‘What do you take me for, throwing good money into the water!’
‘Oh, my God!’ the old man muttered in terror and amazement. ‘You’re a real troublemaker… Oh, God in heaven…’
He wrung his hands and went away mumbling something under his breath. A few moments later Aksinya sat up and heaved a deep sigh of annoyance. Then she got up, bundled her bedclothes together and went outside.
‘Mother, why did you let me marry into this family!’ Lipa said.
‘People have to get married, my dear daughter. It’s not for us to say.’
And a feeling of inconsolable grief threatened to overwhelm them. At the same time they thought that someone was looking down on them from the very heights of heaven, out of the deep blue sky where the stars were, and that he could see everything that was happening in Ukleyevo and was watching over them. However much evil existed in the world, the night was still calm and beautiful, and there was, and always would be, truth in God’s universe, a truth that was just as calm and beautiful. The whole earth was only waiting to merge with that truth, just as the moonlight blended into the night.
Both of them were soothed by these thoughts and they fell asleep, snuggling up close to each other.
VI
The news of Anisim’s arrest for forging and passing counterfeit money had reached the village a long time ago. Months went by – more than half of the year: the long winter was past, spring arrived and everyone in the house and village was now used to the idea that Anisim was in prison. Whenever they passed the shop or the house at night-time they would be reminded of this. And the sound of the church bells, for some reason, also reminded them that Anisim was in prison awaiting trial.
A deep shadow seemed to be overhanging the yard. The house had grown dirty, the roof was rusty and the green paint on the heavy iron-bound shop door was peeling off and had become discoloured – or, as the deaf brother put it, had gone ‘all scabby’. And old Tsybukin himself seemed to have turned a dark colour. For a long time now he hadn’t trimmed his beard or his hair, which gave him a shaggy look, and no longer did he leap perkily into his carriage or shout, ‘God’ll feed yer!’ to beggars. His strength was failing and everything he did showed it. The villagers were not so scared of him any longer and the local constable sent in a report about what was going on in the shop – although he still received his share of the money. Tsybukin was summoned three times to the town to stand trial for the secret dealing in spirits; but the case was always postponed because witnesses kept failing to turn up, and all this was sheer torture for the old man.
He frequently visited his son, hired lawyers, submitted appeals, and donated banners to churches. He bought the governor of Anisim’s prison a silver glass-holder enamelled with the words: ‘Moderation in all things’, together with a long spoon.
‘There’s no one to help us, no one we can turn to,’ Varvara said. ‘Oh, dear, dear me… We should ask one of those gents to write to those what’s in charge… If only they could let him out before the trial! It’s wicked tormenting a young lad like that!’
Although she was very distressed, Varvara had put on weight, her skin was whiter, and as before she lit the icon-lamps in her room and made sure everything in the house was spotless, serving guests with jam and apple flans. The deaf brother and Aksinya worked in the shop. They had started a new business – the brickyard at Butyokhino – and Aksinya travelled out there nearly every day in a springless carriage. She drove herself and if she happened to pass friends on the way she would crane her neck, like a snake in the young rye, and give them a naïve and enigmatic smile. Meanwhile Lipa spent the whole time playing with her baby, who was born before Lent. It was a little boy, a skinny, pathetic, tiny thing, and it seemed strange that he could cry and could see, that he was a human being and even had a name – Nikifor. As he lay in his cradle, Lipa would walk over to the door, curtsey and say, ‘Hullo, Nikifor Anisimych.’ She would dash over and kiss him, and then go back to the door, curtsey again and repeat, ‘Hullo, Nikifor Anisimych!’ He would kick his little red legs up in the air and his cries mingled with laughter – just like Yelizarov the carpenter.
Finally the day of the trial was fixed and the old man left five days before it was due to start. Later they heard that some peasants from the village had been hauled in as witnesses. An old workman was summoned as well and off he went.
The trial started on a Thursday, but Sunday came and still the old man had not returned, and there was no news at all. Late on the Tuesday afternoon, Varvara was sitting at the open window listening out for the old man. In the next room Lipa was playing with her baby, tossing him up in the air and catching him in her arms.
‘You’re going to be such a big man, oh so big!’ she told him in raptures. ‘You’ll be a farm worker and we’ll go out to work together in the fields. We’ll go out to work!’
