Tiapa came in with a bucket of water, placed it on the floor beside the schoolmaster's head, and taking hold of his arm held it in his hand, as if to feel its weight.
"The water is of no use!" said the captain in a hopeless voice.
"It's the priest he wants," said the old rag-picker.
"Nothing's of any use," replied the captain.
They remained a few moments silent, watching the schoolmaster.
"Come and have a drink, old boy!"
"And what about him?"
"Can you do anything for him?"
Tiapa turned his back on the schoolmaster, and both returned to the yard, and rejoined the company.
"Well, what's going on?" asked "Scraps," turning his shrewd face round to the captain.
"Nothing out of the common. The man's dying," the captain replied abruptly.
"Has he been knocked about?" asked "Scraps," with curiosity.
The captain did not answer, for at that moment he was drinking vodka.
"It's just as if he knew that we had something extra for his funeral feast," said "Scraps," lighting a cigarette.
One of them laughed, and another sighed heavily, but on the whole the conversation of "Scraps" and the captain did not produce much impression on the company; at least there were no apparent signs of trouble, of interest, or of thought. All had looked upon the schoolmaster as a man rather out of the common, but now most of them were drunk, and the rest remained calm and outwardly detached from what was going forward. Only the deacon evinced signs of violent agitation; his lips moved, he rubbed his forehead, and wildly howled—
"Peace be to the dead!..."
"Stop it!" hissed "Scraps." "What are you howling about?"
"Smash his jaw!" said the captain.
"You fool!" hissed Tiapa. "When a soul is passing, you should keep quiet, and not break the silence."
It was quiet enough; in the cloud-covered sky, which threatened rain, and on the earth, shrouded in the still silence of an autumn night. At intervals the silence was broken by the snoring of those who had fallen asleep; by the gurgle of vodka being poured from the bottle, or the noisy munching of food. The deacon was muttering something. The clouds hung so low that it almost seemed as if they would catch the roof of the old house, and overturn it on to the outcasts.
"Ah! how one suffers when a dear friend is passing away!" stammered the captain, dropping his head on his chest.
No one answered him.
"He was the best among you all—the cleverest, the most honest. I am sorry for him."
"May—the—sa-i-nts—receive—him!... Sing, you one-eyed devil!" muttered the deacon, nudging his friend, who lay by his side half asleep.
"Will you be quiet!" exclaimed "Scraps" in an angry whisper, jumping to his feet.
"I'll go and give him a knock over the head," proposed Martianoff.
"What! are you not asleep?" exclaimed Aristide Fomitch in an extraordinarily gentle voice. "Have you heard? Our schoolmaster is"—
Martianoff turned over heavily on his side, stood up, and glanced at the streams of light which issued from the door and windows of the doss-house, shrugged his shoulders, and without a word came and sat down by the side of the captain.
"Let's have another drop," suggested Kouvalda.
They groped for the glasses, and drank.
"I shall go and see," said Tiapa. "He may want something."
"Nothing but a coffin!" hiccoughed the captain.
"Don't talk about it!" implored "Scraps" in a dull voice.
After Tiapa, "The Meteor" got up. The deacon wanted to rise as well; but he fell down again, cursing loudly.
When Tiapa had gone, the captain slapped Martianoff's shoulder, and began to talk in a low voice.
"That's how the matter stands, Martianoff; you ought to feel it more than the rest. You were—but it's better to drop it. Are you sorry for Philippe?"
"No!" answered the former gaoler, after a short silence. "I don't feel anything of that sort. I have lost the habit of it; I am so disgusted with life. I'm quite in earnest when I say I shall kill someone."
"Yes?" replied the captain indifferently. "Well, what then?... let's have another drop!"
"We are of no account; we can drink, that's all we can do," muttered Simtzoff, who had just woke in a happy frame of mind. "Who's there, mates? Pour out a glass for the old man!"
The vodka was poured out and handed to him.
After drinking it he dropped down again, falling with his head on someone's body.
A silence, as dark and as miserable as the autumn night, continued for a few moments longer. Then someone spoke in a whisper.
"What is it?" the others asked aloud.
"I say that after all he was a good sort of fellow; he had a clever head on his shoulders, and so quiet and gentle!"
"Yes; and when he got hold of money he never grudged spending it amongst his friends."
Once more silence fell on the company.
"He is going!"
Tiapa's cry rang out over the captain's head.
Aristide Fomitch rose, making an effort to walk, firmly, and went towards the doss-house.
"What are you going for?" said Tiapa, stopping him. "Don't you know that you are drunk, and that it's not the right thing?"
The captain paused and reflected.
"And is anything right on this earth? Go to the devil!" And he pushed Tiapa aside.
On the walls of the doss-house the shadows were still flickering and dancing, as if struggling silently with one another.
On a bunk, stretched out at full length, lay the schoolmaster, with the death-rattle in his throat. His eyes were wide open, his bare breast heaved painfully, and froth oozed from the corners of his mouth. His face wore a strained expression, as if he were trying to say something important and difficult; and the failure to say it caused him inexpressible suffering.
The captain placed himself opposite, with his hands behind his back, and watched the dying man for a moment in silence. At last he spoke, knitting his brows as if in pain.
"Philippe, speak to me! Throw a word of comfort to your friend. You know I love you; all the others are brute beasts. You are the only one I look upon as a man, although you are a drunkard. What a one you were to drink vodka, Philippe! That was what caused your ruin. You ought to have kept yourself in hand and listened to me. Was I not always telling you so?"
The mysterious all-destructive force, called Death, as if insulted by the presence of this drunken man, during its supreme and solemn struggle with life, decided to finish its impassive work, and the schoolmaster, after sighing deeply, groaned, shuddered, stretched himself out, and died.
The captain swayed backwards and forwards, and continued his speech. "What's the matter with you? Do you want me to bring you some vodka? It's better not to drink, Philippe! restrain yourself. Well, drink if you like! To speak candidly, what is the use of restraining oneself? What's the use of it, Philippe?"
And he took the body by the leg and pulled it towards him.
"Ah! you are already asleep, Philippe! Well, sleep on. Good-night. To-morrow I'll explain it all to you, and I hope I shall convince you that it's no use denying oneself anything. So now, go to sleep, if you are not dead."
