The Lady with the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904

In the Ravine

I

The village of Ukleyevo lay in a ravine, so that only the church belfry and the chimneys of calico-printing works could be seen from the main road and the railway station. When travellers asked its name they were told, ‘It’s that place where the lay reader ate all the caviare at a funeral.’

Once, during a wake at Kostyukov the manufacturer’s house, an elderly lay reader had spotted some unpressed caviare among the savouries and immediately started gobbling it up. People nudged him, tugged his sleeve, but he seemed to be paralysed from the sheer enjoyment of it, which made him oblivious of everything, and he just continued eating, regardless. He scoffed the whole lot – and it was a four-pound jar! All this had happened many years ago and the lay reader was long since dead, but the story of the caviare was still fresh in everyone’s mind. Whether it was because life there was so wretched or simply that the people could find nothing more exciting to talk about than that trivial little incident of ten years before, it was all you ever heard about Ukleyevo.

Swamp fever was still rife here and even in summer there were slimy patches of mud – especially under fences – which lay in the broad shade of old, overhanging willows. There was always a smell of factory waste, of the acetic acid they used for processing the cotton. The factories – three cotton-printing works and one tannery – were not in the village itself but a short distance away, on the outskirts. They weren’t very large and the total workforce didn’t amount to much more than four hundred. The waste from the tannery made the water in the small river stink horribly, the meadows were polluted by the effluent, the cattle in the village suffered from anthrax, and so it was ordered to close down. However, although it was supposed to be shut, it was kept going on the quiet, with the full approval of the district police inspector and doctor, each receiving ten roubles a month from the owner. There were only two houses worthy of the name in the whole village, built of stone and with iron roofs. One of them was occupied by the council offices, while Grigory Petrov Tsybukin, a shopkeeper from Yepifan,¹ lived in the other, which was two storeys high and stood right opposite the church.

Grigory kept a grocery store, but this was only a cover for his secret business in vodka, cattle, hides, grain, pigs – in fact he sold anything that came his way. For example, when there were export orders for peasant women’s bonnets (these were made into fashionable hats for ladies), he could earn himself thirty copecks a pair. He bought trees for sawing up, lent money on interest, and really the old man could turn his hand to anything. He had two sons. Anisim, the elder, was a police detective and seldom came home. The younger son, Stepan, had gone into the business to help his father. However, they could not expect any real help from him as he was in poor health and deaf as well. His wife, Aksinya, was a beautiful, well-built woman, who wore a hat and carried a parasol when she went to village festivals. She was an early riser, went late to bed and all day long kept rushing round the barn, the cellar or the shop with her skirts tucked up and her bunch of keys jangling. Old Tsybukin would cheer up as he watched her and his eyes would sparkle. At such moments he regretted that she had not married his elder son, but the younger one instead, who besides being deaf couldn’t tell the beautiful from the ugly.

The old man always had a strong liking for domestic life and he loved his family more than anything else in the world – especially his elder detective son and his daughter-in-law. No sooner had Aksinya married the deaf son than she began to display an extraordinary head for business; in no time she got to know those who were credit-worthy and those she had to turn down. She always took charge of the keys, not even trusting her own husband with them, and she would click away at her abacus. Like a true peasant, she would look at a horse’s teeth first and was always laughing or shouting. Whatever she did or said, it warmed the old man’s heart and he would mutter, ‘Well done, my daughter-in-law! That’s the way, my beautiful girl!’

He had been a widower, but a year after his son’s marriage he could bear it no longer and remarried. About twenty miles from Ukleyevo they found him a spinster called Varvara Nikolayevna, from a good family. Although she was middle-aged, she still kept her good looks. From the moment she settled into her little room on the first floor, everything in the house became shining bright, as though all the windows had suddenly been fitted with new glass. Icon-lamps were lit, tables covered with snow-white cloths, flowers with little red buds appeared on the window sills and in the front garden, and at mealtimes everyone had his own individual dish instead of eating from a communal bowl. Varvara Nikolayevna’s warm, fetching smile seemed to infect the whole household. And then something quite out of the ordinary happened – beggars, wanderers and female pilgrims began to call at the house. The plaintive singsong voices of the Ukleyevo women and the guilty coughing of weak, haggard-looking peasants, sacked from the factory for drunkenness, came from outside, beneath the window-ledges. Varvara gave them money, bread, old clothes and, later on, when she was really settled in, brought them things from the shop. On one occasion the deaf son was most upset when he saw her taking away two small packets of tea.

‘Mother’s just pinched two packets of tea,’ he told his father. ‘Who’s supposed to be paying for them?’

The old man did not reply, but stood there pondering and twitching his eyebrows; then he went upstairs to his wife. ‘Varvara, dear,’ he said affectionately, ‘if ever you need anything from the shop, then help yourself. Take as much as you like, and don’t feel guilty.’

Next day the deaf son shouted out to her as he ran across the yard, ‘Mother, if you need anything, just help yourself!’

There was something fresh, cheerful and gay in her displays of charity, just like those brightly burning icon-lamps and the little red flowers. On the eve of a fast or on a saint’s day festival (they usually took three days to celebrate them) when they used to fob the peasants off with rotten salt beef, which gave off such a revolting stench you could hardly go near the barrel; when they let the drunks pawn their scythes, caps, their wives’ scarves; when the factory-hands, their heads reeling from cheap vodka, wallowed in the mud, so that the shamelessness of it all seemed to hang overhead in a thick haze – at these times it came as a relief to think that over there in the house lived a quiet, tidy woman who would have nothing to do with either salt beef or vodka. On such distressing, murky days her acts of charity had the effect of a safety-valve.

Every day at the Tsybukins’ was a busy one. Before the sun had even risen, Aksinya puffed and panted as she washed herself in the hall, while the samovar boiled away in the kitchen with an ominous hum. Old Grigory Petrov, who looked so neat and small in his long black frock-coat, cotton-print trousers and shining jackboots, would pace up and down the house, tapping his heels like the father-in-law in the popular song. Then they would open the shop. When it was light, the racing droshky would be brought round to the front door and the old man would pull his large peaked cap right over his ears and jump into it with all the friskiness of a young man. To look at him no one would have guessed that he was already fifty-six. His wife and daughter-in-law used to see him off and on these momentous occasions, when he wore his fine clean frock-coat, when the enormous black stallion that had cost three hundred roubles was hitched to the droshky, the old man didn’t like it if peasants came up to him asking for favours or complaining. He hated them and they disgusted him. If he happened to see one hanging around the gates he would shout furiously, ‘What yer standing round here for? Clear off!’ If it was a beggar he would yell, ‘God’ll feed yer!’

While he was away on business his wife, with her dark dress and black apron, would tidy the rooms or help in the kitchen. Aksinya served in the shop and one could hear bottles and coins clinking, the sound of her laughter or of offended customers getting cross. At the same time it was all too plain that the illegal vodka business was already running nice and smoothly. Her deaf husband would sit in the shop with her or walk up and down the street without any hat, hands in pockets, vacantly gazing at the huts or up at the sky. They drank tea six times a day in that house and had four proper meals at the table. In the evening they counted the takings, entered them in the books and then slept soundly.

All three cotton-printing works in Ukleyevo, as well as the owners’ homes – the Khrymins’ Senior, Khrymins’ Junior and the Kostyukovs’ – were on the telephone. The council offices had also been connected, but before long the telephone there was jammed with bugs and cockroaches. The chairman of the district council could barely read or write and began every word in his report with a capital letter; but when the telephone went out of order he remarked, ‘Yes, it’s going to be tricky without that telephone.’

The Khrymins Senior were perpetually suing the Khrymins Junior, and the Khrymins Junior sometimes quarrelled among themselves and sued each other – then their factory would stand idle for a month or two until they had patched things up: all this provided a source of amusement for the people of Ukleyevo, since each row provoked no end of gossip and malicious talk.

Kostyukov and the Khrymins Junior would go out driving on Sundays, running over calves as they tore through Ukleyevo. With her starched petticoats rustling and dressed to kill, Aksinya would stroll up and down the street near the shop; then the Khrymins Junior would swoop down and carry her off with them as though they were kidnapping her. Old Tsybukin would drive out to show off his new horse, taking his Varvara with him.

In the evening, when the riding was over and everyone was going to bed, someone would play an expensive-sounding accordion in the Khrymins’ Junior yard; if the moon was shining, the music stirred and gladdened one’s heart and Ukleyevo did not seem such a miserable hole after all.

II

Anisim (the elder son) came home very rarely – only for the principal festivals – but he often sent presents, which he handed to friends from the same village to take back for him, as well as letters written by someone else in a beautiful hand and invariably on good-quality paper, so that they looked like official application forms. They were filled with expressions that Anisim would never have used in conversation, for example: ‘My dear Mama and Papa, I’m sending you a pound of herb tea for the gratification of your physical requirements.’ At the foot of each letter the name Anisim Tsybukin was scribbled – with a cross-nibbed pen, it seemed – and beneath his signature, in the same beautiful handwriting, would appear the word ‘Agent’. These letters were read out loud, several times, and afterwards the old man, deeply moved by them and flushed with excitement, would say, ‘There you are, he wouldn’t stay at home, wanted to be a scholar instead. Well, if that’s what he wants! Each to his own, I say.’

