Kuzma was garbed in the same fashion as his brother. He was shorter of stature, with larger bones, more withered, and a trifle broader of shoulder. He had the large thin face with prominent cheek-bones of a shrewd old peasant shopkeeper, grey overhanging eyebrows, and large greenish eyes. His manner of beginning was not simple:
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"First of all, I must expound to you, Tikhon Hitch," he began, as soon as Tikhon Hitch had poured him a cup of tea, "I must expound to you what sort of a man I am, so that you may know"—he chuckled— "with whom you are dealing." 'He had a way of enunciating his words very distinctly, elevating his brows, unfastening and fastening the upper button of his short coat while he talked. So, having buttoned it, he continued: "I, you see, am an anarchist. . . ."
Tikhon Hitch raised his eyebrows.
"Don't be afraid. I don't meddle with politics. But you can't give a man orders how he is to think. It won't harm you in the least. I shall manage the estate faithfully, but I tell you straight from the shoulder that I will not skin the people."
"Anyway, that can't be done at the present time," sighed Tikhon Hitch.
"Well, times are the same as they always were. It is still possible to fleece people. I'll do my managing properly, but my leisure I shall devote to self-development. That is to say, to reading."
"Okh, bear in mind: Too much poking in books is bad for the poke!" said Tikhon Hitch, shaking his head, and making a grimace. "However, that's no affair of ours."
"Well, that's not the way I look at it," retorted Kuzma. "I, brother—how shall 1 put it to you?—I'm a strange Russian type."
"I'm a Russian man myself, bear that in mind," interposed Tikhon Hitch.
"But another sort. I don't mean to say that I'm bet-
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ter than you, but—I'm different. Now here are you, I see, priding yourself on being a Russian, while I, brother, okh! am very far from being a Slavophil! It's not proper to jabber much, but one thing I will say: for God's sake, don't brag of being a Russian! We're an uncivilized people and an extremely unreliable one—neither candle for God nor oven-fork for the devil. But we will discuss this as time goes on."
Tikhon Hitch contracted his brows, drummed on the table with his fingers. "That's right, probably," he said, and slowly filled his glass. "We're a savage lot. A crack-brained race."
"Well, and that's precisely the point. I have, I may say, roamed about the world a good bit. Well, and what then? Absolutely nowhere have I seen more tiresome and lazy types. And those who are not lazy"— here Kuzma shot a sidelong look at his brother—"have no sense at all. They toil and strive and acquire a nest for themselves; but where's the sense in it, after all?"
"What do you mean by that? What's sense?" asked Tikhon Hitch.
"Just what I say. One must use sense in making one's nest. I'll weave me a nest, says the man, and then I'll live as a man should. In this way and in that."
Here Kuzma tapped his breast and his brow with his finger.
Tikhon Hitch poured himself out another glass of liquor. Kuzma, having donned a silver-framed pair of eyeglasses, sipped the boiling-hot amber fluid from
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his saucer. Tikhon Hitch gazed at him with beaming eyes; and after turning something over in his mind, he said: "Evidently, brother, that sort of thing is not for the likes of us. If you live in the country, sup your coarse cabbage-soup and wear wretched bast-shoes. Do as your neighbours do!"
"Bast-shoes!" retorted Kuzma tartly. "We've been wearing them a couple of thousand years, brother—the thrice-accursed things! For two thousand years we've been living with our mouths agape. We're doing the devil's work. And who is to blame? What I have to say about it is this: 'tis high time to get ashamed of casting shame for everything on our neighbours—blaming our neighbours instead of ourselves! The Tatars oppressed us, you see! We're a young nation, you see! Just as if, over there in Europe, all sorts of Mongols didn't oppress folks a lot, too! As if the Germans were any older than we are! Well, anyhow, that's a special subject."
"Correct!" said Tikhon Hitch. "Come on, we'd better get down to business."
Kuzma turned his empty glass upside down on the saucer, lighted a cigarette, and resumed his exposition.
"I don't go to church."
"That signifies that you are a molokan?" x asked Tikhon Hitch, and said to himself: "I'm lost! Evidently, I must get rid of Durnovka!"