He went out, leaving dead silence behind him; and approaching his mates exclaimed—
"He's asleep or dead, I don't know which. I'm a—little—drunk."
Tiapa stooped lower still, and crossed himself. Martianoff threw himself down on the ground without saying a word. "The Meteor" began sobbing in a soft, silly way, like a woman who has been ill-treated. "Scraps" wriggled about on the ground, saying in a low, angry, frightened voice—
"Devil take you all! A set of plagues! Dead? ... what of that? Why should I be bothered with it? When my time comes I shall have to die too! just as he has done; I'm no worse than the rest!"
"That's right! that's it!" exclaimed the captain, dropping himself down heavily on the earth. "When the time comes, we shall all die, just like the rest! Ha! ha! It doesn't much matter how we live; but die we shall, like the rest. For that's the goal of life, trust my word for it! Man lives that he may die. And he dies, and this being so, isn't it all the same what he dies of, or how he dies, or how he lived? Am I not right, Martianoff? Let's have another drink, and yet another, and another, as long as there is life in us."
Rain began to fall. Thick, heavy darkness enshrouded the figures of the outcasts, as they lay on the ground in all the ugliness of sleep or of drunkenness. The streak of light issuing from the doss-house grew paler, flickered, and finally disappeared. Either the wind had blown the lamp out, or the oil was exhausted. The drops of rain falling on the iron roof of the doss-house pattered down softly and timidly. The solemn sound of a bell came at intervals from the town above, telling that the watchers in the church were on duty.
The metallic sound wafted from the steeple melted into the soft darkness, and slowly died away; but before the gloom had smothered the last trembling note, another stroke was heard, and yet another, whilst through the silence of the night spread and echoed the sad booming sigh of the bell.
The following morning Tiapa was the first to awake.
Turning over on his back, he looked at the sky; for this was the only position in which his distorted neck would allow him to look upwards.
It was a monotonously grey morning. A cold, damp gloom, hiding the sun, and concealing the blue depths of the sky, shed sadness over the earth.
Tiapa crossed himself, and leaning on his elbow looked round to see if there was no vodka left. The bottle was near, but it proved to be—empty. Crawling over his companions, Tiapa began inspecting the mugs. He found one nearly full, and swallowed the contents, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and then shook the captain by the shoulder.
"Get up! Can't you hear?"
The captain lifted his head, and looked at Tiapa with dim, bloodshot eyes.
"We must give notice to the police! so get up."
"What's the matter?" asked the captain in an angry, drowsy voice.
"Why, he's dead."
"Who's dead?"
"Why, the learned man."
"Philippe? Ah, yes, so he is!"
"And you had already forgotten!" hissed Tiapa reproachfully.
The captain rose to his feet, yawned loudly, and stretched himself till his bones cracked.
"Well, go and give notice."
"No, I shan't go. I'm not fond of those gentry!" said Tiapa gloomily.
"Well, go and wake the deacon, and I'll go and see what can be done."
"Yes, that's better. Get up, deacon!"
The captain entered the doss-house, and stood at the foot of the bunk where lay the schoolmaster, stretched out at full length; his left hand lay on his breast, his right was thrown backwards, as if ready to strike. The idea crossed the captain's mind that if the schoolmaster were to get up now, he would be as tall as "Tarass and a half." Then he sat down on the bunk at the feet of his dead friend, and recalling to his mind the fact that they had lived together for three long years, he sighed.
Tiapa entered, holding his head like a goat ready to butt. He placed himself on the opposite side of the schoolmaster, watching for a time his sunk, serene, and calm face; then hissed out—
"Sure enough he is dead; it won't be long before I go also."
"It's time you did," said the captain gloomily.
"That's so!" agreed Tiapa. "And you also—you ought to die; it would be better than living on as you are doing."
"It might be worse. What do you know about it?"
"It can't be any worse. When one dies, one has to deal with God; whilst here, one has to deal with men. And men, you know what they are."
"That's all right, only stop your grumbling!" said Kouvalda angrily.
And in the half light of early dawn an impressive silence reigned once more throughout the doss-house.
They sat thus for a long time quietly, at the feet of their dead companion, occasionally glancing at him, but plunged both of them in deep thought. At length Tiapa inquired—
"Are you going to bury him?"
"I? No, let the police bury him."
"Ah! now it's you who ought to do it! You took the share of the money due to him for writing the petition for Vaviloff. If you haven't enough I'll make it up."
"Yes, I have his money, but I am not going to bury him."
"That doesn't seem right. It's like robbing a dead man. I shall tell everyone that you mean to stick to his money!"
"You are an old fool!" said Kouvalda disdainfully.
"I'm not such a fool as all that, but it doesn't seem right or friendly."
"Very well! just leave me alone."
"How much money was there?"
"A twenty-five rouble note," said Kouvalda carelessly.
"Come now! you might give me five out of that."
"What a rogue you are, old man!" scowled the captain, looking blankly into Tiapa's face.
"Why so? Come now, shell out!"
"Go to the devil! I'll erect a monument to him with the money,"
"What will be the use of that to him?"
"I'll buy a mill-stone and an anchor; I'll put the stone on the tomb, and I will fasten the anchor to the stone with a chain. That will make it heavy enough."
"What's that for? Why do you talk such nonsense?"
"That's no business of yours."
"Never mind! I shall tell of you," threatened Tiapa once more.
Aristide Fomitch looked vaguely at him and was silent. And once more there reigned in the doss-house that solemn and mysterious hush, which always seems to accompany the presence of death.
"Hark! They are coming," said Tiapa.
And he rose and went out at the door.
Almost at the same moment there appeared the police officer, the doctor, and the magistrate. All three in turn went up to the body, and after glancing at it moved away, looking meanwhile at Kouvalda askance and with suspicion.
He sat, taking no notice of them, until the police officer asked, nodding towards the schoolmaster's body—
"What did he die of?"
"Ask him yourself. I should say from being unaccustomed"—
"What do you mean?" asked the magistrate.
"I say that, according to my idea, he died from being unaccustomed to the complaint from which he was suffering."
