November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  Elisei suddenly cleared his throat and spoke in a deep bass voice that his son had never heard before. “I tried to. It wasn’t to be had.”

  When was that, Dad? I never knew.

  Pluzhnikov snapped back at him. “You have to take it. Nobody will force money on you—and it’s the same with freedom. If you’re offered the chance. No help is forthcoming. Neither from Petersburg nor from Moscow. Neither from the town nor from the landlord. Nor from the SRs. Because the SRs, however much they try to ingratiate themselves with the peasants, don’t think like peasants, they just sing along. And what do we do? We keep on dreaming, we wait for the powers that be to tell us what to do. And what they do is send us papers and papers and papers. And there’s nobody to shout”—Pluzhnikov raised his voice till the parlor was too small for it, the walls couldn’t hold it, it could be heard in the Prince’s Forest—"nobody to shout, ‘Hey, Russia, take hold of it yourself!’ ”

  Agasha’s lips parted, showing her pearly teeth, as she gazed, fascinated, at her husband.

  Zyablitsky recoiled, alarmed by this roaring. But Pluzhnikov had nothing more to say. And Zyablitsky plucked up his courage to argue.

  “You have distressed me greatly today, Grigori Naumovich. You don’t like the Duma. You don’t like Zemgor. Or the parties. And you say cooperation is weak. Criticism is always easy. But what positive proposals have you got?”

  No more theatrical voices from Pluzhnikov. With his hands at his sides, his fingers in his belt, he said, “One thing’s clear: the townsfolk—all those officials and bigwigs—let them look after themselves as best they can. We aren’t asking for equal rights with them, so why don’t they just leave us alone …”

  Who’d be a woman! She didn’t want to miss anything, but everything had been eaten and drunk and it was time to clear the table for tea. She rose, saw at a glance what to pick up, and carried it away.

  “… and those of us who live around here can take matters into their own hands! And look after ourselves. The canton? It can cope. The rural district? It can manage without the uyezd center! And even the provinces—why not peasant government, without the towns? We can live our own lives, and the town can do what it likes, we aren’t hindering it. Why do we have to let somebody else govern us, instead of doing it ourselves? Who gets the power, who has the last word? Anybody rather than the peasant. They must think we’re a lot of utter blockheads. Mushrooms grow in the country—but the town knows about them too!”

  His lustrous eyes flashed.

  Devil take it—he’s got it all worked out! A village boy like the rest of us!

  Elisei Nikiforovich stared straight ahead, stern and unsmiling. He sat squarely on his chair, without a word.

  Zyablitsky, however, cheered up a little, waved his small hand, and complacently laid out his wares. “That’s your typical peasant utopia! It’s five hundred years old, and nowhere, neither in Europe nor in Asia, has it ever been realized. Just think, Grigori Naumovich, how would it work organizationally? Given the unity of the state’s functions, how can you possibly have peasant autonomy without the framework of a modern state? In a war with external enemies, for instance? And when you need a single economy and a single administrative and transportion system? Can’t you see it’s utopian?”

  “What it would be like we don’t yet know,” Pluzhnikov said, rejecting Zyablitsky’s sympathy with a shake of his head. “It needs thinking about. Such a big country needs a lot of different governing bodies. And somewhere among them there would be room for peasant self-government.”

  That was his sticking point. And he was right. What d’you think we are, blockheads? Arseni felt the rightness of it keenly. Something would come of it, there must be a breakthrough someday.

  His father, however, wasn’t at all pleased. He gave their host a rather dark look. But there was more to come.

  “We aren’t short of people even now, we’re still strong enough, even with this war on, think of all the men with good heads and strong arms we could get together to discuss things and give advice! Paramon Kryzhnikov, Aksyon Frolagin, Kuzma Opolovnikov, Mokei Likhvantsev. Am I right, Elisei Nikiforovich?”

  Arseni had noticed already that his father was worried, uneasy. But he had never been one to react hastily. When he spoke it was in measured tones, and without a nod of the head.