Once, just before Shrovetide, there were torrential rainfalls and sleet. The old man and Varvara went to look out of the window, and lo and behold! – there was Anisim coming from the station on a sledge. This was a complete surprise. When he entered the room, he looked anxious, as though terribly worried by something; he stayed like this for the rest of his visit and he behaved in a rather free-and-easy, offhand way. He was in no hurry to leave, and it looked as though they had given him the sack. Varvara was glad he had come, eyed him cunningly, sighed and shook her head: ‘Don’t know what to make of it,’ she said. ‘The lad’s turned twenty-seven and he’s still running around like a gay bachelor! Oh, dear, dear me!’ They could hear her quiet, regular speech – a series of ‘dear, dear me’s’ from the next room. Then she began whispering to the old man and Aksinya, and their faces took on that same cunning, mysterious, conspiratorial expression.

They had decided to marry Anisim off.

‘Oh, dear, dear me! Your young brother was married ages ago,’ Varvara said, ‘but you’re still without a mate, just like a cock in the market. What kind of life is that? If you did get married, God willing, you could do as you please, go back to work, while your wife could stay at home and be a help to you. It’s a wild life you’re leading, my boy, I can see you’ve really gone off the rails. Oh, dear, dear me, you lot from the town bring nothing but trouble!’

When a Tsybukin married, he could take the prettiest girl, as they were all very wealthy, and they found a pretty one for Anisim too. As for him, he was insignificant and uninteresting: while he was short and had a poorly built, unhealthy looking body, his cheeks were full and plump – as though he were puffing them out. He never blinked and his eyes had a piercing look. His beard was reddish and straggly, and he was always sticking it in his mouth and biting it when he was deep in thought. Moreover, he was very fond of the bottle – one could tell from his face and the way he walked. But when they told him that a very pretty bride had been found for him, he remarked, ‘Well, I’m not exactly a freak. All of us Tsybukins are good-looking, that’s for sure.’

The village of Torguyevo lay right next to the town. One half had recently been merged with it, while the other stayed as it was. In the town half there lived a widow, in her own little house. She had a very poor sister, who had to go out to work every day; this sister had a daughter called Lipa, who went out to work as well. Her beauty had long been a talking-point in Torguyevo, but her terrible poverty put everyone off. So they reasoned that perhaps some old man or widower might turn a blind eye to this and would marry her or would ‘set her up’ in his house – and if that happened the mother would not have to starve. When the local matchmakers told her about Lipa, Varvara drove out to Torguyevo.

After that, an ‘inspection’² was arranged (as was proper) at the aunt’s house, with snacks and drinks. Lipa wore a new pink dress made especially for the viewing and a crimson ribbon shone like a flame in her hair. She was a thin, pale-faced, fragile girl with fine, delicate features and her skin was tanned from working in the open air. Her face bore a perpetual sad, timid smile and her eyes were like a child’s – trusting and inquisitive at the same time.

She was young – still a little girl in fact – with scarcely noticeable breasts. However, she was old enough for marriage. In actual fact she was a beauty, and the only objectionable thing about her was her large arms, just like a man’s, which she allowed to dangle idly, so that they resembled two huge crab’s claws.

‘We’re not in the least worried that there’s no dowry,’ the old man told the aunt. ‘We took a girl in from a poor family for our son Stepan, and now we can’t praise her enough. She’s a wonderful help in the house and the business.’

Lipa stood by the door and it seemed she wanted to say, ‘You can do what you like with me, I trust you,’ while her mother, Praskovya, who had to go out charring, was overcome with shyness and shut herself away in the kitchen. Once, when she was still a young girl, a certain merchant (whose floors she used to scrub) suddenly stamped his feet at her in a fit of anger. She was terrified, went numb all over and the shock of it never left her for the rest of her life: her arms and legs were always trembling with fright – and her cheeks as well. From where she sat in the kitchen, she always tried hard to hear what visitors were saying in the next room, kept crossing herself, pressed her fingers to her forehead and peered at the icon. A slightly tipsy Anisim would open the kitchen door and breezily inquire, ‘What you sitting out here for, my dearest Mama? It’s so dull without you.’ This would make Praskovya turn shy and she would clasp her small, wasted breasts and reply, ‘But sir, you really shouldn’t! I’m only too pleased… sir!’

After the inspection, the wedding day was fixed. Later on, when he was home, Anisim kept pacing up and down whistling; or something would suddenly spring to mind which made him think hard, look at the floor without moving an inch and stare so hard that it seemed he was trying to bore a hole deep into the earth with his eyes. He didn’t show any pleasure at the fact that he was getting married, that it was going to be soon – the week after Easter – nor did he show any inclination to see his bride – all he did was whistle. Obviously he was marrying only because his father and stepmother wanted him to and because that was how things were done in the village: sons got married to have someone to help them in the house. He didn’t hurry himself when the time came to leave and his behaviour during this last visit was quite different from the previous one – he was particularly free-and-easy with everyone and kept speaking out of turn.

III

Two dressmakers lived in the village of Shikalovo; they were sisters and belonged to the Flagellant sect. They got the order for the wedding dresses and came over very often for the fittings, when they would sit down for hours drinking tea. For Varvara they made a brown dress, with black lace and tubular glass beads, and Aksinya had a bright green dress, yellow in front and with a train. When they had finished, Tsybukin didn’t pay them cash but in things from the shop, and so they went away very down in the mouth, carrying little packets of tallow candles and tins of sardines for which they didn’t have any use at all. As soon as they were out of the village and in the fields, they sat down on a little mound and burst into tears.

Anisim turned up just three days before the wedding in a completely new outfit. He wore brilliantly glossy rubber galoshes and instead of a tie had a red lace with tassels hanging from it. A brand-new overcoat was draped over his shoulders like a cloak. After solemnly saying his prayers, he greeted his father and gave him ten silver roubles and ten fifty-copeck pieces; he gave Varvara the same, while Aksinya received twenty twenty-five-copeck pieces. The principal charm of these presents was that every single coin was brand-new, as though specially selected, and all of them glinted in the sun. In his effort to appear sober and serious, Anisim tensed his face muscles and puffed his cheeks out; he was reeking of drink.

Most likely he had dashed into every station bar during the journey. Once again there was that same free-and-easy attitude, something strangely exaggerated about his behaviour. After his arrival, Anisim drank tea and ate savouries with his father, while Varvara fingered the bright new roubles and asked him about her friends from the village, now living in the town.

‘Everything’s okay, thank God, they’re all living well,’ Anisim said. ‘But there was a certain occurrence in Ivan Yegorov’s domestic life: his old woman Sofya passed away. From consumption. The caterers charged them two and a half roubles a head for the funeral repast for the repose of her soul. There was wine too. Some peasants from our village were there – and they had to pay two and a half roubles for each of them! But they didn’t eat a thing. You can’t expect yokels to know anything about sauces!’

‘Two and a half roubles!’ exclaimed the old man, shaking his head.

‘Well, what do you expect? It’s not like the village. If you drop into a restaurant for a bite, you order this and that, friends come and join you, you have a few drinks and before you know what’s happening it’s dawn and you’ve run up a nice little bill of three or four roubles a head. And if Samorodov comes, he likes his coffee and brandy after a meal – and with brandy at sixty copecks a glass! I ask you!’

‘He’s all lies,’ the old man said delightedly. ‘Nothing but lies!’

‘These days I’m always with him. He’s the same Samorodov who does my letters for me. Writes excellently!’

Anisim turned to Varvara and continued cheerfully, ‘If I told you, Mama, what kind of man he is, you’d never believe me. We all call him Mukhtar, as he rather looks like an Armenian – black all over. I can read him like a book, know everything he’s up to, like the back of my hand, Mama. He knows it all right and he’s behind me the whole time, doesn’t leave me alone for one minute. Now we’re as thick as thieves. Seems he’s scared of me, but he can’t do without me. Follows me everywhere. Now, I’ve very good eyesight, Mama. Just take the old clothes’ market. If there’s a peasant selling a shirt I say, “Hold on, that’s been stolen.” And as usual I’m always right. It was stolen!’

‘But how do you know?’ Varvara asked.

‘I don’t know, I’ve just got the eye for it. I didn’t know anything about the shirt, but somehow I was drawn to it – it was stolen, and that was that. The detectives where I work just say the words, “Look, Anisim’s gone shooting woodcock!” That means, “He’s gone looking for stolen property.” Yes… anyone can steal, but holding on to it’s another matter! It’s a great big world, but there’s no hiding stolen goods!’

‘But last week, in the village, the Guntorevs had a ram and two ewes stolen,’ Varvara said, sighing. ‘Only there was no one to go looking for them, oh, dear, dear me!’

‘What? Of course you can go looking. It’s really very easy.’

The wedding day arrived. Although the weather was cool, it was one of those bright and cheerful days in April. Since early morning, troikas and carriages and pairs had been driving round Ukleyevo with bells tinkling and their shaft-bows and horses’ manes decorated with gaily coloured ribbons. Disturbed by all this commotion, rooks cawed in the willows and starlings sang incessantly, as hard as they could, so that it seemed they were overjoyed at the Tsybukins’ wedding.

Back at the house, the tables were already laden with long fishes, stuffed legs of meat and gamebirds, boxes of sprats, different kinds of salted savouries and pickles, and a great quantity of vodka and wine bottles. One could smell the salami and soured lobster. The old man went hopping round the tables clicking his heels and sharpening the knives on each other. Time and again they called out to Varvara to bring them something. Looking quite bewildered and gasping for breath, she would run into the kitchen where the Kostyukovs’ chef and the Khrymins Junior head cook had been slaving away since dawn. Aksinya, with her hair set in curls, wearing just a corset without any dress over it and squeaky new ankle-high boots, dashed round the yard like a whirlwind and all one could catch sight of were bare knees and breasts. It was all very noisy, with swearing and cursing. Passers-by stopped at the wide-open gates and everything indicated that they were preparing for something really special.

‘They’ve gone for the bride!’

