The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood] (8 page)

"The forests have all been cut down," remarked the postmaster.

"I should think they had been cut down, forsooth! Shaved off close to the earth!" Tikhon Hitch corroborated him. And all of a sudden he added: " '.lis moulting, sir! Everything is moulting, sir!"

Why that word broke loose from his tongue, Tikhon Hitch himself did not know, but he felt that, nevertheless, it had not been uttered without reason. "Everything's moulting," he said to himself, "exactly like the cattle after a long, hard winter." And after he had parted from the postmaster he stood long on the" highway, involuntarily gazing about him. The rain had again begun to patter down; a disagreeable, damp wind was blowing. Darkness was descending over the rolling fields—the fields sown with winter-grain,

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the ploughed fields, the stubble-fields, and the light brown groves of young trees.

The gloomy sky descended lower and lower over the earth. The roads, flooded by the rain, gleamed with a leaden sheen. The post-train from Moscow, which was an hour and a half late every day, was due at the station. Only from the signal-bells, the humming sounds, the rumbling, and the odour of coal and samovars in the yards, did Tikhon Hitch know that it had arrived and departed, for buildings screened the station from view. The odour of samovars now remained, and that aroused a dim longing for comfort, a warm clean room, a family—or the desire to go away somewhere or other.

But this feeling was suddenly replaced by amazement. From the bare Ulianovka forest a man emerged and directed his steps towards the highway—a man in a round-topped hat and only a short roundabout coat. On looking more closely, Tikhon Hitch recognized ZhikharefT, the son of a wealthy land-owner, who had long since become a thoroughgoing drunkard. His heart contracted with pain. "Well, it makes no difference," thought Tikhon Hitch sadly. " Twill be best to chat a bit with him and, in case of need, give him half a ruble. 'Tis not worth while to anger the vagabond: he's a spiteful fellow."

But on this occasion Zhikhareff approached in a decidedly arrogant frame of mind, bristling, but with his head, in its beggar's hat, thrown back, and chewing between his clenched jaws the mouth end of a

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cigarette, long since smoked out and extinct. His face was blue with the cold, puffy with drunkenness; his eyes were red, and his mustache disheveled. He had turned up the collar of his short coat, which was buttoned to the chin, and, with the tips of his fingers thrust into the pockets, he was splashing along in a spirited manner through the mud. His rusty, dilapidated high boots projected below his short trousers, which were tightly strained over his knees.

"A—ah!" he drawled through his teeth, as he chewed his cigarette-butt. "Whom do I see? Tikhon Fom-itch x is looking over his domains!" And he emitted a hoarse laugh.

"Good-day, Lyeff Lvovitch," replied Tikhon Hitch. "Are you waiting for the train?"

"Yes, I am—and I never seem to hit it," returne-d Zhikhareff, shrugging his shoulders. "I've been waiting and waiting, and I got so bored that I've been making the forester a little visit. We've been chattering and smoking. But I've still a whole eternity to wait! Shall we not meet at the station? I believe you are fond of putting something behind your collar yourself?"

"God has been gracious," replied Tikhon Hitch, in the same tone he had used before. "As for drinking— why shouldn't a man drink a bit? Only, he must pick the proper time."

1 Probably a deliberate bit of insolence, as he must have known that the patronymic was "Hitch," not "Fomitch."

—TRANS.

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"Fudge and nonsense!" said Zhikhareff hoarsely, skipping across a puddle with considerable agility, and he directed his course towards the railway station at a leisurely pace.

His aspect was pitiful, and Tikhon Hitch gazed long and with disgust at his inadequate trousers, which hung down like bags from beneath his short coat.

XV

DURING the night the rain poured down again, and it was so dark you could not see your hand before your face. Tikhon Hitch slept badly and gritted his teeth in torture. He had a chill—evidently he had taken cold by standing on the highway in the evening—and the overcoat which he had thrown over himself slid off upon the floor, and immediately he dreamed the same thing he had always dreamed ever since childhood, whenever his back was cold: twilight, narrow alleys, a hurrying throng, firemen galloping along in heavy carts drawn by vicious black truck-horses. Once he woke up, struck a match, looked at the ticking clock—it showed the hour of three —and picked up the overcoat; and, as he fell asleep, the thought of Zhikhareff once more recurred distressingly to his mind. And athwart his slumbers a persistent thought obsessed him: that the shop was being looted and the horses driven away.

