Family Happiness and Other Stories

by Leo Tolstoy

Nikita talked to them all, excused himself to the fowls and assured them that he would not disturb them again, rebuked the sheep for being frightened without knowing why, and kept soothing the dog, while he tied up the horse.

  “Now that will be all right,” he said, knocking the snow off his clothes. “Just hear how he barks!” he added, turning to the dog. “Be quiet, stupid! Be quiet. You are only troubling yourself for nothing. We’re not thieves, we’re friends. . . .”

  “And these are, it’s said, the three domestic counsellors,” remarked the lad, and with his strong arms he pushed under the pent-roof the sledge that had remained outside.

  “Why counsellors?” asked Nikita.

  “That’s what is printed in Paulson. A thief creeps to a house—the dog barks, that means ‘Be on your guard!’ The cock crows, that means, ‘Get up!’ The cat licks herself—that means, ‘A welcome guest is coming. Get ready to receive him!’ ” said the lad with a smile.

  Petrushka could read and write and knew Paulson’s primer, his only book, almost by heart, and he was fond of quoting sayings from it that he thought suited the occasion, especially when he had had something to drink, as today.

  “That’s so,” said Nikita.

  “You must be chilled through and through,” said Petrushka.

  “Yes, I am rather,” said Nikita, and they went across the yard and the passage into the house.

  IV

  The household to which Vasili Andreyevich had come was one of the richest in the village. The family had five allotments, besides renting other land. They had six horses, three cows, two calves, and some twenty sheep. There were twenty-two members belonging to the homestead: four married sons, six grandchildren (one of whom, Petrushka, was married), two great-grandchildren, three orphans, and four daughters-in-law with their babies. It was one of the few homesteads that remained still undivided, but even here the dull internal work of disintegration which would inevitably lead to separation had already begun, starting as usual among the women. Two sons were living in Moscow as water-carriers, and one was in the army. At home now were the old man and his wife, their second son who managed the homestead, the eldest who had come from Moscow for the holiday, and all the women and children. Besides these members of the family there was a visitor, a neighbor who was godfather to one of the children.

  Over the table in the room hung a lamp with a shade, which brightly lit up the tea things, a bottle of vodka, and some refreshments, besides illuminating the brick walls, which in the far corner were hung with icons on both sides of which were pictures. At the head of the table sat Vasili Andreyevich in a black sheepskin coat, sucking his frozen mustache and observing the room and the people around him with his prominent hawklike eyes. With him sat the old, bald, white-bearded master of the house in a white homespun shirt, and next him the son home from Moscow for the holiday—a man with a sturdy back and powerful shoulders and clad in a thin print shirt—then the second son, also broad-shouldered, who acted as head of the house, and then a lean red-haired peasant—the neighbor.

  Having had a drink of vodka and something to eat, they were about to take tea, and the samovar standing on the floor beside the brick oven was already humming. The children could be seen in the top bunks and on the top of the oven. A woman sat on a lower bunk with a cradle beside her. The old housewife, her face covered with wrinkles which wrinkled even her lips, was waiting on Vasili Andreyevich.

  As Nikita entered the house she was offering her guest a small tumbler of thick glass which she had just filled with vodka.

  “Don’t refuse, Vasili Andreyevich, you mustn’t! Wish us a merry feast. Drink it, dear!” she said.

  The sight and smell of vodka, especially now when he was chilled through and tired out, much disturbed Nikita’s mind. He frowned, and having shaken the snow off his cap and coat, stopped in front of the icons as if not seeing anyone, crossed himself three times, and bowed to the icons. Then, turning to the old master of the house and bowing first to him, then to all those at table, then to the women who stood by the oven, and muttering: “A merry holiday!” he began taking off his outer things without looking at the table.

  “Why, you’re all covered with hoarfrost, old fellow!” said the eldest brother, looking at Nikita’s snow-covered face, eyes, and beard.

