by Leo Tolstoy
Many voices were speaking at once, but Theodore Rezún, the carpenter, shouted loudest. There were two grown-up young men in his family and he was attacking the Dútlovs. Old Dútlov was defending himself: he stepped forward from the crowd behind which he had at first been standing. Now spreading out his arms, now clutching his little beard, he sputtered and snuffled in such a way that it would have been hard for him to understand what he himself was saying. His sons and nephews – splendid fellows all of them – stood huddled behind him, and the old man resembled the mother-hen in the game of Hawk and Chickens. The hawk was Rezún; and not only Rezún, but all the men who had two grown lads in family, and the fathers of only sons, and almost the whole meeting, were attacking Dútlov. The point was that Dútlov’s brother had been recruited thirty years before, and that Dútlov wished therefore to be excused from taking his turn with the families in which there were three eligible young men, and wanted his brother’s service in the army to be reckoned to the credit of his family, so that it should be given the same chance as those in which there were only two young men; and that these families should all draw lots equally and the third recruit be chosen from among all of them. Besides Dútlov’s family there were four others in which there were three young men, but one was the village Elder’s family and the mistress had exempted him. From the second a recruit had been taken the year before, and from each of the remaining families a recruit was now being taken. One of them had not even come to this meeting, but his wife stood sorrowfully behind all the others, vaguely hoping that the wheel of fortune might somehow turn her way. The red-haired Román, the father of the other recruit, in a tattered coat – though he was not poor – hung his head and silently leaned against the porch, only now and then looking up attentively at anyone who raised his voice, and then hanging his head again. Misery seemed to breathe from his whole figure. Old Semën Dútlov was a man to whose keeping anyone who knew anything of him would have trusted hundreds and thousands of rubles. He was a steady, God-fearing, reliable man, and was the church Elder. Therefore the excitement he was now in was all the more striking.
Rezún the carpenter, a tall dark man, was, on the contrary, a riotous drunkard, very smart in a dispute and in arguing with workmen, tradespeople, peasants, or gentlefolk, at meetings and fairs. Now he was self-possessed and sarcastic, and from his superior height was crushing down the spluttering church Elder with the whole strength of his ringing voice and oratorical talent. The church Elder was exasperated out of his usual sober groove. Besides these, the youngish, round-faced, square-headed, curly-bearded, thick-set Garáska Kopýlov, one of the speakers of the younger generation, followed Rezún and took part in the dispute. He had already gained some weight at village meetings, having distinguished himself by his trenchant speeches. Then there was Theodore Mélnichny, a tall, thin, yellow-faced, round-shouldered man, also young, with a scanty beard and small eyes, always embittered and gloomy, seeing the dark side of everything and often bewildering the meeting by unexpected and abrupt questions and remarks. Both these speakers sided with Rezún. Besides these there were two babblers who now and then joined in: one, called Khrapkóv, with a most good-humoured face and flowing brown beard, who kept repeating the words, ‘Oh, my dearest friend!’ the other, Zhidkóv, a little fellow with a birdlike face who also kept remarking at every opportunity, ‘That’s how it is, brothers mine!’ addressing himself to everybody and speaking fluently but never to the point. Both of these sided first with one and then with the other party, but no one listened to them. There were others like them, but these two, who kept moving through the crowd and shouting louder than anybody and frightening the mistress, were listened to less than anyone else. Intoxicated by the noise and shouting, they gave themselves up entirely to the pleasure of letting their tongues wag. There were many other characters among the members of the commune, stern, respectable, indifferent, or depressed; and there were women standing behind the men with sticks in their hands, but, God willing, I’ll speak of them some other time. The greater part of the crowd, however, consisted of peasants who stood as if they were in church, whispering behind each other’s backs about home affairs, or of when to cut faggots in the wood, or silently awaiting the end of the jabber. There were also rich peasants whose well-being the meeting could not add to nor diminish. Such was Ermíl, with his broad shiny face, whom the peasants called the ‘big-bellied’, because he was rich. Such too was Stárostin, whose face showed a self-satisfied expression of power that seemed to say, ‘You may talk away, but no one will touch me! I have four sons, but not one of them will have to go.’ Now and then these two were attacked by some independent thinker such as Kopýlov and Rezún, but they replied quietly and firmly and with a consciousness of their own inviolability. If Dútlov was like the mother-hen in the game of Hawk and Chickens, his lads did not much resemble the chickens. They did not flutter about and squeak, but stood quietly behind him. His eldest son, Ignát, was already thirty; the second, Vasíli, also was already a married man and moreover not fit for a recruit; the third, his nephew Elijah, who had just got married – a fair, rosy young man in a smart sheepskin coat (he was a post-chaise driver) – stood looking at the crowd, sometimes scratching his head under his hat, as if the whole matter was no concern of his, though it was just on him that the hawks wished to swoop down.
