Voices and an accordion sounded as if close by, though through the mist nobody could be seen. It was a work-day morning, and I was surprised to hear music.
"Oh, it's the recruits' leave-taking," thought I, remembering that I had heard something a few days before about five men being drawn from our village. Involuntarily attracted by the merry song, I went in the direction whence it proceeded.
As I approached the singers, the sound of song and accordion suddenly stopped. The singers, that is the lads who were leave-taking, entered the double-fronted brick cottage belonging to the father of one of them. Before the door stood a small group of women, girls, and children.
While I was finding out whose sons were going, and why they had entered that cottage, the lads themselves, accompanied by their mothers and sisters, came out at the door. There were five of them: four bachelors and one married man. Our village is near the town where nearly all these conscripts had worked. They were dressed town-fashion, evidently wearing their best clothes: peajackets, new caps, and high, showy boots. Conspicuous among them was a young fellow, well built though not tall, with a sweet, merry, expressive face, a small beard and moustache just beginning to sprout, and bright hazel eyes. As he came out, he at once took a big, expensive-looking accordion that was hanging over his shoulders and, having bowed to me, started playing the merry tune of "Bárynya," running his fingers nimbly over the keys and keeping exact time, as he moved with rhythmic step jauntily down the road.
Beside him walked a thick-set, fair-haired lad, also of medium height. He looked gaily from side to side, and sang second with spirit, in harmony with the first singer. He was the married one. These two walked ahead of the other three, who were also well dressed, and not remarkable in any way except that one of them was tall.
Together with the crowd I followed the lads. All their songs were merry, and no expression of grief was heard while the procession was going along; but as soon as we came to the next house at which the lads were to be treated, the lamentations of the women began. It was difficult to make out what they were saying; only a word here and there could be distinguished: "death ... father and mother ... native land ..."; and after every verse, the woman who led the chanting took a deep breath, and burst out intolong-drawn moans, followed by hysterical laughter. The women were the mothers and sisters of the conscripts. Beside the lamentations of these relatives, one heard the admonitions of their friends.
"Now then, Matryóna, that's enough! You must be tired out," I heard one woman say, consoling another who was lamenting.
The lads entered the cottage. I remained outside, talking with a peasant acquaintance, VasÃly Oréhof, a former pupil of mine. His son, one of the five, was the married man who had been singing second as he went along.
"Well," I said, "it is a pity!"
"What's to be done? Pity or not, one has to serve."
And he told me of his domestic affairs. He had three sons: the eldest was living at home, the second was now being taken, and a third (who, like the second, had gone away to work) was contributing dutifully to the support of the home. The one who was leaving had evidently not sent home much.
"He has married a townswoman. His wife is not fit for our work. He is a lopped-off branch and thinks only of keeping himself. To be sure it's a pity, but it can't be helped!"
While we were talking, the lads came out into the street, and the lamentations, shrieks, laughter, and adjurations recommenced. After standing about for some five minutes, the procession movedon with songs and accordion accompaniment. One could not help marvelling at the energy and spirit of the player, as he beat time accurately, stamped his foot, stopped short, and then after a pause again took up the melody most merrily, exactly on the right beat, while he gazed around with his kind, hazel eyes. Evidently he had a real and great talent for music.
I looked at him, and (so at least it seemed to me) he felt abashed when he met my eyes, and with a twitch of his brows he turned away, and again burst out with even more spirit than before. When we reached the fifth and last of the cottages, the lads entered, and I followed them. All five of them were made to sit round a table covered with a cloth, on which were bread and vódka. The host, the man I had been talking to, who was now to take leave of his married son, poured out the vódka and handed it round. The lads hardly drank at all (at most a quarter of a glass) or even handed it back after just raising it to their lips. The hostess cut some bread, and served slices round to eat with the vódka.
While I was looking at the lads, a woman, dressed in clothes that seemed to me strange and incongruous, got down from the top of the oven, close to where I sat. She wore a light green dress (silk, I think) with fashionable trimmings, and high-heeled boots. Her fair hair was arranged in quite the modern style, like a large round cap, and she wore big, ring-shaped, gold earrings. Herface was neither sad nor cheerful, but looked as if she were offended.