"H'm! Yes. Had he been ill long?"
"It would be better to bring him over here; one can't see anything in there," suggested the doctor in a bored voice. "There may be some marks on him."
"Go and call someone to carry him out!" the police officer ordered Kouvalda.
"Call them in yourself. I don't mind his staying here," retorted the captain coolly.
"Be off with you," shouted the police officer savagely.
"Easy there!" threw back Kouvalda, not stirring from his place, speaking with cool insolence and showing his teeth.
"Damn you!" roared the police officer, his face suffused with blood from suppressed rage. "You shall remember this!"—
"Good-day to you, honourable gentlemen!" said the oily, insinuating voice of Petounnikoff, as he appeared in the doorway. Scrutinising rapidly the faces of the bystanders, he suddenly stopped, shuddered, drew back a step, and taking off his cap, crossed himself devoutly. Then a vicious smile of triumph spread over his countenance, and looking hard at the captain, he asked in a respectful tone, "What is the matter here? No one has been killed, I hope."
"It looks like it," answered the magistrate.
Petounnikoff sighed deeply, crossed himself again, and in a grieved tone said—
"Merciful heavens! That's what I always feared! Whenever I came here, I used to look in, and then draw back with fear. Then when I was at home, such terrible things came into my mind. God preserve us all from such things! How often I used to wish to refuse shelter any longer to this gentleman here, the head of this band; but I was always afraid. You see, they were such a bad lot, that it seemed better to give in to them, lest something worse should happen." He made a deprecating movement with one hand, and gathering up his beard with the other, sighed once more.
"They are a dangerous set, and this gentleman here is a sort of chief of the gang—quite like a brigand chief."
"Well, we shall take him in hand!" said the police officer in a meaning tone, looking at the captain with a vindictive expression. "I also know him well."
"Yes, my fine fellow, we are old pals," agreed Kouvalda in a tone of familiarity. "How often have I bribed you and the like of you to hold your tongues?"
"Gentlemen!" said the police officer, "did you hear that? I beg you will remember those words. I won't forgive that. That's how it is, then? Well, you shan't forget me! I'll give you something, my friend, to remember me by."
"Don't holloa till you are out of the wood, my dear friend," said Aristide Fomitch coolly. The doctor, a young man in spectacles, looked at him inquiringly; the magistrate with an attention that boded no good; Petounnikoff with a look of triumph; whilst the police officer shouted and gesticulated threateningly.
At the door of the doss-house appeared the dark figure of Martianoff; he came up quietly and stood behind Petounnikoff, so that his chin appeared just above the merchant's head. The old deacon peeped from behind Martianoff, opening wide his small, swollen red eyes.
"Well, something must be done," suggested the doctor.
Martianoff made a frightful grimace, and suddenly sneezed straight on to the head of Petounnikoff. The latter yelled, doubled up his body, and sprang on one side, nearly knocking the police officer off his feet, and falling into his arms.
"There, you see now!" said the merchant, trembling and pointing at Martianoff. "You see now what sort of people they are, don't you?"
Kouvalda was shaking with laughter, in which the doctor and the magistrate joined; whilst round the door of the doss-house clustered every moment more and more figures. Drowsy, dissipated faces, with red, inflamed eyes, and dishevelled hair, stood unceremoniously surveying the doctor, the magistrate, and the police officer.
"Where are you shoving to?" said a constable who had accompanied the police officer, pulling at their rags, and pushing them away from the door.
But he was one against many; and they, paying no heed to him, continued to press forward in threatening silence, their breath heavy with sour vodka. Kouvalda glanced first at them and then at the officials, who began to show signs of uneasiness in the midst of this overwhelmingly numerous society of undesirables, and sneeringly remarked to the officials—
"Perhaps, gentlemen, you would like me to introduce you formally to my lodgers and my friends. Say so if you wish it, for sooner or later, in the exercise of your duties, you will have to make their acquaintance."
The doctor laughed with an embarrassed air; the magistrate closed his lips firmly; and the police officer was the only one who showed himself equal to the emergency; he shouted into the yard—
"Sideroff, blow your whistle, and when they come, tell them to bring a cart."
"Well, I'm off," said Petounnikoff, appearing from some remote corner. "You'll be kind enough, sirs, to clear out my little shed to-day. I want to have it pulled down. I beg you to make the necessary arrangements; if not, I shall have to apply to the authorities."
In the yard the policeman's whistle was sounding shrilly; and round the doss-house door stood the compact crowd of its occupants, yawning and scratching themselves.
"So you don't want to make their acquaintance; that's not quite polite," said Aristide Kouvalda, laughing.
Petounnikoff drew his purse from his pocket, fumbled with it for a few minutes, finally pulling out ten kopecks; he crossed himself and placed them at the feet of the dead man.
"God rest his soul! Let this go towards burying the sinful ashes."
"How!" roared the captain. "You! you! giving towards the burial? Take it back; take it back, I command you, you rogue! How dare you give your dishonest gains towards the burial of an honest man! I'll smash every bone in your body!"
"Sir!" exclaimed the alarmed shopkeeper, seizing the police officer imploringly by the elbow.
The doctor and the magistrate hurried outside, while the police officer shouted again loudly, "Sideroff! Come inside here!"
The outcasts formed a barrier round the door of the doss-house, watching and listening to the scene with an intense interest which lighted up their haggard faces.
Kouvalda, shaking his fist over Petounnikoff's head, roared wildly, rolling his bloodshot eyes—
"Rogue and thief! take the coppers back! you vile creature; take them back, I tell you, or I'll smash them into your eyes! Take them back!"
Petounnikoff stretched out one trembling hand towards his little offering, whilst shielding himself with the other against Kouvalda's threatening fist, and said—
"Bear witness, you, sir, the police officer, and you, my good people."
"We are not good people, you damned old shopkeeper!" was heard in the creaking tones of "Scraps."
The police officer, distending his face like a bladder, was whistling wildly, whilst defending Petounnikoff, who was writhing and twisting about in front of him, as if wishing to get inside the officer for protection.
"You vile thing! I'll make you kiss the feet of this dead body if you don't mind! Come here with you!"
