Yevno rejoiced, in his own quiet way. More than two thirds of his crop had been saved—no small feat, considering his condition and progress until two days ago.
He sighed and sat down on his favorite wooden crate, staring out the open door of his barn. And so he sat, keeping silent communion with his own thoughts, and watched both dawn and storm arrive in earnest. By the time he rose an hour and a half later, the rain was falling in drenching sheets that mercilessly pounded down the remaining stalks of uncut grain. Yet still, in his deepest heart, old Yevno was thankful.
His was not the only household in the village in the mood for rejoicing. Most of the village grain had been spared, or, as in Yevno’s case, enough to get a family through the winter with sufficient provision. And thus, by common consent, all of Katyk declared a holiday of sorts. There would be the traditional harvest celebrations to come, as there were every year. But on this particular day, the men and women who had labored day and night to gather in their grain ahead of the storm spontaneously came together for a well-deserved afternoon and evening of gaiety.
By mid-afternoon, the local peasantry began to crowd into the large common room of Ivan Ivanovich’s former tavern. By evening nearly the whole village had arrived.
The new owner of the place, son of a merchant from Pskov, had not yet arrived in Katyk, and thus Ivan was more liberal than he might otherwise have been about opening his remaining inventory of vodka and kvass to the merrymakers. The free-flowing drink was accompanied by spirited music. For as poor as the people of Katyk might be, they were yet able to produce a violin, a balalaika, and two tambourine-like bubens. Nicolai Petrovich brought his fine goatskin volynka bagpipe safely through the rain as well. Known as the best piper in the whole countryside, he made splendid and lively music with the others, rousing workworn souls and stirring the most somber of Russian hearts.
But no one was somber this evening. Their spirits rose even higher when they learned that a prince from St. Petersburg was among them—a prince whose blistered hands and aching muscles were proof of a well-deserved respect. He had bent his back over the grain and swung the scythe as heartily and skillfully as any of them.
Dancing followed. Several young women, Anna among them, demonstrated the traditional harvest dance of thanksgiving, the Makovitza.
How lovely and vibrant it all looks, thought Sergei as he stood watching. Many of the peasants were decked out in their best festive costumes. Full skirts and long-sleeved blouses of richly embroidered linen whirled wildly with every intricate step. The high velvet headdresses, trimmed in colorful braids, made each girl seem as regal as a grand duchess. At least Sergei, with all his experience, declared he had seen no women lovelier, keeping to himself his surprise at seeing such finery in a poor peasant community.
When the Makovitza finished to the raucous shouts and cheers and clapping of the men and women watching, Petrovich slowed the tempo of the music to a well-recognized minor tune. Immediately ten or twelve of the village men stepped forward, linked arms, and performed their own local version of the Cossack Hopak, in which the lively “bear step” was expertly featured by Peter Popovich. The volynka was joined by violin, balalaika, and buben, as with slow, somber movements the men squatted and kicked out first one leg, then the other, gradually quickening as the tempo slowly gathered momentum until the pace became too rapid for any but the most skilled to continue.
Laughter and clapping and shouts encouraged the men onward in their attempts, until the music slowed once more. The dancers rose and spread out among the observers to enlist new participants to add to their ensemble.
“Let us see how the nobility of St. Petersburg does the Hopak!” someone shouted.
“Not well, I assure you!” replied Sergei, laughing.
But it was too late. The guest of honor already had three or four of the dancers crowding about and leading him to the center of the floor, amid happy shouts of encouragement.
He could not refuse their entreaties, and thus joined in with gusto. And he further proved himself worthy of the village’s respect, for the young Prince Fedorcenko was no stranger to the vigorous dance. When it was over, laughing gaily amid the cheers and offering his own shouts of hurrah for his companions, he sat down, exhausted, next to Anna.
While the dancers and musicians took a rest from their boisterous activity, kvass was passed around to the men, and tea to the women and children. The entire company indulged in the sweet honey cakes the women had spent the afternoon baking.
Sergei looked at Anna and smiled. He reached over and took her hand in his. She glanced down shyly at first, wishing she could prevent the pink from rising to her cheeks, and glad the table in front of them hid his gesture from view of the others. But she did not pull away at his touch. She did not ever want him to leave her side.
“This must surely be the most wonderful two days of my life,” he said quietly. “You are used to this country life, Anna. But it is all new to me—the work, the people, the spirit of community that exists between your father and all his friends. I have never known this side of life.”
“And what do you think of it,” asked Anna, “now that you have seen it?”
“What do I think? What can I think but that it is more full of life than anything people from a background such as mine can ever know! I don’t know . . . I almost feel as though I have finally found where I really belong.”
Anna hesitated in making a response. All the practicalities she had been trying so hard to forget since Sergei’s arrival began to flood unwelcomed into her mind. While she was in St. Petersburg, she had wondered if she could ever belong in his world. Now he was speaking of belonging in hers! Should she rejoice, or be afraid? Her inexperienced emotions could hardly distinguish between the two. Much to her relief, she was spared having to say anything.
