by Unknown
Pahom was delighted. It was decided to start early next morning. They talked a while, and after drinking some more kumiss and eating some more mutton, they had tea again, and then the night came on. They gave Pahom a feather-bed to sleep on, and the Bashkirs dispersed for the night, promising to assemble the next morning at daybreak and ride out before sunrise to the appointed spot.
VII
Pahom lay on the feather-bed, but could not sleep. He kept thinking about the land.
“What a large tract I will mark off!” thought he. “I can easily do thirty-five miles in a day. The days are long now, and within a circuit of thirty-five miles what a lot of land there will be! I will sell the poorer land, or let it to peasants, but I’ll pick out the best and farm it. I will buy two oxteams, and hire two more laborers. About a hundred and fifty acres shall be plough-land, and I will pasture cattle on the rest.”
Pahom lay awake all night, and dozed off only just before dawn. Hardly were his eyes closed when he had a dream. He thought he was lying in that same tent and heard somebody chuckling outside. He wondered who it could be, and rose and went out, and he saw the Bashkir Chief sitting in front of the tent holding his sides and rolling about with laughter. Going nearer to the Chief, Pahom asked: “What are you laughing at?” But he saw that it was no longer the Chief, but the dealer who had recently stopped at his house and had told him about the land. Just as Pahom was going to ask, “Have you been here long?” he saw that it was not the dealer, but the peasant who had come up from the Volga, long ago, to Pahom’s old home. Then he saw that it was not the peasant either, but the Devil himself with hoofs and horns, sitting there and chuckling, and before him lay a man barefoot, prostrate on the ground, with only trousers and a shirt on. And Pahom dreamt that he looked more attentively to see what sort of a man it was that was lying there, and he saw that the man was dead, and that it was himself! He awoke horror-struck.
“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 Bashkirs.
“It’s time to go to the steppe to measure the land,” he said.
The Bashkirs rose and assembled, and the Chief came too. Then they began drinking kumiss again, and offered Pahom some tea, but he would not wait.
“If we are to go, let us go. It is high time,” said he.
VIII
The Bashkirs got ready and they all started: some mounted on horses, and some in carts. Pahom 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 Bashkirs a shikhan) and dismounting from their carts and their horses, gathered in one spot. The Chief came up to Pahom 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.”
Pahom’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.”
Pahom 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 Pahom, carrying the spade over his shoulder, went down into the steppe.
Pahom 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.
Pahom looked back. The hillock could be distinctly seen in the sunlight, with the people on it, and the glittering tires of the cart-wheels. At a rough guess Pahom 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 Pahom, “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.
Pahom 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. Pahom 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 Pahom, “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 half-way 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 Pahom hurriedly dug a hole, and turned straight towards the hillock.
IX
Pahom 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.
Pahom 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. Pahom 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. Pahom 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 Bashkirs 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. Pahom 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 Pahom 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!”
Pahom 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 labor has been in vain,” thought he, and was about to stop, but he heard the Bashkirs 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 Pahom 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!”
Pahom’s servant came running up and tried to raise him, but he saw that blood was flowing from his nostril. Pahom was dead!
The Bashkirs clicked their tongues to show their pity.
His servant picked up the spade and dug a grave long enough for Pahom to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his head to his heels was all he needed.
THE CLOTHESMENDER
Nicholay Leskov
I
WHAT A silly custom it is to wish everyone new happiness in the new year, yet sometimes something of the sort does come true. On this subject allow me to tell you of a little episode having a perfectly Yuletide character.
During one of my stays in Moscow in times long gone by, I was held up longer than I had expected and got fed up with living in a hotel. The psalmodist of one of the Court churches heard me complain to a friend of mine, a priest of that church, about the discomforts I had to put up with and said:
“Why shouldn’t the gentleman stay with my gossip, father? Just now he has a room free, facing the street.”
“What gossip?” asks the priest.
“Vasily Konych.”
“Ah, that’s the maître tailleur Lepoutant!”
“Just so.”
“Well, that is really a very good idea.”
And the priest explained to me that he knew those people and that the room was excellent, while the psalmodist mentioned one additional advantage:
“If,” he says, “something gets torn, or the bottoms of your trousers get frayed, everything will be put right, and invisible to the eye.”
I thought all further inquiries superfluous and did not even go to see the room, but gave the psalmodist the key to my hotel room with a note of authorization on my card, and entrusted him with the settling of my hotel bill, collecting my things from there and taking them all to his gossip. Then I asked him to call for me where I was and conduct me to my new quarters.
II
The psalmodist managed to carry out my commission very quickly, and within a little more than an hour called for me at the priest’s.
“Let’s go,” says he, “all your possessions are already unpacked and set out there, and we’ve unshuttered the windows for you and opened the door on the little balcony to the garden, and my gossip and I even had some tea on that same balcony. It’s nice there,” he goes on, “flowers all around, birds nesting in the gooseberries and a nightingale trilling away in a cage under the window. Better than in the country, because it’s green, and yet all household affairs are in order, and if some button of yours gets loose or your trouser bottoms get frayed, it’ll be fixed up in no time.”