After getting down, she went out into the passage, clattering with the heels of her new boots and paying no heed to the lads. All about this woman—her clothing, the offended expression of her face, and above all her earrings—was so foreign to the surroundings that I could not understand how she had come to be on the top of VasÃly Oréhof's oven. I asked a woman sitting near me who she was.
"VasÃly's daughter-in-law; she has been a housemaid," was the answer.
The host began offering vódka a third time, but the lads refused, rose, said grace, thanked the hosts, and went out.
In the street, the lamentations recommenced at once. The first to raise her voice was a very old woman with a bent back. She lamented in such a peculiarly piteous voice, and wailed so, that the women kept soothing the sobbing, staggering old creature, and supported her by her elbows.
"Who is she?" I inquired.
"Why, it's his granny; VasÃly's mother, that is."
The old woman burst into hysterical laughter and fell into the arms of the women who supported her, and just then the procession started again, and again the accordion and the merry voices struck up their tune. At the end of the village the procession was overtaken by the carts which were tocarry the conscripts to the District Office. The weeping and wailing stopped. The accordion-player, getting more and more elated, bending his head to one side and resting on one foot, turned out the toes of the other and stamped with it, while his fingers produced brilliantfioritures, and exactly at the right instant the bold, high, merry tones of his song, and the second of VasÃly's son, again chimed in. Old and young, and especially the children who surrounded the crowd, and I with them, fixed their eyes admiringly on the singer.
"He is clever, the rascal!" said one of the peasants.
"'Sorrow weeps, and sorrow sings!'" replied another.
At that moment one of the young fellows whom we were seeing off—the tall one—came up with long, energetic strides, and stooped to speak to the one who played the accordion.
"What a fine fellow," I thought; "they will put him in the Guards." I did not know who he was or what house he belonged to.
"Whose son is that one? That gallant fellow?" I asked a little old man, pointing to the fine lad.
The old man raised his cap and bowed to me, but did not hear my question.
"What did you say?" asked he.
I had not recognised him, but as soon as he spoke I knew him at once. He is a hard-working, good peasant who, as often happens, seemsspecially marked out for misfortune: first, two horses were stolen from him, then his house burnt down, and then his wife died. I had not seen Prokófey for a long time, and remembered him as a bright red-haired man of medium height; whereas he was now not red, but quite grey-haired, and small.
"Ah, Prokófey, it's you!" I said. "I was asking whose son that fine fellow is—that one who has just spoken to Alexander?"
"That one?" Prokófey replied, pointing with a motion of his head to the tall lad. He shook his head and mumbled something I did not understand.
"I'm asking whose son the lad is?" I repeated, and turned to look at Prokófey.
His face was puckered, and his jaw trembled.
"He's mine!" he muttered, and, turning away and hiding his face in his hand, began to whimper like a child.
And only then, after the two words, "He's mine!" spoken by Prokófey, did I realise, not only in my mind but in my whole being, the horror of what was taking place before my eyes that memorable misty morning. All the disjointed, incomprehensible, strange things I had seen suddenly acquired a simple, clear, and terrible significance. I became painfully ashamed of having looked on as at an interesting spectacle. I stopped, conscious of having acted ill, and I turned to go home.
And to think that these things are at the present moment being done to tens of thousands of men all over Russia, and have been done, and will long continue to be done, to the meek, wise, and saintly Russian people, who are so cruelly and treacherously deceived!
[The interior of a peasant hut. An old Traveller is sitting on a bench, reading a book. A Peasant, the master of the hut, just home from his work, sits down to supper and asks the Traveller to share it. The Traveller declines. The Peasant eats, and when he has finished, rises, says grace, and sits down beside the old man.]
PEASANT. What brings you?...
TRAVELLER [taking off his spectacles and putting down his book]. There is no train till to-morrow. The station is crowded, so I asked your missis to let me stay the night with you, and she allowed it.