  Nikita took off his coat, shook it again, hung it up beside the oven, and came up to the table. He too was offered vodka. He went through a moment of painful hesitation and nearly took up the glass and emptied the clear fragrant liquid down his throat, but he glanced at Vasili Andreyevich, remembered his oath and the boots that he had sold for drink, recalled the cooper, remembered his son for whom he had promised to buy a horse by spring, sighed, and declined it.

  “I don’t drink, thank you kindly,” he said frowning, and sat down on a bench near the second window.

  “How’s that?” asked the eldest brother.

  “I just don’t drink,” replied Nikita without lifting his eyes but looking askance at his scanty beard and mustache and getting the icicles out of them.

  “It’s not good for him,” said Vasili Andreyevich, munching a cracknel after emptying his glass.

  “Well, then, have some tea,” said the kindly old hostess. “You must be chilled through, good soul. Why are you women dawdling so with the samovar?”

  “It is ready,” said one of the young women, and after flicking with her apron the top of the samovar which was now boiling over, she carried it with an effort to the table, raised it, and set it down with a thud.

  Meanwhile Vasili Andreyevich was telling how he had lost his way, how they had come back twice to this same village, and how they had gone astray and had met some drunken peasants. Their hosts were surprised, explained where and why they had missed their way, said who the tipsy people they had met were, and told them how they ought to go.

  “A little child could find the way to Molchanovka from here. All you have to do is to take the right turning from the high road. There’s a bush you can see just there. But you didn’t even get that far!” said the neighbor.

  “You’d better stay the night. The women will make up beds for you,” said the old woman persuasively.

  “You could go on in the morning and it would be pleasanter,” said the old man, confirming what his wife had said.

  “I can’t, friend. Business!” said Vasili Andreyevich. “Lose an hour and you can’t catch it up in a year,” he added, remembering the grove and the dealers who might snatch that deal from him. “We shall get there, shan’t we?” he said, turning to Nikita.

  Nikita did not answer for some time, apparently still intent on thawing out his beard and mustache.

  “If only we don’t go astray again,” he replied gloomily.

  He was gloomy because he passionately longed for some vodka, and the only thing that could assuage that longing was tea and he had not yet been offered any.

  “But we have only to reach the turning and then we shan’t go wrong. The road will be through the forest the whole way,” said Vasili Andreyevich.

  “It’s just as you please, Vasili Andreyevich. If we’re to go, let us go,” said Nikita, taking the glass of tea he was offered.

  “We’ll drink our tea and be off.”

  Nikita said nothing but only shook his head, and carefully pouring some tea into his saucer began warming his hands, the fingers of which were always swollen with hard work, over the steam. Then, biting off a tiny bit of sugar, he bowed to his hosts, said, “Your health!” and drew in the steaming liquid.

  “If somebody would see us as far as the turning,” said Vasili Andreyevich.

  “Well, we can do that,” said the eldest son. “Petrushka will harness and go that far with you.”

  “Well, then, put in the horse, lad, and I shall be thankful to you for it.”

  “Oh, what for, dear man?” said the kindly old woman. “We are heartily glad to do it.”

  “Petrushka, go and put in the mare,” said the eldest brother.

 
“All right,” replied Petrushka with a smile, and promptly snatching his cap down from a nail he ran away to harness.

  While the horse was being harnessed the talk returned to the point at which it had stopped when Vasili Andreyevich drove up to the window. The old man had been complaining to his neighbor, the village elder, about his third son who had not sent him anything for the holiday though he had sent a French shawl to his wife.

  “The young people are getting out of hand,” said the old man.

  “And how they do!” said the neighbor. “There’s no managing them! They know too much. There’s Demochkin now, who broke his father’s arm. It’s all from being too clever, it seems.”

  Nikita listened, watched their faces, and evidently would have liked to share in the conversation, but he was too busy drinking his tea and only nodded his head approvingly. He emptied one tumbler after another and grew warmer and warmer and more and more comfortable. The talk continued on the same subject for a long time—the harmfulness of a household dividing up—and it was clearly not an abstract discussion but concerned the question of a separation in that house; a separation demanded by the second son who sat there morosely silent.

