by Leo Tolstoy
ANISYA. And she—this Marina—came dangling after him here! Mother, would you believe, when they said he was going to marry, it was as if a knife had gone right through my heart. I thought he cared for her.
MATRYONA. Oh, my jewel! Why, you don’t think him such a fool, that he should go and care for a homeless baggage like that? Nikita is a sensible fellow, you see. He knows whom to love. So don’t you go and fret, my jewel. We’ll not take him away, and we won’t marry him. No, we’ll let him stay on, if you’ll only oblige us with a little money.
ANISYA. All I know is, that I could not live if Nikita went away.
MATRYONA. Naturally, when one’s young it’s no easy matter! You, a wench in full bloom, to be living with the dregs of a man like that husband of yours.
ANISYA. Mother Matryona, would you believe it? I’m that sick of him, that sick of this long-nosed cur of mine, I can hardly bear to look at him.
MATRYONA. Yes, I see, it’s one of them cases. Just look here, [looks round and whispers] I’ve been to see that old man, you know—he’s given me simples of two kinds. This, you see, is a sleeping draught. “Just give him one of these powders,” he says, “and he’ll sleep so sound you might jump on him!” And this here, “This is that kind of simple,” he says, “that if you give one some of it to drink it has no smell whatever, but its strength is very great. There are seven doses here, a pinch at a time. Give him seven pinches,” he says, “and she won’t have far to look for freedom,” he says.
ANISYA. O-o-oh! What’s that?
MATRYONA. “No sign whatever,” he says. He’s taken a rouble for it. “Can’t sell it for less,” he says. Because it’s no easy matter to get ’em, you know. I paid him, dearie, out of my own money. If she takes them, thinks I, it’s all right; if she don’t, I can let old Michael’s daughter have them.
ANISYA. O-o-oh! But mayn’t some evil come of them? I’m afraid!
MATRYONA. What evil, my jewel? If your old man was hale and hearty, ’twould be a different matter, but he’s neither alive nor dead as it is. He’s not for this world. Such things often happen.
ANISYA. O-o-oh, my poor head! I’m afeared, Mother Matryona, lest some evil come of them. No. That won’t do.
MATRYONA. Just as you like. I might even return them to him.
ANISYA. And are they to be used in the same way as the others? Mixed in water?
MATRYONA. Better in tea, he says. “You can’t notice anything,” he says, “no smell nor nothing.” He’s a cute old fellow too.
ANISYA [taking the powder] O-oh, my poor head! Could I have ever thought of such a thing if my life were not a very hell?
MATRYONA. You’ll not forget that rouble? I promised to take it to the old man. He’s had some trouble, too.
ANISYA. Of course! [Goes to her box and hides the powders].
MATRYONA. And now, my jewel, keep it as close as you can, so that no one should find it out. Heaven defend that it should happen, but if any one notices it, tell ’em it’s for the black-beetles. [Takes the rouble] It’s also used for beetles. [Stops short].
Enter Akim, who crosses himself in front of the icon, and then Peter, who sits down.
PETER. Well then, how’s it to be, Daddy Akim?
AKIM. As it’s best, Peter Ignatitch, as it’s best . . . I mean—as it’s best. ’Cos why? I’m afeard of what d’you call ’ems, some tomfoolery, you know. I’d like to, what d’you call it . . . to start, you know, start the lad honest, I mean. But supposing you’d rather, what d’you call it, we might, I mean, what’s name? As it’s best . . .
PETER. All right. All right. Sit down and let’s talk it over. [Akim sits down] Well then, what’s it all about? You want him to marry?
MATRYONA. As to marrying, he might bide a while, Peter Ignatitch. You know our poverty, Peter Ignatitch. What’s he to marry on? We’ve hardly enough to eat ourselves. How can he marry then? . . .
PETER. You must consider what will be best.
MATRYONA. Where’s the hurry for him to get married? Marriage is not that sort of thing, it’s not like ripe raspberries that drop off if not picked in time.
PETER. If he were to get married, ’twould be a good thing in a way.
AKIM. We’d like to . . . what d’you call it? ’Cos why, you see. I’ve what d’you call it . . . a job. I mean, I’ve found a paying job in town, you know.