Harness bells rang out loud and then died away, far beyond the village… After two o’clock the villagers came running: they could hear the bells again, the bride was coming! The church was full, chandeliers shone brightly, and the choirboys sang from music-sheets, as the old man Tsybukin had specially requested this. The glare of the candles and the bright dresses dazzled Lipa, and the choirboys’ loud voices seemed to beat on her head like hammers; her corset (it was the first time she had ever worn one) and her shoes were pinching her to death; from her expression it seemed she had fainted and was just coming to – she looked around without understanding anything.

Anisim stood there in that same black frock-coat, with a red lace instead of a tie; he was in a very thoughtful mood, kept staring at the same spot and crossed himself hastily whenever the choirboys sang very loud. He felt deeply moved and wanted to cry. He was familiar with this church from early childhood; his late mother had brought him there once to take the sacrament and once he had sung in the choir with the other boys. So he remembered every nook and cranny, every icon. Now he was being married, because that was the right thing to do; but he wasn’t thinking about that at all and he seemed to have forgotten it completely. He could not see the icons for tears and his heart was heavy. He prayed and implored God to make those unavoidable misfortunes that were threatening to shower down on him any day now pass him by somehow, just as storm clouds pass over a village during a drought, without shedding a single drop of rain. So many sins from his past accumulated – so many, in fact, that it was impossible to shrug them off or expiate them now – that even to ask for pardon was ridiculous. But he did ask to be forgiven and even sobbed out loud; but everyone ignored him, thinking that he was drunk.

Then a frightened child started crying, ‘Please, darling Mama, take me away from here!’

‘Be quiet over there!’ shouted the priest.

On the way back from the church, villagers flocked after the couple. Outside the shop, at the gates and beneath the windows overlooking the yard, there were crowds too. The village women had come to sing in their honour. Hardly had the young couple crossed the threshold than the choirboys (already stationed in the hall with their music-sheets) sang as hard as they could, at the top of their shrill voices. Then the band, specially hired from the town, struck up. Sparkling Don wine was already being served in long glasses and Yelizarov, the jobbing carpenter – a tall lean man whose eyebrows were so bushy they nearly covered his eyes – turned to the young couple and said, ‘Anisim – and you, my child – love one another, live like good Christians and the Holy Virgin will not forsake you.’

He fell on the old man’s shoulder and sobbed. ‘Grigory Petrov, let us weep, let us weep for joy!’ he said in his thin little voice and then he suddenly laughed out loud and continued – this time lowering his voice, ‘Oho! Your daughter-in-law’s a real smasher. She’s got everything in the right place, she’s running nice and smooth, no rattling – all the machinery is in tip-top order – and there’s plenty of screws.’

He came from around Yegoryevsk,³ but he had worked in the Ukleyevo factories and local workshops since he was a young boy, and that’s where his roots were. For as long as the people had known him, he had always been that same thin, tall old man – and he had always gone by the name of ‘Crutchy’. Perhaps as a result of spending over forty years doing nothing else but repairs in factories, he judged everybody and everything solely in terms of soundness: did it need repairing? And even before he sat down at the table, he tested a few chairs to see if they were all right – and he also gave the salmon a poke.

After the sparkling wine, everyone sat down at the table. The wedding-guests talked and moved their chairs. The choirboys sang in the hall, the band played, and at the same time the village women sang out in the yard, their voices all at the same pitch, which produced such a horrible, wild jumble of sounds it made one’s head reel. Crutchy fidgeted on his chair, elbowed the people sitting next to him, didn’t let them get a word in, and cried and laughed out loud in turn. ‘My children! My little children… little children!’ he muttered swiftly. ‘My dearest Aksinya, my sweet little Varvara, let’s all live peacefully together… my darlings…’

He never drank very much and now one glass of strong vodka made him tipsy. This revolting brew, concocted from God knows what, made all who drank it so muzzy they felt they had been clubbed. Tongues began to falter.

The clergy was there, factory clerks and their wives, and innkeepers from other villages. The chairman of the parish council and his clerk, who had been working together for as long as fourteen years now – during the whole course of which they had never signed a single document – and who never let anyone leave the office without first cheating and insulting him, had positioned their fat, well-fed selves next to each other. They had lived on lies for so long, it seemed that even the skin on their faces had taken on a peculiarly criminal complexion all of its own. The clerk’s wife, a scraggy woman with a squint, had brought all her children along; just like a bird of prey she looked at the plates out of the corner of her eye and grabbed everything within reach, stuffing it away in her children’s pockets and her own.

Lipa sat there like a stone and she looked the same as she did during the service. Not having exchanged a single word with her since their first meeting, Anisim still didn’t know what her voice was like.

And now, even though he was sitting right next to her, he still didn’t break the silence and drank vodka instead. But when he was drunk, however, he began to speak to his aunt, who was sitting on the other side of the table: ‘I’ve a friend called Samorodov, he’s a bit out of the ordinary, respected everywhere and a good talker too. But I can see right through him, Auntie, and he knows it. Will you please join me in toasting Samorodov’s health, Auntie dear!’

Varvara went round the table serving the guests; she was worn out, confused, and clearly pleased that there were so many different dishes and that everything had been done so lavishly – no one could criticize her now. The sun had set, but still the dinner went on. Now they no longer knew what they were eating or drinking and it was impossible to catch a word they said. Only now and then, when the band stopped playing for a moment, could one hear – quite distinctly – a peasant woman outside shouting, ‘You’ve sucked us dry, you rotten bastards. You can all go to hell!’

In the evening there was dancing with music. The Khrymins Junior arrived with their own drink and during the quadrille one of them held a bottle in each hand and a glass in his mouth, which everyone found highly amusing. Halfway through the quadrille they suddenly started dancing Cossack style. Aksinya flashed round the room, a green blur, and her train set up little gusts of wind. Somebody trod on one of her frills down below and Crutchy shouted, ‘Hey, you’ve torn her skirting-board off! Oh, children!’

Aksinya had grey, naïve-looking eyes that seldom blinked and a naïve smile constantly played over her face. There was something snake-like in those unblinking eyes, in that small head and long neck, in that shapely figure. As she surveyed the guests in her green dress with its yellow front, she resembled a viper peering up out of the young spring rye at someone walking past – its body erect and head raised high. The Khrymins took liberties with her and it was glaringly obvious that she had been having an affair with the eldest for a long time now. But the deaf husband didn’t notice a thing and he didn’t even look at her. He merely sat there with his legs crossed, eating nuts, making such a racket as he cracked them with his teeth that it sounded like pistol shots.

And now old Tsybukin himself strode into the middle of the room and waved his handkerchief – a signal that he wanted to join in the Cossack dancing. A rumble of approval ran through the whole house – and through the crowd outside in the yard as well: ‘It’s the old boy himself. He’s going to dance!’

In fact, only Varvara did the dancing, while the old man simply fluttered his handkerchief and shuffled his heels. In spite of this, the people out in the yard hung onto one another’s back to get a good view through the windows, and they were absolutely delighted: for one brief moment they forgave him everything – his wealth and the insults they had suffered.

‘That’s me boy, Grigory Petrov!’ someone shouted. ‘Come on, have a go! You can still do it! Ha, ha!’

The celebrations finished late – after one o’clock in the morning. Anisim staggered over to the choirboys and the band and tipped all of them a new half-rouble piece. The old man, without tottering, but still hopping on one foot, saw the guests off and told everybody, ‘That wedding cost two thousand.’

As they were leaving, the publican from Shikalovo discovered that his fine new coat had been exchanged for an old one. Anisim suddenly flared up and yelled, ‘Hold on! I’ll find it right away! I know who took it! Just wait a moment!’

He ran out into the street and chased after someone; they caught him, hauled him back to the house by the arms – he was drunk, red with anger and soaking wet – bundled him into the room where Auntie had been helping Lipa to undress and locked him in.

IV

Five days passed. When Anisim was ready to leave, he went upstairs to say goodbye to Varvara. All the icon-lamps in her room were burning and there was a strong smell of incense. She was sitting by the window knitting a red woollen sock.

‘You didn’t stay very long,’ she said. ‘Got bored, did you? Dear, dear me… We live well here, we’ve got plenty of everything, and we did the right thing by you and gave you a proper wedding. The old man said it cost two thousand. So I’ll come straight to the point. We live in the lap of luxury here, only I find it all a bit boring. And how badly we treat the peasants! It plain makes my heart ache, dear, to think how we treat them. My God! Whether it’s horse-dealing, buying, taking on a new workman – we do nothing but cheat… cheat… cheat. That butter we sell in the shop has turned rancid and rotten – some people’s tar is better! Tell me, why can’t we sell decent stuff, eh?’

‘It’s none of my business, Mama.’

‘But we’re all going to die one day, aren’t we? You really should have a good talk with your father!…’

‘No, you should talk to him.’

‘Now, enough of that… I’ll say my piece and then he’ll tell me – just like you, without beating about the bush – that it’s none of my business. They’ll show you in heaven, they will, whose business it is! God is just.’

‘Well of course, there’s no chance of that,’ Anisim said, sighing. ‘There is no God anyway, Mama. So who’s going to tell me what I should do?’

Varvara looked at him in amazement, burst out laughing and clasped her hands together. Her sincere astonishment at what he had just said, together with the way she was looking at him as though he were some kind of crank, deeply embarrassed him.