  It was evidently a sore subject and absorbed them all, but out of propriety they did not discuss their private affairs before strangers. At last, however, the old man could not restrain himself, and with tears in his eyes declared that he would not consent to a breakup of the family during his lifetime, that his house was prospering, thank God, but that if they separated they would all have to go begging.

  “Just like the Matveevs,” said the neighbour. “They used to have a proper house, but now they’ve split up none of them has anything.”

  “And that is what you want to happen to us,” said the old man, turning to his son.

  The son made no reply and there was an awkward pause. The silence was broken by Petrushka, who having harnessed the horse had returned to the hut a few minutes before this and had been listening all the time with a smile.

  “There’s a fable about that in Paulson,” he said. “A father gave his sons a broom to break. At first they could not break it, but when they took it twig by twig they broke it easily. And it’s the same here,” and he gave a broad smile. “I’m ready!” he added.

  “If you’re ready, let’s go,” said Vasili Andreyevich. “And as to separating, don’t you allow it, Grandfather. You got everything together and you’re the master. Go to the justice of the peace. He’ll say how things should be done.”

  “He carries on so, carries on so,” the old man continued in a whining tone. “There’s no doing anything with him. It’s as if the devil possessed him.”

  Nikita having meanwhile finished his fifth tumbler of tea laid it on its side instead of turning it upside down, hoping to be offered a sixth glass. But there was no more water in the samovar, so the hostess did not fill it up for him. Besides, Vasili Andreyevich was putting his things on, so there was nothing for it but for Nikita to get up too, put back into the sugar-basin the lump of sugar he had nibbled all round, wipe his perspiring face with the skirt of his sheepskin, and go to put on his overcoat.

  Having put it on he sighed deeply, thanked his hosts, said good-bye, and went out of the warm bright room into the cold dark passage, through which the wind was howling and where snow was blowing through the cracks of the shaking door, and from there into the yard.

  Petrushka stood in his sheepskin in the middle of the yard by his horse, repeating some lines from Paulson’s primer. He said with a smile:

  “Storms with mist the sky conceal,

  Snowy circles wheeling wild.

  Now like savage beast ’twill howl,

  And now ’tis wailing like a child.”

  Nikita nodded approvingly as he arranged the reins.

  The old man, seeing Vasili Andreyevich off, brought a lantern into the passage to show him a light, but it was blown out at once. And even in the yard it was evident that the snowstorm had become more violent.

  “Well, this is weather!” thought Vasili Andreyevich. “Perhaps we may not get there after all. But there is nothing to be done. Business! Besides, we have got ready, our host’s horse has been harnessed, and we’ll get there with God’s help!”

  Their aged host also thought they ought not to go, but he had already tried to persuade them to stay and had not been listened to.

  “It’s no use asking them again. Maybe my age makes me timid. They’ll get there all right, and at least we shall get to bed in good time and without any fuss,” he thought.

  Petrushka did not think of danger. He knew the road and the whole district so well, and the lines about “snowy circles wheeling wild” described what was happening outside so aptly that it cheered him up. Nikita did not wish to go at all, but he had been accustomed not to have his own way and to serve others for so long that there was no one to hinder the departing travellers.

  V

  Vasili Andreyevich went over to his sledge, found it with difficulty in the darkness, climbed in and took the reins.

  “Go on in front!” he cried.

  Petrushka kneeling in his low sledge started his horse. Mukhorty, who had been neighing for some time past, now scenting a mare ahead of him started after her, and they drove out into the street. They drove again through the outskirts of the village and along the same road, past the yard where the frozen linen had hung (which, however, was no longer to be seen), past the same barn, which was now snowed up almost to the roof and from which the snow was still endlessly pouring past the same dismally moaning, whistling, and swaying willows, and again entered into the sea of blustering snow raging from above and below. The wind was so strong that when it blew from the side and the travellers steered against it, it tilted the sledges and turned the horses to one side. Petrushka drove his good mare in front at a brisk trot and kept shouting lustily. Mukhorty pressed after her.