MATRYONA. And a fine job too—cleaning out cesspools. The other day when he came home, I could do nothing but spew and spew. Faugh!
AKIM. It’s true, at first it does seem what d’you call it . . . knocks one clean over, you know,—the smell, I mean. But one gets used to it, and then it’s nothing, no worse than malt grain, and then it’s, what d’you call it, . . . payin’, payin’, I mean. And as to the smell being, what d’you call it, it’s not for the likes of us to complain. And one changes one’s clothes. So we’d like to take what’s name . . . Nikita I mean, home. Let him manage things at home while I, what d’you call it,—earn something in town.
PETER. You want to keep your son at home? Yes, that would be well: but how about the money he has had in advance?
AKIM. That’s it, that’s it! It’s just as you say, Ignatitch, it’s just what d’you call it. ’Cos why? If you go into service, it’s as good as if you had sold yourself, they say. That will be all right. I mean he may stay and serve his time, only he must, what d’you call it, get married. I mean—so: you let him off for a little while, that he may, what d’you call it?
PETER. Yes, we could manage that.
MATRYONA. Ah, but it’s not yet settled between ourselves, Peter Ignatitch. I’ll speak to you as I would before God, and you may judge between my old man and me. He goes on harping on that marriage. But just ask—whom it is he wants him to marry. If it were a girl of the right sort now—I am not my child’s enemy, but the wench is not honest.
AKIM. No, that’s wrong! Wrong, I say. ’Cos why? She, that same girl—it’s my son as has offended, offended the girl I mean.
PETER. How offended?
AKIM. That’s how. She’s what d’you call it, with him, with my son, Nikita. With Nikita, what d’you call it, I mean.
MATRYONA. You wait a bit, my tongue runs smoother—let me tell it. You know, this lad of ours lived at the railway before he came to you. There was a girl there as kept dangling after him. A girl of no account, you know, her name’s Marina. She used to cook for the men. So now this same girl accuses our son, Nikita, that he, so to say, deceived her.
PETER. Well, there’s nothing good in that.
MATRYONA. But she’s no honest girl herself; she runs after the fellows like a common slut.
AKIM. There you are again, old woman, and it’s not at all what d’you call it, it’s all not what d’you call it, I mean . . .
MATRYONA. There now, that’s all the sense one gets from my old owl—“what d’you call it, what d’you call it,” and he doesn’t know himself what he means. Peter Ignatitch, don’t listen to me, but go yourself and ask any one you like about the girl, everybody will say the same. She’s just a homeless good-for-nothing.
PETER. You know, Daddy Akim, if that’s how things are, there’s no reason for him to marry her. A daughter-in-law’s not like a shoe, you can’t kick her off.
AKIM [excitedly] It’s false, old woman, it’s what d’you call it, false; I mean, about the girl; false! ’Cos why? The lass is a good lass, a very good lass, you know. I’m sorry, sorry for the lassie, I mean.
MATRYONA. It’s an old saying: “For the wide world old Miriam grieves, and at home without bread her children she leaves.” He’s sorry for the girl, but not sorry for his own son! Sling her round your neck and carry her about with you! That’s enough of such empty cackle!
AKIM. No, it’s not empty.
MATRYONA. There, don’t interrupt, let me have my say.
AKIM [interrupts] No, not empty! I mean, you twist things your own way, about the lass or about yourself. Twist them, I mean, to make it better for yourself; but God, what d’y
ou call it, turns them His way. That’s how it is.
MATRYONA. Eh! One only wears out one’s tongue with you.
AKIM. The lass is hard-working and spruce, and keeps everything round herself . . . what d’you call it. And in our poverty, you know, it’s a pair of hands, I mean; and the wedding needn’t cost much. But the chief thing’s the offence, the offence to the lass, and she’s a what d’you call it, an orphan, you know; that’s what she is, and there’s the offence.
MATRYONA. Eh! they’ll all tell you a tale of that sort . . .
ANISYA. Daddy Akim, you’d better listen to us women; we can tell you a thing or two.
AKIM. And God, how about God? Isn’t she a human being, the lass? A what d’you call it,—also a human being I mean, before God. And how do you look at it?
MATRYONA. Eh! . . . started off again? . . .