And seizing Petounnikoff by the collar, Kouvalda flung him out of the door, as he would have done a kitten.
The outcasts moved on one side to make room for the merchant to fall; and he pitched forward, frightened and yelling at their feet.
"They are killing me! Murder! They have killed me!"
Martianoff slowly lifted his foot, and took aim at the head of the shopkeeper; "Scraps," with an expression of extreme delight, spat full into the face of Petounnikoff. The merchant raised himself on to his hands and knees, and half rolled, half dragged himself farther out into the yard, followed by peals of laughter. At this moment two constables arrived in the yard, and the police officer, pointing to Kouvalda, exclaimed in a voice of triumph—
"Arrest him! Tie him up!"
"Yes, tie him up tightly, my dears!" implored Petounnikoff.
"I defy you to touch me! I'm not going to run away! I'll go wherever I have to go," said Kouvalda, defending himself against the constables, who approached him.
The outcasts dropped off one by one. The cart rolled into the yard. One or two ragged strangers, who had been called in, were already dragging the schoolmaster's body out of the doss-house.
"You shall catch it! just wait a bit!" said the police officer threateningly to Kouvalda.
"Well, captain, how goes it now?" jeered Petounnikoff, maliciously pleased and happy at the sight of his foe's hands being tied. "Well, you are caught now; only wait, and you will get something warmer by and by!"
But Kouvalda was silent; he stood between the two constables, terrible and erect, and was watching the schoolmaster's body being hoisted into the cart. The man who was holding the corpse under the arms, being too short for the job, could not get the schoolmaster's head into the cart at the same moment as his legs were thrown in. Thus, for a second it appeared as if the schoolmaster were trying to throw himself head foremost out of the cart, and hide himself in the ground, away from all these cruel and stupid people, who had never given him any rest.
"Take him away!" ordered the police officer, pointing to the captain.
Kouvalda, without a word of protest, walked silent and scowling from the yard, and, passing by the schoolmaster, bent his head towards the body, without looking at it. Martianoff followed him, his face set like a stone.
Petounnikoff's yard emptied rapidly.
"Gee-up!" cried the driver, shaking the reins on the horse's back. The cart moved off, jolting along the uneven surface of the yard. The schoolmaster's body, covered with some scanty rags, and lying face upwards, shook and tumbled about with the jolting of the cart He seemed to be quietly and peacefully smiling, as if pleased with the thought that he was leaving the doss-house, never to return—never any more. Petounnikoff, following the cart with his eyes, crossed himself devoutly, and then began carefully dusting his clothes with his cap to get rid of the rubbish that had stuck to them. Gradually, as the dust disappeared from his coat, a serene expression of contentment and of self-reliance spread over his face. Looking up the hill, as he stood in the yard, he could see Captain Aristide Fomitch Kouvalda, with hands tied behind his back, tall and grey, wearing a cap with an old red band like a streak of blood round it, being led away towards the town. Petounnikoff smiled with a smile of triumph, and turned towards the doss-house, but suddenly stopped, shuddering. In the doorway facing him stood a terrible old man, horrible to look at in the rags which covered his long body, with a stick in his hand, and a large sack on his back, stooping under the weight of his burden, and bending his head forward on his chest as if he were about to rush forward at the merchant.
"What do you want?" cried Petounnikoff. "Who are you?"
"A man," hissed a muffled, hoarse voice.
This hoarse, hissing sound pleased Petounnikoff, and reassured him.
"A man!" he exclaimed. "Was there ever a man who looked like you?"
And moving on one side, he made way for the old man, who walked straight towards him, muttering gloomily—
"There are men of all sorts. That's just as God wills. Some are worse than I am, that's all—much worse than I am."
The threatening sky looked down quietly at the dirty yard, and the trim little old man with the sharp grey beard, who walked about measuring and calculating with his cunning eyes. On the roof of the old house sat a crow triumphantly croaking, and swaying backwards and forwards with outstretched neck.
The grey lowering clouds, with which the whole sky was covered, seemed fraught with suspense and inexorable design, as if ready to burst and pour forth torrents of water, to wash away all that soiled this sad, miserable, tortured earth.
As my hooded sleigh jolted across the confines of the wood, and we came out on to the open road, a broad, dull-hued horizon lay stretched out before us. Isaiah stood up on the coach-box, and, stretching forward his neck, exclaimed—
"Devil take it all! it seems to have started already!"
"Is that so?"
"Yes; it looks as if it were moving."
"Drive on, then, as fast as you can, you scoundrel!"
The sturdy little pony, with ears like a donkey and coat like a poodle dog, jumped forward at the crack of the whip; then stopped short suddenly, stamping its feet and shaking its head with a sort of injured look.
"Come! I'll teach you to play tricks!" shouted Isaiah, pulling at the reins.
The clerk, Isaiah Miakunikoff, was a frightfully ugly man of about forty years of age. On his left cheek and under his jaw grew a sandy beard; while on his right cheek there was an immense swelling which closed up one eye and hung down to his shoulder in a kind of wrinkly bag. Isaiah was a desperate drunkard, and something of a philosopher and a satirist. He was taking me to see his brother, who had been a fellow-teacher with me in a village school, but who now lay dying of consumption. After five hours' travelling, we had scarcely done twenty versts, partly because the road was bad, and partly because our fantastic steed was a cross-grained brute. Isaiah called it every name he could lay his tongue to—"a clumsy brute," "a mortar," "a mill-stone," etc.—each of which epithets seemed to express equally well one or other of the inward or outward characteristics of the animal. In the same way one comes across at times human beings with similar complex characters, so that whatever name one applies to them seems a fitting one. Only the one word "man" seems inapplicable to them.
Above us hung a heavy, grey, clouded sky. Around us stretched enormous snow-covered fields, dotted with black spaces, showing where the snow was thawing. In front of us, and three versts ahead, rose the blue hills of the mountain range through which flowed the Volga. The distant hills looked low under the leaden, lowering sky, which seemed to crush and weigh them down. The river itself was hidden from our sight by a hedge of thick tangled bushes. A south wind was blowing, covering the surfaces of the little pools with quivering ripples; the air seemed full of a dull, heavy moisture; the water splashed under the horse's feet. A spirit of sadness seemed diffused over everything visible, as if Nature were wearied with waiting for the bright sun of spring, and as if she were dissatisfied with the long absence of the warm sun-rays, without which she was melancholy and depressed.