"A sort of molokan," grinned Kuzma. "And do you
1 A heretic. Literally, one who drinks milk (moloko) during the Fasts in defiance to the Orthodox Catholic Church.
—TRANS.
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go to church? If it weren't for fear and necessity, one would forget all about it."
"Well, I'm not the first, neither am I the last," retorted Tikhon Hitch, again contracting his brows in a scowl. "We are all sinners. But 'tis stated, you know: One sigh buys forgiveness for everything."
Kuzma shook his head.
"You're saying the usual things!" he remarked, severely. "But if you will only pause and reflect, how can that be so? You've been living on and on pig-fashion all your life, and you utter a sigh—and everything is wiped out without leaving a trace! Is there any sense in that, or not?"
The conversation was becoming painful. "That's correct," Tikhon Hitch said to himself, as he stared at the table with flashing eyes. But, as always, he wanted to dodge thought, and discussion about God and about life; and he said the first thing that came to the tip of his tongue: "I'd be glad enough to go to Paradise, but my sins won't let me."
"There, there, there!" Kuzma caught him up, tapping the table with his finger-nail. "The very thing we love the best, our most pernicious characteristic, is precisely that: words are one thing, deeds are quite another! 'Tis the genuine Russian tune, brother: I live disgustingly, pig-fashion, but nevertheless I am living, and I shall continue to live, pig-fashion! You're a type, brother! A type!—Well, now talk business."
The pealing of the bells had ceased, the canary had quieted down. People had assembled in the eating-
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house, and conversation was increasing at the little tables. A waiter opened a window, and chatter from the bazaar also became audible. Somewhere in a shop a quail was uttering his call, very clearly and melodiously. And while the business talk was in progress Kuzma kept listening to it, and from time to time interposed, "That's clever!" in an undertone. And when all had been said he slapped the table with the palm of his hand and said energetically: "Well, all right, so be it—don't let's discuss it!" and thrusting his hand into the side pocket of his short coat, he drew forth a regular heap of papers and paper scraps, sorted out from among them a small book in a grey-marbled binding, and laid it in front of his brother. "There!" said he. "I yield to your request and to my own weakness. Tis a wretched little book, casual verses, written long ago. But 'tis done, and it cannot be helped. Here, take it and put it out of sight."
And once more Tikhon Hitch, who had already become extremely red in the face from the vodka, was agitated by the consciousness that his brother was an author; that upon that grey-marbled cover was printed: "Poems by K. I. KrasofT." He turned the book about in his hands, and said diffidently: "Suppose you read me something. Hey? Pray do, read me three or four verses."
And, with head bent low and in some confusion, holding the book at a distance and gazing severely at it through his glasses, Kuzma read the sort of thing which the self-taught usually write: imitations of Kolt-zoff and Nikitin, complaints against Fate and misery,
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challenges to impending storm-clouds and bad weather. It is true that he himself was conscious that all this was old and false. But behind the alien, incongruous form lay the truth—that which had been violently and painfully experienced at some time or other. And upon his thin cheek-bones patches of pink made their appearance, and his voice trembled from time to time. Tikhon Hitch's eyes gleamed, too. It was of no importance whether the ver
ses were good or bad—the important point was that they had been composed by his own brother, a poor man, a simple plain fellow who reeked of cheap tobacco and old boots.
"But with us, Kuzma Hitch," he said when Kuzma had finished and, removing his eyeglasses, dropped his eyes, "but with us there is only one song." And he twisted his lips unpleasantly and bitterly: "The only song we know is: 'What's the price of pig's bristles?"
XII
NEVERTHELESS, after establishing his brother at Durnovka he set about singing that song with more gusto than ever. Before placing Durnovka in his brother's hands, he had picked a quarrel with Rodka over some new harness-straps which had been devoured by the dogs, and had discharged him. Rodka smiled insolently by way of reply and calmly strode off to his cottage to collect his belongings. The Bride, also, listened with apparent compose]
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sure to the dismissal. On breaking with Tikhon Hitch she had resumed her habit of maintaining silence and never looking him in the eye. But half an hour later, when he had got everything together, Rodka came, accompanied by her, to ask forgiveness. The Bride remained standing on the threshold, pale, her eyes swollen with weeping, and held her peace; Rodka bowed his head, fumbled with his cap, and also made an effort to weep,—it resulted in a repulsive grimace,— but Tikhon Hitch sat at the table with lowering brows and rattled the balls on his abacus, shaking his head the while. Not one of the three could raise his eyes—especially the Bride, who felt herself the most guilty of them all—and their entreaties were unavailing. Tikhon Hitch showed mercy on one point only: he did not deduct the price of the straps from their wages.