Sometimes it seemed to him that he was at the Dan-kova posting-station, that the nocturnal rain was pat-

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tering on the pent-house over the gate, and that the little bell above it was being pulled and was ringing incessantly—thieves had come and had led thither, through the impenetrable darkness, his splendid stallion, and if they were to discover his presence there, they would murder him. And again consciousness of the reality would return to him. But even the reality was alarming. The old watchman was walking about under the windows with his mallet, but it seemed as if he were far, far away; as if the sheep-dog, with choking growls, were rending some one—had rushed off into the fields with tempestuous barking, and suddenly had presented himself again under the windows and was trying to rouse him by standing on one spot and barking violently. Then Tikhon Hitch started to go out and see what was the matter, whether everything were as it should be. But as soon as he reached the point of making up his mind to rise, the heavy slanting rain began to rattle more thickly and densely than ever against the small dark windows, driven by the wind from the dark and boundless fields, and sleep seemed to him the most precious thing in the world. At last a door banged, a stream of damp, cold air entered, and the watchman, Chaff, dragged a bundle of rustling straw into the vestibule. Tikhon Hitch opened his eyes: it was six o'clock, the daylight was dull and wet, the tiny windows were misted over with moisture.

"Make a little fire, my good man, make a little fire," said Tikhon Hitch, his voice still hoarse with sleep. "Then we'll go and feed the cattle, and you can go to your place and sleep."

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The old man, who had grown thin over night and all blue with cold, the dampness, and fatigue, gazed at him with sunken dead eyes. In his wet cap, his short rain-drenched outer coat, and his ragged bast-slippers soaked with mud and water, he growled out something in a dull tone as he got down with difficulty on his knees in front of the stove, stuffing it with the cold, fragrant bundle of straw and blowing on the lighted mass.

"Well, has the cow bitten your tongue off?" shouted Tikhon Hitch hoarsely, as he climbed out of bed and picked up his coat from the floor. "What's that you're muttering there to yourself?"

"I've been walking all night long, and now it's 'give the cattle their fodder/ " mumbled the old man without raising his head, as if talking to himself.

Tikhon Hitch looked askance at him: "I saw the way you walked about!"

He felt worn out; nevertheless he put on his coat and, conquering a petty fit of shivering in his bowels, went out on the porch, which was covered with the footprints of the dogs, into the icy chill of the pale stormy morning. Everywhere the ground was flooded with lead-coloured puddles; all the walls had turned dark with the rain.

"A nice lot; these workmen!" he said to himself angrily.

It was barely drizzling. "But surely it will be pouring again by noon," he said to himself. And he glanced with surprise at shaggy Buyan, who dashed toward him from under the granary. His paws were

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muddy, but he himself was boiling with excitement, his eyes were sparkling, his tongue was fresh and red as fire, his healthy hot breath fairly exuding the odour of dog. And that after racing about and barking all night long!

He took Buyan by the collar and, slopping through the mud, made the rounds, inspecting all the locks. Then he chained the dog under the granary, returned to his ante-room, and glanced into the roomy kitchen, the cottage proper. The cottage had a hot, repulsive odour; the cook lay fast asleep on a bare box-bench, beneath the holy pictures, her face covered with her apron, her loins displayed, and her legs clad in huge old felt boots, the soles thickly plastered with the dirt from the earthen floors. Oska lay on the sleeping-board face downward, fully dressed, in his short sheepskin coat and his bast-slippers, his head buried in a heavy, soiled pillow.

"That devil has been at the lad!" thought Tikhon Hitch-Avith disgust. "Just look at her—at her nasty debauch all night long—and towards morning, off she goes to the bench!"

And after a survey of the black walls, the tiny windows, the tub filled with dirty dish-water, the huge broad-shouldered stove, he shouted loudly and harshly: "Hey, there! My noble lords! You ought to know when you've had enough!"

While the cook, scratching herself and yawning, heated the stove, boiled some potatoes for the pigs, and got the samovar alight, Oska, minus his cap and stumbling with sleep, dragged bran for the horses and cows.

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Tikhon Hitch himself unlocked the creaking doors of the stable and was the first to enter its warm, dirty comfort, surrounded by sheds, enclosures, and styes. The stable was ankle-deep in manure. Dung, urine, and rain had all run together and formed a thick, light-brown fluid. The horses, already darkening with their velvety winter coats, were roaming about under the pent-houses. The sheep, of a dirty-grey hue, were huddled in an agitated mass in one corner. An old brown gelding dozed in isolation alongside his empty manger, smeared with dough. The drizzling rain fell and fell interminably upon the square farmyard from the unfriendly, stormy sky, but the gelding paid no heed to anything. The pigs moaned and grunted in an ailing, persistent way in their pen.