PEASANT. That's all right, you can stay.
TRAVELLER. Thank you!... Well, and how are you living nowadays?
PEASANT. Living? What's our life like?... As bad as can be!
TRAVELLER. How's that?
PEASANT. Why, because we've nothing to live on! Our life is so hard that if we wanted a worse one, we couldn't get it.... You see, there are nine of us in family; all want to eat, and I have only got in four bushels of corn. Try and live on that! Whether one likes it or not, one has to go and work for wages ... and when you look for a job, wages are down!... The richdo what they like with us. The people increase, but the land doesn't, and taxes keep piling up! There's rent, and the district tax, and the land tax, and the tax for bridges, and insurance, and police, and for the corn store ... too many to count! And there are the priests and the landlords.... They all ride on our backs, except those who are too lazy!
TRAVELLER. I thought the peasants were doing well nowadays.
PEASANT. So well, that we go hungry for days at a time!
TRAVELLER. The reason I thought so, was that they have taken to squandering so much money.
PEASANT. Squandering what money? How strange you talk!... Here are people starving to death, and you talk of squandering money!
TRAVELLER. But how is it? The papers say that 700 million roubles (and a million is a thousand thousands)—700 million were spent by the peasants on vódka last year.
PEASANT. Are we the only ones that drink? Just look at the priests.... Don't they swill first-rate? And the gentlefolk aren't behind-hand!
TRAVELLER. Still, that's only a small part. The greater part stills falls to the peasants.
PEASANT. What of that? Are we not to drink at all?
TRAVELLER. No; what I mean is that if 700 millions were squandered on vódka in one year it shows that life can't be so very hard.... 700millions! It's no joke ... one can hardly imagine it!
PEASANT. But how can one do without it? We didn't start the custom, and it's not for us to stop it.... There are the Church feasts, and weddings, and memorial feasts, and bargains to be wetted with a drink.... Whether one likes it or not, one can't get on without it. It's the custom!
TRAVELLER. But there are people who never drink, and yet they manage to live! After all, there's not much good in it.
PEASANT. No good at all! Only evil!
TRAVELLER. Then one ought not to drink.
PEASANT. Well, anyhow, drink or no drink, we've nothing to live on! We've not enough land. If we had land we could at least live ... but there's none to be had.
TRAVELLER. No land to be had? Why, isn't there plenty of land? Wherever one looks, one sees land!
PEASANT. There's land, right enough, but it's not ours. Your elbow's not far from your mouth, but just you try to bite it!
TRAVELLER. Not yours! Whose is it, then?
PEASANT. Whose?... Whose, indeed! There's that fat-bellied devil over there ... he's seized 5000 acres. He has no family, but he's never satisfied, while we've had to give up keeping fowls—there's nowhere for them to run about! It's nearly time for us to stop keeping cattle, too ... we've no fodder for them; andif a calf, or maybe a horse, happens to stray into his field, we have to pay fines and give him our last farthing.
TRAVELLER. What does he want all that land for?
PEASANT. What does he want the land for? Why, of course, he sows and reaps and sells, and puts the money in the bank.
TRAVELLER. How can he plough a stretch like that, and get his harvest in?
PEASANT. You talk as if you were a child!... What's he got money for, if not to hire labourers?... It's they that do the ploughing and reaping.
TRAVELLER. These labourers are some of you peasants, I expect?
PEASANT. Some are from these parts, and some from elsewhere.
TRAVELLER. Anyway, they are peasants?
PEASANT. Of course they are!... the same as ourselves. Who but a peasant ever works? Of course they are peasants.
TRAVELLER. And if the peasants did not go and work for him...?
PEASANT. Go or stay, he wouldn't let us have it. If the land were to lie idle, he'd not part with it! Like the dog in the manger, that doesn't eat the hay himself and won't let others eat it!
TRAVELLER. But how can he keep his land? I suppose it stretches over some three or four miles? How can he watch it all?
