The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Master and Man (14 page)

They went back down the trampled village street, its snow discolored here and there by fresh dung, past the yard with the washing where the white shirt had torn itself free and was hanging by one frozen arm, and drove out to the dreadfully moaning line of willows. Once again they found themselves in open country. Far from slackening, the snowstorm seemed to have got even stronger. The road was completely snowed under, and you could only tell you weren’t going wrong by the roadside markers. But even the stakes just ahead were hard to see, because the wind blew straight into their faces.

Vassili Andreyich was screwing up his eyes, bending his head forward, looking out for stakes, but mostly he gave the horse its head, putting his trust in him. Sure enough, Mukhorty didn’t lose his way but kept going, turning this way and that as the road demanded, feeling it under his hooves, so that even though the snow and wind grew stronger, the stakes continued to appear to their left and right.

They went on like that for about ten minutes, when suddenly something dark appeared in front of them, moving through the slanting net of wind-driven snow. It was a group of fellow travelers. Mukhorty caught up to them and knocked against the sledge in front with his forelegs.

“Go ahe-e-ead!” they shouted from the other sledge.

Vassili Andreyich started to overtake them. There were three peasants and a woman sitting in the sledge, evidently visitors returning from the festival. One was lashing the snow-covered rump of their little horse with a switch. Two others, waving their arms, were shouting something from the front. The woman, motionless, bundled up, and covered in snow, hunched in the back.

“Where are you from?” shouted Vassili Andreyich.

“From A-a-!” was all they could hear.

“Come again?”

“From A-a-a-a!” one of the peasants bellowed at the top of his voice, just as unintelligibly.

“Keep up! Don’t let them past!” shouted the other, ceaselessly thwacking his little horse with the switch.

“From the festival, then?”

“Keep up, Syomka! Get on! Overtake them!”

The sledge runners knocked against each other and nearly locked, but broke loose again, and the peasants’ sledge began to fall behind.

Their shaggy, potbellied horse was white with snow, stumbling on stumpy little legs through the deep drifts, vainly trying to run away from the thrashing switch. He was a young horse, clearly at the end of his tether, breathing heavily under the low shaft bow.

His lower lip was pulled back like a fish; his nostrils were flared and ears flattened with terror. This sight kept level by Nikita’s shoulder for a few seconds, then dropped behind.

“That’s drink for you,” said Nikita. “They’ve done for that little horse. Barbarians!”

For a few moments the tormented horse’s noisy breath and the drunken shouts of the peasants pursued them. The snuffled panting died away. Finally even the shouting couldn’t be heard. Once again there was silence around them, only the wind hissing in their ears and the runners occasionally grating over bare patches of road.

The encounter had cheered and encouraged Vassili Andreyich. With growing confidence he urged Mukhorty on, relying on him and neglecting the guideposts.

Nikita had nothing to do but doze, as he always did when he could, catching up on many hours’ lost sleep. Suddenly the horse stopped. Nikita jerked forward and nearly fell.

“Look here, the going’s got bad again,” said Vassili Andreyich.

“How’s that?”

“There are no stakes to be seen. We must have got off the road again.”

“If it’s lost, we’ll have to find it,” Nikita said shortly. He got down to feel his way about in the snow once more, stepping lightly on his pigeon-toed feet.

He walked about for a long time, disappearing from view, reappearing and disappearing again. At last he came back.

“There’s no road here; maybe it’s somewhere ahead,” he said, getting back on the sledge.

It was getting dark. The blizzard was no worse, but nor was it diminishing.

“If only we could hear those peasants,” said Vassili Andreyich.

“They haven’t caught us up, see; we must’ve lost our way a long way back. Maybe they’re lost too,” said Nikita.

“But where should we go?” asked Vassili Andreyich.

“We must give the horse his head,” said Nikita. “He’ll get us there. Give me the reins.”

Vassili Andreyich gave him the reins all the more willingly because his hands were beginning to freeze, even in his warm gloves.

Nikita took the reins and held them loosely, trying not to twitch them, delighting in his favorite. And indeed the clever horse, swiveling one ear and then the other from side to side, began to turn about.