‘Perhaps there is a God, but I don’t believe in him,’ he said. ‘All through the wedding service I didn’t feel myself at all. Imagine you just took an egg from underneath a hen while the chick’s still cheeping inside it… Well, my conscience suddenly started cheeping and while we were being married I kept thinking that God does exist! But as soon as I was outside the church it had all gone from my mind! Anyway, how do you expect me to know if there’s a God or not? We weren’t taught about him, right from the time we were very young, and a young baby can still be sucking his mother’s breasts and all they teach him is mind your own business. Papa doesn’t believe in God either, does he? You said once that the Guntorevs had some sheep stolen… I found out it was that peasant from Shikalovo. He stole them, but it’s Papa who’s got the skins! There’s religion for you!’ Anisim winked and shook his head.

‘The chairman of the parish council doesn’t believe in God, either,’ he went on, ‘nor does the clerk, nor the lay reader. And if they do go to church to keep the fasts it’s only so that people won’t go saying nasty things about them – and just in case there is a Day of Judgement, after all. Now they’re all talking as if the end of the world has come, because people have got slack in their ways, don’t respect their parents and so on. That’s a load of rubbish. Now, the way I see it, Mama, is that all unhappiness comes from people not having a conscience. I can see right through them, Mama, I understand. I can see if a man’s wearing a stolen shirt or not. Take someone sitting in a pub – you might think all he’s doing is just drinking tea. But tea or no tea, I can tell if he’s got a conscience. You can go around all day and not find anyone with a conscience, all because people don’t know if there’s a God or not… Well, goodbye, Mama, I wish you long life and happiness – and don’t think too badly of me.’

Anisim bowed very low. ‘Thanks for everything, Mama,’ he added. ‘You’re a real help to the family, a right good woman and I’m very pleased with you.’

Anisim felt deeply moved as he left the room, but he came straight back and said, ‘Samorodov’s got me mixed up in some deal: it’ll make or break me. If the worst should happen, Mama, please comfort my Papa.’

‘What are you on about now? Dear, dear me! God is merciful. And you, Anisim, should show that wife of yours a little affection or you’ll be turning your noses up at each other. You should both smile a bit, really!’

‘But she’s such a strange one…’ Anisim said with a sigh. ‘Doesn’t understand anything, never says anything. But she’s still very young, I must give her a chance to grow up a little.’

A tall, well-fed white stallion, harnessed to a cabriolet, was already waiting at the front door.

Old Tsybukin came running up, leapt into it with the energy of a young man and grasped the reins. Anisim exchanged kisses with Varvara, Aksinya and his brother. Lipa was standing at the front door as well, quite still, and her eyes were turned to one side, as though she had not come to see him off at all but just happened to have turned up for some mysterious reason. Anisim went over to her, barely touched her cheek with his lips and said, ‘Goodbye.’ She didn’t look at him and she smiled very strangely. Her face was trembling and everyone felt somewhat sorry for her. Anisim also leapt in and sat there with hands on hips, so convinced he was of his good looks.

As they drove up out of the ravine, Anisim kept looking back at the village. It was a fine warm day. For the first time that year, cattle had been led out to graze and young girls and women were walking round the herd in their holiday dresses. A brown bull bellowed, rejoicing in its freedom, and pawed the earth with its front hoofs. Larks were singing everywhere – on the ground and high up above. Anisim glanced back at the graceful church, which had recently been whitewashed, and he remembered that he had prayed there five days ago. And he looked back at the school, with its green roof, at the river where he once swam or tried to catch fish, and his heart thrilled with joy. He wanted a wall suddenly to rise up out of the ground to block his path, so that he could remain there, with only the past.

They went into the station bar and drank a glass of sherry. The old man started fumbling about in his pocket for his purse.

‘Drinks on me,’ Anisim said.

The old man clapped him affectionately on the shoulder and winked at the barman, as though wanting to say, ‘See what a son I’ve got!’

‘Anisim, you should really stay here with us and help in the business,’ he said. ‘You’d be priceless! I’d load you with money, from head to foot, dear boy!’

The sherry had a sourish taste and smelt of sealing-wax, but they both drank another glass.

When the old man got back from the station, he did not recognize his younger daughter-in-law any more. The moment her husband left, Lipa changed completely and became bright and cheerful. In her bare feet, with her sleeves tucked right up to her shoulders, she washed the staircase in the hall and sang in a thin, silvery voice. And when she carried the huge tub full of dirty water outside and looked at the sun with that childish smile of hers, she was like a skylark herself.

An old workman, who was passing the front door, shook his head and wheezed, ‘Oh yes, Grigory Petrov, that’s a fine daughter-in-law God’s blessed you with. No ordernery girl, but a real treasure!’

V

On 8 July (a Friday), ‘Crutchy’ Yelizarov and Lipa were coming back from their pilgrimage to the village of Kazansk, where the Festival of Our Lady of Kazan had been celebrated. Lipa’s mother, Praskovya, lagged a long way behind, as she was in poor health and short of breath. It was late afternoon.

As he listened to Lipa, Crutchy kept making startled ‘ooh’s and ‘ah’s.

‘I just love jam, Ilya Makarych!’ Lipa said. ‘I like to sit in a little corner, all on my own, and just drink tea with jam in it. Or if Varvara drinks a cup with me, she tells me things that I find really touching. They’ve piles of jam, four jars in all, and they say, “Eat up, Lipa, don’t be shy.”’

‘Aah! Four jars!’

‘They live very well and give you white rolls with your tea and as much beef as you want. Yes, they live well, only it’s a bit scary there, Ilya Makarych, ooh, so scary!’

‘What’s scary, dear?’ Crutchy asked, as he looked back to see how far behind Praskovya was.

‘To begin with, as soon as the wedding was over, I got scared of Anisim Grigorych. He’d done nothing nasty to me, but I had the shivers all over, in every bone, every time he came near. At night I couldn’t sleep a wink and I kept shaking all over and prayed to God. But now it’s Aksinya I’m frightened of, Ilya Makarych. She’s all right really, always smiling. It’s only when she looks out of the window, her eyes get so angry, all green and burning – just like a sheep in its shed. Those young Khrymins are always leading her astray. “Your old man’s got a bit of land at Butyokhino, more than a hundred acres,” they tell her. “There’s sand and water, so you could build a brickworks there, Aksinya, and we’ll go halves.” Bricks are nearly twenty roubles a thousand now, could be a good thing. So yesterday Aksinya goes and tells the old man, “I want to start a brickworks at Butyokhino, I’ll be in charge myself.” She smiled when she said this, but Grigory Petrov gave her a blank look and didn’t seem at all pleased. So he says, “While I’m alive, I’m not going to start dividing everything up, we must do everything together.” But she looked daggers at him and ground her teeth… then we had pancakes, but she wouldn’t touch them!’

‘A-ah!’ Crutchy said in amazement. ‘Wouldn’t touch ’em!’

‘And you should just see the way she sleeps!’ Lipa continued. ‘She’ll doze off for half an hour, then all of a sudden she’ll jump up and start running round to see if the peasants have started a fire or stolen anything… It’s terrible being with her, Ilya Makarych! Those Khrymin sons didn’t go to bed after the wedding, but went straight off to town to bring the law on each other. And they say it’s all Aksinya’s doing. Two of the brothers promised to build her the brickyard, which made the third one mad. As the mill was shut down then for a month, my Uncle Prokhor had no work and had to go begging for scraps round people’s backyards. So I said, “Look, Uncle, until it’s open again, why don’t you go and do some ploughing or woodchopping, why bring shame on yourself like this!” So he said, “Lost the’abit of farm work I’ave, can’t do nothing, Lipa dear.”’

They stopped by a young aspen grove for a rest and to wait until Praskovya caught them up. Yelizarov had been a jobbing carpenter for some time but, as he didn’t have a horse, he used to go round the entire district on foot and all he took with him was a little bag of bread and onions. He took long strides, swinging his arms, and it was hard to keep up with him.

A boundary post stood at the entrance to the grove and Yelizarov tested it with his hands to see if it was sound. Then along came Praskovya, gasping for breath. Her wrinkled, perpetually anxious face beamed with happiness. That same day she had gone to church, like the others, and then she went along to the fair and had a drink of pear kvass.⁴ This was so unusual for her that now she even felt – for the first time in her life – she was really enjoying herself. After they had rested, all three of them started off again together. The sun was already setting and its rays pierced the leaves and shone on the tree-trunks. They could hear loud shouting ahead – the girls of Ukleyevo had been out a long time before them but had stopped there in the grove, most probably to pick mushrooms.

‘Hey, me gi-irls,’ Yelizarov shouted. ‘Hey, me beauties!’

He was answered by laughter.

‘Crutchy’s coming! Crutchy, you silly old fogey!’

And their echoing voices sounded like laughter as well. Now the grove was behind them. They could already see the tops of factory chimneys and the glittering cross on the belfry. This was the village, the same one where ‘the lay reader ate all the caviare at a funeral’.

Now they were almost home and had only to go down into that great ravine. Lipa and Praskovya, who had been walking barefoot, sat down on the grass to put their shoes on and the carpenter sat down beside them. From high up, Ukleyevo looked pretty and peaceful with its willows and white church, its little river – a view spoilt only by the factory chimneys which had been painted a nasty dark grey: they had used cheap paint to save money. On the slope on the far side they could see rye lying in stooks and sheaves, scattered all over the place as if blown around in a storm; some of the rye lay in freshly cut swathes. The oats were ready as well and shone like mother-of-pearl in the sun. It was the height of harvest-time, but that day was a rest day. The following morning, a Saturday, they would be gathering in the rye and hay, and then they would rest again on the Sunday. Every day distant thunder rumbled; it was close and humid, and rain seemed to be in the air. As they looked at the fields, the villagers only thought about one thing – God willing, they would get the harvesting done in time – and they felt cheerful, gay and anxious all at once.

‘Reapers cost money these days,’ Praskovya exclaimed. ‘One rouble forty a day!’

