The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood] (7 page)

It was impossible, of course, to verify these rumours: "As for seeing it—why, nobody saw it. Well, and the Goat's tongue was hung in the middle when it came to telling absurd tales." The Bride herself, who had aged five years in that one week, replied to them with such insolent vituperation that even her own mother was terrified by her face at such moments. But the discussions provoked by the rumours did not cease, and every one awaited with immense impatience the arrival of Rodka and his chastisement of his wife. Much agitated—once more jarred out of his rut—Tik-hon Hitch also awaited that impending chastisement, having heard from his own labourers of what had occurred in the garden. Why, that scandal might end in murder! But it ended in such a manner that it is still a matter of doubt which would have startled the Durnovka folks more powerfully—murder, or such a

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termination. On the night before the Feast of St. Michael, Rodka, who had returned home "to change his shirt," and who had not laid a finger on the Bride, died suddenly of "stomach trouble"! This became known in Vorgol late in the evening; but Tikhon Hitch instantly gave orders to harness his horse, and drove at top speed, through the darkness and the rain, to his brother. And after having gulped down, on top of his tea, a whole bottle of fruit brandy, he made confession to him, in his burning excitement, with passionate expressions, and eyes wildly rolling: '"Tis my fault, brother; the sin is mine!"

Having heard him out, Kuzma held his peace for a long time, and for a long time paced up and down the room plucking at his fingers, twisting them, cracking their joints. At last he said: "Just think it over: is there any nation more ferocious than ours? In town, if a petty thief snatches from a hawker's tray a pancake worth a farthing, the whole population of the eating-house section pursues him, and when they catch him they force him to eat soap. The whole town turns out for a fire, or a fight, and how sorry they are that the fire or the fight is so soon ended! Don't shake your head, don't do it: they are sorry! And how they revel in it when some one beats his wife to death, or thrashes a small boy within an inch of his life, or jeers at him! That's the most amusing thing in the world."

Tikhon Hitch inquired: "What's your object in saying that?"

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"Just for the sake of talking!" replied Kuzma, angrily, and went on: "Take that half-witted girl, Fesha, who wanders about Durnovka, for example. The young fellows squander their last coppers on her—■ put her down on the village common and set to work whacking her over her cropped head, at the rate of ten whacks for a farthing! And is that done out of ill-nature? Yes, out of ill-nature, certainly; and also from a sort of stupidity, curse it! Well, and that's the case with the Bride."

"Bear in mind," interrupted Tikhon Hitch hotly, "that there are always plenty of blackguards and blockheads everywhere."

"Exactly so. And didn't you yourself bring that— well, what's his name?"

"Duck-headed Motya, you mean?" asked Tikhon Hitch.

"Yes, that's it. Didn't you bring him here for your own amusement?"

And Tikhon Hitch burst out laughing: he had done that very thing. Once, even, Motya had been sent to him by the railway in a sugar-cask. The town was only about an arm's length distant, and he knew the officials—so they sent the man to him. And the inscription on the cask ran: "With care. A complete Fool."

"And these same fools are taught vices, for amusement!" Kuzma went on bitterly.—"The yard-gates of poor brides are smeared with tar! Beggars are hunted with dogs! For amusement, pigeons are knocked off

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roofs with stones! Yet, as you know, 'tis a great sin to eat those same pigeons. The Holy Spirit Himself assumes the form of a dove, you see!"

XIII

THE samovar had long since grown cold, the candle had guttered down, smoke hung over the room in a dull blue cloud, the slop-basin was filled to the very brim with soggy, reeking cigarette butts. The ventilator—a tin pipe in the upper corner of the window—was open, and once in a while a squeaking and a whirling and a terribly tiresome wailing proceeded from it—just like the one in the District offices, Tikhon Hitch said to himself. But the smoke was so dense that ten ventilators would have been of no avail. The rain rattled on the roof and Kuzma strode from corner to corner and talked:

"Ye-es! a nice state of things, there's no denying it! Indescribable kindliness! If you read history, your hair rises upright in horror: brother pitted against brother, kinsman against kinsman, son against father —treachery and murder, murder and treachery. The Epic legends, too, are a sheer delight: 'he slit his white breast,' 'he let his bowels out on the ground,' 'Ilya did not spare his own daughter; he stepped on her left foot, and pulled her right foot' And the songs? The same thing, always the same: the stepmother is 'wicked and greedy'; the father-in-law, 'harsh and quarrelsome,' sits on the sleeping-shelf above the stove, 'just like a dog

