest, and drunken; they did not live together in peace, but continually quarreled, because they did not respect but feared and suspected one another. Who keeps the pothouse and makes drunkards of the people? The peasant. Who embezzles and drinks up the community, school, and church funds? The peasant Who steals from his neighbor, sets fire to his property, and bears false witness in court for a bottle of vodka? Who, in the zemstvo and other meetings, is the first to raise his voice against the peasants? The peasant. Yes, to live with them was terrible. Yet they were human beings, they suffered and wept like human beings, and there was nothing in their lives for which one could not find justification: oppressive labor that made the whole body ache at night, cruel winters, poor crops, overcrowding, and no help, and no place from which it could be expected. Those who were better off and stronger could do no good, as they themselves were coarse, dishonest, drunken, and swore just as foully; the pettiest official or clerk treated the peasants like tramps, addressed even the county headman and church wardens in contemptuous terms, and thought he had the right to do so. And, indeed, can there be any sort of help or good example from greedy, grasping, dissolute, and slothful men who visit the village only in order to insult, despoil, and terrorize? Olga recalled the pathetic, degraded look of the old people when in the winter Kiryak had been taken off to be flogged. … And now she felt sorry for all these people, painfully so, and as she walked on she kept looking back at the huts.

After accompanying them for two miles, Marya said good-bye, then fell to her knees, pressed her face to the earth, and began wailing, “Again I am left alone, poor me … poor, unhappy …”

And for a long time she went on wailing like this, and for a long time Olga and Sasha could see her, still on her knees, still bowing and clutching her head in her hands, while the rooks flew over her.

The sun rose high and it began to get hot. Zhukovo was left behind. Walking was pleasant. Olga and Sasha soon forgot both the village and Marya; they were cheerful and everything entertained them: an ancient burial mound; a row of telegraph poles running one after the other and disappearing on the horizon, their wires humming mysteriously; a farmhouse framed in foliage, from which there came the scent of dampness and hemp, a place that for some reason seemed to be inhabited by happy people; the skeleton of a horse, a solitary gleam of white in a field. And the larks trilled unflaggingly, the quails called to one another, and the cry of the corn crake sounded as though someone were rattling an old iron door handle.

At midday Olga and Sasha came to a large village. There on the broad street they encountered the little old man who had been General Zhukov’s cook. He was hot, and his red, perspiring bald head shone in the sun. He and Olga failed to recognize each other; then, looking round at the same moment, they did recognize each other. Without a word each continued on his own way. Stopping before the open windows of a hut that seemed newer and more prosperous than the rest, Olga bowed down, and in a loud, thin, singsong voice said, “Good Christians, give alms, for Christ’s sake, whatever your mercy may bestow, and in the kingdom of heaven may your parents know eternal peace.”

“Good Christians,” Sasha chanted, “give, for Christ’s sake, whatever your mercy may bestow, and in the kingdom of heaven…”

—1897