"The flood-tide in the river will stop us!" cried Isaiah, jumping up and down on the coach-box. "Jakoff will die before we get there; then our journey will have been a useless torment of the flesh. And even if we do find him alive, what will be the good of it all? No one should force himself into the presence of the dying at the moment of death; the dying person should be left alone, so that his thoughts may not be distracted from the consideration of the needs of his soul, nor his mind turned from the depths of his own heart to the contemplation of trifles. For we, who are alive, are in fact nothing but trifles and of no use to one who is dying.... It is true that our customs demand that we should remain near them; but if we only would make use of the brains in our heads instead of the brains in our heels, we should soon see that this custom is good neither for the living nor for the dying, but is only an extra torment for the heart. The living ought not to think of death, nor remember that it is waiting somewhere for them; it is bad for them to do so, for it darkens their joys. Holloa! you stock! Move your legs more briskly! Look alive!"
Isaiah spoke in a monotonous, thick, hoarse voice, and his awkward, thin figure, wrapped in a clumsy, ragged, rusty armiah, rocked heavily backwards and forwards on the coach-box. Now and again he would jump up from his seat, then he would sway from side to side, then nod his head, or toss it backwards. His broad-brimmed black hat—a present from the priest—was fastened under his chin with tapes, the floating ends of which were blown into his face by the wind. With his hat slouched forward over his eyes, and his coat-tails puffed out behind by the wind, he shook his queer-shaped head, and jumped and swore, and twisted about on his seat. As I watched him, I thought how much needless trouble men take about most insignificant things! If the miserable worm of small commonplace evils had not so much power over us, we might easily crush the great horrible serpent of our serious misfortunes!
"It's gone!" exclaimed Isaiah.
"Can you see it?"
"I can see horses standing near the bushes. And there are people with them!" Isaiah spat on one side with a gesture of despair.
"That means there is no chance of getting across?"
"Oh, we shall manage to get over somehow! Yes, of course we shall get over, when the ice has gone down stream, but what are we to do till then? That's the question now! Besides, I'm hungry already; I'm too hungry for words! I told you we ought to have had something to eat. 'No, drive on!' Well, now you see I have driven on!"
"I'm as hungry as you are! Didn't you bring something with you?"
"And what if I have forgotten to bring something?" replied Isaiah crossly.
Looking ahead over his shoulders, I caught sight of a landau, drawn by a troika, and a wicker char-a-banc with a pair of horses. The horses' heads were turned towards us, and several people were standing near them; one, a tall Russian functionary with a red moustache, and wearing a cap with a scarlet band, the badge of Russian nobility. The other man wore a long fur coat.
"That's our district judge, Soutchoff, and the miller Mamaieff," muttered Isaiah, in a tone that denoted respect. Then, addressing the pony, he shouted, "Whoa, my benefactor!"
Then, pushing his hat to the back of his head, he turned to the fat coachman standing near the troika, and remarked, "We are too late, it seems; eh?"
The coachman glanced with a sulky look at Isaiah's egg-shaped head, and turned away without deigning to reply.
"Yes, you are behindhand," said the miller, with a smile. He was a short, thick-set man, with a very red face and cunning, smiling eyes.
The district judge scanned us from under his full eyebrows, as he leant against the foot-board of his carriage, smoked a cigarette, and twisted his moustache. There were two other people in the group—Mamaieff's coachman, a tall fellow with a curly head, and a miserable bandy-legged peasant in a torn sheepskin overcoat swathed tightly round him. His figure seemed bent into the chronic position of a low bow, which at the present moment was evidently meant for us. His small, shrunk face was covered with a scanty grey beard, his eyes were almost hidden in his wrinkled countenance, and his thin blue lips were drawn into a smile, expressive at one and the same time of respect and of derision, of stupidity and of cunning. He was sitting in an ape-like attitude, with his legs drawn up under his body; and, as he turned his head from side to side, he followed each one of us closely with his glance, without showing his own eyes. Through the many holes of his ragged sheepskin bunches of wool protruded, and he produced altogether a singular impression—an impression of having been half masticated before escaping from the iron jaws of some monster, who had meant to swallow him up.
The high sandy bank behind which we were standing sheltered us from the blasts of wind, though it concealed the river from our view.
"I am going to see how matters stand yonder," said Isaiah, as he started climbing up the bank.
The district judge followed him in gloomy silence; and finally the merchant and myself, with the unhappy-looking peasant, who scrambled on his hands and feet, brought up the rear. When we had all reached the top of the bank we all sat down again, looking as black and as gloomy as a lot of crows. About three or four arshines away from us, and eight or nine below us, lay the river, a broad blue-grey line, its surface wrinkled and dotted with heaps of broken ice. These little heaps of ice had the appearance of an unpleasant scab, moving ever slowly forward with an indomitable force lying hidden under its furtive movement. A grating, scraping sound was heard through the raw, damp air.
"Kireelka!" cried the district judge.
The unhappy-looking peasant jumped to his feet, and pulling off his hat, bowed low before the judge; at the same time placing himself in a position which gave him the appearance of offering his head for decapitation.
"Well, is it coming soon?"
"It won't detain your honour long; it will put in directly. Just see, your honour: this is the way it comes. At this rate it can't help getting in in time. A little higher up there is a small headland; if it touches that, all will be right. It will all depend on that large block of ice. If that gets fixed in the passage by the headland, then all is up, for the ferry will get squeezed in the narrow passage, and all movement will be stopped."
"That's enough! Hold your tongue!"
The peasant closed his lips with a snap, and was silent.
"Devil take it all!" cried the judge indignantly. "I told you, you idiot, to send two boats over to this side, didn't I?"
"Yes, your honour, you did," replied the peasant, with an air of having deserved blame.
"Well, and why did you not do so?"
"I hadn't time, because it went off all of a sudden."
