The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood] (20 page)

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were already sprouting with bright green new growths; sometimes a very silent, light little bird of that sort perched all alone on a spear of grass in the field. In the vegetable gardens behind Durnovka, the last potatoes were being dug among the sheaves. And at times, as evening drew on, some one of the peasants would stand there for a long space, absorbed in thought and gazing at the fields, as he bore on his back a plaited basket filled with ears of grain. Darkness began to fall early, and at the manor-house they said: "How late the train passes by nowadays!" although there had been no change in the schedule of the trains. Kuzma sat near the window and read newspapers all day long; he had written down his spring trip to Kazakovo and his conversations with Akim; he had jotted down remarks in an old account book —all he had seen and heard in the village. What occupied his attention most of all was Syery, the Grey Man.

IV

THE village was deserted. Many had gone away to work on the clover. Trifon had died in mid-August, at Assumption-tide—he had choked himself, as he broke the fast, on a bit of raw ham. At the beginning of September Komar, one of the chief rioters, renowned for his strength, his cleverness, and his daring in his dealings with the members

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of the gentry class, had entered a distillery near Eletz, fallen into the malt-kiln while in a state of intoxication, and been suffocated. No one had known that he was there, and the door had been bolted. Komar had bent the door in his efforts to escape into the air, but evidently such a death had been written in his fate. Another rebel, Vanka Krasny, had again betaken himself to the Donetz mines. The harness-maker was working about on different estates. Rodka was working on the railway. Deniska had disappeared somewhere. And everybody hypocritically pitied Syery, taking advantage of the opportunity to ridicule both son and father. Yakoff's hands trembled when he began to talk about Syery. And what could they do but tremble? What had that Syery done with the land which Yakoff was ready to "devour in handfuls"? No one in all Durnovka suffered the hundredth part of what Yakoff suffered when rumours became current about rebellions, cases of arson, and the expropriation of land. He merely held his peace —thanks to that subterranean secretiveness which thousands of his forebears had sucked in with their mothers' milk. And, indeed, his breath would have failed him had he tried to speak. Now, when the rumours became more and more desperate, he even became reconciled to his son Vaska, for the sake of the land. His son was a pock-marked, rough, thickset young fellow, all overgrown with a beard at the age of twenty, broad-shouldered, curly-haired, and so strong that even pincers could not have pulled out a single one of his hairs. The son, with that beard,

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his head closely clipped, garbed in a red shirt, resembled a convict, but he dressed his wife in the style of a petty citizen of the towns. He had turned out the image of his father so far as greed was concerned, and had already begun to trade secretly in vodka, coarse tobacco, soap, and kerosene. And Yakoff became reconciled, in the hope of satisfying his land-hunger by the aid of his son—in the hope that he might become rich and begin to lease it. Why did Syery make peace with Deniska, who had repeatedly given him "a healthy drubbing"? What was he hoping for, that he thus altered his course, like the poorest beggar? He had leased his land, he did not live out on jobs. He sat at home cold and hungry and had no thought for anything save how he might procure the wherewithal for a smoke: he could not get through the day without his pipe. He attended all the village assemblies, but always arrived just as they were coming to an end. He never missed a single wedding or baptism or funeral, although he huddled up against the door; and when he extended his hand to the host, who was serving refreshments to his guests, he not infrequently received nothing but rough denunciations. Syery did not care greatly for liquor, but no drinking to seal a bargain ever passed off without his presence: he intruded himself not only into all the community drinking-bouts, but also into all those of his neighbours—after purchases, sales, and exchanges. And his neighbours had grown so accustomed to this that they were not even surprised

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when Syery presented himself. And he really was entertaining to listen to.

"He is valiant, so far as words go," people said of Syery. And it was true: if he were at ease in his mind—and he was at ease when his pouch was filled with tobacco—what an active, serious peasant Syery could appear to be!