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on a rope'; the mother-in-law, equally wicked, sits on the stove 'just like a bitch on a chain'; the sisters-in-law are invariably 'young dogs and tricksters'; the brothers-in-law are 'malicious scoffers'; the husband is 'either a fool or a drunkard'; the 'old father-in-law bids him beat his wife soundly, until her hide drops off to her heels'; while the wife, having 'scrubbed the floor' for this same old man, 'ladled out the sour cabbage-soup, scraped the threshold clean, and baked turnover-patties,' addresses this sort of a speech to her husband: 'Get up, you disgusting fellow, wake up: here's dish-water, wash yourself; here are your leg-wrappers, wipe yourself; here's a bit of rope, hang yourself.' And our adages, Tikhon Hitch! Could anything more lewd and filthy be invented? And our proverbs! 'One man who has been soundly thrashed is worth two who have not been.' 'Simplicity is worse than thieving.' "

"So, according to you, the best way for a man to live is like an arrant fool?" inquired Tikhon Hitch with a sneer.

And Kuzma joyfully snapped up his words: "Well, that's right, that's the idea! There's nothing in the whole world so beggar-bare as we are, and on the other hand there's nobody more insolent on the ground of that same nakedness. What's the vicious way to insult a person? Accuse 'em of poverty! Say: 'You devil! You haven't a morsel to eat.' Here's an illustration: Deniska—well, I mean the son of Syery, he's a cobbler—said to me the other day—" '

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"Wait a minute," interrupted Tikhon Hitch. "How's Syery himself getting on?"

"Deniska says he's 'perishing with hunger.' "

"A good-for-nothing peasant!" said Tikhon Hitch with conviction. "Don't sing any of your songs about him to me."

"I'm not singing!" retorted Kuzma angrily. "But I ought to do it. For his name is Krasoff. However, that's another story. You'd better listen to what I have to say about Deniska. Well, he told me this: 'Sometimes, in a famine year, we foremen would go to the neighbourhood of the cemetery in the Black Suburb; and there those public women were—regular troops of them. And they were hungry, the lean hags, extremely hungry! If you gave one of them half a pound of bread for her work she'd devour it to the last crumb, there under you. It was downright ridiculous!' Take note," cried Kuzma sternly, pausing: "It was downright ridiculous'!"

"Oh, stop it, for Christ's sake!" Tikhon Hitch interrupted again. "Give me a chance to say a word about business!"

Kuzma stopped short. "Well, talk away," said he. "Only, what are you going to say? Tell him 'You ought to do thus and so'? Not a bit of it! If you give him money—that's the end of it. Just think it over: they have no fuel, they have nothing to eat, nothing to pay for a funeral. That means, 'tis your most sacred duty to give them some money—well, and something more to boot: a few potatoes, a wagon-load

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or two of straw. And hire the Bride. Send her here as my cook."

And immediately Tikhon Hitch felt as though a stone had been rolled off his breast. He hastily drew out his purse, plucked out a ten-ruble banknote, joyfully assented also to all the other suggestions. And suddenly he asked once more, in a rapid distressed voice: "But didn't she poison him?"

Kuzma merely shrugged his shoulders by way of reply.

Whether she had poisoned him or not, it was a terrible matter to think about. And Tikhon Hitch went home as soon as it was light, through the chill, misty morning, when the odour of damp threshing-floors and smoke still hung in the air, while the cocks were crowing sleepily in the haze-wrapped village, and the dogs lay sleeping on the porches, and the old faded-yellow turkey still snoozed roosting on the bough of an apple tree half stripped of its discoloured dead autumn leaves, by the side of a house. In the fields nothing could be seen at a distance of two paces, thanks to the dense white fog driven before the wind. Tikhon Hitch felt no desire to sleep, but he did feel exhausted, and as usual whipped up his horse, a large brown mare with her tail tied up; she was soaked with the moisture and appeared leaner, more dandified, and blacker because of it. He turned his head away from the wind and raised the cold wet collar of his overcoat on the right side, all glistening like silver under tiny pearls of rain which covered it with a thick veil. He ob-

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served, through the cold little drops which hung on his eyelashes, how the sticky black loam was churned up in ever-increasing density by his swiftly-revolving wheels, and how clods of mud, spurting high in a regular fountain, hung in the air and did not disperse; how they already began to adhere to his boots and knees. And he darted a glance at the heaving haunches of his horse; at her ears laid flat back against her head and darkened by the rain. And when, at last, his face streaked with mud, he dashed up to his own house, the first thing that met his eyes was YakofF's horse at the hitching-bar. Hastily knotting the reins on the fore-carriage, he sprang from the runabout, ran to the open door of the shop—and halted abruptly in terror.