PEASANT. How queer you talk! He himselflies on his back, and fattens his paunch; but he keeps watchmen!
TRAVELLER. And those watchmen, I dare say, are also peasants?
PEASANT. What else could they be? Of course they are!
TRAVELLER. So that the peasants work the rich man's land for him, and guard it for him from themselves?
PEASANT. But how can one help it?
TRAVELLER. Simply by not going to work for him, and not being his watchmen! Then the land would be free. The land is God's, and the people are God's; let him who needs it, plough and sow and gather in the harvest!
PEASANT. That is to say, you think we ought to strike? To meet that, my friend, they have the soldiers. They'd send their soldiers ... one, two, fire!... some would get shot, and others taken up. Soldiers give short shrift!
TRAVELLER. But is it not also the likes of you that are soldiers? Why should they shoot at their own fellows?
PEASANT. How can they help it? That's what the oath is for.
TRAVELLER. The oath? What oath?
PEASANT. Don't you understand? Aren't you a Russian?... The oath is—well, it's the oath!
TRAVELLER. It means swearing, doesn't it?
PEASANT. Well, of course! They swear by theCross and by the Gospels, to lay down their life for their country.
TRAVELLER. Well, I think that should not be done.
PEASANT. What should not be done?
TRAVELLER. Taking the oath.
PEASANT. Not done? Why, the law demands it!
TRAVELLER. No, it is not in the Law. In the Law of Christ, it is plainly forbidden. He said: "Swear not at all."
PEASANT. Come now! What about the priests?
TRAVELLER [takes a book, looks for the place, and reads]: "It was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not forswear thyself,but I say unto you, Swear not at all.... But let your speech be, Yea, yea; nay, nay: and whatsoever is more than these is of the evil one" (Matthew v. 33). So, according to Christ's Law, you must not swear.
PEASANT. If there were no oath, there would be no soldiers.
TRAVELLER. Well, and what good are the soldiers?
PEASANT. What good?... But supposing other Tsars were to come and attack our Tsar ... what then?
TRAVELLER. If the Tsars quarrel, let them fight it out themselves.
PEASANT. Come! How could that be possible?
TRAVELLER. It's very simple. He that believes in God, no matter what you may tell him, will never kill a man.
PEASANT. Then why did the priest read out in church that war was declared, and the Reserves were to be ready?
TRAVELLER. I know nothing about that; but I know that in the Commandments, in the Sixth, it says quite plainly: "Thou shalt do no murder." You see, it is forbidden for a man to kill a man.
PEASANT. That means, at home! At the wars, how could you help it? They're enemies!
TRAVELLER. According to Christ's Gospel, there is no such thing as an enemy. You are told to love everybody.
[Opens the Bible and looks for place.
PEASANT. Well, read it!
TRAVELLER. "Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not kill; and whosoever shall kill shall be in danger of the judgment.... Ye have heard that it was said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy: but I say unto you, Love your enemies, and pray for them that persecute you" (Matthew v. 21, 43-44).
[A long pause.
PEASANT. Well, but what about taxes? Ought we to refuse to pay them too?
TRAVELLER. That's as you think best. If your own children are hungry, naturally you should first feed them.
PEASANT. So you think soldiers are not wanted at all?
TRAVELLER. What good do they do? Millions and millions are collected from you and your folkfor them—it's no joke to clothe and feed such a host! There are nearly a million of those idlers, and they're only useful to keep the land from you; and it is on you they will fire.
[ThePEASANTsighs, and shakes his head.
PEASANT. That's true enough! If everybody were to do it at once ... but if one or two make a stand, they'll be shot or sent to Siberia, and that will be the end of the matter.
TRAVELLER. And yet there are men, even now—young men—who by themselves stand up for the Law of God, and refuse to serve. They say: "According to Christ's Law, I dare not be a murderer! Do as you please, but I won't take a rifle in my hands!"
PEASANT. Well, and what happens?