“The only thing he can’t do is talk,” Nikita kept saying. “Look what he’s doing! Go on, go on, clever clogs! That’s it!”

The wind started blowing from behind and it grew warmer.

“And he’s clever,” Nikita went on, rejoicing in Mukhorty. “A Kirgiz nag is strong but stupid. But this one—look what he’s doing with his ears. No telegraph for him! He can sense things a mile off.”

And barely half an hour passed before something showed dark in front of them, whether forest or settlement, and on their right the stakes reappeared. They must have come out onto the road again.

“But this is Grishkino, all over again,” Nikita suddenly remarked.

Sure enough, to their left was the same threshing barn with snow pouring off its roof, and further on was the familiar washing line with its frozen linen, shirts, and trousers, thrashing just as desperately in the wind.

Once more they came into the village and once more it grew quiet, warm, and cheery. The dung-strewn street came back into view. As before, they heard the sound of voices and singing, and a dog began barking. It was already so dark that lights were burning in some of the windows.

Halfway down the street Vassili Andreyich turned his horse toward a large house with walls two bricks thick, and stopped at the porch.

Nikita went up to the snowy window, drifting snowflakes glittering in its glow, and knocked with his whip.

“Who’s that?” someone shouted in reply.

“Friends—Brekhunov, from Kresti. Come out a minute, could you?” Nikita answered.

The figure left the window, and a couple of minutes later they heard an inside door being pulled unstuck. The latch clacked in the outer door, and a tall old peasant with a white beard peered out, a half jacket thrown over his white holiday shirt, holding the door back against the wind. Behind him stood a young lad in a red shirt and leather boots.

“Is that really you, Andreyich?” said the old man.

“We’ve lost our way, brother,” said Vassili Andreyich. “We wanted to get to Goriachkin, and landed up here. We drove off and got lost again.”

“Good Lord, you have gone astray!” said the old man. “Petrushka, go and open the gates,” he said to the lad in the red shirt.

“Right away,” said the boy cheerfully and ran into the passage.

“But we won’t stop,” said Vassili Andreyich.

“You can’t drive off again—it’s dark now, stay the night.”

“I’d be glad to stay, but we must get on. It’s business, friend, I mustn’t.”

“Well, warm up a bit at least. The samovar’s waiting,” said the old man.

“A bit of warmth would be nice,” said Vassili Andreyich. “It won’t get any darker, and when the moon rises it’ll get lighter. Shall we go in then, Nikit, and get warm?”

“Warm up a bit? Why not?” said Nikita, who was frozen and keen to thaw himself out.

Vassili Andreyich went into the house with the old man. Nikita drove through the gates opened by Petrushka and, guided by him, took the horse under the overhanging roof of the barn. The barn was heaped so high with dung, the horse’s wooden yoke caught on the crossbeam. Some chickens and a cockerel already perched under the roof started clucking grumpily and scrabbled along the beam. The sheep shied away, their hooves tapping on the frozen dung. A frightened young dog whined miserably and barked angrily at the stranger.

Nikita talked to everyone. He apologized to the chickens and reassured them that he wouldn’t disturb them again. He rebuked the sheep for getting frightened without knowing why, and kept soothing the dog while he tied up the horse.

“There, that’s better,” he said, slapping the snow off himself. “Listen to you barking!” he went on to the dog. “Quiet, silly! That’s enough—you’re just upsetting yourself. We’re friends, not thieves.”

“And they’re what they call the three domestic advisers,” said the lad, pushing the rest of the sledge under the overhang with a strong shove.

“What d’you mean, advisers?” asked Nikita.

“That’s how it’s printificated in Pullson
¹⁰
—the thief steals up to the house, the dog barks—meaning, keep your wits about you, look out! The cockerel crows—that means, get up! The cat washes itself and that means a dear friend is coming, get ready to entertain him!” said the boy, smiling.

Petrushka could read and knew his only book, Paulson’s primer, almost by heart. Particularly when he was a bit drunk, like today, he loved quoting passages from it that seemed appropriate to him.

“That’s right,” said Nikita.

“Are you frozen, granddad?” Petrushka added.

“You could say that,” said Nikita, and they crossed the yard to the house.