‘If it comes to that, my grandfather was a soldier,’ said one, ‘and so I might refuse to draw lots in just the same way! … There’s no such law, friend. Last recruiting, Mikhéchev was taken though his uncle had not even returned from service then.’
‘Neither your father nor your uncle ever served the Tsar,’ Dútlov was saying at the same time. ‘Why, you don’t even serve the mistress or the commune, but spend all your time in the pub. Your sons have separated from you because it’s impossible to live with you, so you go suggesting other people’s sons for recruits! But I have done police duty for ten years, and served as Elder. Twice I have been burnt out, and no one helped me over it; and now, because things are peaceable and decent in my home, am I to be ruined?… Give me back my brother, then! He has died in service for sure.… Judge honestly according to God’s law, Christian commune, and don’t listen to a drunkard’s drivel.’
And at the same time Geráska was saying to Dútlov:
‘You are making your brother an excuse; but he was not sent by the commune. He was sent by the master because of his evil ways, so he’s no excuse for you.’
Geráska had not finished when the lank yellow-faced Theodore Mélnichny stepped forward and began dismally:
‘Yes, that’s the way! The masters send whom they please, and then the commune has to get the muddle straight. The commune has fixed on your lad, and if you don’t like it, go and ask the lady. Perhaps she will order me, the one man of our family, to leave my children and go! … There’s law for you!’ he said bitterly, and waving his hand he went back to his former place.
Red-haired Román, whose son had been chosen as a recruit, raised his head and muttered: ‘That’s it, that’s it!’ and even sat down on the step in vexation.
But these were not the only ones who were speaking at once. Besides those at the back who were talking about their own affairs, the babblers did not forget to do their part.
‘And so it is, faithful commune,’ said little Zhidkóv, supporting Dútlov. ‘One must judge in a Christian way.… Like Christians I mean, brothers, we must judge.’
‘One must judge according to one’s conscience, my dear friend,’ spoke the good-humoured Khrapkóv, repeating Garáska Kopýlov’s words and pulling Dútlov by his sheepskin coat. ‘It was the master’s will and not the commune’s decision.’
‘That’s right! So it was!’ said others.
‘What drunkard is drivelling there?’ Rezún retorted to Dútlov. ‘Did you stand me any drinks? Or is your son, whom they pick up by the roadside, going to reproach me for drinking?… Friends, we must decide! If you want to spare the Dútlovs, choose not only out of families with two me
n, but even an only son, and he will have the laugh of us!’
‘A Dútlov will have to go! What’s the good of talking?’
‘Of course the three-men families must be the first to draw lots,’ began different voices.
‘We must first see what the mistress will say. Egór Mikháylovich was saying that they wished to send a house-serf,’ put in a voice.
This remark checked the dispute for a while, but soon it flared up anew and again came to personalities.
Ignát, whom Rezún had accused of being picked up drunk by the roadside, began to make out that Rezún had stolen a saw from some travelling carpenters, and that he had almost beaten his wife to death when he was drunk.
Rezún replied that he beat his wife drunk or sober, and still it was not enough, and this set everybody laughing. But about the saw he became suddenly indignant, stepped closer to Ignát and asked:
‘Who stole? …’
‘You did,’ replied the sturdy Ignát, drawing still closer.
‘Who stole?… Wasn’t it you?’ shouted Rezún.
‘No, it was you,’ said Ignát.