"Well, now, 'tis time to marry off my son," he argued in leisurely fashion, as he held his pipe between his teeth and ground the stalks of the coarse tobacco by strong rubbing in his palms. "If he gets married, he'll bring every kopek home, he will become eager for work, he'll take to digging round about the house as a beetle burrows in a dung-heap. And we're not afraid of work, brother! Only give us a chance!"

But Syery almost never had either peace of mind or work. His appearance justified his nickname: he was grey, lean, of medium stature, with sloping shoulders; his short coat was extremely short, tattered, and dirty; his felt boots were broken and their soles were made of rope; as for his cap, it is not worth mentioning at all. As he sat in his cottage, with this cap eternally on his head, his pipe never removed from his mouth, and anxiously meditated upon something or other, he had the appearance of living in imminent vague expectation. But, according to his own statement, he had devilish bad luck. Nothing worth while ever came his way. Well, and he didn't care about playing jackstraws—taking chances. Every one was on the watch to condemn a man, of

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course. " 'Tis well known that the tongue can break bones, though it has none itself," Syery was wont to remark. "Do you first place the job in my hand, and then you can jabber."

He had a fairly large amount of land—three des-yatini. But he was taxed for ten. And Syery no longer put a hand to his land: "You simply have to give it up, that land: dear heart, it ought to be kept in proper order, but where's the order here?" He himself planted no more than half a field, and even the grain in that he sold standing—he "got rid of the unwelcome for the welcome." And again he had a reason ready: "Only wait to see what comes of it —just you try it!"

" Tis always better, for example, to await the upshot of anything," muttered Yakoff with a sidelong glance and a malicious laugh.

But Syery laughed also, sadly and scornfully. "Yes, 'tis better!" he grinned. "It's all well enough for you to chatter nonsense: you've got a husband for your girl, and married off your son. But just look at me and the lot of small children who sit in the corner at my house. They don't belong to other folks, you see. And I keep a goat for them, and I'm fattening a young pig. They have to have food and drink, don't they?"

"Well, but a goat is nothing new, for example, in such cases," retorted Yakoff, getting angry. "The trouble with you is, for example, that you think of nothing but vodka and tobacco, tobacco and vodka." And, in order to avoid a senseless quarrel with his neighbour, he hastened to get away from Syery.

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But Syery calmly and practically shouted after him: "A drunkard will come to his senses, brother, but a fool never will."

After sharing his property with his brother, Syery had wandered about for a long time, living in hired lodgings, and had got jobs in the town and on divers estates. He also went to work on the clover. And, on that job, luck one day came his way. An organized gang of workmen which Syery had joined engaged themselves to get in a large crop at eighty kopeks a pud, 1 but behold, the crop turned out twice as heavy as had been calculated. They winnowed it, and Syery was hired to run the machine. He drove some of the grain out through the waste-spout and bought it. And he grew rich: that same autumn he built a brick cottage. But his calculations had been faulty: it turned out that the cottage must be heated. And where was the money to come from? that was the question. Why, there was not even enough to provide food. So it became necessary to burn the top of the cottage; and there it stood, roofless, for a year, and turned completely black. And the chimney went for the price of a horse-collar. There were no horses as yet, it is true; but, naturally, one must begin to fit oneself out some time or other. And Syery let his arms fall by his side in despair: he decided to sell the cottage, to build a cheaper one of beaten clay. His argument ran as follows: There must be in the cottage—well, at the very least, ten thousand bricks; he could sell them for five or even six rubles a thousand; the sum-

1 Thirty-six pounds.— trans.

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total, of course, would be about one hundred and fifty rubles. But it turned out that there were only three thousand five hundred bricks, and he was forced to accept two rubles and a half for each girder, instead of five rubles. And for a long time a bare mound of rubbish occupied the site of the splendid cottage, solidifying under the rain: there was no money available for clearing it away, and one's hands simply refused to undertake the task. Yakoff harangued on the subject: "Matters ought, for example, to have been more cheaply managed from the start." "But, devil take it," Syery said to himself, "a cheap thing doesn't last long, does it?" And, much troubled in mind, he proceeded to look up a new cottage—and spent a whole year in bargaining for precisely those which were beyond his means. He had reconciled himself to his present domicile merely in the firm expectation of a future cottage which should be strong, spacious, and warm.