Now he was on a firm foundation. Having got rid of Rodka and transferred his affairs to his brother's charge, he felt alert, at his ease. "My brother is unreliable, a trifling fellow, apparently, but he'll do for the present!" And returning to Vorgol he bustled about unweariedly through the whole month of October. Nastasya Petrovna was ailing all the time—her feet, hands, and face were swollen and yellow—and Tikhon Hitch now began to meditate at times on the possibility of her dying, and bore himself with increasing lenience to her weakness, to her uselessness in all affairs connected with the house and the shop. And, as though in harmony with his mood, magnificent weather prevailed during the whole of October. But
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suddenly it broke up and was followed by storms and torrents of rain; and in Durnovka something utterly unexpected came to pass.
During October Rodka had been working on the railway line, and the Bride had been sitting, without work, at home, enduring the reproaches of her mother and only occasionally earning fifteen or twenty kopeks in the garden of the manor. But her behaviour was peculiar: at home she said never a word, but only wept, and in the garden she was shrilly merry, shouted with laughter, sang songs with Donka the Goat, an extremely stupid and pretty little girl who resembled an Egyptian. The Goat was living with a petty burgher who had leased the garden, while the Bride, who for some reason or other had struck up a friendship with her, made bold eyes at her brother, an impudent youth, and as she ogled him hinted in song that she was wasting away with love for some one. Whether anything occurred between them was not known, but the whole affair ended in a great catastrophe. When the petty burghers were departing for the town just before the Feast of Our Lady of Kazan they arranged an "evening party" in their watchman's hut, invited the Goat and the Bride, played all night on two peasant pipes, fed their guests with crude delicacies, and gave them tea and vodka for beverages. And at dawn, when their cart was already harnessed, they suddenly, with roars of laughter, flung the intoxicated Bride on the ground, bound her arms, lifted her petticoats, tied them in a knot over her head, and began to fasten them securely there with a cord. The
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Goat started to run away, and made a headlong dive in her fright into the tall, wet steppe-grass. When she peeped out from that shelter, after the cart with the petty burghers had rolled briskly away out of the garden, she espied the Bride, naked to the waist, hanging from a tree. The dawn was dreary and overcast; a fine rain was whispering through the garden. The Goat wept in streams, and her teeth chattered as she untied the Bride from the tree, vowing by the memory of her father and mother that lightning might kill her, the Goat, but never should they discover in the village what had taken place in the garden. Nevertheless, not a week had elapsed before rumours concerning the Bride's disgrace became current in Durnovka.
It was impossible, of course, to verify these rumours: "As for seeing it—why, nobody saw it. Well, and the Goat's tongue was hung in the middle when it came to telling absurd tales." The Bride herself, who had aged five years in that one week, replied to them with such insolent vituperation that even her own mother was terrified by her face at such moments. But the discussions provoked by the rumours did not cease, and every one awaited with immense impatience the arrival of Rodka and his chastisement of his wife. Much agitated—once more jarred out of his rut—Tik-hon Hitch also awaited that impending chastisement, having heard from his own labourers of what had occurred in the garden. Why, that scandal might end in murder! But it ended in such a manner that it is still a matter of doubt which would have startled the Durnovka folks more powerfully—murder, or such a
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termination. On the night before the Feast of St. Michael, Rodka, who had returned home "to change his shirt," and who had not laid a finger on the Bride, died suddenly of "stomach trouble"! This became known in Vorgol late in the evening; but Tikhon Hitch instantly gave orders to harness his horse, and drove at top speed, through the darkness and the rain, to his brother. And after having gulped down, on top of his tea, a whole bottle of fruit brandy, he made confession to him, in his burning excitement, with passionate expressions, and eyes wildly rolling: '"Tis my fault, brother; the sin is mine!"