‘Well, well,’ Varvara said in a very offended voice. ‘What kind of work do you think you’re going to do, you stupid cow. He’s going to be a merchant like us!…’
Lipa began to sing softly, but soon stopped and told the child again, ‘You’re going to grow up into such a big, big man! You’ll be a farm worker, we’ll go out to work together!’
‘Oh, so it’s all arranged then!’
Lipa stopped in the doorway with Nikifor in her arms and asked, ‘Mama dear, why do I love him so much?’ Then she continued in a trembling voice, and her eyes glistened with tears, ‘Why do I feel so sorry for him? Who is he? What is he, after all? He’s as light as a feather or a crumb, but I love him, just like a real human being. He’s quite helpless, can’t say anything, but I can always tell what he wants from his dear little eyes.’
Varvara listened hard: in the distance she could make out the sound of the evening train drawing into the station. Was the old man on it? She no longer heard or understood what Lipa was saying, nor did she notice how the minutes ticked by: all she did was shake all over – not with fear but intense curiosity. She saw a cartful of peasants quickly rumble past: these were witnesses returning from the station. As the cart went by, the old workman leapt out and came into the yard, where she could hear people welcoming and questioning him.
‘All rights and property taken away,’ he said in a loud voice, ‘and six years’ hard labour in Siberia.’
They saw Aksinya coming out of the shop by the back door. She had just been selling some paraffin and she was holding the bottle in one hand and a funnel in the other. Some silver coins stuck out of her mouth.
‘Where’s Papa?’ she lisped.
‘Still at the station,’ the workman replied. ‘Said’e ’ll be along when it’s a bit darker.’
When the news about Anisim’s sentence to hard labour reached the yard, the cook started wailing in the kitchen, like someone lamenting the dead – she thought that the occasion called for it – ‘Oh, Anisim Grigorych, why have you left us, our very dearest…’
This frightened the dogs and they started barking. Varvara ran over to the window in a fit of despair and screamed out to the cook as hard as she could, ‘Sto-op it, Stepanida, sto-op it! For Christ’s sake, don’t torture us!’
They forgot to put the samovar on and in fact they couldn’t concentrate on anything. Only Lipa had no idea what had happened and she just carried on nursing her baby.
When the old man got back from the station, they did not ask him a thing. He greeted them and then wandered from room to room without saying a word. He didn’t have any supper.
‘We’ve no one to turn to…’ Varvara said when she was alone with the old man. ‘I asked you to go and see if any of them gents could do anything, but you wouldn’t listen. We should have appealed…’
‘But I did try,’ the old man replied, waving his arm. ‘As soon as they sentenced Anisim I went up to the gent what was defending him and he said, “There’s nothing I can do, it’s too late.” Anisim says it’s too late, as well. But the moment I got out of that courtroom I made a deal with a lawyer and gave him a l
ittle something in advance… I’ll wait and see for another week, then I’ll go and have another try. It’s all in the hands of God.’
The old man silently wandered around the house, and then came back and told Varvara, ‘I must be sickening for something. My head’s going round and round, everything’s all jumbled up.’
He shut the door so that Lipa couldn’t hear and continued in a soft voice, ‘There’s trouble with that money. You remember the first week after Easter, just before the wedding, Anisim brought me some new roubles and half roubles? I hid one of the packets but somehow or other the others got mixed up with my own money… Now when Uncle Dmitry Filatych, God rest his soul, was alive, he always went to Moscow or the Crimea to buy goods. He had a wife and once when he was away she started larking around with another man. She had six children. When he’d a drop or two he used to laugh. “Just can’t sort ’em out,” he says, “which ones are mine and which aren’t.” Now, I can’t make out what money’s real and what’s forged. Looks like it’s all forged.’
‘Well, for heaven’s sake now!’
‘I goes and buys my ticket at the station, hands over three roubles and I starts thinking they’re forged. Scared the living daylights out of me. That’s why I’m feeling so bad.’