PETER. Wait a bit, Daddy Akim. One can’t believe all these girls say, either. The lad’s alive, and not far away; send for him, and find out straight from him if it’s true. He won’t wish to lose his soul. Go and call the fellow, [Anisya rises] and tell him his father wants him. [Exit Anisya].
MATRYONA. That’s right, dear friend; you’ve cleared the way clean, as with water. Yes, let the lad speak for himself. Nowadays, you know, they’ll not let you force a son to marry; one must first of all ask the lad. He’ll never consent to marry her and disgrace himself, not for all the world. To my thinking, it’s best he should go on living with you and serving you as his master. And we need not take him home for the summer either; we can hire a help. If you would only give us ten roubles now, we’ll let him stay on.
PETER. All in good time. First let us settle one thing before we start another,
AKIM. You see, Peter Ignatitch, I speak. ’Cos why? you know how it happens. We try to fix things up as seems best for ourselves, you know; and as to God, we what d’you call it, we forget Him. We think it’s best so, turn it our own way, and lo! we’ve got into a fix, you know. We think it will be best, I mean; and lo! it turns out much worse—without God, I mean.
PETER. Of course one must not forget God.
AKIM. It turns out worse! But when it’s the right way—God’s way—it what d’you call it, it gives one joy; seems pleasant, I mean. So I reckon, you see, get him, the lad, I mean, get him to marry her, to keep him from sin, I mean, and let him what d’you call it at home, as it’s lawful, I mean, while I go and get the job in town. The work is of the right sort—it’s payin’, I mean. And in God’s sight it’s what d’you call it—it’s best, I mean. Ain’t she an orphan? Here, for example, a year ago some fellows went and took timber from the steward,—thought they’d do the steward, you know. Yes, they did the steward, but they couldn’t what d’you call it—do God, I mean. Well, and so . . .
Enter Nikita and Nan.
NIKITA. You called me? [Sits down and takes out his tobacco-pouch].
PETER [in a low, reproachful voice] What are you thinking about—have you no manners? Your father is going to speak to you, and you sit down and fool about with tobacco. Come, get up!
Nikita rises, leans carelessly with his elbow on the table, and smiles.
AKIM. It seems there’s a complaint, you know, about you, Nikita—a complaint, I mean, a complaint.
NIKITA. Who’s been complaining?
AKIM. Complaining? It’s a maid, an orphan maid, complaining, I mean. It’s her, you know—a complaint against you, from Marina, I mean.
NIKITA [laughs] Well, that’s a good one. What’s the complaint? And who’s told you—she herself ?
AKIM. It’s I am asking you, and you must now, what d’you call it, give me an answer. Have you got messed up with the lass, I mean—messed up, you know?
NIKITA. I don’t know what you mean. What’s up?
AKIM. Foolin’, I mean, what d’you call it? foolin’. Have you been foolin’ with her, I mean?
NIKITA. Never mind what’s been! Of course one does have some fun with a cook now and then to while away the time. One plays the concertina and gets her to dance. What of that?
PETER. Don’t shuffle, Nikita, but answer your father straight out.
AKIM [solemnly] You can hide it from men but not from God, Nikita. You, what d’you call it—think, I mean, and don’t tell lies. She’s an orphan; so, you see, any one is free to insult her. An orphan, you see. So you should say what’s rightest.
NIKITA. But what if I have nothing to say? I have told you everything—because there isn’t anything to tell, that’s flat! [Getting excited ] She can go and say anything about me, same as if she was speaking of one as is dead. Why don’t she say anything about Fedka Mikishin? Besides, how’s this, that one mayn’t even have a bit of fun nowadays? And as for her, well, she’s free to say anything she likes.
AKIM. Ah, Nikita, mind! A lie will out. Did anything happen?
NIKITA [aside] How he sticks to it; it’s too bad. [To Akim] I tell you, I know nothing more. There’s been nothing between us. [Angrily] By God! and may I never leave this spot [crosses himself] if I know anything about it. [Silence. Then still more excitedly] Why! have you been thinking of getting me to marry her? What do you mean by it?—it’s a confounded shame. Besides, nowadays you’ve got no such rights as to force a fellow to marry. That’s plain enough. Besides, haven’t I sworn I know nothing about it?