Having heard him out, Kuzma held his peace for a long time, and for a long time paced up and down the room plucking at his fingers, twisting them, cracking their joints. At last he said: "Just think it over: is there any nation more ferocious than ours? In town, if a petty thief snatches from a hawker's tray a pancake worth a farthing, the whole population of the eating-house section pursues him, and when they catch him they force him to eat soap. The whole town turns out for a fire, or a fight, and how sorry they are that the fire or the fight is so soon ended! Don't shake your head, don't do it: they are sorry! And how they revel in it when some one beats his wife to death, or thrashes a small boy within an inch of his life, or jeers at him! That's the most amusing thing in the world."
Tikhon Hitch inquired: "What's your object in saying that?"
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"Just for the sake of talking!" replied Kuzma, angrily, and went on: "Take that half-witted girl, Fesha, who wanders about Durnovka, for example. The young fellows squander their last coppers on her—■ put her down on the village common and set to work whacking her over her cropped head, at the rate of ten whacks for a farthing! And is that done out of ill-nature? Yes, out of ill-nature, certainly; and also from a sort of stupidity, curse it! Well, and that's the case with the Bride."
"Bear in mind," interrupted Tikhon Hitch hotly, "that there are always plenty of blackguards and blockheads everywhere."
"Exactly so. And didn't you yourself bring that— well, what's his name?"
"Duck-headed Motya, you mean?" asked Tikhon Hitch.
"Yes, that's it. Didn't you bring him here for your own amusement?"
And Tikhon Hitch burst out laughing: he had done that very thing. Once, even, Motya had been sent to him by the railway in a sugar-cask. The town was only about an arm's length distant, and he knew the officials—so they sent the man to him. And the inscription on the cask ran: "With care. A complete Fool."
"And these same fools are taught vices, for amusement!" Kuzma went on bitterly.—"The yard-gates of poor brides are smeared with tar! Beggars are hunted with dogs! For amusement, pigeons are knocked off
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r
oofs with stones! Yet, as you know, 'tis a great sin to eat those same pigeons. The Holy Spirit Himself assumes the form of a dove, you see!"
XIII
THE samovar had long since grown cold, the candle had guttered down, smoke hung over the room in a dull blue cloud, the slop-basin was filled to the very brim with soggy, reeking cigarette butts. The ventilator—a tin pipe in the upper corner of the window—was open, and once in a while a squeaking and a whirling and a terribly tiresome wailing proceeded from it—just like the one in the District offices, Tikhon Hitch said to himself. But the smoke was so dense that ten ventilators would have been of no avail. The rain rattled on the roof and Kuzma strode from corner to corner and talked:
"Ye-es! a nice state of things, there's no denying it! Indescribable kindliness! If you read history, your hair rises upright in horror: brother pitted against brother, kinsman against kinsman, son against father —treachery and murder, murder and treachery. The Epic legends, too, are a sheer delight: 'he slit his white breast,' 'he let his bowels out on the ground,' 'Ilya did not spare his own daughter; he stepped on her left foot, and pulled her right foot' And the songs? The same thing, always the same: the stepmother is 'wicked and greedy'; the father-in-law, 'harsh and quarrelsome,' sits on the sleeping-shelf above the stove, 'just like a dog
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on a rope'; the mother-in-law, equally wicked, sits on the stove 'just like a bitch on a chain'; the sisters-in-law are invariably 'young dogs and tricksters'; the brothers-in-law are 'malicious scoffers'; the husband is 'either a fool or a drunkard'; the 'old father-in-law bids him beat his wife soundly, until her hide drops off to her heels'; while the wife, having 'scrubbed the floor' for this same old man, 'ladled out the sour cabbage-soup, scraped the threshold clean, and baked turnover-patties,' addresses this sort of a speech to her husband: 'Get up, you disgusting fellow, wake up: here's dish-water, wash yourself; here are your leg-wrappers, wipe yourself; here's a bit of rope, hang yourself.' And our adages, Tikhon Hitch! Could anything more lewd and filthy be invented? And our proverbs! 'One man who has been soundly thrashed is worth two who have not been.' 'Simplicity is worse than thieving.' "
The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood] Page 5
