Chapter XVIII: Act V: SCENE 1. TWILIGHT. KULÍGIN (sitting on a bench), KABANÓV (3)

Now each of Cock-of-the-Boots’s sons had a special name: their father called one of them Prince Kutúzov, another Paskévich, a third Díbich. “They are all my generalissimos,” he would say. When the chief began to call him names, he turned to Díbich:

“Díbich! Take him out!”

Díbich, without any further ado, took the chief by his shoulder and led him out. The hundred-men and some of the villagers tried to interfere,--but these protectors got dreadfully mauled by Cock-of-the-Boots and his sons.

“I myself,” cried Cock-of-the-Boots, “with my good fellows can kick out two such villages as this. I,” says he, “will root out any man that will undertake to oppress me, because I am not afraid of anybody, and my children are not afraid of anybody but me.”

And his wife seconded him: “That ’s right,” says she, “we are not afraid of anybody!”

It was a fine family we had to deal with.

“It ’s now up with Cock-of-the-Boots,” we villagers thought, after that occurrence. “They ’ll certainly drag him to Siberia for insulting such a great gentleman.” But that ’s where we were wrong. The chief complained to the district superintendent, saying: “It is so and so, and I can’t do anything with Cock-of-the-Boots, because,” says he, “he has a powerful lot of sons, and they get the better of the whole village.”

No sooner did Cock-of-the-Boots hear of that letter than he slung a wallet with a slice of bread over his shoulder, lighted his pipe,--he had a small pipe with a short carved stem,--and off he went to the capital of the province. A lot of gentlemen were just entering the Governor’s palace, and he somehow managed to slip in with them into the audience room, where he waited for the Governor to appear, in the meantime angrily twisting his moustache.

Then came his turn.

“Who are you?” asked the Chief, “and what do you want?”

“I am, sir,” answered Cock-of-the-Boots, “a crown peasant and a shoemaker. And what I want is that you should kick out the township chief,--his name is so and so,--because he is an embezzler of the Tsar’s treasure, and a great nuisance to the commune. That ’s what I want,” says he.

They say that the gentlemen that were present were stunned, seeing how freely he spoke with the General. The Governor himself frowned and looked for a long time at Cock-of-the-Boots with angry eyes, and finally he said:

“Do you, Cock-of-the-Boots,” says he, “want me to put you in jail for insulting me in that way?”

But Cock-of-the-Boots only smiled, and his moustaches twitched, and he said to the Governor: “Let me tell you,” says he, “that I won’t go to jail, but straight to Peter, to complain to the Emperor himself; and you are not strong enough to stop me,” says he, “because I am not afraid of anybody except God in heaven,” and he threw his wallet over his shoulders, and started out.

The gentlemen present could not keep back any longer and burst out laughing, and the Governor himself laughed.

“What a bold fellow!” says he, “I have not seen the like of him in all my life. Fetch him back,” says he, “and send him to my cabinet. I will talk to him later.”

“I see no objection to having a talk with him,” said Cock-of-the-Boots, smiling. “I am always ready to talk to a Governor.”

It is not known what the Governor and he talked about, only, Cock-of-the-Boots had not yet reached his village when the township chief had an order from the capital to the effect that he had been a chief long enough.

II

You ought to have seen how we ever after honoured Cock-of-the-Boots. As he and his wife passed a great part of their time in the tavern, they were treated to many a cup by anybody who happened to be there and who felt that they must offer them a part of their just labour. But Cock-of-the-Boots would keep one of his hands in his pocket, and with the other he would twist his moustache around his ears, saying:

“Now let we tell you why I am drinking all the time. It ’s because you are all fools, and I can’t do anything with you.”

“That ’s correct,” was the invariable refrain of his wife.

And to tell the truth, if he had not been drinking so hard, he could have gotten away with many a fellow, for he was very clever. He was a great hand at his business! He could make any kind of boots, gentlemen’s and shopkeepers’ boots, extensible and simple peasant boots,--it was just a joy to look at them! The only trouble was, that accursed Cock-of-the-Boots rarely ever finished a job. He nearly always carried the leather that his customers gave him to the tavern to exchange it for drinks.

“How did you dare, Cock-of-the-Boots, to buy drinks with my leather?” they would ask him.

“Simply because I wanted to,” says he.

Nobody entered any complaints against him, because it did no good. He knew how to amuse all the chiefs with his conversations and to gain all kinds of favours from them. They tried to take the law into their own hands, but that only ended in an all around fight, for his wife and sons took his side, and also a stalwart sexton,--they called him Katerínych,--and they easily vanquished the whole village. However, we learned to find our way into Cock-of-the-Boots’s heart, only it took us quite a while to find it out. All one had to do, when Cock-of-the-Boots had spent the leather in drinks, was to take at once another piece to him, and beg him not to spend this second piece.

“Won’t you, Grigóri Kuzmích, make me a pair of boots out of this? We ’ll square up about the first piece later.”

“That ’s what I like!” Cock-of-the-Boots would say. “I like to be trusted!” he would shout, “just as I would like to trust others, only I have nothing to give.” And he immediately ordered his sons to make a special effort with these boots.

“As you command, dad!” his sons would say, and they at once set to work, so that you could see chips flying. They were a fine lot, and they obeyed their parents so that we all envied them.