  “There’s no shortage of fools among our folk as well. All right, the gentry have their fair share, but who says we don’t? When the gentry’s estates were plundered in ‘05 some people who only had twenty desyatins more than the communal allotment were plundered just the same. And all those who aren’t ashamed to do it still help themselves to Davydov’s wood and hay. We graze our cattle on his meadows. He doesn’t fence himself in, so we trample all over him. If you give people like us a free run—you’d better look out!”

  He thought for a minute, and summed up in ringing tones before Pluzhnikov could reply. “People’s faith has been shaken, that’s what. And letting them govern won’t help matters.”

  The little guest from town was determined to make his own point. “Very well, then, let’s suppose that the right forms of government can be found. By what route do you propose to get there?”

  “By what route?” Pluzhnikov answered, arms still akimbo. “We’re not going to put bombs under provincial governors, that’s for sure. But you’d have to be more than human to know in advance. Just wait a bit, and things will start going that way without our help. When they do we mustn’t miss the crucial moment.”

  Agasha, meanwhile, had brought in the samovar, with some rich buns and pastries. She filled glasses with strong dark tea.

  Zyablitsky’s spirits were rising all the time.

  “You can’t base realistic calculations on such hopes. You have no realistic means to suggest, Grigori Naumych. And I’m glad it isn’t bombs. You should return to the original way—lively cooperative activity, in the broadest possible sense!”

  The tea had come at the right time to wash down the fish and the cold meats, and there was white lump sugar on the table, with cakes of all sorts. But there was a knock at the veranda door.

  Agasha went down to see who it was, came back and said in a low voice, “It’s Panyushkin, the clerk. Wants you.”

  Pluzhnikov hesitated. Should he go outside?

  “Oh, all right, ask him in.”

  Semyon Panyushkin came in, wearing a short velveteen jacket, without overcoat, clean and tidy as always. His own unaided efforts over a number of years had raised him to the position of canton clerk. He had grazed cattle in summer and studied in winter, and had been promoted because of his good sense.

  In stature and bulk he was much like Zyablitsky. His hair was greased and smoothed down. His manner was modest, with no trace of self-importance. He bowed, wished them a happy holiday, and was invited to the table, but hesitated, obviously wanting to speak to Grigori Naumovich in private.

  “Is it a secret?” Pluzhnikov made as if to move into the other room.

  The clerk, first repository and custodian of secrets, sighed. “No, certainly not. It has to be announced anyway. I just wanted to let you know first.”

  Pluzhnikov had no official position of any kind. But he was “the old one,” so the clerk had come to tell him first. Out of respect. They sat him down, gave him tea, sugar to go with it, and a layered bun.

  He wasted no time in telling them, taking a piece of paper out of an inside pocket. It had just been delivered.

  A decree dated 5 November announced the call-up of category 2 militia, men aged thirty-seven to forty, together with all those omitted in the previous drafts. Enrollment would begin on 7 November (tomorrow).

  A bolt from the blue!

  The day was nearly over, the revels were ending. Another hour or two and inviolable darkness would descend upon the village. There would be loud voices in cottages, and people would be late putting out their oil lamps and dips and wax tapers, but nobody would be touched till morning, no need till morning to shoulder thos
e white bags with provisions, harness the cart, and set out, with the womenfolk seeing you off, for Sampur to report to the recruiting officer. The night is ours. One last, sad night, sleeping beside the wife of your bosom. Only she mustn’t sleep, she has to stitch your food bag together. The night is ours, but maybe get the stove going again? No, everybody’s got enough baked already.

  That’s war for you, that’s how it makes its entrance, like an iron wedge straight into your chest. In its third year now, it had become a fixed and familiar feature of their lives. Those who had been killed were already dead and buried. The living had, as best they could, been holidaying, storytelling, playing accordions, then suddenly a piece of paper from a canton clerk’s pocket is unfolded—and the whole street is stricken! Its future had begun unfolding right there, on Pluzhnikov’s table.

  Who would be taken?

