by Leo Tolstoy
IV
The next month a stone chapel was erected over the grave of the deceased. There was still no stone above the grave of the driver, and only light-green grass sprouted through the mound that served as the only marker of the vanished existence of a human being.
“It’ll be a sin, Seryoga,” the cook at the post station said one day, “if you don’t buy Fyodor a stone. You kept on sayin’, ‘It’s winter, it’s winter’—well, why can’t you stick to your word now? I was there, I heard ya promise. He’s already come back to ask for it once—you make him come back again, and he’ll choke ya.”
“I won’t go back on my word,” answered Seryoga. “I’ll buy that stone. I said I will and I will—I’ll buy it for a rouble and a half. I haven’t forgotten. It’s just that I’ve got to go and get it. Next time I’m in town, I’ll buy it for sure.”
“Could at least put a cross up,” an old driver chimed in. “It’s not right, I tell ya—wearin’ them boots.”
“Where am I supposed to get a cross? Can’t hew it out of a log…”
“What’re you talkin’ about? Can’t hew it out of a log, so take an axe and head out to the woods, bright and early, and hew it out there. Chop yourself down an ash tree. That’ll make for a nice cross. Go early, or else you gotta get the watchman drunk. Can’t be payin’ in vodka for every damn thing. The other day I busted my whippletree, so I just went and chopped down a new one—nobody said a word.”
Early the next morning, at first light, Seryoga took an axe and set out for the woods.
All was draped in a cool, dull shroud of still-falling dew, as yet untouched by the sun. The east was slowly growing brighter and its feeble light shone back from the wispy clouds covering the sky. Nothing stirred—not a single blade of grass below, not a single leaf on the uppermost branch of a tree. Only rarely did a beating of wings in a thicket or a rustling on the ground violate the wooded silence. Suddenly a strange sound, alien to nature, echoed and died away at the edge of the forest. But then it sounded again and was repeated steadily, over and over, down at the trunk of one of the motionless trees. One of the crowns began to tremble unusually, its juicy leaves began to whisper something and a redbreast that had been sitting on one of its branches fluttered up twice with a whistle and, twitching its tail, perched on another tree.
The noise of the axe below grew duller and duller, white chips, dripping with sap, flew onto the dewy grass and a faint crack was heard beneath the blows. The tree shuddered all over and leant to the side, then quickly straightened itself, shivering fearfully on its roots. For a moment all was still—but then the tree leant again, the crack sounded once more, and, snapping its boughs and lowering its branches, it fell, laying its crown on the damp earth. The noise of the axe and the footsteps subsided. The redbreast whistled and fluttered higher. The branch it had brushed with its wings swayed for a while and then stilled, as did the others. The trees displayed their splendour even more joyously, extending their motionless branches over the newly cleared space.
The first rays of the sun flashed through a passing cloud, then spread across the earth and the sky. Waves of mist rolled along the hollows, drops of dew sparkled on the foliage and translucent white clouds hurried over the blue expanse. Birds flitted about in the thicket, chirping happily, as if beside themselves; leaves full of sap whispered calmly and joyfully high above, and the branches of the living began to sway slowly, with dignity, over the dead, fallen tree.
Notes
1 The epitrachelion is the narrow, richly embroidered stole worn by Orthodox and Eastern Catholic priests and bishops as a symbol of their priesthood. The object wrapped in the epitrachelion is an icon.
ALYOSHA THE POT
ALYOSHA WAS the younger brother. They nicknamed him Pot because one day his mother sent him to the deacon’s wife with a pot of milk, but he stumbled and fell, and the pot broke. His mother gave him a whipping and the boys teased him, called him “Pot”. The nickname stuck—Alyosha the Pot.
Alyosha was a thin little fellow, lop-eared (his ears were like wings), with a big nose. The boys used to tease him, shouting, “Alyosha’s nose is like a dog on a hill.” There was a school in the village, but Alyosha didn’t take to learning, and besides, he didn’t have much time for it. His older brother had gone off to the big city to work for a merchant, so Alyosha had to help out his father from the time he was knee-high to a grasshopper. By the age of six he was out with his older sister in the pasture, looking after the sheep and the cow. Just a few years later he was watching the horses by day and by night. At twelve he was already ploughing and driving the cart. Didn’t have much strength but he had plenty of skill. And he was always cheerful. When the boys made fun of him he either laughed or kept quiet. When his father bawled him out he kept quiet and listened; and as soon as his father was done he’d just smile and take up the chore that needed doing.
Alyosha was nineteen when his brother was taken for a soldier, and so his father placed him with the merchant instead. They gave Alyosha his brother’s old boots, his father’s hat and coat, and then drove him off to town. Alyosha was as pleased as could be with his new clothes, but the merchant didn’t like what he saw.
“I thought you’d give me a man to take Simeon’s place,” he said, looking Alyosha up and down. “But you bring me this snot-nosed kid. What’s he good for?”
“He can do anything, you’ll see—harness the horses, drive ’em. Yes, he’s a great one for work. He only looks weak as wicker, but he’s all sinew inside.”