Meanwhile more and more people kept pouring in from the fair at Kazansk. Peasant women, factory-hands wearing new caps, beggars, children… A cart would rumble past in a cloud of dust, with an unsold horse (which seemed very pleased at the fact) trotting along behind it; then came an obstinate cow, which was being dragged along by the horns; then another cart rolled past, full of drunken peasants who let their legs dangle over the sides. One old woman came past with a boy who wore a large hat and big boots; he was exhausted by the heat and the weight of the boots, which didn’t let him bend his knees, but in spite of this he kept blowing his toy trumpet for all he was worth. Even after they had reached the bottom of the ravine and turned down the main street, the trumpet could still be heard.

‘Those factory owners ain’t themselves at all,’ Yelizarov said. ‘Something shocking, it is! Kostyukov got mad at me. He says, “That’s a lot of wood you’ve used for the cornices.” “How come?” I says. “Only as much as was needed, Vasily Danilych. I don’t eat them planks with me porridge.” “What?” he says. “How dare you, you blockhead, you riff-raff!” Then he starts shouting away, “Don’t forget, I made a contractor out of you.” “So what?” I replies. “Before I was a carpenter, I still’ad me cup of tea every day.” And he replies, “You’re crooks, the whole lot of you…” I says nothing and thinks to meself, “Oho! I may be a crook in this world, but you’ll be doing the swindling in the next.” Next day he changes his tune: “Now don’t get mad at what I said. If I went a bit too far, it’s only because I belong to the merchants’ guild, which means I’m your superior and you shouldn’t answer back.” So I says to him, “Okay, you’re a big noise in the merchants’ guild, and I’m only a carpenter. But Saint Joseph was a carpenter as well. Our work is honest and is pleasing to God. But if you think you’re superior, then that’s all right by me, Vasily Danilych.” After this – I mean after our talk – I starts thinking to meself, “Who is superior, really? A big merchant or a carpenter?” Well, of course, it must be the carpenter, children!’

Crutchy pondered for a moment and went on, ‘That’s how things are. It’s those what work and doesn’t give in what’s superior.’

The sun had set and a thick, milk-white mist was rising over the river, the fences and the clearings near the factories. And now with darkness swiftly advancing and lights twinkling down below, when that mist seemed to be hiding a bottomless abyss, Lipa and her mother, who were born beggars and were resigned to staying beggars for the rest of their lives, surrendering everything except their own frightened souls to others – perhaps even they imagined, for one fleeting moment, that they mattered in that vast mysterious universe, where countless lives were being lived out, and that they had a certain strength and were better than someone else. They felt good sitting up there, high above the village and they smiled happily, forgetting that eventually they would have to go back down again.

At last they arrived home. Reapers were sitting on the ground by the gates close to the shop. The Ukleyevo peasants usually refused to do any work for Tsybukin and farmhands had to be taken on from other villages; and now, in the darkness, it seemed that everyone sitting there had a long black beard. The shop was open and through the doorway one could see the deaf brother playing draughts with a boy. The reapers sang so softly it was hard to hear anything; when they weren’t singing, they would start shouting out loud for yesterday’s wages. But they were deliberately not paid, to stop them leaving before the next day. Old Tsybukin, wearing a waistcoat, without any frock-coat, was sitting drinking tea with Aksinya on the front-door steps under a birch tree. A lamp was burning on the table. ‘Grandpa!’ one of the reapers called out teasingly from the other side of the gates. ‘Grandpa, at least pay us half!’

Immediately there was laughter and then the singing continued, still barely audible… Crutchy joined them for tea.

‘Well, I mean to say, there we were at the fair,’ he began. ‘Having a great time, children, God be praised, when something nasty happened. Sashka, the blacksmith, bought some tobacco, and paid the man half a rouble.’ Crutchy took a look round and continued. ‘But it was a bad one.’ He was trying to keep his voice down to a whisper, but only managed to produce a hoarse, muffled sound which everyone could hear. ‘Yes, it was forged all right. So the man asked, “Where did you get it?” And Sashka says, “Anisim Tsybukin gave me it when I was enjoying meself at his wedding…” So they calls the policeman, who takes him away… You’d better watch out, Grigory Petrovich, in case anybody gets to hear…’

Again came that teasing voice from behind the gates: ‘Gra-and-pa!’ Then all was quiet.

‘Ah, me dear children,’ Crutchy muttered rapidly as he got up – he was feeling very drowsy – ‘thanks for the tea and sugar. Time for bed. I’m all mouldering, me timbers is rotting away. Ha, ha, ha!’

As he left, he said, ‘It must be time for me to die!’ and he burst out sobbing.

Old Tsybukin did not finish his tea, but still sat there thinking. From his expression it seemed he was listening to Crutchy’s footsteps, although he was well down the street by then.

‘That blacksmith, Sashka, was lying, perhaps,’ Aksinya said, reading his thoughts.

He went into the house and emerged with a small packet, and when he undid it, brand-new roubles glinted. He picked one up, bit it and threw it onto the tray. Then he threw another…

‘No doubt about it, they’re forged,’ he murmured and gave Aksinya a bewildered look. ‘They’re the same as those Anisim gave away at the wedding.’

Then he thrust the packet into her hands and whispered, ‘Take them, go on, take them and throw them down the well, blast’em. And don’t say a thing, in case there’s trouble. Clear the samovar away and put the lamps out…’

As they sat in the shed, Lipa and Praskovya saw the lights go out, one by one. Only upstairs, in Varvara’s room, were there some red and blue icon-lamps still burning and their glow imparted a feeling of peace, contentment and blissful ignorance. Praskovya just could not get used to the idea of her daughter being married to a rich man and when she came to visit them she would cower in the hall and smile pleadingly – then they would send her some tea and sugar. It was the same with Lipa, and as soon as her husband went away she did not sleep in her own bed any more, but anywhere she could – in the kitchen or the barn; every day she scrubbed the floor or did the laundry and she felt she was being used as a charwoman. Now that they were back from their pilgrimage they drank tea in the kitchen with the cook, then went into the shed and lay down between the sledge and the wall. It was dark there and smelt of horse collars. All round the house lights went out and then they could hear the deaf brother locking the shop and the reapers settling down to sleep in the open. A long way off, at the Khrymin sons’ house, someone was playing that expensive accordion… Praskovya and Lipa began to doze off.

When someone’s footsteps woke them up everything was bright in the moonlight. Aksinya stood at the entrance to the shed with bed clothes in her arms. ‘It’s cooler out here, I think,’ she murmured. Then she came in and lay down, almost on the threshold; she was bathed in moonlight from head to foot. She could not sleep and breathed heavily, tossed and turned from the heat, and threw off most of the bedclothes. How proud and beautiful she looked in the magical moonlight. A few moments passed and those footsteps could be heard again. The white figure of the old man appeared in the doorway.

‘Aksinya,’ he called. ‘Are you here?’

‘Well!’ she answered angrily.

‘Yesterday I told you to throw that money down the well. Did you?’

‘What do you take me for, throwing good money into the water!’

‘Oh, my God!’ the old man muttered in terror and amazement. ‘You’re a real troublemaker… Oh, God in heaven…’

He wrung his hands and went away mumbling something under his breath. A few moments later Aksinya sat up and heaved a deep sigh of annoyance. Then she got up, bundled her bedclothes together and went outside.

‘Mother, why did you let me marry into this family!’ Lipa said.

‘People have to get married, my dear daughter. It’s not for us to say.’

And a feeling of inconsolable grief threatened to overwhelm them. At the same time they thought that someone was looking down on them from the very heights of heaven, out of the deep blue sky where the stars were, and that he could see everything that was happening in Ukleyevo and was watching over them. However much evil existed in the world, the night was still calm and beautiful, and there was, and always would be, truth in God’s universe, a truth that was just as calm and beautiful. The whole earth was only waiting to merge with that truth, just as the moonlight blended into the night.

Both of them were soothed by these thoughts and they fell asleep, snuggling up close to each other.

VI

The news of Anisim’s arrest for forging and passing counterfeit money had reached the village a long time ago. Months went by – more than half of the year: the long winter was past, spring arrived and everyone in the house and village was now used to the idea that Anisim was in prison. Whenever they passed the shop or the house at night-time they would be reminded of this. And the sound of the church bells, for some reason, also reminded them that Anisim was in prison awaiting trial.

A deep shadow seemed to be overhanging the yard. The house had grown dirty, the roof was rusty and the green paint on the heavy iron-bound shop door was peeling off and had become discoloured – or, as the deaf brother put it, had gone ‘all scabby’. And old Tsybukin himself seemed to have turned a dark colour. For a long time now he hadn’t trimmed his beard or his hair, which gave him a shaggy look, and no longer did he leap perkily into his carriage or shout, ‘God’ll feed yer!’ to beggars. His strength was failing and everything he did showed it. The villagers were not so scared of him any longer and the local constable sent in a report about what was going on in the shop – although he still received his share of the money. Tsybukin was summoned three times to the town to stand trial for the secret dealing in spirits; but the case was always postponed because witnesses kept failing to turn up, and all this was sheer torture for the old man.

He frequently visited his son, hired lawyers, submitted appeals, and donated banners to churches. He bought the governor of Anisim’s prison a silver glass-holder enamelled with the words: ‘Moderation in all things’, together with a long spoon.

‘There’s no one to help us, no one we can turn to,’ Varvara said. ‘Oh, dear, dear me… We should ask one of those gents to write to those what’s in charge… If only they could let him out before the trial! It’s wicked tormenting a young lad like that!’