  They were picking off men up to forty, the very prime of life for a peasant. Nobody forty-one or over would be touched just yet.

  Pluzhnikov began reading out names. Some quickly, some more thoughtfully. He had only Christian names, patronymic, surnames, and dates of birth before him, but saw each name ringed with questions: how many would be left in this family, how many children in that, how would they manage the farm?

  The recruiting officer was giving them a close shave. He was taking the miller! The miller, would you believe it! Who would replace him? Would the mill stop grinding? It was a trade that had to be learned, after all.

  They were taking boss-eyed Afonka. Not such a great loss to Kamenka but still … You gave him your hemp straw and didn’t have to bother with it, he’d twist your ropes for you and you settled up later. Would everybody have to do it himself now? You’d never get around to it.

  Nikifor Big-ears was hitting the road too! Held on as long as he could …

  What about the Snooper? Wasn’t he about the same age? Yes, they were taking the Snooper.

  What about Long-fallow, then? No, he was just above the cutoff.

  Look at this, though! They’re taking the blacksmith! Kuzma Opolovnikov!

  “What!” Like a burst of flame from Elisei. “Are they out of their minds?”

  “He’s the right age.”

  “Only you can’t measure everybody up just by age, who’s going to mend our plows? Or shoe our horses? What are we going to do, the whole village? Do they ever stop to think?

  The stupidity of it riled Elisei so much that he rose. And paced the room. What were they going to do? Letting Kuzma Opolovnikov go was like losing your own son. (They were in fact related. He was Domasha’s second cousin.)

  “Senka!” he said loudly, as if Senka was to blame. “I thought you said you had plenty of men.”

  “They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder in the trenches.”

  “What about blacksmiths?”

  “The brigade’s got enough blacksmiths. We could spare you one.”

  He and Katya had an elaborately patterned wrought-iron bedstead made by the same Kuzma—not a store-bought bed, like the Pluzhnikovs’—one that would sleep six, or you could dance a bear on it. This Kuzma, nicknamed Pile-driver, a bit of a cutup but a good worker, was always whiskery, but when Senka had sat next to him at table yesterday he had been, for once, clean-shaven. Senka had teased him, telling him he ought to be in the army, but not really meaning it, not envying him.

  Senka never envied those who had avoided the war. You couldn’t change things anyhow. If everybody went, things would still be no easier. It was the luck of the draw.

  The blacksmith, though—you couldn’t help being sorry. He was a first-class blacksmith, not everybody had one like him.

  “Aren’t they taking Wet-leg?”

  No, they weren’t.

  Wet-leg, Vasya Tarakin, was younger than Arseni. He had been subject to regular military service in 1914, and when war broke out was called up with the first draft. Off he went, with the rest of them, but he was home again in less than a month. How come? Got a full set of arms and legs, haven’t you? Caught some complaint, perhaps? No, nothing like that. I told them I wasn’t going to kill people.

  How d’you like that! If he’d been called up in peacetime and refused, it might have made sense. But before the war he hadn’t said a word, hadn’t let on, then when everybody had to go and fight, he backs out. Kamenka didn’t like that. It wasn’t what the mir expected: if the others were all going, you should go—what makes you so special? Till then nobody had noticed anything bad in Vaska Tarakin. He was the oldest of six children, his father had died when he was fourteen, and he had started farming and tailoring like his father before him. Then his sister had grown up and brought a husband home. Vaska, no longer the sole breadwinner, was called up. Of course, you could feel for him, with all those mouths to feed. Still, others had enough of their own, nobody was particularly enthusiastic about the war, but if everybody had to go—then let it be everybody, if it’s good enough for them it’s good enough for you. Ah, but with the tailoring he’d gotten into the habit of reading—those little books that cost two or three kopecks apiece. Count Tolstoy, says he, has opened his eyes to the idea of Jesus Christ. We all live because the Father of our life wills it, and no one except the Father may take life.