"You blockhead!" replied the judge; then turning to Mamaieff, "These stupid asses can't even understand ordinary language!"
"Yes, that's true; but then they're nothing but peasants," sneered Manaieff, with an ingratiating smirk. "They're a silly race—a dull set of wooden blockheads; but let us hope that this renewed energy of the Zemstvo, this increase of schools, this enlightenment, this education"—
"Schools! Oh yes, indeed! Reading—rooms, magic lanterns! A fine story! I know what it all means. But I'm no enemy to education, as you know yourself. And I know by experience that a good whipping educates quicker and better than does anything else. Birch rods cost the peasant nothing, whereas education strips him bare to the skin, and causes him more suffering than can any rod. Up to the present time education has brought nothing but ruin to the peasant. That's my opinion. I don't, however, object to their being taught; I only say wait a little."
"That's it!" exclaimed the merchant, in a tone of voice that denoted thorough agreement. "It would really be better to wait a little; times are hard for the peasants just now. Failing harvests, sickness and disease, their unfortunate weakness for strong drinks, all these things undermine their prosperity, and then, on the top of this, they pile schools and reading-rooms! What's to be done for the peasant under such circumstances? There is nothing to be done for him, believe me."
"Yes; nobody knows that better than you do, Nitrita Pavlovitch," remarked Isaiah. His tone was firm but scrupulously polite, and he sighed devoutly as he spoke.
"I should think so, indeed! Haven't I been seventeen years among them? As for education, my opinion is this: if education is given at the proper time it's all right, then it may benefit people. But if—excuse the expression—I have an empty belly, I don't want to learn anything except, maybe, how to rob and steal."
"No, indeed, there's no good at all in education!" exclaimed Isaiah, assuming an expression of good-natured respect.
Mamaieff glanced at him, and drew in his lips.
"There's a peasant for you, that fellow Kireelka!" cried the judge, turning to us with something almost of solemnity in his face and in his voice. "Just look at him, please. He is anything but an ordinary peasant—he is a rare sort of animal! During the fire on board the steamerGregorythis ragamuffin, this gnat, rescued without anyone's assistance six persons. It was late autumn then; for four long hours he laboured in peril of his life, soaked to the skin, for rain was coming down in torrents. When he had rescued six lives, he quietly disappeared; they looked for him everywhere, for they wanted to recompense him, to give him a medal for his bravery; and at last they found him, stealing away to hide himself in the dark woods. He has always managed his affairs well; he has been thrifty; he drove his young daughter-in-law into her grave; his old wife beats him sometimes with logs of wood; he is a drunkard, and at the same time he is pious. He sings in the church choir, and he possesses a fine beehive with good swarms of bees; added to all this, he is a great thief! Once a barge got stopped here, and he was caught stealing; he had carried off three bags of plums. You see what a curious character he is!"
This speech made us all turn our attention to the clever peasant, who stood in front of us with eyes cast down, and sniffing vigorously. His gaze was fixed on the elegant shoes of the district judge, and two suggestive little wrinkles played round the corner of his mouth, though his lips were firmly closed, and his face was void of all expression.
"Come, let us examine him. Tell us, Kireelka, what benefits are to be derived from learning to read?"
Kireelka sighed, moved his lips, but no word escaped from them.
"Come now, you can read!" continued the judge, in a more imperative tone. "You must know whether learning to read has made it easier for you to live or not!"
"That depends upon circumstances," said Kireelka, dropping his head still lower on his breast.
"But you must tell us something more definite than that. You can read and write, so you surely can say whether you gain any benefit by it?"
"Benefit, well perhaps. But no, I think there is more; that is, if we look upon it in the right light, those who teach us may gain something by it."
"What can they gain by it? And who do you mean by 'they'?"
"Well, I mean the teachers, or maybe the Zemstvo, or somebody."
"You stupid creature! But I ask you about yourself; for you personally, is it of any use?"
"That is just as you wish, your honour."
"How just as I wish?"
"Why, to be sure, just as you wish. You see, you are our masters."
"Be off with you!"
The ends of the judge's moustache quivered, and his face grew very red.
"Well, you see, he has said little, but I think you are well answered. No, gentlemen, the time is not yet ripe for teaching the peasant his A B C; he must be thoroughly disciplined first. The peasant is nothing but a vicious child; that is what he is. Nevertheless, it is of him that the foundations are made. Do you understand? He is the groundwork, the base of the pyramid of the State. If that base should suddenly begin to shake, do you not understand what serious disorder might be produced in the State?"
"That's quite true," reflected Mamaieff. "Certainly the foundations ought to be kept strong."
As I also was interested in the cause of the peasants, I, at this point, joined in the conversation, and in a short time all four of us were hotly and eagerly deciding the future of the peasantry. The true vocation of every individual seems to be to lay down rules for his neighbour's conduct; and those preachers are in the wrong who declare that we are all egoists; for in our altruistic aspirations to improve the human race, we forget our own shortcomings; and this may account for the fact that much of the evil of the world is concealed from us. We continued thus to argue, whilst the river wound its serpentine course in front of our eyes, swishing against the banks with its cold grey scales of ice.
In the same way our conversation twisted and wound like an angry snake, that flings itself now on one side, and now on the other, in the endeavour to seize its prey, which nevertheless continues to escape. And the cause of all our talk, the peasant himself, who sat there, at no great distance from us, on the sandy bank, in silence, and with a countenance wholly devoid of expression—who was he, and what was he?
Mamaieff again took up the conversation.
"No, he is not such a fool as you say; he is not really stupid; it's not so easy to get round him."
The district judge seemed to be losing his temper. "I don't say he is a fool; I say he is demoralised!" "Pray don't misunderstand me. I say he has no control over himself. No control such as it is necessary to exercise over children—that is where the root of the evil lies."
"And with all due deference, I beg to think that there is nothing wrong with him! He is one of the Great Maker's children, like all of us; but, I must apologise perhaps for mentioning it, he is tormented out of his senses. I mean, bad government has deprived him of all hope for the future."
