by Leo Tolstoy
‘What things one does dream,’ thought he.
Looking round he saw through the open door that the dawn was breaking.
‘It’s time to wake them up,’ thought he. ‘We ought to be starting.’
He got up, roused his man (who was sleeping in his cart), bade him harness; and went to call the Bashkírs.
‘It’s time to go to the steppe to measure the land,’ he said.
The Bashkírs rose and assembled, and the Chief came too. Then they began drinking kumiss again, and offered Pahóm some tea, but he would not wait.
‘If we are to go, let us go. It is high time,’ said he.
VIII
THE Bashkírs got ready and they all started: some mounted on horses, and some in carts. Pahóm drove in his own small cart with his servant, and took a spade with him. When they reached the steppe, the morning red was beginning to kindle. They ascended a hillock (called by the Bashkírs a shikhan) and dismounting from their carts and their horses, gathered in one spot. The Chief came up to Pahóm and stretching out his arm towards the plain:
‘See,’ said he, ‘all this, as far as your eye can reach, is ours. You may have any part of it you like.’
Pahóm’s eyes glistened: it was all virgin soil, as flat as the palm of your hand, as black as the seed of a poppy, and in the hollows different kinds of grasses grew breast high.
The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed it on the ground and said:
‘This will be the mark. Start from here, and return here again. All the land you go round shall be yours.’
Pahóm took out his money and put it on the cap. Then he took off his outer coat, remaining in his sleeveless under-coat. He unfastened his girdle and tied it tight below his stomach, put a little bag of bread into the breast of his coat, and tying a flask of water to his girdle, he drew up the tops of his boots, took the spade from his man, and stood ready to start. He considered for some moments which way he had better go – it was tempting everywhere.
‘No matter,’ he concluded, ‘I will go towards the rising sun.’
He turned his face to the east, stretched himself, and waited for the sun to appear above the rim.
‘I must lose no time,’ he thought, ‘and it is easier walking while it is still cool.’
The sun’s rays had hardly flashed above the horizon, before Pahóm, carrying the spade over his shoulder, went down into the steppe.
Pahóm started walking neither slowly nor quickly. After having gone a thousand yards he stopped, dug a hole, and placed pieces of turf one on another to make it more visible. Then he went on; and now that he had walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace. After a while he dug another hole.
Pahóm looked back. The hillock could be distinctly seen in the sunlight, with the people on it, and the glittering tyres of the cart-wheels. At a rough guess Pahóm concluded that he had walked three miles. It was growing warmer; he took off his under-coat, flung it across his shoulder, and went on again. It had grown quite warm now; he looked at the sun, it was time to think of breakfast.
‘The first shift is done, but there are four in a day, and it is too soon yet to turn. But I will just take off my boots,’ said he to himself.
He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them into his girdle, and went on. It was easy walking now.
‘I will go on for another three miles,’ thought he, ‘and then turn to the left. This spot is so fine, that it would be a pity to lose it. The further one goes, the better the land seems.’
He went straight on for a while, and when he looked round, the hillock was scarcely visible and the people on it looked like black ants, and he could just see something glistening there in the sun.
‘Ah,’ thought Pahóm, ‘I have gone far enough in this direction, it is time to turn. Besides I am in a regular sweat, and very thirsty.’
He stopped, dug a large hole, and heaped up pieces of turf. Next he untied his flask, had a drink, and then turned sharply to the left. He went on and on; the grass was high, and it was very hot.
Pahóm began to grow tired: he looked at the sun and saw that it was noon.
‘Well,’ he thought, ‘I must have a rest.’
He sat down, and ate some bread and drank some water; but he did not lie down, thinking that if he did he might fall asleep. After sitting a little while, he went on again. At first he walked easily: the food had strengthened him; but it had become terribly hot, and he felt sleepy; still he went on, thinking: ‘An hour to suffer, a life-time to live.’
He went a long way in this direction also, and was about to turn to the left again, when he perceived a damp hollow: ‘It would be a pity to leave that out,’ he thought. ‘Flax would do well there.’ So he went on past the hollow, and dug a hole on the other side of it before he turned the corner. Pahóm looked towards the hillock. The heat made the air hazy: it seemed to be quivering, and through the haze the people on the hillock could scarcely be seen.
‘Ah!’ thought Pahóm, ‘I have made the sides too long; I must make this one shorter.’ And he went along the third side, stepping faster. He looked at the sun: it was nearly halfway to the horizon, and he had not yet done two miles of the third side of the square. He was still ten miles from the goal.
‘No,’ he thought, ‘though it will make my land lop-sided, I must hurry back in a straight line now. I might go too far, and as it is I have a great deal of land.’
So Pahóm hurriedly dug a hole, and turned straight towards the hillock.
IX
PAHÓM went straight towards the hillock, but he now walked with difficulty. He was done up with the heat, his bare feet were cut and bruised, and his legs began to fail. He longed to rest, but it was impossible if he meant to get back before sunset. The sun waits for no man, and it was sinking lower and lower.