The psalmodist was a tidy fellow and a great dandy and therefore kept stressing this particular advantage of my new quarters.
The priest supported him, too.
“Yes,” says he, “tailleur Lepoutant is an artist in that line the like of whom you won’t find, whether in Moscow or in Petersburg.”
“An expert,” gravely chimed in the psalmodist as he helped me into my coat.
Who was this Lepoutant—I couldn’t make out; moreover, it didn’t concern me.
III
We set off on foot.
The psalmodist assured me that it wasn’t worth taking a cab since it was supposedly just “two steps of promenage.”
In actual fact, however, it turned out to be about half an hour’s walk, but the psalmodist seemed to want a “promenage,” perhaps not without an intention of displaying the cane with a purple silk tassel which he had in his hand.
The district where Lepoutant’s house was located was beyond the Moscow river, toward the Yauza, somewhere on its banks. I no longer remember in what parish it was nor what the street was called. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a street but rather a sort of dead-end alley, something like an old churchyard. A little church stood there, and at a right angle to it, there was a close and in it six or seven little cottages, all very small, grey, wooden, one of them on a stone semi-basement. This one was more showy and bigger than all the others, and along the whole length of its façade was fixed a large iron signboard on which, in big and clear letters of gold on a black background, was inscribed:
“Maitr taileur Lepoutant.”
Apparently, my new quarters were here, but it appeared strange to me: why did my landlord, whose name was Vasily Konych, call himself ‘maitr taileur Lepoutant’? When the priest called him that, I thought it was no more than a joke and did not attach any importance to it, but now, seeing the sign, I had to change my mind. Apparently this was in all earnest, and I therefore asked my guide:
“Is Vasily Konych a Russian or a Frenchman?”
The psalmodist even looked surprised and seemed not to have understood my question at once. But then he answered:
“What are you saying? Why should he be a Frenchman? He’s as Russian as they come. Even the clothes he makes for sale are all Russian: poddyovkas and suchlike. But he is most famous all over Moscow for his mending: ever so much old clothing that passes through his hands is sold for new.”
“But all the same,” I persisted in my curiosity, “he must be of French descent?”
Again the psalmodist was surprised.
“No,” said he, “why French? He is of the regular local breed, Russian that is, and godfather to my children, and after all we of the clerical calling, we all belong to the Orthodox Church. And why should you really imagine that he has any connection with the French nation?”
“The name on his signboard is French.”
“Oh, that,” says he, “that’s nothing at all, that’s sheer formality. And anyhow, the main sign is in French, but right here, by the
gate, you see, there is another sign, in Russian, that’s the correct one.”
I look and indeed by the gate there is another sign on which are painted an armyak and a poddyovka and two black waistcoats with silver buttons shining like stars in darkness, and, underneath, the inscription:
“Garments of Russian and Clerical Dress Made. Specializing in Nap, Turning Out and Repairs.”
Under this second sign the name of the maker of “garments, turning out and repairs” was not indicated; there were only the two initials “V. L.”
IV
Accommodation and landlord turned out indeed to be above all praise and description bestowed upon them, so that I immediately felt at home there and soon grew fond of my good host, Vasily Konych. Before long we took to joining one another for tea and conversing peaceably on diverse subjects. Thus, one day, sitting at tea on the little balcony, we began discoursing on the royal themes of the Koheleth about the vanity of all things under the sun and about our inherent propensity to succumb to all vanity. That is how we came upon the subject of Lepoutant.
I do not remember how it actually happened but it so came about that Vasily Konych signified his desire to tell me the odd story of how and why he had assumed a “French title.”
This has some relation to social mores and to literature, even though it is written on a sign.
Konych began in a simple but very interesting fashion:
“My family name, sir,” said he, “is not Lepoutant at all but something else, and it is fate itself which endowed me with a French title.
V
I am a native, true-blue Muscovite, of the poorest class. Our grandfather used to sell insoles outside the Rogozhsky Gate to venerable Old Believers. An excellent old man he was, saintlike—all greyish, like a faded little rabbit; but until his very death he lived by his own labor. He would buy a bit of felt, cut it into pieces for soles, tack them into pairs with a bit of thread and go “among the Christians,” chanting affectionately: “Little insoles, little insoles, who needs little insoles?” Thus he would make the round of Moscow, and though he had but a pennys-worth of merchandise, he made a living. My father was a tailor in the old style. He made old-fashioned coats with three pleats for the most faithful Old Believers, and he taught me his craft. But from childhood on I had a special gift for darning. My cutting is not stylish, but darning is my first love. I’ve got such a knack for it that I could darn over the most conspicuous place and it would be very hard to notice.