1 Muromtzeff.
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with fear, were flying to the first shelter which presented itself.
"The catskin man, the catskin man, He fell down beneath a fence!" 1
piped up some naughty little girls, in their thin voices, after Kuzma, as they hopped from stone to stone, across the shallow stream of the Suburb.
"When he skins cats, he gets the paws!"
"Ugh, you little wretches!" a railway conductor growled at them. In an overcoat that was dreadfully heavy even to look at, he was walking in front of Kuzma, and he shook a small iron box at them. "Why don't you pick on some one of your own age?"
But one could judge from his voice that he was restraining his laughter. The conductor's old, deep goloshes were crusted with dried mud; the belt of his coat hung by a single button. The small bridge of planks along which he was walking lay askew. Further on, alongside the ditches flooded by the spring freshets, grew stunted bushes. And Kuzma gazed cheerlessly at them, and at the straw-thatched roofs on the hill of the Suburb; at the smoky and bluish clouds which hung over them, and at the reddish-yellow cur which was gnawing a bone in the ditch. In the bottom of the ditch, his legs straddled far
X A rhyme in the original. The "catskinner" collects hides throughout the countryside, for conversion into "furs."—
TRANS.
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apart, sat a petty burgher, in a waistcoat over a cotton-print Russian shirt. His widely opened eyes looked white in his face, which, scarlet with effort, stared upward in an awkward, stupid grin. When Kuzma came opposite him, he said, out of sheer clumsiness: "Is it you our little girls are taunting? Why, those little imps learn effrontery in their infancy!"
" Tis you yourselves who teach them," replied Kuzma, with a frown. "Yes, yes," he said to himself, as he ascended the hill, "a frog does not keep his tail long!" On reaching the crest of the hill, inhaling the damp wind from the plain and catching sight of the red buildings of the railway station in the midst of the empty green fields, he again began to smile faintly. Parliament, deputies! Last night he had returned from the public park, where, in honour of a holiday, there had been an illumination, rockets had soared aloft, and the firemen had played "Le Toreador" and "Beside the brook, beside the bridge," "The Maxixe" and "The Troika," shouting in the middle of the galop, "Hey, de-ear one!" He had returned home and had started to pull the bell at the gate of his lodging-house. He had pulled and pulled the rattling wire—not a soul. Not a soul anywhere around, either—only silence, darkness, the cold greenish sky in the West, beyond the square at the end of the street, and, overhead, storm-clouds. At last, some one crawled forward behind the gate, clearing his throat. He rattled his keys and grumbled: "I'm lame in my underpinning—"
"What's the cause of it?"
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"A horse kicked me," replied the man; and, as he unlocked and opened the gate, he added: "Well, now there are still two left."
"The men from the court, you mean?"
"Yes."
"But don't you know why the judge came?"
"To try the deputy. They say he tried to poison the river."
"What, the deputy? You fool, do deputies meddle with such things?"
"The devil only knows what they'll do."
On the outskirts of the Suburb, beside the threshold of a clay hut, stood a tall old man wearing leg-cloths. 1 In the old man's hand was a long staff of walnut wood. On catching sight of a passer-by, he made haste to pretend that he was much older than he really was. He grasped the staff in both hands, hunched up his shoulders, and imparted to his countenance a weary, melancholy expression. The damp, cold wind which was blowing from the fields agitated the shaggy locks of his grey hair. And Kuzma recalled his own father, his own childhood.
"Russia, Russia! Whither art thou dashing?" Gogol's exclamation recurred to his mind. "Russia, Russia! Akh, vain babblers, you stick at nothing! That's the best answer you can make: The deputy
1 About three-quarters of a yard of heavy homespun crash is wrapped over the foot and leg in lieu of a stocking, and confined in place by the stout cord or rope with which the slippers of plaited linden bark are tied on.— trans.