"Blo-ockhead!" Nastasya Petrovna was saying from her place behind the counter, in evident imitation of himself, Tikhon Hitch, but in an ailing, caressing voice, as she bent lower and lower over the money-drawer and fumbled along the jingling coppers, unable, in the darkness, to find coins for change. "Blockhead! Where could you get it any cheaper, at the present time?" And, not finding the change, she straightened up and looked at Yakoff, who stood before her in cap and overcoat, but barefoot. She stared at his slightly elevated face and scraggy beard of indeterminate hue, and added: "But didn't she poison him?"

And Yakoff mumbled in haste: "That's no affair of ours, Petrovna. The devil only knows. It's none of our business. Our business, for example—"

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And Tikhon Hitch's hands shook all day long as that mumbling answer recurred to his mind. Everybody, everybody, thought she had poisoned him!

Fortunately, the secret remained a secret. The Sacrament was administered to Rodka before he died. And the Bride wailed so sincerely as she followed the coffin that it was positively indecent—for, of course, that wailing should not be an expression of the feelings, but the fulfilment of a rite. And little by little Tikhon Hitch's perturbation subsided. But for a long time still he continued to go about more gloomy than a thunder-cloud.

XIV

HE was immersed to the throat in business—as usual—and he had no one to help him. Nas-tasya Petrovna was of very little assistance. Tikhon Hitch never hired any labourers except "summer-workers" who were taken on merely until the cattle were driven home from pasturage, and they were already dispersed. Only the servants by the year remained—the cook, the old watchman nicknamed "Chaff," and Oska, a lad of seventeen who was both lazy and ugly of disposition, "the Tsar of Heaven's dolt"—a most egregious fool. And how much attention the cattle alone demanded! After the necessary sheep were slaughtered and salted down, twenty remained to be cared for over the winter. There were six black boar-pigs in the sty, eternally sullen and dis-

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contented over something or other. In the barns stood three cows, a young bull, and a red calf. In the yard were eleven horses, and in a box-stall stood a grey stallion, a vicious, heavy, full-maned, broad-chested brute—a half-breed, but worth four hundred rubles: his sire had a certificate, and was worth fifteen hundred. And all these required constant and careful oversight. But in his leisure moments Tikhon Hitch was devoured by melancholy and boredom.

The very sight of Nastasya Petrovna irritated him, and he was constantly urging her to go away for a visit with acquaintances in the town. And at last she made her preparations and went. But after she was gone, somehow, he found things more boresome than ever. After seeing her off, Tikhon Hitch wandered aimlessly over the fields. Along the highway, gun over shoulder, came the chief of the post-office at Ulia-novka, Sakharoff, famed because of his passion for ordering by letter free price-lists—catalogues of guns, seeds, musical instruments—and because of his manner of treating the peasants, which was so savage that they were wont to say: "When you pass in a letter, your hands and feet fairly shake!" Tikhon Hitch went to the edge of the highway to meet him. Elevating his brows, he gazed at the postmaster and said to himself: "A fool of an old man. He slumps along through the mud like an elephant." But he called out, in friendly tones:

"Been hunting, Anton Markitch?"

The postmaster halted. Tikhon Hitch approached

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and gave him a formal greeting. "Had any luck, or not, I say?" he inquired, mockingly.

"Hunting, indeed! Nothing to hunt!" gloomily replied the postmaster, a huge, round-shouldered man with thick grey hairs protruding from his ears and his nostrils, huge eye-sockets, and deeply sunken eyes— a regular gorilla. "I merely strolled out on account of my haemorrhoids," he said, pronouncing the last word with special care.

"But bear in mind," retorted Tikhon Hitch with unexpected heat, stretching forth his hand with the fingers outspread, "bear in mind that our countryside has been completely devastated! Not so much as the name of bird or beast is left, sir!"