The young women were beckoned to dance once more, and Anna eagerly rose to join them in spite of her fatigue.
The musicians struck up the lively chords of the romantic Russian tune “In the Garden.” The girls formed a circle, placing their left hands on their hips while their right hands, each grasping a handkerchief, curved high over their heads. They danced through the lively progression three or four times, then scattered out among the onlookers to choose partners for the Lezghinka by holding out their handkerchiefs to likely village youths.
When Anna presented her handkerchief to Sergei, it seemed so very natural. How she wished he was one of the village sons, a simple young man of peasant origin whom she could love freely and without embarrassment.
But these were not his roots. And the fact that the handkerchief he accepted had once belonged to his princess sister drove the reality all the more painfully home to Anna even as they took their places side by side for the dance.
53
The evening went merrily on.
Gradually the women began to set out, taking themselves and their sleepy children home. The men, no doubt even more fatigued after their long hours of recent toil, still continued with their drinking and laughter long into the night. None would have readily admitted being so tired that he was willing to be the first to take to his bed, and thus the vodka continued to flow from the hand of Ivan Ivanovich.
Even Yevno, not a man normally driven by false pride, stubbornly remained with the others. It was hardly to be wondered at that he was having great difficulty adjusting to his weakened condition. A Russian man was nothing if he was not the virile, stalwart provider and autocrat over his personal world. This was the ingrained code by which the men of the Motherland measured themselves—a standard Yevno must somehow deal with if he hoped to survive this crisis of his own frailty.
Under any other circumstances, Sergei would have left with Anna. But when he saw the concern over her father in her eyes, he decided to remain behind with Yevno. Besides, it would have represented a serious snubbing of Katyk’s hospitality for the officially declared guest of honor to leave the celebration prematurely.
Sergei had never po
ssessed much of an inclination toward drink, although once or twice he had succumbed when in the company of Dmitri and their military comrades. During this evening, although he had been a lively participant in the joviality, he drank only what deference to his hosts demanded. He exited the tavern clearheaded and with the assurance that he would awake in the morning with no ugly reminders of the night before.
The only other one of the company at Ivan’s who seemed to share his moderation in drink was Anna’s own father. Sergei wondered if Yevno’s weakness had something to do with this uncharacteristic behavior for a peasant man. Yevno was clearly tired and had to struggle to keep up with the conversation, sometimes breathing a bit heavily. Sergei could not help being concerned. Yet for most men, illness and hardship drove them to drink, not away from it.
As they walked together away from the tavern along the muddy road that led from the village to Yevno’s cottage, Sergei questioned him about it.
“I have never been to such a celebration, Yevno Pavlovich,” he said. “I won’t soon forget it.”
He nodded toward one of the villagers not far away where their paths had just diverged. The man had stumbled to the ground and was being helped, with comical ineptitude, by another.
“Some of them, I fear, are so drunk they will forget everything about the evening!”
The young prince and old peasant laughed together.
“Ah, yes,” said Yevno, “their heads will be swelled tomorrow.”
“Is such drunkenness common?”
“I fear so, though not an everyday occurrence.”
“It hardly seems good for men who must work so hard to survive.”
“Perhaps not, Your Excellency,” replied Yevno. “But you must understand, it is the very severity of life that drives some men to it, and they must be forgiven a lapse every now and then.”
“I did not mean to sound disparaging of them,” said Sergei apologetically. “Yet I find myself curious about one thing.”
“What is that, Your Excellency?”
“Your life is no less hard, Yevno Pavlovich. Yet you leave the tavern quite sober.”
“I have found another way to live with my hardships.”
“Anna has told me of your deep faith in God.”
“I do not find that vodka and kvass quench a man’s thirst deep enough to satisfy me.”
“And you have discovered something that does . . . in your faith?”
“Jesus said that if we drink of mere water we will thirst again. But if we drink of the water that He gives, He said we will never be thirsty again.”
“What is that water He gives?”
“His water, the water of eternal life.”
“You speak in riddles, Yevno Pavlovich.”
Yevno laughed. “Sometimes I find the things of God are riddles to me, too. Yet within my soul I feel the reality of His life, even though my simple brain may not be able to understand it.”
“Explain what you mean. I confess, I do not understand you.”
They walked on awhile in silence as Yevno thought how best to answer.
“I do not know if I can make you understand,” Yevno said at length. “But I will try.” He drew in a breath, then went on. “Do you know what I was doing this morning, just before dawn, while you slept on the straw?”
“I don’t know,” replied Sergei. “I presumed you also were asleep.”
“No. The coming of the rain awakened me while it was yet dark. I came out to the barn, opened the door, and just sat looking out upon the rain, and upon my field—some harvested, some ruined. Do you know what I was thinking as I sat there?”
“Wishing the rain had delayed a few more days . . . sorrow that so much of your grain was lost?”