Although she was very distressed, Varvara had put on weight, her skin was whiter, and as before she lit the icon-lamps in her room and made sure everything in the house was spotless, serving guests with jam and apple flans. The deaf brother and Aksinya worked in the shop. They had started a new business – the brickyard at Butyokhino – and Aksinya travelled out there nearly every day in a springless carriage. She drove herself and if she happened to pass friends on the way she would crane her neck, like a snake in the young rye, and give them a naïve and enigmatic smile. Meanwhile Lipa spent the whole time playing with her baby, who was born before Lent. It was a little boy, a skinny, pathetic, tiny thing, and it seemed strange that he could cry and could see, that he was a human being and even had a name – Nikifor. As he lay in his cradle, Lipa would walk over to the door, curtsey and say, ‘Hullo, Nikifor Anisimych.’ She would dash over and kiss him, and then go back to the door, curtsey again and repeat, ‘Hullo, Nikifor Anisimych!’ He would kick his little red legs up in the air and his cries mingled with laughter – just like Yelizarov the carpenter.

Finally the day of the trial was fixed and the old man left five days before it was due to start. Later they heard that some peasants from the village had been hauled in as witnesses. An old workman was summoned as well and off he went.

The trial started on a Thursday, but Sunday came and still the old man had not returned, and there was no news at all. Late on the Tuesday afternoon, Varvara was sitting at the open window listening out for the old man. In the next room Lipa was playing with her baby, tossing him up in the air and catching him in her arms.

‘You’re going to be such a big man, oh so big!’ she told him in raptures. ‘You’ll be a farm worker and we’ll go out to work together in the fields. We’ll go out to work!’

‘Well, well,’ Varvara said in a very offended voice. ‘What kind of work do you think you’re going to do, you stupid cow. He’s going to be a merchant like us!…’

Lipa began to sing softly, but soon stopped and told the child again, ‘You’re going to grow up into such a big, big man! You’ll be a farm worker, we’ll go out to work together!’

‘Oh, so it’s all arranged then!’

Lipa stopped in the doorway with Nikifor in her arms and asked, ‘Mama dear, why do I love him so much?’ Then she continued in a trembling voice, and her eyes glistened with tears, ‘Why do I feel so sorry for him? Who is he? What is he, after all? He’s as light as a feather or a crumb, but I love him, just like a real human being. He’s quite helpless, can’t say anything, but I can always tell what he wants from his dear little eyes.’

Varvara listened hard: in the distance she could make out the sound of the evening train drawing into the station. Was the old man on it? She no longer heard or understood what Lipa was saying, nor did she notice how the minutes ticked by: all she did was shake all over – not with fear but intense curiosity. She saw a cartful of peasants quickly rumble past: these were witnesses returning from the station. As the cart went by, the old workman leapt out and came into the yard, where she could hear people welcoming and questioning him.

‘All rights and property taken away,’ he said in a loud voice, ‘and six years’ hard labour in Siberia.’

They saw Aksinya coming out of the shop by the back door. She had just been selling some paraffin and she was holding the bottle in one hand and a funnel in the other. Some silver coins stuck out of her mouth.

‘Where’s Papa?’ she lisped.

‘Still at the station,’ the workman replied. ‘Said’e ’ll be along when it’s a bit darker.’

When the news about Anisim’s sentence to hard labour reached the yard, the cook started wailing in the kitchen, like someone lamenting the dead – she thought that the occasion called for it – ‘Oh, Anisim Grigorych, why have you left us, our very dearest…’

This frightened the dogs and they started barking. Varvara ran over to the window in a fit of despair and screamed out to the cook as hard as she could, ‘Sto-op it, Stepanida, sto-op it! For Christ’s sake, don’t torture us!’

They forgot to put the samovar on and in fact they couldn’t concentrate on anything. Only Lipa had no idea what had happened and she just carried on nursing her baby.

When the old man got back from the station, they did not ask him a thing. He greeted them and then wandered from room to room without saying a word. He didn’t have any supper.

‘We’ve no one to turn to…’ Varvara said when she was alone with the old man. ‘I asked you to go and see if any of them gents could do anything, but you wouldn’t listen. We should have appealed…’

‘But I did try,’ the old man replied, waving his arm. ‘As soon as they sentenced Anisim I went up to the gent what was defending him and he said, “There’s nothing I can do, it’s too late.” Anisim says it’s too late, as well. But the moment I got out of that courtroom I made a deal with a lawyer and gave him a little something in advance… I’ll wait and see for another week, then I’ll go and have another try. It’s all in the hands of God.’

The old man silently wandered around the house, and then came back and told Varvara, ‘I must be sickening for something. My head’s going round and round, everything’s all jumbled up.’

He shut the door so that Lipa couldn’t hear and continued in a soft voice, ‘There’s trouble with that money. You remember the first week after Easter, just before the wedding, Anisim brought me some new roubles and half roubles? I hid one of the packets but somehow or other the others got mixed up with my own money… Now when Uncle Dmitry Filatych, God rest his soul, was alive, he always went to Moscow or the Crimea to buy goods. He had a wife and once when he was away she started larking around with another man. She had six children. When he’d a drop or two he used to laugh. “Just can’t sort ’em out,” he says, “which ones are mine and which aren’t.” Now, I can’t make out what money’s real and what’s forged. Looks like it’s all forged.’

‘Well, for heaven’s sake now!’

‘I goes and buys my ticket at the station, hands over three roubles and I starts thinking they’re forged. Scared the living daylights out of me. That’s why I’m feeling so bad.’

‘Look, we’re all in the hands of God,’ Varvara murmured, shaking her head. ‘That’s something you should be thinking of, Grigory. Who knows what may happen, you’re not young any more. Once you’re dead and gone, they’ll do your grandson an injury. Oh, I’m so frightened they’ll do something to Nikifor! You might as well say he’s got no father, and his mother’s so young and stupid… You ought to put something by for him – at least some land. Yes, what about Butyokhino? Think about it!’

Varvara kept on trying to persuade him, adding, ‘He’s a pretty boy, it’s such a shame. Now, there’s no point in waiting, just go tomorrow and sign the papers.’

‘Yes, I’d forgotten about my little grandson,’ Tsybukin said. ‘I must go and see him. You say there’s nothing wrong with him? Well then, may he grow up healthy – God willing!’

He opened the door and curled his finger, beckoning Lipa over to him. She went up to him with the baby in her arms.

‘Now Lipa, dear, you only have to tell me if there’s anything you need,’ he said. ‘You can have whatever you like to eat, we won’t grudge you anything. You must keep your strength up.’ He made the sign of the cross over the baby. ‘And look after my grandson. I haven’t got a son any more, just a grandson.’ Tears streamed down his cheeks. He sobbed and left the room. Soon afterwards he went to bed and fell into a deep sleep – after seven sleepless nights.

VII

The old man made a short trip into town. Someone had told Aksinya that he had gone to see a solicitor to make his will and that Butyokhino (where she was running the brickworks) had been left to his grandson Nikifor. She learnt this one morning when the old man and Varvara were sitting by the front door, drinking tea in the shade of the birch tree. Aksinya locked the front and back doors to the shop, collected as many keys as she could find and flung them at the old man’s feet.

‘I’m not working for the likes of you any more,’ she shouted and suddenly burst out sobbing. ‘Seems I’m your charwoman, not your daughter-in-law any more! Everyone’s laughing at me and says, “Just look what a fine worker the Tsybukins have found for themselves!” But you didn’t take me in as a housemaid. I’m not a beggar or a common slut, I have a mother and father.’

Without wiping her tears away, she glared at the old man; her eyes were brimming over with tears, had an evil look and squinted angrily. She shouted so hard her face and neck were red and taut from the effort. ‘I’m not going to slave for you any more, I’ve worn myself to the bone! I’m expected to work all day long in the shop and sneak out for vodka at night, while you go and give land away to a convict’s wife and her little devil. She’s the lady of the house round here and I’m her slave. So give that convict’s wife the lot and may she choke! I’m going home. Find yourself another fool, you damned bastard!’

The old man had never used bad language or punished his children and he just could not imagine one of his own family speaking rudely to him or being disrespectful. And now he was scared out of his wits. He rushed into the house and hid behind a cupboard. Varvara was so petrified she just could not stand up and she waved her arms in the air as though shooing a bee away.

‘Oh, what’s going on?’ she muttered in horror. ‘What’s she shouting like that for? Oh, dear, dear me… The people will hear, please, please be quiet!’

‘You’ve given Butyokhino to a convict’s bird,’ Aksinya went on shouting. ‘Well, you can give her the whole lot, I don’t want anything from you! You can all go to hell! You’re a gang of crooks, all of you. I’ve seen enough now and I’ve had just about enough! You’re just like bandits, you’ve robbed the old and the young, anyone who comes near! Who sold vodka without a licence! And what about the forged coins? You’ve stuffed your money-boxes full of them and now you don’t need me any more!’

By now a crowd had gathered outside the wide-open gates and was staring into the yard.

‘Let them look!’ Aksinya screamed. ‘I’ll disgrace the lot of you. I’ll make you burn with shame! You’ll come grovelling!’

She called out to her deaf husband, ‘Hey, Stepan, let’s go home – and this minute! We’ll go back to my mother and father, I don’t want to live with convicts. Get ready!’

Washing was hanging on the line in the yard. She tore her skirts and blouses off (they were still damp) and threw them into her deaf husband’s arms. Then, in a blind fury, she rushed round all the clothes lines and tore everything down, other people’s washing as well, hurled it on the ground and trampled all over it.

‘Good God, stop her!’ Varvara groaned. ‘Who does she think she is? Let her have Butyokhino, let her have it, for Christ’s sake!’