‘Oh dear,’ he thought, ‘if only I have not blundered trying for too much! What if I am too late?’
He looked towards the hillock and at the sun. He was still far from his goal, and the sun was already near the rim.
Pahóm walked on and on; it was very hard walking, but he went quicker and quicker. He pressed on, but was still far from the place. He began running, threw away his coat, his boots, his flask, and his cap, and kept only the spade which he used as a support.
‘What shall I do,’ he thought again, ‘I have grasped too much, and ruined the whole affair. I can’t get there before the sun sets.’
And this fear made him still more breathless. Pahóm went on running, his soaking shirt and trousers stuck to him, and his mouth was parched. His breast was working like a blacksmith’s bellows, his heart was beating like a hammer, and his legs were giving way as if they did not belong to him. Pahóm was seized with terror lest he should die of the strain.
Though afraid of death, he could not stop. ‘After having run all that way they will call me a fool if I stop now,’ thought he. And he ran on and on, and drew near and heard the Bashkírs yelling and shouting to him, and their cries inflamed his heart still more. He gathered his last strength and ran on.
The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked in mist looked large, and red as blood. Now, yes now, it was about to set! The sun was quite low, but he was also quite near his aim. Pahóm could already see the people on the hillock waving their arms to hurry him up. He could see the fox-fur cap on the ground, and the money on it, and the Chief sitting on the ground holding his sides. And Pahóm remembered his dream.
‘There is plenty of land,’ thought he, ‘but will God let me live on it? I have lost my life, I have lost my life! I shall never reach that spot!’
Pahóm looked at the sun, which had reached the earth: one side of it had already disappeared. With all his remaining strength he rushed on, bending his body forward so that his legs could hardly follow fast enough to keep him from falling. Just as he reached the hillock it suddenly grew dark. He looked up – the sun had already set! He gave a cry: ‘All my labour has been in vain,’ thought he, and was about to stop, but he heard the Bashk
írs still shouting, and remembered that though to him, from below, the sun seemed to have set, they on the hillock could still see it. He took a long breath and ran up the hillock. It was still light there. He reached the top and saw the cap. Before it sat the Chief laughing and holding his sides. Again Pahóm remembered his dream, and he uttered a cry: his legs gave way beneath him, he fell forward and reached the cap with his hands.
‘Ah, that’s a fine fellow!’ exclaimed the Chief. ‘He has gained much land!’
Pahóm’s servant came running up and tried to raise him, but he saw that blood was flowing from his mouth. Pahóm was dead!
The Bashkírs clicked their tongues to show their pity.
His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahóm to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed.
1 120 desyatins. The desyatina is properly 2.7 acres; but in this story round numbers are used.
2 Three rubles per desyatina.
3 Five kopeks for a desyatina.
4 Kibítkas, as described in footnote on p. 105.
A GRAIN AS BIG AS A
HEN’S EGG
ONE day some children found, in a ravine, a thing shaped like a grain of corn, with a groove down the middle, but as large as a hen’s egg. A traveller passing by saw the thing, bought it from the children for a penny, and taking it to town sold it to the King as a curiosity.
The King called together his wise men, and told them to find out what the thing was. The wise men pondered and pondered and could not make head or tail of it, till one day, when the thing was lying on a window-sill, a hen flew in and pecked at it till she made a hole in it, and then everyone saw that it was a grain of corn. The wise men went to the King, and said:
‘It is a grain of corn.’
At this the King was much surprised; and he ordered the learned men to find out when and where such corn had grown. The learned men pondered again, and searched in their books, but could find nothing about it. So they returned to the King and said:
‘We can give you no answer. There is nothing about it in our books. You will have to ask the peasants; perhaps some of them may have heard from their fathers when and where grain grew to such a size.’
So the King gave orders that some very old peasant should be brought before him; and his servants found such a man and brought him to the King. Old and bent, ashy pale and toothless, he just managed with the help of two crutches to totter into the King’s presence.
The King showed him the grain, but the old man could hardly see it; he took it, however, and felt it with his hands. The King questioned him, saying:
‘Can you tell us, old man, where such grain as this grew? Have you ever bought such corn, or sown such in your fields?’
The old man was so deaf that he could hardly hear what the King said, and only understood with great difficulty.
‘No!’ he answered at last, ‘I never sowed nor reaped any like it in my fields, nor did I ever buy any such. When we bought corn, the grains were always as small as they are now. But you might ask my father. He may have heard where such grain grew.’
So the King sent for the old man’s father, and he was found and brought before the King. He came walking with one crutch. The King showed him the grain, and the old peasant, who was still able to see, took a good look at it. And the King asked him:
‘Can you not tell us, old man, where corn like this used to grow? Have you ever bought any like it, or sown any in your fields?’
Though the old man was rather hard of hearing, he still heard better than his son had done.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I never sowed nor reaped any grain like this in my field. As to buying, I never bought any, for in my time money was not yet in use. Everyone grew his own corn, and when there was any need we shared with one another. I do not know where corn like this grew. Ours was larger and yielded more flour than present-day grain, but I never saw any like this. I have, however, heard my father say that in his time the grain grew larger and yielded more flour than ours. You had better ask him.’