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tried to poison the river.' Yes, but who is responsible? First of all, the unhappy populace—and unhappy they are!" And tears welled up in Kuzma's little green eyes—welled up suddenly, as had often happened with him of late. Not long ago he had strolled into Avdyeeff's eating-house, in the Woman's Bazaar. He had entered the courtyard, ankle deep in mud, and from the courtyard ascended to the first storey—"the Gentry's Department"—by a wooden staircase so stinking, so rotten through and through, that it turned even his stomach—the stomach of a man who had seen sights in his day. With difficulty he had opened the heavy, greasy door, covered with scraps of felt and tattered rags in place of a proper casing, and provided with a pulley-weight fashioned from a brick and a bit of rope. He was fairly blinded by the charcoal vapour, the smoke, the glare of the tin reflectors behind the little wall-lamps, and deafened by the crash of the dishes on the counter; by the talking, the clatter of the waiters running about in all directions, and the repulsive uproar of the gramophone. Then he passed on to the most distant room, where there were fewer people, ate at a small table, ordered a bottle of mead. Underfoot, on a floor soiled with the trampling of feet and with spittle, lay slices of lemon, eggshells, butts of cigarettes. And near the wall opposite sat a long-limbed peasant in bast-slippers, smiling beatifically, shaking his frowsy head, and listening to the shrieking gramophone. On his small table were a small measure of vodka, a small glass, and cracknels. But
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the peasant was not drinking: only wagging his head and staring at his bast-shoes.
All of a sudden, becoming conscious of Kuzma's gaze riveted upon him, he opened his eyes wide with joy, raised his wonderfully kind face with its waving reddish beard. "Well, so you've flown in!" he exclaimed, in delight and surprise. And he hastened to add, by way of justifying himself: "Sir, I have a brother who serves here—my own brother."
Blinking away his tears, Kuzma clenched his teeth. Ugh, damn it, to what a point had the people been trampled upon, beaten down! "You've flown in!" That in connection with Avdyeeff's establishment! And that was not all: when Kuzma rose to his feet and said: "Well, goodbye!" the peasant hurriedly rose to his feet also, and out of the fulness of a happy heart, with profound gratitude for the light and luxury of the surroundings, and because he had been addressed in a human manner, quickly answered: "No offence meant!"
VI
IN former days conversation in the railway carriages had turned exclusively on the rain and the drought, on the fact that "God fixes the price for grain." Now, the sheets of newspapers rustled in the hands of many passengers, and discussion busied it-
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self with the Duma, the rights of the people, the expropriation of the land. No one even noticed the pouring rain which pattered on the roof, although the travellers belonged to the class which was always greedy for spring rains—grain dealers, peasants, petty burghers from the farms. A young soldier who had lost his leg passed along: he was suffering from jaundice, his black eyes were mournful, he hobbled and clattered his wooden leg as he doffed his tall Mand-zhurian fur cap and, like a beggar, made the sign of the cross every time he received an alms. A noisy, angry discussion started up on the subject of the Government, the Minister Durnovo, and some govern' mental oats. They referred, jeeringly, to that which formerly had evoked their naif enthusiasm: how "Vitya," x with the object of frightening the Japanese at Portsmouth, had ordered his trunks to be packed. A young man, with his hair cut close like beaver fur, who sat opposite Kuzma, reddened, grew embarrassed, and made haste to interpose: "Excuse me, gentlemen! You are talking about liberty. I serve in the office of the tax inspector, and I write articles for the city newspapers. Do you think that is any business of his? He asserts that he, too, believes in liberty, but when he foun
d out that I had written about the abnormal condition of our fire department, he sent for me and said: 'Damn you, if you write any more pieces like that I'll wring your neck!' Permit me: if my views are more on the left than his—"
1 Popular form of "Witte," the famous Minister.— trans.
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"Views?" suddenly shouted the alto voice of a dwarf, the young man's neighbour, a fat skopetz 1 in bottle-shaped boots—miller Tchernyaeff, who had been casting sidelong glances at him all the while from his pig-like little eyes. And, without giving him a chance to reply, he roared: "Views? You mean to say you have views? And you're more of a Left? Why, I've known you ever since you were running around without breeches in your childhood! And you were perishing with hunger, along with your father—you mendicants! You ought to be washing the inspector's feet and drinking the dirty water!"
"The Con-sti-tu-u-tion," interjected Kuzma in a shrill tone, interrupting the eunuch; and rising from his seat and jostling the knees of the sitting passengers, he went down the carriage to the door.