“Just look!” the whole village said, “father and mother are drunkards, but the children are all right.” They not only were skilled in their trade and could read and write, but every one of them had picked up some specialty: one could play the accordion, another the guitar, or horn. They used to go out, of a summer evening, into the street, after their work was done, and, seating themselves in front of their hut, they began to play some sweet song. There was not one of the whole family that did not have a good voice. Their mother was such an insignificant woman to look at; but when she began to trill “Lovely forget-me-not” with her soft voice, everybody would stop to listen. Cock-of-the-Boots himself was regarded as a first-class singer in these entertainments. At first he would start with a fine tenor, and then he would carry the whole song in a heavy bass. Where in the world did he get that bass from?

The whole village and people from the outlying hamlets used to come to hear them.

Cock-of-the-Boots lived in this manner for three or four years. We all got used to his intoxication, and shouting at night time, and his blaspheming. We quit getting angry at him, because, in the first place, he was a hopeless case, and, in the second, he did a great deal of good in the village and the neighbouring hamlets. For example, if a rich merchant began to flay the people in too open a manner, or the chief or scribe put down the screws a little too tight, Cock-of-the-Boots and his friend, the sexton, would go to their windows and would read them a sermon, which made them wish they were dead.

“Just go away from these windows, good fellows, and stop this disgraceful business,” such a man would say to them. “I ’ll treat you to all the brandy you wish,” he would add.

They particularly annoyed the village dean. His daughters did not dare to go out into the streets, or even stand outside the door, because the dean had offended the sexton.

“Just wait, Katerínych!” the dean threatened the sexton, “I ’ll see to it that you get your hair shaved off.”

“I am ready any minute,” said the sexton, “for I would rather live with the devil in hell than be under your rule.”

The dean would spit out in anger, as he listened to these talks of the sexton, and would walk away. But Cock-of-the-Boots and his friend rolled with laughter, and they proclaimed all his secrets to the whole Christian world:

“We ’ll teach you a thing or two! You just make a move against us!”

When they got tired standing under the window, they lay down opposite the house, and proceeded with their scolding, and they would not go away any sooner than they would be treated to brandy or money. When this was sent out to them they only laughed:

“Look at these infidel devils! They think that they can wash down their wrongs with this brandy. Don’t worry, you will not wash them down!” Having had their fun, they walked away, and the sexton invariably started a chant upon these occasions.

They were particularly successful in saving young men from conscription, if these were unjustly worried by the commune, on account of their poverty or orphaned state. All such an unfortunate man had to do was to buy a keg of brandy, paper, and ink, and the sexton was ready to compose a letter. He presented his case to the higher authorities in so convincing a manner that many a recruit was returned from service and the commune received severe reprimands. And if the higher authorities stood in with the commune against these luckless fellows, our scribes would add a postscript to their petition to the effect that: “If your honour will not free Iván Lúchin who has been shaven a recruit against the law, we will at once go to Peter to complain to our father the Tsar.” And they both signed that letter.

“This petition,” they wrote, “has been signed in person by the village sexton Kuzmá Lukích Zabubénny and the crown peasant and shoemaker Grigóri Kuzmích, nicknamed Cock-of-the-Boots.”

Many a fellow was freed after such a letter. But they refused to intervene in the case of a man whose evident fate it was to be a soldier, and in no case did they receive any other remuneration than brandy.

It was on account of his good soul, which we all saw, that we did not interfere with his drinking. All of a sudden we heard the news of a general conscription.

Our town officers scared us with such phrases: “There will be an unusually large conscription. Three countries have risen against us. We ’ll have a job on hand.”

“Well,” we said, “if there is to be a big conscription, let there be. Evidently it has to be.” In the meantime we began to fit out any of the young fellows that might be called, that they might be ready at any time and hour, for it was not for a day or two that our youngsters were to leave us----

These rumours began to spread just before the battle of Sebastopol.

At last the time came to draw lots, and then to be examined as recruits. Cock-of-the-Boots did not have to worry about his sons for something like three years, because a nephew of his had become a soldier and, consequently, his family was for the time being exempt.

“This Cock-of-the-Boots is a lucky chap,” we said. “He has raised six fine eagles, and there they are to stay at home.”

One morning, we saw to our surprise that Cock-of-the-Boots was starting out on the road with all his sons. He was walking at their head and smoking his pipe, and he looked gloomy and his moustache hung down, but he was not drunk. The mother was accompanying them and weeping torrents of tears.

“Where are you starting out, Grigóri Kuzmích? Have you taken a liking to another place, and do you want to leave us?”

“Good-bye, friends!” he said. “I am going to enter my sons, every one of them, into the army, because a large host is up against us, and there are as many of them as stars in heaven.”

Sexton Kuzmá was walking with them.

“Orthodox people,” he said, “don’t recall me with an evil thought! I sha’n’t think of you at all, because I am sick of your foolishness. I ’ll try to find a place somewhere.”

“They are jesting!” we thought. “They are, no doubt, going out on the chase or catching fish.”

But it was not a jest at all. He really inscribed all his sons and the sexton in the army! And the provincial authorities were so much pleased with his act, that he and his boys received a great deal of money, and he was promised that all his sons and the sexton were to serve in one and the same company.

They had wanted to put all his sons in the bodyguard, but Cock-of-the-Boots begged them to let them go straightway to the war.

“I have brought them to go against the enemy,” he said.

The authorities gave him a written document in which they expressed their thanks to him. When he returned home, he hung that letter up in the hut of the Blue Rig, and started on a protracted spree.