From the saw they went on to the theft of a horse, a sack of oats, some strip of communal kitchen-garden, and to a certain dead body, and the two peasants said such terrible things of one another that if a hundredth part of them had been true they would by law at the very least have deserved exile to Siberia.
In the meantime old Dútlov had chosen another way of defending himself. He did not like his son’s shouting, and tried to stop him, saying: ‘It’s a sin.… Leave off I tell you!’ At the same time he argued that not only those who had three young men at home were three-men families, but also those whose sons had separated from them, and he also pointed to Stárostin.
Stárostin smiled slightly, cleared his throat, and stroking his beard with the air of a well-to-do peasant, answered that it all depended on the mistress, and that evidently his sons had deserved well, since the order was for them to be exempt.
Garáska smashed Dútlov’s arguments about the families that had broken up, by the remark that they ought not to have been allowed to break up, as was the rule during the lifetime of the late master; but that no one went raspberry-picking when summer was over, and that one could not now conscript the only man left in a household.
‘Did they break up their households for fun? Why should they now be quite ruined?’ came the voices of the men whose families had separated; and the babblers joined in too.
‘You’d better buy a substitute if you’re not satisfied. You can afford it!’ said Rezún to Dútlov.
Dútlov wrapped his coat round him with a despairing gesture and stepped back behind the others.
‘It seems you’ve counted my money!’ he muttered angrily. ‘We shall see what Egór Mikháylovich will say when he comes from the mistress.’
VI
AT that very moment Egór Mikháylovich came out of the house. One cap after another was lifted, and as the steward approached all the heads – grey, grizzled, red, brown, fair, or bald in front or on top – were uncovered, and the voices were gradually silenced till at last all was quiet. Egór Mikháylovich stepped onto the porch, evidently intending to speak. In his long coat, his hands awkwardly thrust into the front pockets, his town-made cap pulled over his forehead, he stood firmly, with feet apart, in this elevated position, towering above all these heads – mostly old, bearded, and handsome – that were turned towards him. He was now a different man from what he had been when he stood before his mistress. He was majestic.
‘This is the mistress’s decision, men! It is not her pleasure to give up any of the house-serfs, but from among you – whom you yourselves decide on shall go. Three are wanted this time. By rights only two and a half are wanted, but the half will be taken into account next time. It comes to the same thing: if not to-day it would have to be to-morrow.’
‘Of course, that’s quite right!’ some voices said.
‘In my opinion,’ continued Egór Mikháylovich, ‘Kharyúshkin and Váska Mityúkhin must go, that is evidently God’s will.’
‘Yes, that’s quite right!’ said the voices.
‘… The third will have to be one of the Dútlovs, or one out of a two-men family.… What do you say?’
‘Dútlov!’ cried the voices. ‘There are three of them of the right age!’
And again, little by little, the shouting increased, and somehow the question of the strip of kitchen-garden and certain sacks stolen from the mistress’s yard came up again. Egór Mikháylovich had been managing the estate for the last twenty years and was a shrewd and experienced man. He stood and listened for about a quarter of an hour, then he ordered all to be silent, and the three younger Dútlovs to draw lots to see which of them was to go. The lots were prepared, shaken up in a hat, and Khrapkóv drew one out. It was Elijah’s. All became silent.
‘Is it mine? Let me see it!’ said Elijah in a faltering voice.
All remained silent. Egór Mikháylovich ordered that everybody should bring the recruit money – seven kopéks from each household – next day, and saying that all was over, dismissed the meeting. The crowd moved off, the men covered their heads as they turned the corner, and their voices and the sound of their footsteps mingled into a hum. The steward stood on the porch watching the departing crowd, and when the young Dútlovs were round the corner he beckoned old Dútlov, who had stopped of his own accord, and they went into the office.
‘I am sorry for you, old man,’ said Egór Mikháylovich, sitting down in an arm-chair before the table. ‘It was your turn though. Will you buy a recruit to take your nephew’s place, or not?’
The old man, without speaking, gave Egór Mikháylovich a significant look.
‘There’s no getting out of it,’ said Egór Mikháylovich in answer to that look.