  After travelling so for about ten minutes, Petrushka turned round and shouted something. Neither Vasili Andreyevich nor Nikita could hear anything because of the wind, but they guessed that they had arrived at the turning. In fact Petrushka had turned to the right, and now the wind that had blown from the side blew straight in their faces, and through the snow they saw something dark on their right. It was the bush at the turning.

  “Well now, God speed you!”

  “Thank you, Petrushka!”

  “Storms with mist the sky conceal!” shouted Petrushka as he disappeared.

  “There’s a poet for you!” muttered Vasili Andreyevich, pulling at the reins.

  “Yes, a fine lad—a true peasant,” said Nikita.

  They drove on.

  Nikita, wrapping his coat closely about him and pressing his head down so close to his shoulders that his short beard covered his throat, sat silently, trying not to lose the warmth he had obtained while drinking tea in the house. Before him he saw the straight lines of the shafts which constantly deceived him into thinking they were on a well-travelled road, and the horse’s swaying crupper with his knotted tail blown to one side, and farther ahead the high shaft-bow and the swaying head and neck of the horse with its waving mane. Now and then he caught sight of a way sign, so that he knew they were still on a road and that there was nothing for him to be concerned about.

  Vasili Andreyevich drove on, leaving it to the horse to keep to the road. But Mukhorty, though he had had a breathing space in the village, ran reluctantly, and seemed now and then to get off the road, so that Vasili Andreyevich had repeatedly to correct him.

  “Here’s a stake to the right, and another, and here’s a third,” Vasili Andreyevich counted, “and here in front is the forest,” thought he, as he looked at something dark in front of him. But what had seemed to him a forest was only a bush. They passed the bush and drove on for another hundred yards but there was no fourth way mark nor any forest.

  “We must reach the forest soon,” thought Vasili Andreyevich, and animated by the vodka and the tea he did not stop but shook
the reins, and the good obedient horse responded, now ambling, now slowly trotting in the direction in which he was sent, though he knew that he was not going the right way. Ten minutes went by, but there was still no forest.

  “There now, we must be astray again,” said Vasili Andreyevich, pulling up.

  Nikita silently got out of the sledge and holding his coat, which the wind now wrapped closely about him and now almost tore off, started to feel about in the snow, going first to one side and then to the other. Three or four times he was completely lost to sight. At last he returned and took the reins from Vasili Andreyevich’s hand.

  “We must go to the right,” he said sternly and peremptorily, as he turned the horse.

  “Well, if it’s to the right, go to the right,” said Vasili Andreyevich, yielding up the reins to Nikita and thrusting his freezing hands into his sleeves.

  Nikita did not reply.

  “Now then, friend, stir yourself!” he shouted to the horse, but in spite of the shake of the reins Mukhorty moved only at a walk.

  The snow in places was up to his knees, and the sledge moved by fits and starts with his every movement.

  Nikita took the whip that hung over the front of the sledge and struck him once. The good horse, unused to the whip, sprang forward and moved at a trot, but immediately fell back into an amble and then to a walk. So they went on for five minutes. It was dark and the snow whirled from above and rose from below, so that sometimes the shaft-bow could not be seen. At times the sledge seemed to stand still and the field to run backwards. Suddenly the horse stopped abruptly, evidently aware of something close in front of him. Nikita again sprang lightly out, throwing down the reins, and went ahead to see what had brought him to a standstill, but hardly had he made a step in front of the horse before his feet slipped and he went rolling down an incline.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he said to himself as he fell, and he tried to stop his fall but could not, and only stopped when his feet plunged into a thick layer of snow that had drifted to the bottom of the hollow.