His wife could not believe for a long time that he would give up all his sons at once. She kept on hoping that to-day, or to-morrow, one of them at least would return, say, the youngest. But when she saw that there was no return from the army, she joined her husband in the spree.

She was all bent up and crushed, and she sailed along, vainly moving her hands, and mumbling something; her red shawl fell down from one shoulder and dragged along the ground.

She did not long continue to walk that way. She soon died. While on her deathbed, she gave her husband a terrible tongue-lashing for having separated her from her dear children.

Some people came to look at the dead person, and they found Cock-of-the-Boots talking to her as if she were alive, for he was dreadfully drunk just then.

“Foolish woman!” he muttered. “You do not know your own good luck. You will be better off there! I myself have long wished to die, but death does not come to me.”

He muttered that in an undertone, and not aloud as he used to. It was a pity to see him left so alone. The hut looked dreadfully desolate, and destitute of everything. The stove had all fallen in. The Blue Rig, tattered and torn, and all wrinkled up, lay on the stove, and looked at everybody like an insensate beast, and angrily gnashed her teeth at them----

III

Cock-of-the-Boots became gentler than a lamb when his family had all left him. He sat for days at a time in the hut with the Blue Rig, and they looked at each other. Village urchins came in and made fun of the old people, but they received no reply. Only at midnight, when the whole village was asleep, the neighbours could hear Cock-of-the-Boots wailing:

“My children, my children, what have I done with you?”

Neighbors stole up to the window, and they saw him wallowing on the ground and tearing his hair. In daytime he again sat down in his den, not leaving his place, and he was so sad, grey, and bald. When the villagers saw that the old people not only could not provide for themselves, but were even too weak to go a-begging, they began to bring them bread, water, and kvas.

“Why do you sit here, Grigóri Kuzmích?” old people would ask him, when he came a little to his senses.

“I am waiting for death, dear people! Maybe it will carry away my great grief, which I have tried all my life to drown in the taverns, but never succeeded in drowning!” And he began to weep bitterly, tears flowing in torrents.

We wondered much what grief he was talking about. He had feasted nearly all his life in taverns at other people’s expense, and now he was grieving. If he was weeping for his sons, he had himself taken them to be inscribed in the army.

His grief must, indeed, have been very great, for he lamented dreadfully at night, and often woke us up. He woke us with his awful cries, like the sound of the house spirit when he calls for an evil omen; and we, hearing them, were very much frightened and, rising in the morning, fervently prayed to our Lord----

Nikoláy Nikoláevich Zlatovrátski. (1845-.)

Zlatovrátski, the son of a village priest, was born in Vladímir, where
he attended the Gymnasium. His father having established a library for
the people, Zlatovrátski had an opportunity to acquaint himself with
Russian literature. He then studied at the St. Petersburg
Technological Institute, but his extreme poverty compelled him to look
for work, and he became a proof-reader in one of the newspapers. This
gave him an impetus to try himself in authorship, and his first
sketch, _The Murrain_, appeared in 1866. Since then he has written a
large number of shorter and longer stories, dealing with the life of
the peasants in the period of the emancipation, and also with the
intelligent classes at the same time. To the latter he assumes a
negative attitude, regarding them as having departed from the simple,
fundamental life of the Russian peasant. Though he treats his peasants
with more consideration, there is a strong element of pessimism even
in the sketches of that kind, thus, differing from the similar stories
by Uspénski. They also differ from Uspénski’s novels by the
musicalness of their language and the greater wealth of detailed
descriptions. Among his best stories are _The History of a Village_,
_Village Work Days_, _The Karaváevs_, _The Wanderer_.

OLD SHADOWS

In moments of heavy anguish of soul my “little grandfather” would visit me, and he brought with him from the darkness of oblivion a series of just such little and insignificant existences as himself. My childhood and youth are, it seems, inseparably connected with these little existences. I particularly recall those strange, mysterious forms that suddenly appeared, one knew not whence,--both in our “old house” in the provincial city, and in the old, weather-stained cabin of my grandfather,--and just so vanished, one knew not whither. They were wandering shadows that frightened our childish imagination,--especially, since my grandmother, whom I cannot picture to myself otherwise than in an enormous kerchief, with overhanging eyebrows and a huge frying fork in her hand, had no use for them and called them “tramps,” “loafing people,” and “worthless lot.” Yet, in spite of the existence of my stern old grandmother, who always appeared before me as an incarnation of that stern period,--these “loafing people,” it seemed to me, were breeding more and more in our Russian land, and with it my stern grandmother gave ever more a piece of her mind to my visionary mother and to the “village windbag,” my little grandfather, who were giving refuge to these people, and to whom, it seemed, they clung as a moth flits about the light.

Dimly pass before me those strange, mysterious forms which that irrevocable past produced in such large numbers. I have before my mind the tall, smoke-stained old cabin of my grandfather that was roughly made of big logs. It is warm within, but in the open the frost is getting stronger towards evening. Half of the panes are already covered with downy hoar-frost, and there is a thumping, crackling sound now in one corner, now in another. Grandfather is sitting by a tallow dip, hurrying to mend his leaky felt boot with a piece of leather. Mother is solemnly and chantingly reading the versified paraphrase of the psalms, distinctly pronouncing the words,--and I enjoy the harmonious sound of the words, though I ill understand their meaning.