The people standing by the gates said, ‘What a wo-oman, what a woman! She’s really blown her top. It’s shocking!’

Aksinya dashed into the kitchen, where they were doing laundry. Lipa was working there on her own, and the cook had gone down to the river to rinse some clothes. Clouds of steam rose from the tub and the cauldron by the stove, and the kitchen was dark and stuffy in the thick haze. A pile of dirty clothes lay on the floor and Nikifor was lying on a bench right next to it, so that he would not hurt himself if he fell off. He was kicking his little red legs up. Just as Aksinya came in, Lipa pulled her blouse out of the pile, put it in the tub and reached out for the large ladle of boiling water on the table.

‘Give that to me!’ Aksinya said, looking at her hatefully. Then she pulled the blouse out of the tub. ‘Don’t touch my things! You’re a convict’s wife and it’s time you knew your place and who you really are!’

Lipa was stunned, looked at her and did not seem to understand. But when she suddenly saw how Aksinya was looking at her and the baby, she did understand and she went numb all over.

‘You’ve taken my land, so take that!’

And she grabbed the ladle with the boiling water and poured it over Nikifor. A scream rang out, the like of which had never been heard in Ukleyevo and it was hard to believe it came from such a frail little creature as Lipa. Suddenly all was quiet outside. Without so much as a word, Aksinya went back into the house, with that same naïve smile on her face… All that time the deaf husband had been walking round the yard with an armful of washing and without hurrying or saying a word he started hanging it up to dry again. And not until the cook came back from the river did anyone dare to go and see what had happened in the kitchen.

VIII

Nikifor was taken to the local hospital, where he died towards evening. Lipa did not wait for the others to come and fetch her and she wrapped the body in a blanket and started walking home.

The hospital, which had just been built, with large windows, stood high up on a hill. It was flooded in the light of the setting sun and seemed to be burning inside. At the bottom of the hill was a small village. Lipa walked on down and sat by a pond before she reached it. A woman had brought her horse there for watering, but it would not drink.

‘What do you want, then?’ she was asking in a soft, bewildered voice. ‘What else?’

A boy in a red shirt was sitting at the water’s edge washing his father’s boots. Apart from them, there wasn’t a soul to be seen, either in the village or on the hillside.

‘Won’t drink, then?’ Lipa said, looking at the horse.

But at that moment the woman and the boy with the boots went away and then the place was completely deserted. The sun lay down to rest under a blanket of purple and gold brocade, and long red and lilac clouds stretching right across the sky were watching over it. From somewhere far off came the mournful, indistinct cry of a bittern, sounding just like a cow locked up in a shed. Every spring this mysterious bird’s song could be heard, but no one knew what it was or where it lived. Up by the hospital, in the bushes by the pond, beyond the village and in the fields all around, nightingales poured forth their song. A cuckoo seemed to be adding up someone’s age, kept losing count and starting again. In the pond, frogs croaked angrily to each other, almost bursting their lungs and one could even make out something sounding like ‘That’s what you are! That’s what you are!’ What a noise! It seemed that all these creatures were singing and crying out loud on purpose, so that no one could sleep on that spring evening, and so that everything – even the angry frogs – should treasure and savour every minute of it. After all, we only live once!

A silver crescent moon shone in the sky and there were innumerable stars. Lipa could not remember how long she had been sitting by the pond, but when she got up and went on her way everyone in the village had already gone to bed and there wasn’t a light to be seen. It was probably another eight miles back to the house, but all her strength had gone and she had no idea how she was going to get back. The moon shed its light first in front of her, then to the right, and that same cuckoo (its voice had grown hoarse by now) was still crying and its teasing laughter seemed to be saying, ‘Oh, look out, you’ll lose your way!’ Lipa hurried along and her shawl fell off and was lost. She looked at the sky and wondered where her child’s soul might be at that moment: was it following her or was it floating high up in the heavens, near the stars, and had forgotten its mother? How lonely it is at night out in the open fields, with all that singing, when you cannot sing yourself, amidst all those never-ending cries of joy when you can feel no joy yourself… when the moon, as lonely as you are, looks down from on high, indifferent to everything, whether it is spring or winter, whether people live or die… when the heart is heavy with grief it is hard to be alone. If only Praskovya, her mother, or Crutchy, or the cook, or any of the peasants were with her now!

‘Boo-oo!’ cried the bittern, ‘boo-oo!’

Then suddenly she heard a man’s voice, quite distinctly.

‘Get those horses harnessed, Vavila.’

Right ahead of her to one side of the road was a bonfire. The flames had died down and there remained only smouldering embers. She could hear a horse munching and then she made out two carts in the darkness, one laden with a barrel and the other, which was slightly lower, with two sacks; and she saw the shapes of two men. One of them was leading the horse to be harnessed, while the other stood motionless by the fire with his hands behind his back. A dog growled near one of the carts. The man who was leading the horse stopped and said, ‘Sounds like someone’s coming.’ The other one shouted at the dog, ‘Sharik, be quiet!’

From the voice she could tell it was an old man. Lipa stopped and said, ‘God be with you!’

The old man went up to her and after some hesitation said, ‘Hullo!’

‘Your dog doesn’t bite, does he, Grandpa?’

‘Don’t worry, he won’t touch you.’

‘I’ve just come from the hospital,’ Lipa said after a short silence. ‘My little boy’s just died there, I’m taking him home.’

The old man must have found this news unpleasant, as he moved away and said hurriedly, ‘Don’t worry, dear, it’s God’s will.’ Then he turned to his companion and said, ‘Stop dawdling, lad. Come on, look lively!’

‘Can’t find the shaft,’ the boy replied. ‘T’ain’t ’ere.’

‘You’re a dead loss, Vavila!’

The old man picked up a smouldering ember and blew on it; in its light she could distinguish his nose and eyes. When they at last managed to find the shaft he went over to Lipa holding the burning wood and looked at her. His face was full of compassion and tenderness.

‘Well, you’re a mother,’ he said. ‘Every mother feels sorry for her child.’

With these words he sighed and shook his head. Vavila threw something onto the fire, stamped on it and suddenly there was nothing but darkness again. Everything disappeared and once more all Lipa could see were those same fields, the starlit sky; the birds were still making a noise, keeping each other awake, and Lipa thought she could hear a corncrake crying from the very spot where the bonfire had been. But a minute later she could see the carts again, the old man and the tall figure of Vavila. The carts creaked as they moved out onto the road.

‘Are you holy men?’ Lipa asked the old man.

‘No, we’re from Firsanovo.’

‘When you looked at me just now, it made my heart go soft all over. And that boy’s so well-behaved. That’s why I thought you were holy men.’

‘Got far to go?’

‘Ukleyevo.’

‘Get in, we’ll take you as far as Kuzmyonki. From there you go straight on and we turn left.’

Vavila sat in the cart with the barrel, while the old man and Lipa climbed into the other. They moved at walking-pace, with Vavila leading the way.

‘My little boy suffered all day long,’ Lipa said. ‘He’d look at me with his little eyes and say nothing – he wanted to tell me something, but couldn’t. God in heaven, Holy Virgin! I just fell on the floor with grieving. Then I’d get up and fall down by his bed. Can you tell me, Grandpa, why little children have to suffer so before dying? When a grown-up man or a woman suffers, their sins are forgiven them. But why should a little child who’s never sinned suffer so? Why?’

‘Who knows!?’ the old man answered.

They drove on in silence, for half an hour.

‘We can’t always know the whys and wherefores,’ the old man said. ‘A bird’s got two wings, not four, just because two’s enough to fly with. In the same way, man isn’t meant to know everything, only half or a quarter. He just knows enough to get him through life.’

‘Grandpa, I’d feel better walking now. My heart’s pounding.’

‘Don’t be sad, just sit where you are.’

The old man yawned, then made the sign of the cross before his mouth.

‘Don’t be sad…’ he repeated, ‘your troubles aren’t so terrible. It’s a long life, and you’ll go through good and bad, all kinds of things.’

He looked around him, then back, and went on, ‘Mother Russia is so great! I’ve travelled all over it and I’ve seen everything, mark my words, dear. There’s good to come, and bad. I’ve gone as a foot-messenger to Siberia, I’ve been on the Amur,⁵ in the Altay.⁶ I settled in Siberia, ploughed me own land. Then I pined for Mother Russia and came back to the village where I was born. Came back on foot, we did. I remember, I was on a ferry once,⁷ not an ounce of flesh on me, all in rags, no shoes on me feet, frozen stiff, sucking away at a crust, when a gent what was crossing on the same ferry – if he’s passed on, then God rest his soul – looks at me with pity in his eyes, and the tears just flowed. Then he says, “Your beard is black – and your life’ll be the same too…” When I got back I didn’t ’ave’ouse nor’ome, as the saying goes. I did’ave a wife but she stayed behind in Siberia and she’s buried there. So I goes and works as a farmhand. And what next? I’ll tell you what – there was good and there was bad times. And now I don’t want to die, me dear, I’d like to hang on for another twenty years. That means I must ’ave’ad more good times than bad! Oh, Mother Russia is so big!’ Once again he looked around as he said this.

‘Grandpa,’ Lipa asked, ‘when someone dies, how long does the soul wander over the earth?’

‘Well, who can say! Let’s ask Vavila, he’s been to school. Teach ’em everything these days.’ The old man shouted, ‘Vavila!’

‘What?’

‘Vavila, when someone dies, how long does the soul wander over the earth?’

Vavila made the horse stop first and then replied, ‘Nine days. When my uncle Kirilla died, his soul lived on in our hut for thirteen days.’

‘But how do you know?’

‘There was a knocking in the stove for thirteen days.’