TRAVELLER. They are put in prison; they remain there, poor fellows, three years, or four.... But I've heard that it's not so bad for them, for the authorities themselves respect them. And some are even let out as unfit for service—bad health! Though he is sometimes a strapping, broad-shouldered fellow, he's "not fit," because they're afraid of taking a man of that kind, for fear he should tell others that soldiering is against God's Law. So they let him go.
PEASANT. Really?
TRAVELLER. Yes, sometimes it happens that they are let off; but it also happens that they die there. Still, soldiers die too, and even get maimed in service—lose a leg, or an arm....
PEASANT. Oh, you're a clever fellow! It would be a good thing, only it won't work out like that.
TRAVELLER. Why not?
PEASANT.That'swhy.
TRAVELLER. What'sthat?
PEASANT. That the authorities have power given them.
TRAVELLER. They only have power, because you obey them. Do not obey the authorities, and they won't have any power!
PEASANT. [shakes his head]. You do talk queer! How can one do without the authorities? It is quite impossible to do without some authority.
TRAVELLER. Of course it is! Only whom will you take for authority—the policeman, or God? Whom will you obey—the policeman, or God?
PEASANT. That goes without saying! No one is greater than God. To live for God is the chief thing.
TRAVELLER. Well, if you mean to live for God, you must obey God and not man. And if you live according to God, you will not drive people off the land: you will not be a policeman, a village elder, a tax-collector, a watchman, or above all, a soldier.... You will not promise to kill men.
PEASANT. And how about those long-maned fellows—the priests? They must see that things are being done not according to God's Law. Then why don't they teach how it ought to be?
TRAVELLER. I don't know anything about that. Let them go their way, and you go yours.
PEASANT. They are long-maned devils!
TRAVELLER. It's not right to judge others like that! We must each remember our own faults.
PEASANT. Yes, that's right enough. [Long pause. ThePEASANTshakes his head, and smiles.] What it comes to is this: that if we all were to tackle it at once, the land would be ours at one go, and there would be no more taxes.
TRAVELLER. No, friend, that's not what I mean. I don't mean that if we live according to God's will, the land will be ours, and there will be no more taxes. I mean that our life is evil, only because we ourselves do evil. If one lived according to God's will, life would not be evil. What our life would be like if we lived according to God's will, God alone knows; but certainly life would not be evil. We drink, scold, fight, go to law, envy, and hate men; we do not accept God's Law; we judge others; call one fat-paunched and another long-maned; but if any one offers us money, we are ready to do anything for it: go as watchmen, policemen, or soldiers, to help ruin others, and to kill our own brothers. We ourselves live like devils, and yet we complain of others!
PEASANT. That's so! But it is hard, oh, how hard! Sometimes it's more than one can bear.
TRAVELLER. But, for our souls' sakes, we must bear it.
PEASANT. That's quite right.... We live badly, because we forget God.
TRAVELLER. Yes, that's it! That's why lifeis evil. Take the Revolutionaries; they say: "Let's kill this or that squire, or these fat-paunched rich folk (it's all because of them); and then our life will be happy." So they kill, and go on killing, and it profits them nothing. It's the same with the authorities: "Give us time!" they say, "and we'll hang, and do to death in the prisons, a thousand or a couple of thousand people, and then life will become good...." But it only gets worse and worse!
PEASANT. Yes, that's just it! How can judging and punishing do any good? It must be done according to God's Law.
TRAVELLER. Yes, that is just it. You must serve either God or the devil. If it's to be the devil, go and drink, scold, fight, hate, covet, don't obey God's Law, but man's laws, and life will be evil. If it is God, obey Him alone. Don't rob or kill, and don't even condemn, and do not hate any one. Do not plunge into evil actions, and then there will be no evil life.
PEASANT [sighs]. You speak well, daddy, very well—only we are taught so little! Oh, if we were taught more like that, things would be quite different! But people come from the town, and chatter about their way of bettering things: they chatter fine, but there's nothing in it.... Thank you, daddy, your words are good!... Well, where will you sleep? On the oven, yes?... The missis will make up a bed for you.