Sister and I are snuggled up under a warm sheepskin, and we silently move in some frivolous fairy world, for which there is no time and no space: from the fantastic countries of the Eastern Shaherezade we are rapidly transferred to the warm, soft shores of the Jordan, to the stern kingdom of the Pharaohs, or suddenly we are borne in the whirl of a joyous, bright light, amidst a sea of festive sounds of music, to the splendour of a new, frivolous world of European capitals, whither so enticingly beckon and call us all those vigorous, fresh young people, who had managed before us to escape from the harsh and murky habitations of the manorial hamlets---- Though sister and I are not saying anything, yet I am quite convinced that her thoughts are taking her to the same regions. I need only ask her: “Do you remember the letter mother read us yesterday from Uncle Sásha in St. Petersburg?” in order to be sure that her youthful fancy will immediately carry her, as it has carried me, far, far away from these dim and dusky, though warm, walls of grandfather’s cabin.

Suddenly a heavy creaking is heard on the bridge; the gate ring rattles; someone coughs behind the door. We all listen intently; the door is opened timidly and with indecision, and on the threshold appears a tall, lean, strange figure, merged in steaming frost: he has on a long sheepskin coat that is covered with snow, and on his head is a tall, thick, cotton-filled cap and in his hands a long staff; over his shoulder hangs a long calfskin-covered wallet; he has a long, thin, wet face, with sunken cheeks, thick tufts of a greyish beard, and timid, black eyes under long brows.

“Peace and blessing be upon your house!” distinctly enounces the stranger on the threshold, without moving from the spot.

“Thank you,” says grandfather. “Whither are you bound? Másha, get a slice of bread from grandmother,--say it ’s for a pilgrim.”

“Don’t you recognise me, father?” in the meantime asks the pilgrim, without leaving the threshold.

“No, no---- Or are we acquaintances?” says grandfather, as he is looking for his glasses. “Who are you?”

The pilgrim timidly surveys the room with his penetrating black eyes, and softly says:

“A despised servant of the Lord, a slave of men--the manorial servant Aleksándr--the wandering Jew, the accursed Ahasuerus----”

“O Aleksándr! I do recognise you, I do,” says grandfather. “You want to warm yourself and stay over night; you are tired, no doubt. We will find a place!---- Sit down, Aleksándr, pilgrim of the Lord!”

“Will you let me, father?” the pilgrim asks again, still timidly surveying all around him.

“Have no fear, no fear! The Lord be with you, come in, make yourself at home!”

The pilgrim slowly and with indecision takes off his wallet, and seats himself on the bench with a heavy sigh.

“Well, Aleksándr, have you not yet found rest for your soul?” asks grandfather.

But the pilgrim sits in silence, and lowers his head.

Then a deep sigh is heard again issuing from his breast. Then he begins to speak clearly, without hurrying, lowering his eyes all the time, as if ashamed to look at us.

“I have crossed all the borders--have been everywhere--have visited all the holy places---- I have been in the countries of the midday sun and of midnight--on sultry Athon and in the cold Solovétsk cells---- Everywhere, father---- I have continually looked for the eternal city, and there is no refuge for the despised slave!---- Father, I have suffered hunger and cold---- In summer and in winter I, as a thief, hide from the light, and wander at night-time---- I come into cities, and they drive me out, I knock at the cells, and they do not receive the outcast---- I see neither my kin, nor my relations, neither wife, nor children, who abide in servitude---- Be accursed, despised slave, for having thought of liberty, abandoning your roof, and departing from your kin!---- If I should wish to return to the house of my master, my children and my kin would deny me, for the fear of the Jews, and my master would turn me over to mockery and to outrage---- I am afraid to return to slavery, and I shall wander about, as a thief, and my refuge shall be the lair of beasts----”

And suddenly the pilgrim falls upon his knees with a dull sound, and begins to pray. For a long time are heard, amidst a complete silence, the deep sighs of the pilgrim and now and then a moan of my grandfather.

My mother, and sister, and I look with fixed attention at that lean, bony face, which is as swarthy as if cast of bronze, and on which lie the clear traces of his endless wanderings and immeasurable sorrow.

The pilgrim rises, straightens himself up, and still keeps his eyes on the holy image. Large tears course down his cheeks, while his black eyes sparkle at the same time evil despair and stern faith.

“Father!” he suddenly speaks, raising his hand to the image. “There--there let us seek the eternal city!---- Only there---- There they will not cast you off----”

“But do not despair, Aleksándr! God will uplift you,” says grandfather. “There is not a tear, Aleksándr, that floweth in vain, and is not heard at the throne of the Almighty! Not a hair of your head shall perish---- Seek, and you shall always find! Knock, and the gates of truth shall be opened unto you!---- Sit down, Aleksándr, and strengthen yourself with what God hath sent.”

The pilgrim is, it seems, quieted down, and he seats himself on the bench again; but now his head is raised, and his gleaming eyes look somewhere into the distance, as if they pierced the walls of our cabin, and a strange struggle shines in them, as if they did not yet know on what to rest their choice: on heaven or on earth.

“Well, Aleksándr, tell us something about God’s world. Many things are revealed to you pilgrims. Come, sit down here!”

The pilgrim seats himself at the table, and I see my mother, her eyes burning with some mysterious curiosity, moving up towards him, placing her arms on the table, leaning her head upon them, and fixing her dreamy eyes upon the pilgrim’s face.

And the pilgrim begins to speak. But my childish imagination is only impressed by his stern, misty form, and has preserved nothing else, and I recall his speeches only as the din of a turbid torrent that runs across the endless steppes. And over these steppes rapidly marches, driven by the wind, the tall, stern figure that is in vain seeking a place where the son of man may lay down his head.