The eunuch's feet were small, plump, and repulsive, like those of some aged housekeeper; his face, also, was feminine, large, yellow, solid, like gutta-percha; his lips were thin. And PolozofT was another nice one— the teacher at the pro-gymnasium, the man who had been nodding his head so amiably, and leaning on his stick, as he listened to the eunuch; a squat, well-nourished man of thirty, in high shoes with the tops tucked under grey trousers, a grey hat, and a grey coat with sleeve-flaps; a clear-eyed fellow with a round nose and a luxuriant sandy beard spreading all over his chest. A teacher, but he wore a heavy gold seal ring on his forefinger. And he already owned a small house—the dowry he had acquired along with the
*A member of the self-mutilating sect, the Skoptzy.— trans.
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Archpriest's daughter. 1 His feet also were small, his hands were short, his fingers mere stumps; he was neat, groomed to a surprising nicety, and he took a bath every day. He was said to be an execrable man; the Lord forbid! Yes, decidedly peasants and petty citizens were not fit for such as he. Kuzma, as he opened the door to the platform, inhaled a deep breath of the cold and fragrant rain-drenched air. The rain droned dully on the roof over the platform, poured off it in streams, and spurts of it spattered over Kuzma. After the town the air of the fields, mingled with the exciting odour of the smoke from the locomotive, intoxicated him. The carriages, as they swayed, rattled louder than the noise of the rain; rising and falling as they approached, the telegraph wires floated past; on both sides ran the dense vividly-green borders of a hazel copse. A motley-hued gang of small boys suddenly sprang out from under the foot of the embankment and shouted something or other shrilly in chorus. Kuzma burst out laughing from sheer pleasure, and his whole face was covered with tiny wrinkles. But when he raised his eyes, he saw on the opposite platform a pilgrim; a kindly, jaded peasant face, a grey beard, a broad-brimmed hat, a cloth coat girt with a rope, a pouch and a tin teakettle hanging on his back, and, on his skinny feet,
1 Parish clergy are always married men in the Orthodox Catholic Church. An Archpriest is usually the head of a strff of clergy at a Cathedral. To a higher post and title no married priest can attain. The Bishops, Archbishops, and higher clergy must be monks.— trans.
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bast-shoes. The pilgrim was smiling, too. And Kuzma shouted to him, athwart the rumbling and the noise: "What's your name, grandfather?"
"Anton. Anton Bezpalykh," replied the old man with amiable readiness, in a thin voice.
"Just back from a pilgrimage?"
"From Voronezh."
"Are they burning out the landed proprietors there?"
"Yes, they are. . . ."
"Well, that's fine!"
"What's that you say?"
"I say 'tis fine!" shouted Kuzma. And, turning aside and blinking away the welling tears, he began with trembling hands to roll himself a cigarette. But his thoughts had already grown confused. "The pilgrim is one of the people, but do not the eunuch and the teacher belong to the people? 'Tis only forty-five years since serfdom was abolished—so what can be expected of the people? Yes, but who is to blame for it? The people themselves. Russia under the Russian yoke; the Little Brothers 1 of divers sorts under the Turkish; the Galicians under the Austrians —and 'tis useless to say anything about the Poles. Hey there, thou great Slavonic family!" And Kuzma's face once more lightened. Darting oblique glances about him on all sides, he began to twiddle his fingers, wring them, and crack their joints.
1 "Bratushki"—Little Brothers—is a term which originated during the Russo-Turkish War, 1877-78, and was applied to the Serbs and Bulgarians.— trans.
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VII
HE alighted at the fourth station and hired a conveyance. At first the peasant drivers demanded seven rubles—it was twelve versts to Kazakovo —then they came down to five and a half. At last one of them said: "Give me a three-ruble note and I'll drive you; otherwise, 'tis not worth wagging your tongue about. Times nowadays are not what they used to be." But he was unable to maintain that tone, and added the customary phrase: "And, besides, fodder is dear." And he drove, after all, for a ruble and a half. The mud was fathomless, impassable, the cart was tiny, the wretched little nag, barely alive, was as long-eared as an ass and extremely weak. When they had slowly emerged from the courtyard of the station, the peasant, seated on the side-rail, began to get impatient and jerked the rope reins as if he longed with his whole being to aid the horse. At the station he had bragged "She can't be held back," and now he evidently felt ashamed. But the worst part of it all was—the man himself. Young, huge of build, fairly plump, he was clad in bast-shoes and white leg-wrappers, a short kazak coat girt with a strip of cloth, and an old peaked cap on his straight yellow hair. He emitted the smoky odour out of a chimneyless hut and of hemp—a regular husbandman of olden times, with a white beardless face, a swollen throat and a hoarse voice.