“All right, we’ll see.”
“Best of all, he’s meek as a lamb. Lives for work.”
“Eh, what am I gonna do with ya? Leave ’im.”
And so Alyosha came to live with the merchant.
The family was a small one: the merchant’s wife, his old mother, his eldest son—married, brought up simply, now working with his father—and the other son, an educated fellow, who’d finished school and spent some time at the university, but was kicked out and now lived at home. And there was also the merchant’s daughter, still a schoolgirl.
They didn’t take to Alyosha at first. He was too much of a peasant—badly dressed, no manners, acting too familiar. But soon they got used to him. He was even better than his brother. He really was meek—did everything he was told, always willing, always quick, going from one task to another without stopping. Here at the merchant’s, just as at home, all the work fell to Alyosha. The more he did, the more they piled onto his shoulders. The merchant’s wife, the mother, the daughter, the son, the clerk and the cook, they all sent Alyosha running in every direction, forced him to do this, do that. All you ever heard in the house was, “Alyosha, run and fetch it! Get to it, Alyosha! Alyosha, did you forget? Mind you don’t forget!” And Alyosha ran this way and that, forgot nothing, minded everything, got to it all and smiled the whole time.
He soon wore out his brother’s boots; the merchant scolded him for walking about with his toes sticking out and ordered him to buy another pair at the market. Alyosha was happy with the new boots but he still had the same old feet, and he’d grow angry with them when they ached after a long day of running errands. And he was afraid his father would be vexed to learn, when he came to collect his wages, that the merchant had taken out the cost of the boots.
In the winter Alyosha would get up before dawn to chop the firewood, sweep out the yard, feed the cow and the horse, give them water. Then he would heat the stoves, polish the family’s boots, clean their clothes and put out the samovars, making sure they were spick and span. Then the clerk might have him pull out the wares or the cook might have him knead the dough, clean the pots. Then he’d be sent out to deliver a message, or to bring the merchant’s daughter home from school, or to get some oil for the old woman’s lamp. “Where’ve you been, you damned fool?” one or another of them would ask him. “Why trouble yourself? Alyosha will get it. Alyosha! Hey, Alyosha!” And off he’d go.
He ate breakfast as he worked and rarely made it
home in time for dinner. The cook scolded him for being missing at mealtimes, yet she felt sorry for him and would keep something hot for his dinner and supper. There was always more work at holiday time. The holidays made Alyosha especially happy because everyone would give him little tips. He’d never get more than sixty kopecks in all, but this was his money—he could spend it any way he liked. He never laid eyes on his wages. His father would come and take them from the merchant, and only chide Alyosha for wearing out his boots.
When he had saved up two roubles of this tip money, he took the cook’s advice and bought himself a red knitted jacket. Putting it on brought him such joy that he couldn’t close his mouth.
Alyosha was never much of a talker, and when he did speak he was always abrupt and brief. Whenever he was told to do something, or asked whether he could do this or that, he would always say, without the slightest hesitation, “Sure can”—and then he’d set about doing it until it was done.
He knew no prayers. He’d forgotten the ones his mother had taught him. And yet he prayed every morning and every evening—prayed with his hands, crossing himself.
Alyosha lived like this for a year and a half, and then, in the second part of the second year, came the most extraordinary event of his life. This was when he learnt, to his great surprise, of the possibility of a special sort of relationship between people, a relationship not based on material need. This happens when a person isn’t needed just to polish another’s boots, deliver a package or harness a horse. It happens when a person is needed for no reason at all—when another human being simply feels the need to serve and to caress the person. And now he, Alyosha, was that person. He made this discovery thanks to the cook, Ustinia. She was an orphan, still a young girl, and just as hardworking as Alyosha. She began to feel sorry for Alyosha, and for the first time in his life he sensed that he—not his services, but he himself—was needed by another human being. He never paid any mind to his mother feeling sorry for him; that was just natural, like him feeling sorry for himself. But here was Ustinia, a perfect stranger, who felt sorry for him. Here she was, saving him porridge with butter in a pot and watching him eat, her chin propped on her bare arm. And if he looked up at her she’d laugh, and he’d laugh too.
This was all so strange and so new that at first it frightened Alyosha. He felt it might get in the way of his work. Still, he was happy—and whenever he looked down at the trousers Ustinia had darned for him he’d shake his head and smile. He’d often think of her while working or running errands and would say to himself, “Ustyusha…” She used to help him whenever she could, and he would help her. She told him all about her life—how she lost her parents, how her aunt took her in and then sent her to work in town, how the merchant’s son had tried to tempt her and how she had warded him off. Ustinia liked to talk and Alyosha liked to listen. He knew these things happened often enough: peasants coming to town for work and getting married to cooks. Then one time Ustinia asked if his parents meant to marry him off soon. He told her he didn’t know, and that he didn’t want to marry any of the village girls anyway.
“So who’ve you got your eye on?” she asked.
“I’d take you. Would you like that?”