I have come out early. My soul feels light and joyful. It is a wonderful morning. The sun is only just appearing from behind the trees. The dew glitters on them and on the grass. Everything is lovely; everyone is lovable. It is so beautiful that, as the saying has it, "One does not want to die." And, really, I do not want to die. I would willingly live a little longer in this world with such beauty around me and such joy in my heart. That, however, is not my affair, but the Master's....
I approach the village. Before the first house I see a man standing, motionless, sideways to me. He is evidently waiting for somebody or something, and waiting as only working people know how to wait, without impatience or vexation. I draw nearer: he is a bearded, strong, healthy peasant, with shaggy, slightly grey hair, and a simple, worker's face. He is smoking not a "cigar" twisted out of paper, but a short pipe. We greet one another.
"Where does old Alexéy live?" I ask.
"I don't know, friend; we are strangers here."
Not "Iam a stranger," but "weare strangers." A Russian is hardly ever alone. If he is doing something wrong, he may perhaps say "I"; otherwise it is always "we" the family, "we" theartél, "we" the Commune.
"Strangers? Where do you come from?"
"We are from Kaloúga."
I point to his pipe. "And how much do you spend a year on smoking? Three or more roubles, I daresay!"
"Three? That would hardly be enough."
"Why not give it up?"
"How can one give it up when one's accustomed to it?"
"I also used to smoke, but have given it up ... and I feel so well—so free!"
"Well of course ... but it's dull without it."
"Give it up, and the dulness will go! Smoking is no good, you know!"
"No good at all."
"If it's no good, you should not do it. Seeing you smoke, others will do the same ... especially the young folk. They'll say, 'If the old folk smoke, God himself bids us do it!'"
"That's true enough."
"And your son, seeing you smoke, will do it too."
"Of course, my son too...."
"Well then, give it up!"
"I would, only it's so dull without it.... It's chiefly from dulness. When one feels dull, one has a smoke. That's where the mischief lies.... It's dull! At times it's so dull ... so dull ... so dull!" drawled he.
"The best remedy for that is to think of one's soul."
He threw a glance at me, and at once the expression of his face quite changed: instead of his former kindly, humorous, lively and talkative expression, he became attentive and serious.
"'Think of the soul ... of the soul,' you say?" he asked, gazing questioningly into my eyes.
"Yes! When you think of the soul, you give up all foolish things."
His face lit up affectionately.
"You are right, daddy! You say truly. To think of the soul is the great thing. The soul's the chief thing...." He paused. "Thank you, daddy, it is quite true"; and he pointed to his pipe. "What is it?... Good-for-nothing rubbish! The soul's the chief thing!" repeated he. "What you say is true," and his face grew still kindlier and more serious.
I wished to continue the conversation, but a lump rose in my throat (I have grown very weak in the matter of tears), and I could not speak.With a joyful, tender feeling I took leave of him, swallowing my tears, and I went away.
Yes, how can one help being joyful, living amid such people? How can one help expecting from such people all that is most excellent?
I am again staying with my friend, Tchertkóff, in the Moscow Government, and am visiting him now for the same reason that once caused us to meet on the border of the Orlóf Government, and that brought me to the Moscow Government a year ago. The reason is that Tchertkóff is allowed to live anywhere in the whole world, except in Toúla Government. So I travel to different ends of it to see him.
Before eight o'clock I go out for my usual walk. It is a hot day. At first I go along the hard clay road, past the acacia bushes already preparing to crack their pods and shed their seeds; then past the yellowing rye-field, with its still fresh and lovely cornflowers, and come out into a black fallow field, now almost all ploughed up. To the right an old man, in rough peasant-boots, ploughs with asohá[4]and a poor, skinny horse; and I hear an angry old voice shout: "Gee-up!" and, from time to time, "Now, you devil!" and again, "Gee-up, devil!" I want to speak with him; but when I pass his furrow, he is at the other endof the field. I go on. There is another ploughman further on. This one I shall probably meet when he reaches the road. If so, I'll speak to him, if there is a chance. And we do meet just as he reaches the road.