4

The farmstead which Vassili Andreyich had come to was one of the richest in the village. The family owned five holdings
¹¹
and rented more land on the side. They had six horses in their yard, three cows, two calves, and some twenty sheep. They were a family of twenty-two: four married sons, six grandsons, of whom only Petrushka was married, two great-grandsons, three orphans, and four daughters-in-law with their children. It was one of the few farmsteads that had remained undivided, but here, too, the dull internal grumble of family strife, beginning as always among the womenfolk, would soon lead, swiftly and inevitably, to the division of the property. Two sons lived in Moscow as water carriers; another was in the army. At home now there was the old man and his wife, his second son—who was in charge of the homestead—and his oldest son, who had come from Moscow for the festival. Then there were all the wives and their children, and, apart from the family, a neighbor who was godfather to one of the children.

In the living quarters a shaded lamp hung above the table, brightly lighting the tea things, a bottle of vodka, and food below. It cast a glow on the brick walls, hung with icons in the holy corner, with pictures arranged on either side. Vassili Andreyich sat at the head of the table in just one short, black sheepskin, sucking in his frozen mustache and examining the people around him with his protuberant, hawklike eyes. As well as Vassili Andreyich, the bald, white-bearded old man, the head of the family, sat at the table in a white homespun shirt. Next to him was the son from Moscow, broad shouldered and brawny backed, in a thin cotton print shirt, and another broad-shouldered son, his younger brother
¹²
and the master of the household. Finally there was a skinny redheaded peasant, their neighbor.

The peasants, who’d had their vodka and a bite to eat, were just about to drink tea. The samovar was already humming on the floor by the oven. Children could be seen on top of the oven
¹³
and in the high bunks; on a lower bunk a woman bent by a cradle. The old man’s wife, her face and even her lips crisscrossed with the finest wrinkles, was attending to Vassili Andreyich.

As Nikita came in, she was offering her guest some vodka which she had just poured into a thick glass tumbler.

“Don’t refuse, Vassili Andreyich, you really mustn’t; drink to our holiday,” she was saying. “Do take a glass with us, dear.”

The sight and smell of the vodka, especially now, when he was worn out and frozen through, thoroughly discomfited Nikita. He frowned and, shaking off the snow from his cap and kaftan, went over to the icons. As if not seeing anyone, he crossed himself three times and bowed to the icons, then, turning to the old man presiding, bowed first to him and then to everyone else at the table, then to the women standing by the oven, and said, “A happy holiday to you.” He began to remove his outer clothes, keeping his eyes off the table.

“Well, haven’t you got frosty, uncle!” said the older brother, looking at Nikita’s face, eyebrows, and beard, all thick with snow.

Nikita took off his kaftan, shook it out again, hung it by the oven, and came up to the table. He was also offered vodka. There was a moment’s painful struggle. He nearly took a tumbler and knocked back the clear, aromatic liquor. But, glancing at Vassili Andreyich, he remembered his oath, remembered his lost leather boots, remembered the cooper, thought of his son and the horse he had promised to buy him, sighed, and refused.

“I don’t drink, thank you kindly,” he said, frowning, and sat down on a bench by the second window.

“How’s that?” asked the older brother.

“I just don’t drink, that’s all,” said Nikita, keeping his eyes lowered. Squinting down at his sparse whiskers and beard, he started thawing off the icicles.

“It’s not good for him,” said Vassili Andreyich, chasing the glass he’d drunk with a bite of bread.

“Then take a glass of tea,” said the old lady kindly. “You must be chilled to the bone, poor dear. What are you women dawdling about with that samovar?”

“It’s ready,” answered a young woman. Flicking the curtain over the samovar, which was now boiling over, she carried it across with difficulty, lifted it up, and bumped it onto the table.

Meanwhile Vassili Andreyich was describing how they had lost their way and come back to the same village twice, how they had strayed and the drunks they had met. Their hosts marveled and explained how and why they had gone wrong, who the drunkards had been, and told them exactly what road they should have taken.

“A baby could get from here to Molchanovka. It’s only a matter of getting the right turn off the big road, where the bush is. You just didn’t go far enough!” said the neighbor.