So the King sent for this old man’s father, and they found him too, and brought him before the King. He entered walking easily and without crutches: his eye was clear, his hearing good, and he spoke distinctly. The King showed him the grain, and the old grandfather looked at it, and turned it about in his hand.
‘It is long since I saw such a fine grain,’ said he, and he bit a piece off and tasted it.
‘It’s the very same kind,’ he added.
‘Tell me, grandfather,’ said the King, ‘when and where was such corn grown? Have you ever bought any like it, or sown any in your fields?’
And the old man replied:
‘Corn like this used to grow everywhere in my time. I lived on corn like this in my young days, and fed others on it. It was grain like this that we used to sow and reap and thresh.’
And the King asked:
‘Tell me, grandfather, did you buy it anywhere, or did you grow it all yourself?’
The old man smiled.
‘In my time,’ he answered, ‘no one ever thought of such a sin as buying or selling bread; and we knew nothing of money. Each man had corn enough of his own.’
‘Then tell me, grandfather,’ asked the King, ‘where was your field, where did you grow corn like this?’
And the grandfather answered:
‘My field was God’s earth. Wherever I ploughed, there was my field. Land was free. It was a thing no man called his own. Labour was the only thing men called their own.’
‘Answer me two more questions,’ said the King. ‘The first is, Why did the earth bear such grain then, and has ceased to do so now? And the second is, Why your grandson walks with two crutches, your son with one, and you yourself with none? Your eyes are bright, your teeth sound, and your speech clear and pleasant to the ear. How have these things come about?’
And the old man answered:
‘These things are so, because men have ceased to live by their own labour, and have taken to depending on the labour of others. In the old time, men lived according to God’s law. They had what was their own, and coveted not what others had produced.’
THE GODSON
‘Ye have heard that it was said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, but I say unto you, Resist not him that is evil.’ – Matt. v. 38, 39.
‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay.’ – Rom. xii. 19.
I
A SON was born to a poor peasant. He was glad, and went to his neighbour to ask him to stand godfather to the boy. The neighbour refused – he did not like standing godfather to a poor man’s child. The peasant asked another neighbour, but he too refused, and after that the poor father went to every house in the village, but found no one willing to be godfather to his son. So he set off to another village, and on the way he met a man who stopped and said:
‘Good-day, my good man; where are you off to?’
‘God has given me a child,’ said the peasant, ‘to rejoice my eyes in youth, to comfort my old age, and to pray for my soul after death. But I am poor, and no one in our village will stand godfather to him, so I am now on my way to seek a godfather for him elsewhere.’
‘Let me be godfather,’ said the stranger.
The peasant was glad, and thanked him, but added:
‘And whom shall I ask to be godmother?’
‘Go to the town,’ replied the stranger, ‘and, in the square, you will see a stone house with shop-windows in the front. At the entrance you will find the tradesman to whom it belongs. Ask him to let his daughter stand godmother to your child.’
The peasant hesitated.
‘How can I ask a rich tradesman?’ said he. ‘He will despise me, and will not let his daughter come.’
‘Don’t trouble about that. Go and ask. Get everything ready by to-morrow morning, and I will come to the christening.’
The poor peasant returned home, and then drove to the town to find the tradesman. He had
hardly taken his horse into the yard, when the tradesman himself came out.
‘What do you want?’ said he.
‘Why, sir,’ said the peasant, ‘you see God has given me a son to rejoice my eyes in youth, to comfort my old age, and to pray for my soul after death. Be so kind as to let your daughter stand godmother to him.’
‘And when is the christening?’ said the tradesman.
‘To-morrow morning.’
‘Very well. Go in peace. She shall be with you at Mass tomorrow morning.’
The next day the godmother came, and the godfather also, and the infant was baptized. Immediately after the christening the godfather went away. They did not know who he was, and never saw him again.
II
THE child grew up to be a joy to his parents. He was strong, willing to work, clever and obedient. When he was ten years old his parents sent him to school to learn to read and write. What others learnt in five years, he learnt in one, and soon there was nothing more they could teach him.
Easter came round, and the boy went to see his godmother, to give her his Easter greeting.
‘Father and mother,’ said he when he got home again, ‘where does my godfather live? I should like to give him my Easter greeting, too.’
And his father answered:
‘We know nothing about your godfather, dear son. We often regret it ourselves. Since the day you were christened we have never seen him, nor had any news of him. We do not know where he lives, or even whether he is still alive.’
The son bowed to his parents.
‘Father and mother,’ said he, ‘let me go and look for my godfather. I must find him and give him my Easter greeting.’
So his father and mother let him go; and the boy set off to find his godfather.
III
THE boy left the house and set out along the road. He had been walking for several hours when he met a stranger who stopped him and said:
‘Good-day to you, my boy. Where are you going?’