Yevno chuckled. “Most of the men of Katyk managed to get in their entire crops, though one or two did not finish. I heard some of them tonight, cursing the heavens for the rain—bitter, angry. None of them lost as much grain as I did, and yet my thoughts were not bitter as I sat there this morning.”
“I am curious, then,” said Sergei. “What were you thinking?”
“I was filled with a heart of gratitude and thankfulness—for the grain we did get in, for my family, to have my daughter back with us again, for many things.”
“And that is the water you speak of, what you call the water of life—thankfulness?”
“That is part of it, but not all. Do you not see—God’s life inside me makes me able to be thankful when other men around me are bitter and angry. They drown themselves in vodka. I have no such need, for I am content with the life I have been given. Perhaps that is what I mean by having something inside which keeps my soul from being thirsty, which keeps me content. Jesus said that the life He gives will become like a spring of living water that cannot be quenched. Sometimes that is how I feel—as though God were continually putting new life within me to bubble up to the surface. I did not awaken this morning with thoughts of being thankful for the rain. I simply rose and walked out to look at it. And then from inside came a contentment and gratefulness to my Father in heaven for watching over old Yevno with such kindness.”
“You are a remarkable man, Yevno Pavlovich.”
“Not so remarkable, Your Excellency,” laughed Yevno. “Lately my very beliefs have been tested to their limits. I speak about the living water, but I must tell you, there are times I forget my Father’s provision.”
“After all you’ve just told me, I have difficulty believing that.”
Yevno shook his head sadly. “Only days ago I was fretting anxiously about the grain, forgetful of the very things I have been saying to you. I am ashamed to admit it. I was even wondering the other day if God had deserted me altogether.”
“That does not sound like the man I see.”
“Your kind words shame me all the more, Your Excellency. Yet even though I was praying without faith, God answered me!”
“How so?”
“With you. You came to Katyk in answer to my prayers.”
“Me?” exclaimed Sergei.
“It is true.”
“Many in this country would question whether a nobleman could be an answer to anything, much less a man’s prayers.”
“God is not choosy whom He uses as His instruments. But I think in your case, Your Excellency, He made one of His best choices. You are a good man, I can tell—and not only because you harvested my grain. Anna makes wise choices in her friendships.”
“Sir, about Anna . . .”
“Your Excellency need make no explanations. I know you are a man of honor.”
“I am. And therefore I feel I must explain.”
“It is not necessary,” insisted Yevno earnestly. “To be truthful, it may be better to keep silent.”
“You must realize that Anna cares for me?”
“I have eyes, Your Excellency.”
“And you think, perhaps with good reason, that a man of my position, who also happens to be a man of honor, would be seeking some means to keep the poor peasant girl from being hurt. Is that what you are thinking?”
“Such things happen, Your Excellency. It is not to your discredit.”
“But does it not concern you that your daughter may be hurt?”
“Of course. But I blame no one. She is young and impressionable, away from home in the city, perhaps lonely. You are a soldier and a prince, and a very handsome one at that—”
“Then you should be furious with me for toying with your daughter’s affections.”
“I do not believe you have done so. As I said, you are a man of honor.”
“I had come to believe, Yevno Pavlovich, that you were not a man to be so servile to any man, even a prince.”
“I am not such a man, especially where it concerns my family. This is no empty subservience I show you—you are not worthy of that.”
“Then what is it?”
“I merely speak my mind. Whether I am with prince or beggar, my yes is yes and my no is no. If I thought you deserved my ange
r because my daughter’s heart has been pricked by you, or if I thought my anger would protect her, you would see it fully aroused. But she would only be hurt the more. And I would do nothing to turn her against either of us, and thus perhaps force her toward being deceived into any false hopes.”
“Why do you say false hopes?”
“That is obvious, Your Excellency.” Yevno paused and scratched his head. “Your question perplexes me. You are a prince; my daughter is a peasant, a mere—”
“A mere servant?” cut in Sergei more sharply than he intended. For a moment he forgot that he was speaking to a country man, not the usual aristocrat he was accustomed to. He hardly needed to justify his liberal views on the class system to this man! But Yevno’s peasant mentality was more ingrained than he realized.
“Is that not enough to show the gulf between her and yourself?” Yevno asked.
“Sir, I am disappointed that you would think me above her, and that you do not realize that she is noble enough to be considered my equal.”
It took Yevno some moments to digest these strange words. “Do you mean . . . ?” he began, then let his words trail off.
“I mean that your daughter need feel no shame in being a servant or of peasant stock, any more than I can take pride in being a nobleman.”
Yevno shook his head. “I have said before, Prince Sergei Viktorovich, that you are the most unusual prince I have ever known. My daughter’s judgment is better than I had ever dreamed. You and she are indeed very much alike.”
“There are no differences between us,” said Sergei, “not where it matters, no separations of the kind you spoke of, no gulfs.”
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