‘All right. Let’s be on our way now,’ the old man said, clearly not believing one word of it.

Near Kuzmyonki the carts turned off onto the main road, while Lipa went straight on. Already it was getting light. As she went down into the ravine, the huts and church at Ukleyevo were hidden by mist. It was cold and she thought she could hear the same cuckoo calling.

Lipa was home before the cattle had been taken out to graze. Everyone was still sleeping. She sat on the front steps and waited. The first to come out was the old man. One look told him everything and for quite a while he couldn’t say one word but just made a smacking noise with his lips.

‘Oh, Lipa,’ he said, ‘you didn’t look after my grandson…’

They woke Varvara up. She wrung her hands, burst out sobbing and immediately started laying the baby out.

‘And he was the loveliest little boy…’ she muttered again and again. ‘Oh, dear, dear me… Her one and only child and still she couldn’t look after it, the stupid girl!’

Prayers were said in the morning and evening. Next day the child was buried, and after the funeral the guests and clergy ate a great deal and with such enormous appetites it seemed they hadn’t eaten for a long, long time. Lipa served them food at the table and the priest held up his fork with a pickled mushroom on the end of it and told her, ‘Don’t grieve for your child, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’

Only when everyone had left did Lipa fully realize that Nikifor was gone, would never come back and she began to sob. She didn’t know which room to go into to have a good cry, since she felt that after her child’s death there was no longer any place for her in that house, that she was no longer needed, that no one wanted her; and the others felt the same as well.

‘Well, now, what’s all this wailing for?’ Aksinya suddenly shouted, as she appeared in the doorway. For the funeral she had specially put on a new dress and she had powdered her face. ‘Shut up!’

Lipa wanted to stop but she just couldn’t and sobbed even louder.

‘Did you hear!’ Aksinya screamed and stamped her feet furiously. ‘Who d’ye think you are, then? Clear off, and don’t ever set foot in this house again, you convict’s bird! Clear off!’

‘Now now… come on…’ the old man said fussily, ‘calm down, Aksinya, dear, please… It’s very understandable she’s crying… she’s lost her baby…’

‘Understandable…’ Aksinya said, mimicking him. ‘She can stay the night then, but I want her out by the morning.’ Again she mimicked him and said, ‘Understandable!’, laughed and went off to the shop.

Early next morning Lipa went home to her mother at Torguyevo.

IX

These days the roof and the door of the shop are painted freshly and shine like new. Cheerful-looking geraniums are blossoming in their window-boxes as they used to do, and what happened three years ago at the Tsybukins’ is almost forgotten.

Old Grigory Petrov is still looked upon as the master, but in fact Aksinya is in charge of everything. She does the buying and selling, and nothing is done without her permission. The brickyard is prospering – since bricks are needed for the railway, the price has risen to twenty-four roubles a thousand. Women and girls cart the bricks to the station, load the wagons and get twenty-five copecks for it.

Aksinya has gone into partnership with the Khrymins and the factory now bears the name: KHRYMIN SONS & CO. They have opened a pub near the station and it’s there, not at the factory, that the expensive accordion is played now. Among the regulars are the postmaster, who has also started a business of his own, and the stationmaster. The Khrymin sons gave the deaf husband a gold watch, and he takes it out of his pocket every now and then and holds it to his ear.

There is talk in the village that Aksinya is very powerful now. And one can see this when she drives to the factory in the mornings, looking pretty and happy (she still has that same naïve smile), and starts giving orders. Whether at home, in the village or in the factory, everyone is afraid of her. When she drops in at the post office, the postmaster leaps to his feet and says, ‘Please, do take a seat, Kseniya Abramovna!’

Once, when a rather elderly landowner, who was a bit of a dandy and wore a fine silk coat and high lacquered boots, was selling her a horse, he was so carried away that he sold her the horse at whatever price she wanted. He held her hand for a long time as he gazed into her gay, cunning, naïve eyes and told her, ‘I would do anything to please a woman like you, Kseniya Abramovna. Just tell me when we can meet again, without anyone disturbing us.’

‘Whenever you like!’

Since then the elderly dandy has been driving to the shop almost every day for some beer, which is plain revolting and has the bitter taste of wormwood. But the landowner just shakes his head and drinks it up.

Old Tsybukin doesn’t have anything to do with the business now. He doesn’t handle money any more, as he just can’t distinguish counterfeit coins from good ones, but he never says a word to anyone about this failing of his. He’s become rather forgetful and if no one gives him food, then he doesn’t ask for any – indeed, all the others are used to eating without him and Varvara often says, ‘My old man went to bed yesterday again without a bite to eat.’

And she says this from force of habit, as though she could not care less.

For some odd reason, the old man wears a heavy coat whether it’s winter or summer and he stays indoors only when it’s very hot. Well wrapped up in his fur coat, with the collar up, he strolls round the village, along the road to the station, or else he’ll sit on a bench by the church gates all day long. He’ll just stay there without budging. People greet him as they walk past, but he ignores them, as he dislikes peasants as much as ever. If they ask him a question he’ll give them an intelligent, polite but curt reply. There’s talk in the village that his daughter-in-law has thrown him out of his own house and refuses him food, so that he has to rely on charity. Some of the villagers are glad, others feel sorry for him.

Varvara is even fatter now and she looks paler too. She still does her good deeds and Aksinya keeps out of her way. There’s so much jam that they can’t get through it all before the next crop of berries is ready. It crystallizes and Varvara is almost reduced to tears, not knowing what to do with it. And they have almost forgotten all about Anisim. A letter did come from him once, written in verse, on a large sheet of paper – just like an official appeal and in that same lovely handwriting. Clearly, his friend Samorodov was doing time in the same prison. Beneath the verses there was one line, in ugly writing that was almost impossible to decipher: ‘I’m always ill in this place, it’s terrible, please help me, for the love of Christ.’

One fine autumn day, in the late afternoon, old Tsybukin was sitting near the church gates, his collar turned up so high that only his nose and the peak of his cap were visible. At the other end of the long bench Yelizarov, the carpenter, was sitting next to Yakov, the school caretaker, a toothless old man of seventy, and they were having a chat.

‘Children should see that old people have enough to eat – honour thy father and thy mother,’ Yakov was saying with great annoyance. ‘But as for her, that daughter-in-law, she threw her father-in-law out of’is own’ouse. The old man has nothing to eat or drink – and where can’e go?’Asn’t eaten nothing for three days.’

‘Three days!’ Crutchy exclaimed.

‘Yes, all ’e does is just sit and say nothing. He’s very weak now. Why should we keep quiet about it? She should be sent for trial – they wouldn’t let her off so lightly in court!’

‘Who did they let off lightly in court?’ Crutchy asked, not catching what the other had said.

‘What?’

‘His old girl’s all right, a real worker. In their kind of business you can’t get far without hard work… not without a bit of fiddling, I mean…’

‘Thrown out of his own’ouse,’ Yakov said as irritably as before. ‘You earns money to buy your own’ouse, then you have to clear out. She’s a right one, eh? A real pest!’

Tsybukin listened and didn’t move an inch.

‘What does it matter if it’s your own house or someone else’s, as long as it’s warm and the women don’t start squabbling?’ Crutchy said and burst out laughing. ‘When I was a young lad, I’ad a real soft spot for my Nastasya. Quiet little woman she was. She kept on telling me, “Ilya Makarych, buy a house, buy a house! Buy a house!” When she was dying, she still kept saying, “Ilya Makarych, buy a nice fast droshky, so’s we won’t have to walk.” But all I ever bought her was gingerbread, nothing else.’

‘That deaf husband of ’ers is an idiot,’ Yakov went on, as though he hadn’t been listening. ‘A real clot, like a goose. Expect him to understand anything? You can bash a goose on the’ead with a stick but it won’t understand.’

Crutchy got up to make his way back to the factory. So did Yakov, and they both set off together, still chatting away. When they had gone about fifty paces, old Tsybukin stood up and shuffled off after them, stepping very gingerly, as though walking on slippery ice.

The village had already sunk deep into the dusk and the sun was shining now only on the highest stretch of the road, which twisted down the slope like a snake. Old women and their children were returning from the forest and they carried baskets full of coral milkcap and agaric mushrooms. Women and young girls crowded back from the station where they had been loading bricks onto wagons and their noses and cheeks – just below the eyes – were caked with the red dust. They sang as they came. Lipa walked on in front of everybody and her thin voice broke into overflowing song as she looked up at the sky, and it was as if she were celebrating some victory and rejoicing that the day, thank God, was at an end, and that now she could rest. Her mother, Praskovya, was in the crowd, carrying her little bundle in her hand and – as always – gasping for breath.

‘Good evening, Ilya Makarych!’ Lipa said when she saw Crutchy. ‘Hullo, my poppet!’

‘Good evening, darling Lipa,’ Crutchy joyfully replied. ‘My dear women and girlies, be nice to the rich carpenter! Oho, my dear little children, my children,’ (he started sobbing), ‘my darlings!’

The women could hear Crutchy and Yakov talking as they walked away. Immediately they had disappeared, old Tsybukin came towards the crowd and everything went quiet. Lipa and Praskovya were lagging a little way behind the others and when the old man caught them up Lipa made a deep curtsey and said, ‘Good evening, Grigory Petrov!’

And the mother curtseyed as well. The old man stopped and looked at them without saying a word. His lips were trembling and his eyes full of tears. Lipa took a piece of buckwheat pie out of her mother’s bundle and handed it to him. He took it and started eating.

Now the sun had completely set and its light was gone even from the high stretch of road. It became dark and cool. Lipa and Praskovya continued on their way and kept crossing themselves for a long time afterwards.