“Look at you, Pot—you sure came right out with it!” she said, slapping him on the back with a rushnik.1 “Well, why not?”
At Shrovetide, Alyosha’s old man came to town to collect his son’s wages. The merchant’s wife had got wind of Alyosha’s plan to marry Ustinia and didn’t like it one bit. Girl will get pregnant before you know it, she thought. Of what use will she be with a child? So she told her husband.
The merchant gave Alyosha’s father the money.
“Well, how’s my boy getting along?” asked the peasant. “Told you, didn’t I? He’s a meek one.”
“Meek he may be, but he’s got a fool notion in his head. Wants to take our cook for a wife. And I’m not about to keep married servants. Won’t have it.”
“That fool! What’s he thinking?” said the father. “Don’t you worry, I’ll straighten him out.”
The peasant came into the kitchen and sat down at the table to wait for his son. Alyosha was out running errands and came back out of breath.
“I thought you had some sense in you! What’s this you’re planning?” the father asked.
“Nothin’…”
“What nothin’? You think you’re gettin’ married! I’ll marry you off when the time’s right, and to a proper girl of my choosing, not some town harlot.”
The father talked and talked. Alyosha stood there and sighed. When the father was done, Alyosha smiled.
“Suppose we’ll just drop it.”
“You’d better.”
After his father left and Alyosha was alone with Ustinia (she’d been listening outside the door), he said to her, “It’s no go. You hear ’im? He’s as cross as two sticks. Won’t let us.”
Ustinia wept silently into her apron. Alyosha clicked his tongue.
“Got to do as we’re told. No choice.”
In the evening, when the merchant’s wife summoned him to close the shutters, she asked, “Have you done as your father told you and dropped all this nonsense?”
“Sure have,” said Alyosha and gave a laugh, then broke into tears.
Alyosha never spoke to Ustinia about marriage again, and went on living as before.
One day the clerk sent him up to clear the snow off the roof. He climbed up, scraped it clean, and was prying frozen clumps from the gutters when he lost his footing and fell, still holding the shovel. He had the bad luck to land not in the snow, but on the iron threshold. Ustinia ran up to him, along with the merchant’s daughter.
“Alyosha, you hurt?”
“Hurt nothin’…”
He wanted to get up, but he couldn’t, so he smiled instead. They carried him off to his little shed. A doctor’s assistant came to look him over and asked where the pain was.
“Everywhere, but it’s nothin’. Only thing is, master won’t be happy. And better send word to Pa.”
Alyosha lay there for two days. On the third day they called in the priest.
“You really dying?” asked Ustinia.
“Sure I am. Can’t live forever. We’ve all got to go sometime,” Alyosha said, speaking quickly, as usual. “Thank you, Ustyusha. Thank you for feeling sorry for me. Good thing they didn’t let us marry. Nothin’ would’ve come of it. Worked out for the best.”
He prayed with the priest, using only his hands and his heart. And what he felt in his heart was this: just as it’s good down here when you obey and do no harm, so will it be up there.
He didn’t speak much after that. He’d only ask for water now and then, and he kept looking surprised.
Something surprised him, and he stretched out and died.
Notes
1 Rushnik: a type of embroidered towel traditionally used in East Slavic religious rituals and ceremonies such as weddings and funerals.
TRANSLATOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I thank Adam Freudenheim, Rory Williamson, India Darsley and the Pushkin Press team for commissioning and editing this translation, and for placing it between such attractive covers. Seán Costello’s careful, sensitive copyediting improved the text immeasurably. Insightful, generous comments from Maria Bloshteyn, Robert Chandler, Anne Marie Croft, Caryl Emerson, Roman Koropeckyj, Stephanie Malak, Irina Mashinski, Donna Orwin, Vadim Shneyder, Irene Yoon and, especially, Oliver Ready clarified my vision at crucial moments. My mother, Anna Glazer, gave me help, advice, and encouragement throughout my journey with Tolstoy. And my deepest thanks are owed to my wife, Jennifer Croft, for her brilliance and infinite patience.
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English translation © 2019 Boris Dralyuk
The Death of Ivan Ilyich was first published as ‘Smert’ Ivana Il’icha’ (Смерть Ивана Ильича) in Sochineniia gr. L. N. Tolstogo, Part XII (Moscow, 1886)
‘Pace-setter: The Story of a Horse’ was first published as ‘Kholstomer. Istoriia loshadi’ (Холстомер. История лошади) in Sochineniia gr. L. N. Tolstogo, Part III (Moscow, 1886)
‘Three Deaths’ was first published as ‘Tri smerti’ (Три смерти) in Biblioteka dlia chteniia, No. 1 (1859)
‘Alyosha the Pot’ was first published as ‘Alesha Gorshok’ (Алёша Горшок) in Posmertnye khudozhestvennye proizvedeniia L. N. Tolstogo, Vol. I, ed. V. G. Chertkov (Moscow, 1911)
This translation first published by Pushkin Press in 2019
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ISBN 13: 978–1–78227–542–8
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