And the pilgrim has not yet ended his stories, which, it seems, are so long that they last a whole night, and a day, and again a night, when there appears in the door of our cabin a new strange being that strikes our childish imagination.

At first we see only an immense old rough sheepskin coat that is held together by a belt, and large old felt boots, but it is quite impossible to define the sex, the age, or the occupation of the person that is hidden in the recesses of that huge coat, above which is barely seen the head so tightly wrapped in a frosted shawl that even the eyes cannot be discerned. The strange coat nervously and rapidly makes three deep inclinations before the holy image, and then to the corners of the room, and just as rapidly begins to unravel the shawl, and by degrees appears, at first, a thin, grey beard, then a thin, long nose, small, mouse-like, grey eyes, and finally an immense bald head is freed from a sheepskin cap, here and there feathered with dishevelled tufts of greyish red hair. And when the coat suddenly and unexpectedly falls off in the corner,--there stands before us one of the commonest, the most “insignificant” of the “worthless lot” who, in the opinion of my grandmother, live in this world: it is an old serf, in a patched and torn gabardine. No sooner does the peasant feel himself freed from the weight of the huge sheepskin that has oppressed him, than he becomes nervously alive, sweetly smiles upon us all, bows again and again into both corners, and, rapidly twitching his feet before grandfather, cries out in an entreating voice: “Most worshipful one! Father! Give me a lodging! Refresh me! Give me hope!”

“Ah, Filimón, Filimón! Is it you again?” says my “little grandfather” in evident agitation, trying to find his snuff-box.

“Yes, I, worshipful man. Do not misjudge me,” says the peasant so softly that you would think he was afraid of his own voice.

“Ah, Filimón!” says grandfather, for some reason shaking his head in anguish and trying to console himself with a pinch of snuff. “When will you come to rest? Friend, is there a living spot in you?”

It appears to us, indeed, that there is not a living spot in the peasant: neither muscles, nor flesh, nor blood,--nothing but strong, indestructible bones enclosed in a dark-brown skin.

The peasant, after grandfather’s words, smiles even more entreatingly; his grey, little eyes apparently become even smaller,--and he suddenly grows once more enlivened and agitated; all his bony members are in motion, and, as if seized by some unusual care, he begins to rummage in the breast of his torn outer garment.

He finally brings to light something that is wrapped in a dark kerchief. He cautiously opens it with his trembling fingers and, timidly turning to both sides, with a careworn glance places before grandfather some old, stained papers, and again makes a low bow before him.

“Worshipful one! I have a request to make.”

“Ah, Filimón! Ah, Filimón!” sighs grandfather, again shaking his head in anguish: “Why do you tempt God our Lord? If you do not care for yourself, think of your kin. Pacify your spirit! It is enough! Enough, Filimón! You have chastised yourself enough, my friend! The Lord seeth, the Lord hath weighed and measured. He demandeth not complete exhaustion. Do not tempt fate!”

“Most worshipful man! I am going! I have to care for people! I must go!”

“Whither are you going, senseless man? Take a breath. At least heal your old wounds. Take your ease!”

“Father, they are healed! Do not misjudge me! I am going--to the higher realms!”

And the peasant once more looks entreatingly into grandfather’s face, and it seems to us that grandfather is unable to withstand that entreating glance.

And grandfather rises, his glance becomes stern and serious, and he says with severity:

“Filimón! Have pity on me! God will punish me, your councillor and abettor, for you!”

“Father, do not deny me! I will knock once more: knock, knock, knock! Maybe the Lord will grant me---- Just this way, lightly, father: knock, knock, knock! ‘Who is there?’ they will ask. ‘’T is I,’ says I, as before. ‘’T is I.’”

“How many times have you gone to knock?”

“’T is the eighth time, father. ’T is the eighth for the higher realms. I was driven off six times. Six times they flayed me----”

“Dear Filimón, how much will there be left of you? Take pity on yourself. Pity me, I pray, pity my soul. Why should I aid in your suffering and destruction?”

The peasant once more smiles entreatingly into grandfather’s face, and suddenly falls down before his feet.

“Most worshipful one! Do not begrudge me!”

And rising to his feet just as swiftly, he nervously and excitedly flourishes his dry, bony hands, lets his mouse-like eyes roam timidly in the corners, and begins to speak, without cessation, as if everything is to come down in a rain, everything he has been carrying hither with the greatest care for days and miles---- It is one endless, intent murmur, like the distant din of the mill water, interrupted by some sudden exclamations that make our childish hearts tremble with fear.

I remember how that intent murmur of the bony peasant made my head feel as though compressed in a vise, how terribly my blood beat in my temples, so that I was ready to burst out into sobs and run away from the cabin,--far, far away from that terrible murmur, in spite of the frost, and the deep snowdrifts, and the night storm that howled around our cabin. And if that dreadful murmur that racked my nerves had lasted one minute longer, I should have come out from under my warm fur, and should have, indeed, run away as in a delirium. But the “little grandfather” stepped up to us, and thoughtfully stroked our heads. Why did he do it? He, evidently, did not notice it himself. Or, maybe, he unconsciously wanted to ask our consent for something. And, interrupting the peasant, he said:

“Filimón! For the last time, absolutely. I feel it, it is for the last time. There shall be an end! It can’t be otherwise! There must be an end! The Lord is great in His long-suffering, that is true, but also terrible in His anger!”