He ploughs with a proper plough, harnessed to a big roan horse, and is a well-built young lad, well clad, and wearing good boots; and he answers my greeting of "God aid you!" pleasantly.
The plough does not cut into the hard, beaten track that crosses the field, and he lifts it over and halts.
"You find the plough better than asohá?"
"Why, certainly ... much easier!"
"Have you had it long?"
"Not long—and it nearly got stolen...."
"But you got it back?"
"Yes! One of our own villagers had it."
"Well, and did you have the law of him?"
"Why, naturally!"
"But why prosecute, if you got the plough back?"
"Why, you see, he's a thief!"
"What then? The man will go to prison, and learn to steal worse!"
He looks at me seriously and attentively, evidently neither agreeing nor contradicting this, to him, new idea.
He has a fresh, healthy, intelligent face, with hair just appearing on his chin and upper lip, and with intelligent grey eyes.
He leaves the plough, evidently wishing to have a rest, and inclined for a talk. I take the plough-handles, and touch the perspiring, well-fed, full-grown mare. She presses her weight into her collar, and I take a few steps. But I do not manage the plough, the share jumps out of the furrow, and I stop the horse.
"No, you can't do it."
"I have only spoilt your furrow."
"That doesn't matter—I'll put it right!"
He backs his horse, to plough the part I have missed, but does not go on ploughing.
"It is hot in the sun.... Let's go and sit under the bushes," says he, pointing to a little wood just across the field.
We go into the shade of the young birches. He sits down on the ground, and I stop in front of him.
"What village are you from?"
"From BotvÃnino."
"Is that far?"
"There it is, shimmering on the hill," says he, pointing.
"Why are you ploughing so far from home?"
"This is not my land: it belongs to a peasant here. I have hired myself out to him."
"Hired yourself out for the whole summer?"
"No—to plough this ground twice, and sow it, all properly."
"Has he much land, then?"
"Yes, he sows about fifteen bushels of seed."
"Does he! And is that horse your own? It's a good horse."
"Yes, it's not a bad mare," he answers, with quiet pride.
The mare really is, in build, size, and condition, such as a peasant rarely possesses.
"I expect you are in service somewhere, and do carting?"
"No, I live at home. I'm my own master!"
"What, so young?"
"Yes! I was left fatherless at seven. My brother works at a Moscow factory. At first my sister helped; she also worked at a factory. But since I was fourteen I've had no help in all my affairs, and have worked and earned," says he, with calm consciousness of his dignity.
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Then, who does your housework?"
"Why, mother!"
"And you have a cow?"
"Two cows."
"Have you, really?... And how old are you?" I ask.
"Eighteen," he replies, with a slight smile, understanding that it interests me to see that so young a fellow has been able to manage so well. This, evidently, pleases him.
"How young you still are!" I say. "And will you have to go as a soldier?"
"Of course ... be conscripted!" says he, with the calm expression with which people speak of old age, death, and in general of things it is useless to argue about, because they are unavoidable.
As always happens now when one speaks to peasants, our talk touches on the land, and, describing his life, he says he has not enough land, and that if he did not do wage-labour, sometimes with and sometimes without his horse, he would not have anything to live on. But he says this with merry, pleased and proud self-satisfaction; and again remarks that he was left alone, master of the house, when he was fourteen, and has earned everything himself.
"And do you drink vódka?"
He evidently does not like to say that he does, and still does not wish to tell a lie.
"I do," he says, softly, shrugging his shoulders.
"And can you read and write?"
"Very well."
"And haven't you read books about strong drink?"
"No, I haven't."
"Well, but wouldn't it be better not to drink at all?"
"Of course. Little good comes of it."
"Then why not give it up?"
He is silent, evidently understanding, and thinking it over.
"It can be done, you know," say I, "and whata good thing it would be!... The day before yesterday I went to Ãvino. When I reached one of the houses, the master came out to greet me, calling me by name. It turned out that we had met twelve years before.... It was Koúzin—do you know him?"
"Of course I do! Sergéy Timoféevitch, you mean?"