It was Isaiah who spoke in a suave, respectful voice, smiling softly, and sighing all the time. His eyes were half closed, as if he feared to look straight at anyone; but the swelling on the side of his head seemed to be overflowing with laughter, ready to burst into loud mirth, but not daring to do so. "I for my part urge that there is nothing the matter with the peasant but hunger. Only give him enough good food, and he would soon be everything we I could desire."
"You believe he is starved!" exclaimed the judge irritably. "In the devil's name, what makes you think so?"
"To me it seems quite clear."
"For goodness' sake, do tell me! Why, fifty years ago, he did not know what hunger meant. He was then well fed, healthy, humble—h'm! I did not mean that exactly. I meant to say—I—I—myself am hungry just now! And hungry—devil take him!—because of his stupidity. Come now, what do you think of that? I had given orders for the boats to be sent over here to wait for me. Well, when I get here, there sits Kireelka, just as if nothing were the matter. No, really, they are a dreadful set of idiots, I assure you. I mean they have not the least respect or the least obedience for the commands of those who are set in authority over them."
"Well, it would be a good thing if we could get something to eat," said Mamaieff in a melancholy voice.
"Ah, it would indeed!" sighed Isaiah.
Suddenly all four of us, who a few moments before had been snarling irritably at each other over our argument, grew silent, feeling suddenly united by the common pangs of hunger, felt in common. We all turned towards poor Kireelka, who grew confused under our gaze, and began dragging at his hat.
"Whatever have you done with that boat—eh?" Isaiah asked him reproachfully.
"Well, supposing the boat had been here, you couldn't have eaten it," replied Kireelka, with a hangdog look on his face, which made us all turn our backs on him.
"Six mortal hours have I been sitting here!" ejaculated Mamaieff, taking out his gold watch and looking at it.
"There now, you see!" angrily exclaimed the judge, twisting his moustache. "And this wretch says there will be a block in the ice directly, and I want to know if we shall get off before that—eh?"
It almost appeared as if the judge imagined that Kireelka had some power over the river, and considered that he was entirely to blame for our long delay. However that might be, the judge's question set all poor Kireelka's muscles in motion. He crawled to the very edge of the bank, shaded his eyes with his hand, and with a troubled look on his face tried to peer out into the distance. His lips moved, and he spasmodically kicked out one leg, as if he were trying either to work a spell or to utter some inaudible commands to the river.
The ice was moving slowly down in an ever more compact mass, the grey-blue blocks ground against each other with a grating sound as they broke, cracked, and split into small fragments, sometimes showing the muddy waters below, and then once again hiding them from view. The river had the appearance of some enormous body eaten by some terrible skin disease, as it lay spread out before us, covered with scabs and sores; while some invisible hand seemed to be trying to purify it from the filthy scales which disfigured its surface. Any minute it seemed to us we might behold the river, freed from its bondage, and flowing past us in all its might and beauty, with its waves once more sparkling and gleaming under the sunlight, which, piercing the clouds, would cast bright, joyful glances earthwards.
"They will be here soon now, your honour!" exclaimed Kireelka in a cheerful voice. "The ice is getting thinner there, and they are just at the headland now."
He pointed with his cap, which he held in his hand, into the distance, where, however, I could see nothing but ice.
"Is it far from here to Olchoff?"
"Well, your honour, by the nearest way it would be about five versts."
"Devil take it all! A-hem. I say, have you got anything with you? Potatoes or bread?"
"Bread? Well, yes, your honour, I have got a bit of bread with me, but as for potatoes—no—I haven't any; they didn't yield this year."
"Well, have you got the bread with you?"
"Yes, here it is, inside my shirt."
"Faugh! Why the devil do you put it into your pazoika?"
"Well, there isn't much of it—only a pound or two; and it keeps warmer there."
"You fool! I wish I had sent my man over to Olchoff; he might have got some milk or something else there; but this idiot kept on saying, 'Very so-on, very so-on!' The devil! how vexing it all is!"
The judge continued to twist his moustache angrily, but the merchant cast longing glances in the direction of the peasant's pazoika. This latter stood with bowed head, slowly raising his hand towards his shirt front. Isaiah meanwhile was making signs to him. When he caught sight of them he moved noiselessly towards my friend, keeping his face turned to the judge's back.
The ice was still gradually diminishing, and already fissures showed themselves between the blocks, like wrinkles on a pale, bloodless face. The play of these wrinkles seemed to give various expressions to the river, all of them alike cold and pensive, though sometimes sad or mocking, or even disfigured by pain. The heavy, damp mass of clouds overhead seemed to look down on the movements of the ice with a stolid, passionless expression. The grating of the ice blocks against the sand sounded now like a frightened whisper, awakening in those who listened to it a feeling of despondency.
"Give me a bit of your bread," I heard Isaiah say in a low whisper.
At the same moment the merchant gave a grunt, and the judge called out in a loud, angry voice, "Kireelka, bring the bread here!" The poor peasant pulled off his cap with one hand, whilst with the other he drew the bread out of his shirt, laid it on his cap, and presented it to the judge, bending and bowing low, like a court lackey of the time of Louis XV. Taking the bread in his hand, the judge examined it with something like a look of disgust, smiled sourly, and turning to us, said—
"Gentlemen, I see we all aspire to the possession of this piece of bread, and we all have a perfectly equal right to it—the right of hungry people. Well, let us divide equally this frugal meal. Devil take it! it is indeed a ludicrous position we are in! But what else is there to do? In my haste to start before the road got spoiled—Allow me to offer you"—
With this he handed a piece of the bread to Mamaieff. The merchant looked at it askance, cocked his head on one side, measured with his eye the piece of bread, and bolted his share of it. Isaiah took what was left and gave me my share of it. Once more we sat down side by side, this time silently munching our—what shall I call it? For lack of a better word to describe it, I suppose I must call it bread. It was of the consistency of clay, and it smelt of sheepskin, saturated with perspiration, and with the stale odour of rotten cabbage; its flavour no words could express! I ate it, however, as I silently watched the dirty fragments of the river's winter attire float slowly past.
"Now this is what they call bread!" said our judge, looking reproachfully at the sour lump in his hand. "This is the Russian peasant's food! He eats this stuff while the peasants of other countries eat cheese, good wheaten bread, and drink wine. There is sawdust, trash, and refuse of all sorts in this bread; and this is our peasant's food on the eve of the twentieth century! I should like to know why that is so?"