‘Look, we’re all in the hands of God,’ Varvara murmured, shaking her head. ‘That’s something you should be thinking of, Grigory. Who knows what may happen, you’re not young any more. Once you’re dead and gone, they’ll do your grandson an injury. Oh, I’m so frightened they’ll do something to Nikifor! You might as well say he’s got no father, and his mother’s so young and stupid… You ought to put something by for him – at least some land. Yes, what about Butyokhino? Think about it!’
Varvara kept on trying to persuade him, adding, ‘He’s a pretty boy, it’s such a shame. Now, there’s no point in waiting, just go tomorrow and sign the papers.’
‘Yes, I’d forgotten about my little grandson,’ Tsybukin said. ‘I must go and see him. You say there’s nothing wrong with him? Well then, may he grow up healthy – God willing!’
He opened the door and curled his finger, beckoning Lipa over to him. She went up to him with the baby in her arms.
‘Now Lipa, dear, you only have to tell me if there’s anything you need,’ he said. ‘You can have whatever you like to eat, we won’t grudge you anything. You must keep your strength up.’ He made the sign of the cross over the baby. ‘And look after my grandson. I haven’t got a son any more, just a grandson.’ Tears streamed down his cheeks. He sobbed and left the room. Soon afterwards he went to bed and fell into a deep sleep – after seven sleepless nights.
VII
The old man made a short trip into town. Someone had told Aksinya that he had gone to see a solicitor to make his will and that Butyokhino (where she was running the brickworks) had been left to his grandson Nikifor. She learnt this one morning when the old man and Varvara were sitting by the front door, drinking tea in the shade of the birch tree. Aksinya locked the front and back doors to the shop, collected as many keys as she could find and flung them at the old man’s feet.
‘I’m not working for the likes of you any more,’ she shouted and suddenly burst out sobbing. ‘Seems I’m your charwoman, not your daughter-in-law any more! Everyone’s laughing at me and says, “Just look what a fine worker the Tsybukins have found for themselves!” But you didn’t take me in as a housemaid. I’m not a beggar or a common slut, I have a mother and father.’
Without wiping her tears away, she glared at the old man; her eyes were brimming over with tears, had an evil look and squinted angrily. She shouted so hard her face and neck were red and taut from the effort. ‘I’m not going to slave for you any more, I’ve worn myself to the bone! I’m expected to work all day long in the shop and sneak out for vodka at night, while you go and give land away to a convict’s wife and her little devil. She’s the lady of the house round here and I’m her slave. So give that convict’s wife the lot and may she choke! I’m going home. Find yourself another fool, you damned bastard!’
The old man had never used bad language or punished his children and he just could not imagine one of his own family speaking rudely to him or being disrespectful. And now he was scared out of his wits. He rushed into the house and hid behind a cupboard. Varvara was so petrified she just could not stand up and she waved her arms in the air as though shooing a bee away.
‘Oh, what’s going on?’ she muttered in horror. ‘What’s she shouting like that for? Oh, dear, dear me… The people will hear, please, please be quiet!’
‘You’ve given Butyokhino to a convict’s bird,’ Aksinya went on shouting. ‘Well, you can give her the whole lot, I don’t want anything from you! You can all go to hell! You’re a gang of crooks, all of you. I’ve seen enough now and I’ve had just about enough! You’re just like bandits, you’ve robbed the old and the young, anyone who comes near! Who sold vodka without a licence! And what about the forged coins? You’ve stuffed your money-boxes full of them and now you don’t need me any more!’
By now a crowd had gathered outside the wide-open gates and was staring into the yard.
‘Let them look!’ Aksinya screamed. ‘I’ll disgrace the lot of you. I’ll make you burn with shame! You’ll come grovelling!’
She called out to her deaf husband, ‘Hey, Stepan, let’s go home – and this minute! We’ll go back to my mother and father, I don’t want to live with convicts. Get ready!’
Washing was hanging on the line in the yard. She tore her skirts and blouses off (they were still damp) and threw them into her deaf husband’s arms. Then, in a blind fury, she rushed round all the clothes lines and tore everything down, other people’s washing as well, hurled it on the ground and trampled all over it.
‘Good God, stop her!’ Varvara groaned. ‘Who does she think she is? Let her have Butyokhino, let her have it, for Christ’s sake!’
The people standing by the gates said, ‘What a wo-oman, what a woman! She’s really blown her top. It’s shocking!’