The peasant’s face beams with pleasure, and he at once breaks off his murmur.

“What shall I write about?” asks grandfather.

“Father, write the whole truth. Tell straight about everything. Hide nothing, and have no mercy upon us: crush the blood of Judas! The blood of Judas has begun to oppress the people! The main thing, father, tell the whole truth about everything.”

And the peasant solemnly raises his hands to heaven.

“Write! I have suffered, and I can suffer more. I am afraid of no new prison, and of no new chains. Most worshipful one, have no mercy! Write!”

And for a long, long time, through the speechless quiet of a winter night and through our disturbed dreams, we see the bony little peasant, with his entreating smile and a certain childishly naïve decision and faith, that enlighten his whole little face, and our “little grandfather,” who has suddenly become so serious and stern and who with the consciousness of some great obligation is slowly and deliberately drawing his legible semi-uncial letters on the paper.

“Write, write, father! There is truth! There will be truth!” we again hear the voice of the bony peasant, and the longer he watches grandfather’s pen, the brighter, it seems, his face is growing.

We are, for some reason, happy for the peasant and for grandfather, but at the same time we are oppressed by a mysterious feeling of terror and of fear, because it seems to us that our stern grandmother will soon come out of the living rooms, and will angrily cast her suspicious glance upon all of us “useless” and “loafing” people, and will cry:

“Where did that worthless lot come from? Whence does God carry them? Evidently punishments and threats do not take off all the loafing people---- What have you found in each other? And why do you stick to each other, like flies to honey? Well, this one has been half-witted from her birth,” grandmother shakes her head at my mother, “but you, old man? O deacon! Some evil will befall you, some evil will! Make a note of my words. You will get a terrible reward for all these people!”

But the “loafing people,” who at first are really grieved and intimidated by the angry words of my stern grandmother, not only do not disappear, but grow more and more.

Vladímir Galaktiónovich Korolénko. (1853.-)

Korolénko is descended on his father’s side from the Cossacks; his
mother was the daughter of a Polish landed proprietor. He graduated
from a Real-Gymnasium in the Government of Zhitomír, and then, under
untold hardships, studied in the Technological Institute of St.
Petersburg and Peter’s Academy in Moscow. Here he was arrested for
addressing a collective petition to the director of the school, and
was sent to the Government of Vológda, and thence back to Krónstadt,
where his family was residing. The next year he settled in St.
Petersburg where he read proof. In 1879 he was again arrested, and his
wanderings through all parts of European Russia and Siberia began. His
first stories were published in 1879, but the first to attract the
attention of the public was his _Makár’s Dream_, which deals with the
semi-savages of the Siberian Tayga. The artistic perfection of his
style, the harmoniousness of his diction, and the completeness of his
stories are rare qualities among modern Russian authors. The sadness
of his stories is not of the heartrending, cheerless kind, and rather
invites a rereading. Among his best known books and separate sketches
are _The Blind Musician_, _The Forest Rustles_, _The Old Bell-ringer_,
_In Bad Society_.

Many of Korolénko’s stories have been well translated into English:
_The Vagrant and Other Tales_ (containing _The Old Bell-ringer_, _The
Forest Roughs_, _Easter Night_, _A Saghalinian_, _Sketches of a
Siberian Tourist_), translated by Mrs. A. Delano, New York and Boston,
1887 (2d ed. 1896); _The Blind Musician_, translated by Mrs. A.
Delano, with an introduction by G. Kennan, Boston, 1890; the same,
translated by W. Westall and S. Stepniak (International Series, No.
100), New York, 1890 (2d ed. 1893); the same (Seaside Library, No.
1515), New York, 1890; _Makár’s Dream_, in Cosmopolitan, vol. vi.; _A
Queer Girl_, in Free Russia, vol. ii., Nos. 9 and 10, and _In the
Famine Year_, vol. x., No. 2; _A Saghalien Convict_ (in Pseudonym
Library); _In Two Moods_ (and _In Bad Society_), translated by S.
Stepniak and W. Westall (Lovell’s International Series, No. 178), New
York, 1891, and (Seaside Library, No. 1943) New York, 1892; _The Old
Bell-ringer_, translated by M. P. de Schatokhin, in The Anglo-Russian
Literary Society, No. 8; _An Involuntary Murderer_, translated by
Jessie Mackenzie, in Gentleman’s Magazine, 1898.

THE OLD BELL-RINGER

A SPRING IDYLL

It grows dark. Over the black, crenelated line of the dense forest stands the full moon; it stands, but does not shine---- A small settlement that nestles over the distant brook, in the pine forest, is merged in that peculiar twilight, so common to spring nights, when the moon stands pensively over the horizon, shrouded by a smoky veil. The mist, rising from the earth, thickens the long shadows of the woods and covers the open places with a silvery azure glamour---- All is quiet, pensive, melancholy.

The village slumbers quietly.

The humble cabins barely stand out in their dark contours; here and there glimmer fires; now and then a gate creaks, a watchful dog barks, and all is silent again. At times there issue from the dark mass of the softly rustling forest the figures of pedestrians, there passes by a rider, creaks a vehicle. These are the inhabitants of lonely forest hamlets who are going to their church to meet the spring holiday.

The church stands on a mound, in the centre of the village. Its windows are bright with lights. The tall, murky, old belfry is lost with its spire in the azure.