MATRYONA [to her husband ] There now, that’s just like your silly pate, to believe all they tell you. He’s gone and put the lad to shame all for nothing. The best thing is to let him live as he is living, with his master. His master will help us in our present need, and give us ten roubles, and when the time comes . . .
PETER. Well, Daddy Akim, how’s it to be?
AKIM [looks at his son, clicking his tongue disapprovingly] Mind, Nikita, the tears of one that’s been wronged never, what d’you call it—never fall beside the mark but always on, what’s name—the head of the man as did the wrong. So mind, don’t what d’you call it.
NIKITA [sits down] What’s there to mind? mind yourself.
NAN [aside] I must run and tell mother. [Exit].
MATRYONA [to Peter] That’s always the way with this old mumbler of mine, Peter Ignatitch. Once he’s got anything wedged in his pate there’s no knocking it out. We’ve gone and troubled you all for nothing. The lad can go on living as he has been. Keep him; he’s your servant.
PETER. Well, Daddy Akim, what do you say?
AKIM. Why, the lad’s his own master, if only he what d’you call it. . . . I only wish that, what d’you call it, I mean.
MATRYONA. You don’t know yourself what you’re jawing about. The lad himself has no wish to leave. Besides, what do we want with him at home? We can manage without him.
PETER. Only one thing, Daddy Akim—if you are thinking of taking him back in summer, I don’t want him here for the winter. If he is to stay at all, it must be for the whole year.
MATRYONA. And it’s for a year he’ll bind himself. If we want help when the stress of work comes, we can hire help, and the lad shall remain with you. Only give us ten roubles now. . . .
PETER. Well then, is it to be for another year?
AKIM [sighing] Yes, it seems, it what d’you call it . . . if it’s so, I mean, it seems that it must be what d’you call it.
MATRYONA. For a year, counting from St. Dimitry’s day. We know you’ll pay him fair wages. But give us ten roubles now. Help us out of our difficulties. [Gets up and bows to Peter].
Enter Nan and Anisya. The latter sits down at one side.
PETER. Well, if that’s settled we might step across to the inn and have a drink. Come, Daddy Akim, what do you say to a glass of vodka?
AKIM. No, I never drink that sort of thing.
PETER. Well, you’ll have some tea?
AKIM. Ah, tea! yes, I do sin that way. Yes, tea’s the thing.
PETER. And the women will also have some tea. Come. And you, Nikita, go and drive the sheep in and clear away the straw.
NIKITA. All right. [Exeunt all but Nikita. Niki
ta lights a cigarette. It grows darker] Just see how they bother one. Want a fellow to tell ’em how he larks about with the wenches! It would take long to tell ’em all those stories—“Marry her,” he says. Marry them all! One would have a good lot of wives! And what need have I to marry? Am as good as married now! There’s many a chap as envies me. Yet how strange it felt when I crossed myself before the icon. It was just as if some one shoved me. The whole web fell to pieces at once. They say it’s frightening to swear what’s not true. That’s all humbug. It’s all talk, that is. It’s plain enough.
AKOULINA [enters with a rope, which she puts down. She takes off her outdoor things and goes into closet] You might at least have got a light.
NIKITA. What, to look at you? I can see you well enough without.
AKOULINA. Oh, bother you!
Nan enters and whispers to Nikita.
NAN. Nikita, there’s a person wants you. S’elp me!
NIKITA. What person?
NAN. Marina from the railway; she’s out there, round the corner.
NIKITA. Nonsense!
NAN. May I die!
NIKITA. What does she want?
NAN. She wants you to come out. She says, “I only want to say a word to Nikita.” I began asking, but she won’t tell, but only says, “Is it true he’s leaving you?” And I say, “No, only his father wanted to take him away and get him to marry, but he won’t, and is going to stay with us another year.” And she says, “For goodness’ sake send him out to me. I must see him,” she says, “I must say a word to him somehow.” She’s been waiting a long time. Why don’t you go?
NIKITA. Bother her! What should I go for?
NAN. She says, “If he don’t come, I’ll go into the hut to him. May I die,” she said, “I’ll come in.”
NIKITA. Not likely. She’ll wait a bit and then go away.
NAN. “Or is it,” she says, “that they want him to marry Akoulina?”
Re-enter Akoulina, passing near Nikita to take her distaff.