‘We’d be glad enough to buy a substitute, Egór Mikháylovich, but we haven’t the means. Two horses went to the knacker’s this summer, and there was my nephew’s wedding.… Evidently it’s our fate … for living honestly. It’s very well for him to talk!’ (He was thinking of Rezún.)
Egór Mikháylovich rubbed his face with his hand and yawned. He was evidently tired of the business and was ready for his tea.
‘Eh, old fellow, don’t be mean!’ said he. ‘Have a hunt under your floor, I dare say you’ll turn up some four hundred old ruble notes, and I’ll get you a substitute – a regular wonder! … The other day a fellow came offering himself.’
‘In the government?’ asked Dútlov, meaning the town.
‘Well, will you buy him?’
‘I’d be glad enough, God is my witness! … but …’
Egór Mikháylovich interrupted him sternly.
‘Well then, listen to me, old man! See that Elijah does himself no mischief,5 and as soon as I send word – whether to-day or to-morrow – he is to be taken to town at once. You will take him and you will be answerable for him, but if anything should happen to him – which God forbid! – I’ll send your eldest son instead! Do you hear?’
‘But could not one be sent from a two-man family?… Egór Mikháylovich, this is not fair!’ he said. Then after a pause he went on, almost with tears: ‘When my brother has died a soldier, now they are taking my son! How have I deserved such a blow?’ and he was ready to fall on his knees.
‘Well, well, go away!’ said Egór Mikháylovich. ‘Nothing can be done. It’s the law. Keep an eye on Elijah: you’ll have to answer for him!’
Dútlov went home, thoughtfully tapping the ruts with his linden stick as he walked.
VII
EARLY next morning a big-boned bay gelding (for some reason called Drum) harnessed to a small cart (the steward himself used to drive in that cart), stood at the porch of the house-serfs’ quarters. Annie, Polikéy’s eldest daughter, barefoot in spite of the falling sleet and the cold wind, and evidently frightened, stood at the horse’s head holding the bridle at arm’s length, and with her other hand held a faded yellowy-green jacket that w
as thrown over her head, and which served the family as blanket, cloak, hood, carpet, overcoat for Polikéy, and many other things besides. Polikéy’s corner was all in a bustle. The dim light of a rainy morning was just glimmering in at the window, which was broken here and there and mended with paper. Akulína had left her cooking in the oven, and left her children – of whom the younger were still in bed – shivering, because the jacket that served them as blanket had been taken away to serve as a garment and only replaced by the shawl off their mother’s head. Akulína was busy getting her husband ready for his journey. His shirt was clean, but his boots, which as the saying is were ‘begging for porridge’, gave her much trouble. She had taken off her thick worsted stockings (her only pair) and given them to her husband, and had managed to cut out a pair of inner soles from a saddle-cloth (which had been carelessly left about in the stable and had been brought home by Polikéy two days before) in such a way as to stop up the holes in his boots and keep his feet dry. Polikéy sat, feet and all, on the bed, untwisting his girdle so that it should not look like a dirty cord. The cross, lisping little girl, wrapped in the sheepskin (which though it covered her head was trailing round her feet), had been dispatched to ask Nikíta to lend them a cap. The bustle was increased by house-serfs coming in to ask Polikéy to get different things for them in town. One wanted needles, another tea, a third some tobacco, and another some olive oil. The carpenter’s wife – who to conciliate Polikéy had already found time to make her samovar boil and bring him a mug full of liquid which she called tea – wanted some sugar. Though Nikíta refused to lend a cap and they had to mend his own – that is, to push in the protruding bits of wadding and sew them up with a veterinary needle; though at first the boots with the saddle-cloth soles would not go on his feet; though Annie, chilled through, nearly let Drum get out of hand, and Mary in the long sheepskin had to take her place, and then Mary had to take off the sheepskin and Akulína had to hold the horse herself – it all ended by Polikéy successfully getting all the warm family garments on himself, leaving only the jacket and a pair of slippers behind. When ready, he got into the little cart, wrapped the sheepskin round him, shook up the bag of hay at the bottom of the cart, again wrapped himself up, took the reins, wrapped the coat still closer round him as very important people do, and started.