The steps of the staircase are creaking---- The old bell-ringer Mikhyéich is ascending the bell tower, and soon his little lantern will be suspended in mid-air, like a shooting star in space----

It is hard for the old man to climb the steep staircase. His old legs do not serve him well, he is worn out, and his eyes see but dimly----’T is time, it has long been time, that the old man should take his rest, but God does not send him death. He has buried his sons, has buried his grandchildren, has accompanied old men to their celestial dwelling, has accompanied young men, but he is still alive. ’T is hard---- Many is the time he has met the spring holiday, and he has lost the count of how often he has waited for the appointed time on that very bell tower. And there God has again decreed----

The old man walks to the opening in the tower and leans over the banister. Below, around the church, the graves of the village cemetery dot the darkness; the old crosses look as though they protected them with their outstretched arms. Here and there leafless birches bend over them---- From there, below, is wafted to Mikhyéich the aromatic odour of young buds and reminds him of the melancholy silence of the eternal sleep----

What will become of him in a year? Will he again climb to this top, under the brass bell, in order to awaken light-sleeping night by its metallic din, or will he lie--down there, in the dark corner of the cemetery, under a cross? God knows---- He is prepared: in the meanwhile may God grant him to meet the holiday once more. “Glory to Thee, Lord!” his old lips mutter the customary formula and he looks upwards, at the starred heaven that glows with a million lights, and he makes the sign of the cross----

“Mikhyéich, oh, Mikhyéich!” calls out to him from below the tremulous voice of an old man. The aged sexton looks up at the belfry, shades his unsteady and tearful eyes with his open hand, but he does not see Mikhyéich.

“What do you want? Here I am!” answers the bell-ringer, as he leans over the banister. “Can’t you see me?”

“No, I can’t. Say, is it not time to ring? What do you think?”

Both look at the stars. Thousands of God’s fires twinkle down to them from on high. The fiery “Wain” has risen way above them---- Mikhyéich is making his calculation.

“No, not yet, wait a bit---- I know when----”

He does know. He needs no watch: God’s stars will tell him when the time has come. Heaven and earth, and the white cloud that gently swims in the azure, and the murky forest that indistinctly whispers below, and the plash of the brook lost in the darkness,--all that is familiar to him, all that is his own---- Not in vain has he passed his whole life here----

The distant past arises before him---- He recollects how he for the first time climbed this bell tower with his father. Lord, how long ago that is--and yet how recent! He sees himself a blonde boy; his eyes are aflame; the wind--not the wind that raises the dust in the streets, but some special kind of wind that flaps its noiseless wings way above the earth--dishevels his hair---- Below, way, way down, walk tiny people, and the huts of the village are tiny too, and the forest has receded, and the round clearing in which the village is situated looks so enormous, so endless----

“Oh, there it is, all of it there!” the grey-haired old man smiles as he looks down at the small clearing.

That is the way with life. In your youth you can’t see the end of it, and there it is, all of it, as if in the palm of your hand, from the beginning to that very little grave that he has taken a fancy to for himself in the corner of the cemetery. Well, glory to Thee, Lord! ’t is time for rest. The hard road has been passed honourably, and the damp earth is his mother---- Soon, yes, very soon!----

But, it must be time! He looks once more at the stars, rises, takes off his cap, makes the sign of the cross, grasps the bell ropes---- A minute later the night air reverberates from the hollow stroke--another, a third, a fourth--one after the other, filling the light-sleeping night of the holiday’s eve, there flow the mighty, drawn-out sonorous singing sounds----

The ringing stops. In the church begins the service. In former years Mikhyéich used to go down the staircase and stand in the corner, at the door, in order to pray and hear the singing. But this time he stays in his belfry. It is hard for him to climb the stairs, and besides, he feels rather tired. He seats himself on the bench and, hearing the dying din of the rocking brass, falls into deep musing. About what? He is hardly able to answer that himself. The tower is dimly illumined by the lantern. The dull-sounding bells are merged in darkness; below, from the church, the singing reaches him from time to time as a weak murmur, and the night wind agitates the ropes that are attached to the iron hearts of the bells.

The old man bends on his breast his grey head that is disturbed by disconnected pictures. “They are singing the troparion!” he thinks to himself, and sees himself in the church. In the chancel dozens of children’s voices flow together; the aged priest, Father Naúm of blessed memory, reads the litany with a quivering voice; hundreds of peasants’ heads bow down and rise again, like the ripe ears when the wind blows through them. The peasants make the sign of the cross. They are all familiar faces, and all of them now dead. There is the stern face of his father; there his elder brother is with fervour making the sign of the cross, and sighing, as he is standing by the side of his father. There he is himself, abloom with health and strength, full of unconscious hope of future happiness and joys of life---- Where is that happiness? The old man’s memory flashes like a dying flame and a bright beam, gliding through his consciousness, for a moment illumines all the nooks of his past life. He sees work above endurance, sorrow, care. Where is that happiness? A hard lot will make furrows on his young brow, will bend his powerful spine, will teach him to sigh, like his elder brother.

There, at the left, among the village women, stands his young wife, modestly bending her head. She has been a good woman, may she come to the kingdom of heaven! She has suffered so much, the dear woman. Want and work, and a woman’s inevitable sorrow will dry up her beauty; her eyes will grow dim, and an expression of an eternal, dull fear of sudden calamities will take the place of serenity in her face. Yes, where is her happiness? One son is left to them, their hope and joy, and human injustice has overpowered him.