"'Tis deadly boresome!" thought Tikhon Hitch, and immediately emitted a fierce yell at the old man, who was dragging along a bundle of grain-straw: "Why are you dragging that through the mud, you vile profligate?"

The old man flung the bundle of straw on the ground, looked him over, and all at once remarked quietly: "I'm listening to a vile profligate."

Tikhon Hitch cast a swift glance around, to see whether the lad had gone out, and, on convincing himself that he had, stepped up to the old man and with apparent calmness gave him such a thwack in the teeth that his head shook to and fro, seized him by the collar, and hustled him to the gate with all his might. "Begone!" he bawled, panting for breath and turning as white as chalk. "Don't let me ever catch so much

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as the smell of you here in the future, you cursed tatterdemalion!"

The old man flew through the gate, and five minutes later, his bag on his shoulders and a stick in his hand, he was striding along the highway to his home in Ulia-novka. Meanwhile Tikhon Hitch, with shaking hands, had watered the stallion, had himself given the animal his portion of fresh oats—he had merely turned yesterday's oats over with his muzzle and slobbered on them—and with long strides, through the liquid mess and the manure, had betaken himself to his cottage.

"Are things ready?" he inquired, opening the door a crack.

"There's no hurry!" snarled the cook.

The cottage was beclouded with a warm, sweetish steam emanating from the pot where the potatoes were boiling. The cook, assisted by the lad, was energetically mashing them with a pestle, sprinkling in flour the while, and Tikhon Hitch did not hear the reply because of the noise. Slamming the door, he went to drink his tea.

XVI

IN the tiny ante-room he pushed aside with his foot a heavy, dirty horsecloth which lay across the threshold and went to one corner, where, over a stool surmounted by a pewter basin, a brass washstand was fastened, while on a small shelf lay a small, clammy piece of cocoanut-oil soap. As he rattled the

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water-tank, squinted, frowned, and puffed out his nostrils, he was not able to refrain from a malicious fugitive glance, and he remarked with peculiar distinctness: "H'm! No, who ever saw the like of the labourers? There's no getting on with them at all nowadays! Say one word to such a fellow, and he'll come back at you with ten words! Say a dozen to him, and he'll fling you back a hundred! They're gone dead crazy! Though it isn't summer time, there's plenty of you to be had, you devils! You'll want something to eat for the winter, brother—you'll come, you son of a dog, you'll co-ome, and bow lo-o-ow in entreaty!"

The towel, which served for the master as well as for the lodger-travellers, had been hanging beside the water-tank since St. Michael's Day. It was so filthy that Tikhon Hitch gritted his teeth when he looked at it. "Okh!" he ejaculated, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Ugh! Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven!" And hurling the towel on the floor, he wiped himself on the embroidered skirt of his shirt, which flapped outside his waistcoat.

Two doors opened from the ante-room. One, on the left, led to the room assigned to travellers, which was long, half-dark, and with tiny windows that looked out on the barn; in it stood two large divans, hard as stone, covered with black oilcloth, filled more than full with living and with crushed and dried bugs, while on the partition-wall hung the portrait of some general with fierce beaver-like side whiskers. This portrait was bordered with small portraits of heroes of the Russo-

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Turkish war, and underneath was an inscription: "Long will our children and our dear Slavic brethren remember the glorious deeds; how our father, the courageous Suleiman Pasha, crushed and conquered the treacherous foemen and marched with his lads along such crags as only clouds and the feathered Kings of the air were wont to scale." The second door led into the master's room. There, on the right alongside the door, glittered the glass of a cupboard, on the left a stove-bench gleamed white; the stove had cracked at some past day, and over the white it had been smeared with clay, which had imparted to it the outline of something resembling a thin, dislocated man, which seriously displeased Tikhon Hitch. Beyond the stove rose aloft a double bed: above the bed was nailed up a rug of dull-green and brick-coloured wool, bearing the-image of a tiger with whiskers and ears which stood erect like those of a cat. Opposite the door, against the wall, stood a chest of drawers covered with a knitted tablecloth, and on the table-cloth Nastasya Petrovna's wedding-casket. In the casket lay contracts with the labourers, phials containing medicines long since spoiled with age, matches.