I tell him how we started a Temperance Society twelve years ago with Koúzin, who, though he used to drink, has quite given it up, and now tells me he is very glad to be rid of so nasty a habit; and, one sees, is living well, with his house and everything well managed, and who, had he not given up drinking, would have had none of these things.
"Yes, that is so!"
"Well then, you know, you should do the same. You are such a nice, good lad.... What do you need vódka for, when you say yourself there is no good in it?... You, too, should give it up!... It would be such a good thing!"
He remains silent, and looks at me intently. I prepare to go, and hold out my hand to him.
"Truly, give it up from now! It would be such a good thing!"
With his strong hand he firmly presses mine, evidently regarding my gesture as challenging him to promise.
"Very well then ... it can be done!" says he,quite unexpectedly, and in a joyous and resolute tone.
"Do you really promise?" say I, surprised.
"Well, of course! I promise," he says, nodding his head and smiling slightly.
The quiet tone of his voice, and his serious, attentive face, show that he is not joking, but that he is really making a promise he means to keep.
Old age or illness, or both together, has made me very ready to cry when I am touched with joy. The simple words of that kindly, firm, strong man, so evidently ready for all that is good, and standing so alone, touch me so that sobs rise to my throat, and I step aside, unable to utter a word.
After going a few steps, I regain control of myself, and turn to him and say (I have already asked his name):
"Mind, Alexander! ... the proverb says, 'Be slow to promise, but having promised, keep it!'"
"Yes, that's so. It will be safe."
I have seldom experienced a more joyful feeling than I had when I left him.
I have omitted to say that during our talk I had offered to give him some leaflets on drink and some booklets. [A man in a neighbouring village posted up one of those same leaflets on the wall outside his house lately, but it was pulled down and destroyed by the policeman.] Hethanked me, and said he would come and fetch them in the dinner-hour.
He did not come in the dinner-hour, and I, sinner that I am, suspected that our whole conversation was not so important to him as it seemed to me, and that he did not want the books, and that, in general, I had attributed to him what was not in him. But he came in the evening, all perspiring from his work and from the walk. After finishing his work, he had ridden home, put up the plough, attended to his horse, and had now come a quarter of a mile to fetch the books.
I was sitting, with some visitors, on a splendid veranda, looking out on to flower-beds with ornamental vases on flower-set mounds—in short, in luxurious surroundings such as one is always ashamed of when one enters into human relations with working people.
I went out to him, and at once asked, "Have you not changed your mind? Will you really keep your promise?"
And again, with the same kindly smile, he replied, "Of course!... I have already told mother. She's glad, and thanks you."
I saw a bit of paper behind his ear.
"You smoke?"
"I do," he said, evidently expecting that I should begin persuading him to leave that off too. But I did not try to.
He remained silent; and then, by some strange connection of thoughts (I think he saw theinterest I felt in his life, and wished to tell me of the important event awaiting him in the autumn) he said:
"But I did not tell you.... I am already betrothed...."
And he smiled, looking questioningly into my eyes. "It's to be in the autumn!"
"Really! That's a good thing! Where is she from?"
He told me.
"Has she a dowry?"
"No; what dowry should she have? But she's a good girl."
The idea came to me to put to him the question which always interests me when I come in contact with good young people of our day.
"Tell me," said I, "and forgive my asking—but please tell the truth: either do not answer at all, or tell the whole truth...."
He looked at me quietly and attentively.
"Why should I not tell you?"
"Have you ever sinned with a woman?"
Without a moment's hesitation, he replied simply:
"God preserve me! There's been nothing of the sort!"
"That's good, very good!" said I. "I am glad for you."
There was nothing more to say just then.
"Well then, I will fetch you the books, and God's help be with you!"
And we took leave of one another.
Yes, what a splendid, fertile soil on which to sow, and what a dreadful sin it is to cast upon it the seeds of falsehood, violence, drunkenness and profligacy!
OPEN ROAD PRESS, 3 AMEN CORNER, LONDON, E. C.