There is also that rich fiend; he makes low obeisances, asking forgiveness for the bloody tears of orphans. He fervently crosses himself and falls upon his knees, and strikes his brow against the floor. And Mikhyéich’s heart boils furiously, and the dusky faces of the images look down from the walls upon human misery and human injustice.

All that is past, all that is behind him. Now his whole world is here in the dark tower, where the wind moans in the night and swings the bell-ropes. “God be your judge, God be your judge!” mutters the old man and bends his grey head, and tears gently roll down the old cheeks of the bell-ringer.

“Mikhyéich, oh, Mikhyéich! Oh there, have you fallen asleep?” they shout below.

“What?” the old man cries out and jumps to his feet. “Lord! Have I really fallen asleep? Never before have I so disgraced myself!”

Mikhyéich hastens to lay his hands on the ropes. Below him the peasant crowd moves about like an ant-hill; banners wave in the air and glimmer with their gilt brocade. The procession of the cross has made the round of the church, and the joyous call reaches Mikhyéich’s ears:

“Christ is risen from the dead!”

And this call stirs a wave in the old man’s heart. It seems to him that the flames of the wax tapers have burnt up more brightly in the darkness, and the crowd is more agitated, and the banners flutter, and the wakened wind seizes the waves of sound and with broad pinions carries them up, to run together with the loud, solemn tones of the bells.

Old Mikhyéich rings as he has never rung before.

It seems as though the old man’s full heart has passed into the dead brass, and the tones sing and waver, laugh and weep, and interweaving in a mighty stream are borne upwards, to the starry heaven. And the stars flash more brightly and burn, and the tones tremble and pour down and fall to the earth with loving grace.

A deep bass cries out loud in mighty tones that announces to heaven and earth: “Christ is risen!”

And two tenors, trembling with the alternate beats of their iron hearts, respond merrily and clangorously: “Christ is risen!”

And two soft sopranos, seemingly hastening not to be behindhand, push themselves in between the larger ones, and joyfully, like little children, sing out rapidly: “Christ is risen!”

And it seems as though the old tower were trembling and shaking, and as though the wind that blows around the face of the bell-ringer flapped its mighty pinions and repeated: “Christ is risen!”

The old heart forgets life that is full of cares and injury. The old bell-ringer forgets that his life is confined to the grim narrow space in the bell-tower, that he is alone in the world, like a lonely trunk that the storms have broken. He hears those singing and weeping sounds that rise to the heaven on high and fall down to poor earth, and it seems to him that he is surrounded by his sons and grandchildren, that he hears their joyful voices; the voices of the old and young are combined into a chorus, and they sing to him of happiness and joy, which he has not known in his life. The old bell-ringer jerks the ropes, tears roll down his face, and his heart beats violently with the illusion of happiness.

Down below people listen and say to each other that never before has old Mikhyéich rung the bells so wonderfully.

Suddenly the great bell utters an uncertain tone, and grows dumb. The disturbed smaller bells ring out with an unfinished trill, cutting it short, as if to listen to the sad hollow note which trembles and flows and weeps, gradually dying upon the air. The old bell-ringer drops down upon the bench in utter exhaustion, and two last tears softly roll over his pale cheeks----

“Ho there, send up a change; the old bell-ringer has done his ringing----”

Vsévolod Mikháylovich Garshín. (1855-1888.)

Garshín was born in the Government of Ekaterinosláv, where his father
was a small landed proprietor. In his early childhood he travelled a
great deal over Russia, as his father was in the military service. He
was placed in the Gymnasium at St. Petersburg, and there he excelled
as a student, but in 1872 he had the first attacks of insanity which
afterwards returned periodically and finally caused him to commit
suicide by throwing himself headlong from an upper story. He took part
in the Turko-Russian War as a common soldier, and while in the field
composed his first story, _Four Days_, in which he described the
suffering of a wounded comrade of his. Upon his return he wrote, in
his lucid intervals, a series of wonderfully realistic stories, many
of which deal with painful situations. Among his best are _The
Coward_, _The Artists_, _The Red Flower_, _Attalea Princeps_, and
_That Which Was Not_.

In English translation are: _Four Days_, translated by N. H. Dole, in
Poet Lore, vol. iii.; _Mad Love, or, An Artist’s Dream_, London, 1890,
and _Stories_, translated by E. L. Voynich, London, 1893.

THAT WHICH WAS NOT

One beautiful June day--it was beautiful because it was twenty-eight degrees Réaumur--one beautiful June day it was warm everywhere, but it was even warmer in the clearing in the garden, where stood some ricks of newly mown hay, because the place was protected from the wind by a thick, impenetrable, cherry grove. Nearly everything was asleep: people had had their fill and were devoting themselves to post-prandial lateral occupations; the birds were silent; and even many insects had sought shelter from the heat.

That was even more true of the domestic animals: the cattle took refuge under some roof; the dog lay in a hole that he had dug out under the barn and, with eyes half open, breathed intermittently, while sticking out his tongue for almost more than a foot; at times he so yawned, evidently from ennui superinduced by the deadly heat, that one could hear a falsetto whine; the pigs, mother and her thirteen young ones, went down to the river bank and there lay down in the black, thick mud whence issued only their panting and snoring pig coins with two holes in them, their oblong, mud-washed spines, and enormous pendent ears. Only the hens were not afraid of the heat and managed to kill time by scratching up the dry earth opposite the kitchen entry, though they knew full well that there was not a kernel to be found there. The cock, evidently, was not feeling very well, for now and then he assumed a stupid attitude and cried amain: “What a scandal!”