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"What's your name?" inquired Kuzma.
"I'm called Akhvanasiy."
"Akhvanasiy!" said Kuzma angrily to himself. "And what else?"
"Menshoff.—Ho, get up there, antichrist!"
"Is it the evil malady?" And Kuzma indicated his throat with a nod.
"Well, yes, it it," mumbled Menshoff, turning his eyes aside. "I've been drinking cold kvas."
"Does it hurt you to swallow?"
"To swallow?—no, it doesn't hurt—"
"Weil, anyway, don't talk unnecessarily," said Kuzma sternly. "You'd better go to the hospital as soon as you can. Married, I suppose?"
"Yes, I'm married. . . ."
"Well, there, now, you see. You'll have children, and you'll be making them all a famous present!"
"Just as sure as giving them a drink," assented Menshoff. And, waxing impatient, he began to jerk the reins again. "Ho, get up there. You're an unmanageable brute, antichrist!" At last he abandoned this futile effort and calmed down. For a long time he maintained silence, then suddenly inquired: "Have they assembled that Duma yet, merchant?"
"Yes."
"And they do say that Makaroff is still alive, only they don't want it known."
Kuzma merely shrugged his shoulders: the devil only knew what these steppe men had in their heads! "But what wealth is here!" he said to himself, as he sat miserably on a tuft of straw, his knees drawn up on
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the bare floor of the springless cart, covered with a coarse cloth used for wrapping grain. He surveyed the road. The weather had grown still colder; still more gloomily the storm-clouds from the northwest came sailing over this black loam region, saturated with rains. The mud on the roads was bluish, greasy; the green of the trees, of the grass, of the vegetable gardens was dark and dense; and over everything lay that bluish tint of the black loam and the storm-clouds. But the cottages were of clay, tiny, with roofs of manure. Alongside them stood dried-up water casks. Of course, the water in them contained tadpoles.
Here was a well-to-do farmstead. In the vegetable garden, behind old bushes, an apiary, and a tiny orchard of three or four wild apple-trees, rose an old, dark-hued grain rick. The stable, the gate, and the cottage were all under one roof, thatched with hackled straw. The cottage was of brick, in two sections, the dividing line marked out with chalk: on one side was a pole surmounted by a forked branch, a fir-tree; on the other was something resembling a cock. The small windows were also rimmed with chalk in a toothed pattern. "There's creative genius for you!" grinned Kuzma. "The stone age, God forgive me—the times of the cave men!" On the doors of the detached sheds were crosses sketched in charcoal; by the porch stood a large tombstone, obviously prepared in anticipation of death by grandfather or grandmother. Yes, truly, a well-to-do farmstead. But the mud round about was knee deep; a pig was reclining on the porch, and on top of him, balancing itself and flapping its wings,
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a yellow chicken was parading. The windows were tiny, and in the part of the cottage appropriated to human occupation, darkness and eternally cramped conditions must inevitably reign—the sleeping shelf on top of the oven, the loom for weaving, a good-sized oven, a trough filled with slops. And the family would be large, with many children, and in winter time there would be Iambs and calves as well. And the dampness and the charcoal fumes would be such that a green vapour must hang over all. The children would whimper and howl when slapped on the nape of the neck; the sisters-in-law would revile one another ("May the lightning smite you, you roving, homeless cur!") and each express the hope that the other might "choke on a bite on the Great Day"; x the aged mother-in-law would be incessantly hurling something —the oven-fork, the bowls—and rushing at her daughters-in-law, her sleeves tucked up on her dark, sinewy arms, and wearing herself out with shrill scolding, besprinkling now one of them, now another with saliva and curses. The old man, ugly-tempered and ailing, would wear them all to exhaustion with his exhortations, would drag his married sons by the hair; and sometimes they would weep, in the repulsive peasant way.
The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood] Page 12