As the question seemed addressed to the merchant, he sighed deeply, and meekly answered, "Yes, it's not very grand food—not attractive!"
"But I ask you why, sir?" demanded the judge.
"Why? I suppose because the land is exhausted, if I may say so."
"Ahem! Nonsense, no such thing! All this talk about exhausted land is useless; it's nothing but a fancy of the statisticians."
On hearing this remark Kireelka sighed deeply, and crushed his hat down on his head.
"You tell me now, my good fellow, how does your land yield?" said the judge.
"Well, that depends. When the land is healthy it yields—well, as much as you can want."
"Come, now, don't try to get out of it! But give a straight answer. Does your land give good crops?"
"If—-that is—then"—
"Don't lie!"
"If good hands work it, why, then, it is all right" "Ah-ha! Do you hear that? Good hands! There it is! No hands to work the land! And why? What do we see? Drunkenness and slackness, idleness, sloth. There is no authority over the peasants. If they happen to have a bad crop one year, well, then, the Zemstvo comes at once to their aid, saying, 'Here is seed for you; sow your land, my friend. Here is bread; eat it, my good friend.' Now I tell you, this is all wrong! Why did the land yield good harvests up till 1861? Because when the crops were not good the peasant was brought before his master, who asked him, 'How did you sow? How did you plough?' and so on. The master then gave him some seed, and if the crops were then not good the peasant answered for it with a scarred back. His crops after that were sure to be good. Whereas, now he is protected by the Zemstvo, and has lost his capacity for work. It's all because there is no master over him to teach him to use his senses!"
"Yes, that's just it. The proprietors knew well how to make their serfs work!" said Mamaieff, with assurance. "They could make what they liked out of the moujiks!"
"Musicians, painters, dancers, actors!" eagerly interrupted the judge; "they made them whatever they liked!"
"That's quite true. I well remember when I was a boy how our Count's house-servant was taught to mimic everything he heard."
"Yes, that was so."
"Indeed, he learnt to mimic everything, not only human or animal sounds, but even the sound of the sawing of wood, the breaking of glass, or anything else. He would blow out his cheeks and make whatever sound was commanded. The Count would say, 'Feodka, bark like vixen—like Catcher!' And Feodka did it. That was how they were taught then. Nowadays a good sum of money might be earned by such tricks!"
"The boats are coming!" shouted Isaiah.
"At last! Kireelka, my horses! No, stop a moment; I will tell the coachman myself."
"Well, let's hope our waiting has come to an end," said Mamaieff, with a smile of relief.
"Yes, I suppose it has come to an end."
"It's always like that in life; one waits, and waits; and at last what one was waiting for arrives. Ha! ha! ha! All things in this world come to an end."
"That's a comfort, at any rate," said Isaiah.
Two long objects were to be seen moving along near the opposite bank.
"They are coming nearer," said Kireelka, as he watched them.
The judge watched him from the corner of his eye.
"Do you still drink as much as you used to?" he asked the peasant.
"If I have a chance, I drink a glass."
"And do you still steal firewood in the forest?"
"Why should I do that, your honour?"
"Come, tell the truth!"
"I never did steal wood," replied Kireelka, shaking his head deprecatingly.
"What was it I condemned you for, then?"
"It's true you condemned me."
"What was it for, then?"
"Why, your honour, you see, you are put in authority over us; you have a right to condemn us." "Ah! I see you are a cunning rascal! And you do not steal plums from the barges either, when they are detained; do you?"
"I only tried that once, your honour."
"And that once you were caught! Wasn't that so? Ha! Ha! Ha!"
"We are not accustomed to that sort of work. That's why I was caught."
"Well, you had better get a little practice at it; hadn't you? Ha! Ha! Ha!"
"He! He! He!" echoed Mamaieff, laughing also.
The peasants on board the boat pushed away with large iron bars the ice which impeded its course; and, as they drew nearer, we could hear them shouting to each other. Kireelka, putting his hands to his mouth, stood up and shouted back to them, "Steer for the old willow!"
Then he hurried down the bank towards the river, almost tumbling head over heels in his haste. We quickly followed him, and were soon on board; Isaiah and I going in one boat, whilst the judge and Mamaieff went in the other.
"All right, my men!" said the judge, taking off his hat and crossing himself.
The two men in his boat crossed themselves devoutly, and once more started pushing away the ice-blocks which pressed against the sides of the boat.
But the blocks continued to strike the sides of the boat with an angry crashing sound; the air struck cold as it blew over the water. Mamaieff's face turned livid, and the judge, with knitted brow and with a look of intense anxiety, watched the current which was driving enormous blue-grey heaps of ice against the boats. The smaller pieces grated against the keel with a sound of sharp teeth gnawing through the wooden planks.
The air was damp and full of noises; our eyes were anxiously fixed on the cold, dirty ice—so powerful and yet so helpless. Through the various noises around us I suddenly distinguished the voice of someone shouting from the shore, and glancing in the direction of the sound I saw Kireelka standing bareheaded on the bank behind us. There was a twinkle in his cunning grey eyes as he shouted in a strange, hoarse voice, "Uncle Anthony, when you go to fetch the mail mind you don't forget to bring some bread for me! The gentry have eaten my loaf of bread whilst they were waiting for the ferry; and it was the last I had!"
There were three of us friends—Semka[1]Kargouza, myself, and Mishka,[2]a bearded giant with great blue eyes that perpetually beamed on everything and were always swollen from drink. We lived in a field beyond the town in an old tumbledown building, called for some reason "the glass factory," perhaps because there was not a single whole pane in its windows, and undertook all kinds of work, despising nothing; cleaned yards, dug ditches and sewers, pulled down old buildings and fences, and once even tried to build a henhouse. But in this we were unsuccessful. Semka, who was pedantically honest about the duties he took upon himself, began to doubt our knowledge of the architecture of hen-houses, and one day at noon, when we were all resting, took the nails that had been given out to us, two new planks, and the master's axe to the public-house. For this we lost our work, but as we possessed nothing no one demanded compensation.