Aksinya dashed into the kitchen, where they were doing laundry. Lipa was working there on her own, and the cook had gone down to the river to rinse some clothes. Clouds of steam rose from the tub and the cauldron by the stove, and the kitchen was dark and stuffy in the thick haze. A pile of dirty clothes lay on the floor and Nikifor was lying on a bench right next to it, so that he would not hurt himself if he fell off. He was kicking his little red legs up. Just as Aksinya came in, Lipa pulled her blouse out of the pile, put it in the tub and reached out for the large ladle of boiling water on the table.
‘Give that to me!’ Aksinya said, looking at her hatefully. Then she pulled the blouse out of the tub. ‘Don’t touch my things! You’re a convict’s wife and it’s time you knew your place and who you really are!’
Lipa was stunned, looked at her and did not seem to understand. But when she suddenly saw how Aksinya was looking at her and the baby, she did understand and she went numb all over.
‘You’ve taken my land, so take that!’
And she grabbed the ladle with the boiling water and poured it over Nikifor. A scream rang out, the like of which had never been heard in Ukleyevo and it was hard to believe it came from such a frail little creature as Lipa. Suddenly all was quiet outside. Without so much as a word, Aksinya went back into the house, with that same naïve smile on her face… All that time the deaf husband had been walking round the yard with an armful of washing and without hurrying or saying a word he started hanging it up to dry again. And not until the cook came back from the river did anyone dare to go and see what had happened in the kitchen.
VIII
Nikifor was taken to the local hospital, where he died towards evening. Lipa did not wait for the others to come and fetch her and she wrapped the body in a blanket and started walking home.
The hospital, which had just been built, with large windows, stood high up on a hill. It was flooded in the light of the setting sun and seemed to be burning inside.
At the bottom of the hill was a small village. Lipa walked on down and sat by a pond before she reached it. A woman had brought her horse there for watering, but it would not drink.
‘What do you want, then?’ she was asking in a soft, bewildered voice. ‘What else?’
A boy in a red shirt was sitting at the water’s edge washing his father’s boots. Apart from them, there wasn’t a soul to be seen, either in the village or on the hillside.
‘Won’t drink, then?’ Lipa said, looking at the horse.
But at that moment the woman and the boy with the boots went away and then the place was completely deserted. The sun lay down to rest under a blanket of purple and gold brocade, and long red and lilac clouds stretching right across the sky were watching over it. From somewhere far off came the mournful, indistinct cry of a bittern, sounding just like a cow locked up in a shed. Every spring this mysterious bird’s song could be heard, but no one knew what it was or where it lived. Up by the hospital, in the bushes by the pond, beyond the village and in the fields all around, nightingales poured forth their song. A cuckoo seemed to be adding up someone’s age, kept losing count and starting again. In the pond, frogs croaked angrily to each other, almost bursting their lungs and one could even make out something sounding like ‘That’s what you are! That’s what you are!’ What a noise! It seemed that all these creatures were singing and crying out loud on purpose, so that no one could sleep on that spring evening, and so that everything – even the angry frogs – should treasure and savour every minute of it. After all, we only live once!
A silver crescent moon shone in the sky and there were innumerable stars. Lipa could not remember how long she had been sitting by the pond, but when she got up and went on her way everyone in the village had already gone to bed and there wasn’t a light to be seen. It was probably another eight miles back to the house, but all her strength had gone and she had no idea how she was going to get back. The moon shed its light first in front of her, then to the right, and that same cuckoo (its voice had grown hoarse by now) was still crying and its teasing laughter seemed to be saying, ‘Oh, look out, you’ll lose your way!’ Lipa hurried along and her shawl fell off and was lost. She looked at the sky and wondered where her child’s soul might be at that moment: was it following her or was it floating high up in the heavens, near the stars, and had forgotten its mother? How lonely it is at night out in the open fields, with all that singing, when you cannot sing yourself, amidst all those never-ending cries of joy when you can feel no joy yourself… when the moon, as lonely as you are, looks down from on high, indifferent to everything, whether it is spring or winter, whether people live or die… when the heart is heavy with grief it is hard to be alone. If only Praskovya, her mother, or Crutchy, or the cook, or any of the peasants were with her now!
The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904 Page 34