  So that was how Wet-leg had managed not to go to war. He was called up on two other occasions—and was very soon back home again. So anybody could act the holy fool and sit pretty till the war was over. “What about pigs, then?” Grandpa Bayunya had asked him. “Or sheep? They’re living creatures as well, given to us by the Father of our lives.” Vaska acknowledged it, and stopped slaughtering and eating animals. His brother-in-law carried on slaughtering, though, so the family didn’t want for meat.

  The situation now was that they had given up trying to draft Wet-leg. They had decided to leave him in peace.

  Pluzhnikov gloomily pored over the list. He could not take his eyes off it. They were draining the village of its strength—those he had mentioned a while ago, Paramon Kryzhnikov, Kuzma Opolovnikov, Mokei Likhvantsev, and all the others. Making a clean sweep. He himself was close enough to the broom. Just another year or two. One more draft like this … Who, then, would there be to win freedom for the peasant? Whose efforts would help the village to stand on its own feet? They were like wolves, carrying off lambs between their teeth, and whenever they came again, in six months or one month, whoever they singled out, Kamenka would have to surrender him.

  There was no one to cry out to, no one to tell that it was not sensible to drain the village to such an extent. Should they summon a village assembly? Send delegates to the police superintendent? What resistance could the village offer? Where could it make itself felt?

  Elisei and his son, meanwhile, were trying to work out which of Domasha’s distant cousins, or relatives in neighboring villages, would be roped in. They shouldn’t sit there drinking tea, it was time to go home, the holiday had abruptly ended.

  Semyon, the clerk, told them something else. A clerk is more than the papers he receives, he can see what is coming. In a few days’ time, he said, there would be a decree calling up the 1898 class. They would not be taken till next spring, but the order would be promulgated now.

  You mean they won’t even leave the boys at home till they’re nineteen? They’ll be drafted before that?

  So that means Zinovi Skuropas?

  And Lyoksa Tevondin?

  Both good boys!

  Mishka Rul, though, let him go and fight!

  Time to leave.

  “Elisei Nikiforych!” Agasha said. “Senya! Your tea!”

  “Thank you, from both of us, Agasha, you’ve made us very welcome,” Senya’s father said. “But you know what they say—guests and the harvest should be brought home in time.”

  The holiday was at an end.

  While they had been sitting with Pluzhnikov it had gotten chillier and darker and the wind had grown stronger. The mud churned up in the middle of the street had hardened and frosted over and the beaten tracks in front of houses
had frozen hard. The wind was picking up dust and gravel, carrying them, whirling them, sweeping them from one end of the village to the other.

  Elisei had this to say about their host: “He’s a useful man. But mark my words, Senka: if a crock’s once had tar in it there’s no burning it out.”

  The wind rose, slamming garden gates and doors more and more loudly. Or perhaps they were banged by people running from house to house with the news.

  Bad news does not rest, does not leak out gradually, it rushes through the village, as if borne by this wind. Semyon would have needed only to whisper it to one or two before going to Pluzhnikov, and every cottage would know it by now. In some there was already the sound of women wailing. In others they were still wondering—is ours among them?

  Next morning would come the upheaval—everyone on the move, a long line of men straggling along the Sampur road, with women wailing. And those interminable songs. The creaking of wheels.

  You couldn’t get on with your life. They wouldn’t let you settle down to anything.

  The way the weather was—cloudy, frosty, a ground wind—there would be snow before long.

  “If the snow sticks on frozen ground we’ll get down to the meadows, Senka.”

  * * *

  Fall in round the flag, brave boys,

  All who’re fit to tote a gun.

  Let ‘em have it hot and strong, boys.

  Get old Jerry on the run.

  Stock Exchange News

  [47]

  To establish regular secret contact with anyone you please, without ever meeting face to face, you need only set up a chain of intermediaries—at least two, but preferably three. Your immediate contact habitually meets twenty people besides yourself, only one of whom is the next link in the chain, and each of these meets twenty others. This gives four hundred possible combinations, and no secret police, no Burtsev, can ever investigate all of them.