"I simply don't intend to live on here!" he snapped one day.

YakofT stared at him attentively and shook his cap. "Exactly so. That means you are expecting your ships to come in?"

"They'll come, all right," replied Syery mysteriously.

"Of, drop your nonsense," said YakofT. "Get yourself a place somewhere—anywhere you can—and keep your teeth, for example, in their proper place."

But the thought of a fine farmstead, good order,

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some suitable, real work, poisoned Syery's entire life. He got bored when working in a place.

"Evidently, working at home isn't as sweet as honey, either," said his neighbours.

"Never you mind, it might be honey-sweet if the house were managed sensibly!"

"Just so. And will you take a place by the month, or until the working season?"

"I'll get one, never fear. Oversight is needed at home, isn't it?"

"But all you do is to sit in the house and smoke your pipe."

"What am I to do, then? can't I even smoke?"

And Syery, suddenly becoming animated, jerked the cold pipe out of his mouth and began his favourite story: how, while still a bachelor, he had lived two full years honestly and nobly at the house of a priest near Eletz. "Yes, and if I were to go there this minute, they would fairly tear me to pieces with joy!" he exclaimed. "I need say only one word: 'I've come, papa, to work for you—will you take me or not?' 'But why do you ask that, light of my life? Don't I know you? Yes, good Lord, live here with us for ever and ever, if you will'!"

"Well, and you might go there, for example—"

"I might go there! Look at them—all those brats in the corner! We know all about that; 'tis another man's grief, I'll not meddle. But a man is being wasted here, in vain."

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SYERY was being wasted, in vain, this year also. He had sat at home all winter long, with care-worn countenance, without light, cold and hungry. During the Great Fast (Lent), he had managed somehow or other to get a place with Rusanoff, near Tula: no one in his own neighbourhood would any longer give him a place. But before the month was out, RusanofT's establishment had become more repulsive to him than a bitter radish.

"Of, young fellow!" the manager once remarked to him. "I can see right through you: you are picking a quarrel so that you can take to your heels. Here, you dog, here's your money in advance, and now be off with you into the bushes!"

"Perhaps some sort of vagabond might take himself off, but not me," retorted Syery sharply.

But the manager did not understand the hint. And it became necessary to adopt more decisive means. One day Syery was set to hauling in some husks for the cattle. He went to the threshing-floor and began to load a cart with straw. The manager came along:

"Didn't I tell you, in good plain Russian, to load up with husks?"

"'Tis not the right time to load them," replied Syery firmly.

"Why not?"

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"Sensible farmers give husks for dinner, not at night."

"And how do you come to be a teacher?"

"I don't like to starve the cattle. That's all there is to my being a teacher."

"But you are hauling straw."

"One must know the proper time for everything."

"Stop loading this very minute."

Syery turned pale. "No, I won't stop my work. I can't stop my work."

"Hand me over that fork, you dog, and get out, lest worse happen."

"I'm no dog, but a baptized Christian man. When I've driven in this load, I'll get out. And I'll go for good."

"Well, brother, that's not likely! You'll go away, and pretty soon you'll be back again—and get locked up in the county jail."

Syery leaped from the cart and hurled his pitchfork into the straw: "I'm going to be locked up, am I?"

"Yes, you are!"

"Hey, young fellow, see that you don't get locked up yourself! As if we didn't know something about you! The master has nothing good to say about you, either, brother—"

The manager's fat cheeks became suffused with dark blood, his eyeballs protruded until they seemed all whites. With the back of his wrist he thrust his peaked cap over on the nape of his neck and, drawing a deep breath, he rapidly ejaculated: "A—ah! So that's the

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way of it! Hasn't a good word to say of me? Tell me, if that's the case—why not?"

"I have nothing to say," mumbled Syery, feeling his legs instantaneously grow cold with fear.