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brows which met over her nose, had struck up in a rough, hoarse voice the ancient "exaltation" song:
"At our house in the evening, fully evening, At the very last end of the evening, At Avdotya's betrothal feast . . .
In a dense, discordant chorus the maidens repeated her last words. And all turned toward the Bride. She was sitting, in accordance with custom, by the stove, her hair flowing loose, her head covered with a large dark shawl; and she was bound to answer the song with loud weeping and wailing: "My own dear father, my own mother dear, how am I to live forevermore thus grieving with woe in marriage?" But the Bride uttered never a word. And the maidens, having finished their song, involuntarily regarded her askance. They began to whisper among themselves, and, frowning, they slowly, in a drawling tone, struck up the "orphan's song":
"Heat yourself hot, you little bath, Ring out, you sonorous bell!"
And Kuzma's tightly clenched jaws began to quiver; a chill darted through his head and his legs; his cheekbones ached agreeably, and his eyes were filled and dimmed with tears. >
"Stop that, you girls!" some one shouted.
"Stop it, my dear, stop it!" cried Odnodvorka, slipping down from the bench. " Tis unseemly."
But the girls did not obey:
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"Ring out, you sonorous bell, Awaken my father dear. . . ."
And the Bride began, with a groan, to fall face down on her knees, on her arms, and choked with tears. She was led away at last, trembling, staggering, and shrieking, to the cold summer half of the cottage, to be dressed.
After that was done, Kuzma bestowed the blessing on her. The bridegroom arrived with Vaska, Yakoff's son. The bridegroom had donned the latter's boots; his hair had been freshly clipped short; his neck, encircled by the collar of a blue shirt with lace, had been shaved to redness. He had washed himself with soap, and appeared much younger; he was even not at all ill looking, and, conscious of that fact, he had drooped his dark eyelashes in dignified and modest fashion.
Vaska, his best man, in red shirt and knee-length fur coat worn unbuttoned, with his hair close-cut, pockmarked, robust, resembled a convict, as usual. He entered, frowned, and darted a sidelong look at the ceremonial girls.
"Stop that yowling!" he said roughly and peremptorily. "Get out of here. Begone!"
The girls answered him in chorus: "Without the Trinity a house cannot be built, without four corners the cottage cannot be roofed. Place a ruble at each ;orner, a fifth ruble in the middle, and a bottle of vodka." Vaska pulled a bottle out of his pocket and set it on the table. The girls took it and rose to their feet. The crowd had become more dense than ever.
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Once more the door flew open, once more there were steam and cold. Odnodvorka entered, carrying a tinsel-adorned holy picture and thrusting the people out of her way, followed by the Bride in a blue dress with a basque. Every one uttered an exclamation of admiration, she was so pale, gentle, quiet, and lovely. Vaska, with the back of his fist, administered a resounding blow on the forehead of a broad-shouldered, big-headed urchin whose legs were as crooked as those of a dachshund; then he flung upon the straw in the centre of the cottage some one's old short fur coat. Upon it the bride and groom were placed. Kuzma, without lifting his head, took the holy picture from the hands of Odnodvorka. It became so quiet that the whistling breath of the inquisitive big-headed lad was audible. Bride and bridegroom fell on their knees simultaneously and bowed down to Kuzma's feet. They rose, and once more knelt down. Kuzma glanced at the Bride; and in their eyes, which met for an instant, there was a flash of horror. Kuzma turned pale, said to himself in terror: "In another minute I shall throw this holy picture on the floor." But his hands mechanically made the sign of the cross with the ikona in the air; and the Bride, barely touching her lips to it, fastened them on his hand and timidly reached up to his lips. He thrust the holy picture into the hands of some one beside him, grasped the Bride's head with paternal pain and tenderness, and, as he kissed her new, fragrant headkerchief, burst into sweet tears. Then, seeing nothing because of his tears, he turned away and, thrusting the people out of his
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path, strode into the vestibule. It was already deserted. The snow-laden wind beat in his face. The snow-covered threshold shone white through the darkness. The roof was humming. Beyond the threshold an impenetrable blizzard was raging; and the snow, falling out of the tiny window recesses from the sheer weight of the drifts, hung like columns of smoke in the air.
XV
WHEN morning came the blizzard was still raging. In that grey whirling tempest neither Durnovka nor the windmill on the promontory was visible. Once in a while it grew brighter, once in a while the light became like that at nightfall. The orchard was all white, and its roar mingled with the roar of the wind, in which one kept imagining the peal of bells. The sharp-pointed apexes of the snowdrifts were smoking. From the porch, on which, with eyes screwed up, scenting athwart the chill of the blizzard the savoury aroma from the chimney of the servant's wing, sat the watchdogs, all coated with snow. Kuzma was barely able to make out the dark, misty forms of the peasants, their horses, sledges, the jingling of the sleighbells. Two horses had been hitched to the bridegroom's sledge; one horse was allotted to that of the bride. The sledges were covered with kazan felt lap robes with black patterns
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on the ends. The participants in the ceremonial procession had girt themselves with sashes of divers hues. The women, who had donned wadded coats and wrapped their heads in shawls, walked to the sledges circumspectly, taking tiny steps, ceremoniously remarking: "Heavens, God's daylight is not visible!" Rarely was a woman garbed in her own clothes: everything had been collected among the neighbours. Accordingly, special caution was needed not to fall, and they lifted their long skirts as high as possible. The bride's fur coat and her blue gown had been turned up over her head, and she sat in the sledge protected only by her white petticoat. Her head, adorned with a small wreath of paper flowers, was enveloped in undershawls. She had become so weak from her weeping that she saw as in a dream the dark figures through the blizzard, heard its roar, the conversation, and the festive pealing of the small bells. The horses laid their ears flat and tossed their muzzles from side to side to escape the snow-laden gale; and it bore away the chatter and the shouts of command, glued eyes tightly together, whitened mustaches, beards, and caps, and the groomsmen had difficulty in recognizing one another in the darkness and gloom.
"Ugh, damn it all!" exclaimed Vaska as he ducked his head, gathered up the reins, and took his seat beside the bridegroom. And he shouted roughly, indifferently, into the teeth of the storm: "Messrs. boyars, bestow your blessing on the bridegroom, that he may go in search of his bride!"
Some one made answer: "May God bless him."
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Then the sleighbells began to wail, the runners to screech; the snowdrifts, as the runners cut through them, turned to smoke and small whirlwinds; the forelocks, manes, and tails of the horses were blown to one side. . . .
At the church-warden's house in the village, where they warmed themselves up while waiting for the priest, all became well suffocated. In the church, also, there was the odour of fire-gas, cold, and gloom, thanks to the blizzard, the low ceilings, and the gratings in the windows. Lighted candles were held only by the bridegroom and the bride and in the hand of the swarthy priest. He had big cheek-bones, and he bent low over his book, which was all bespattered with wax-droppings, and read hurriedly through his spectacles. On the floor stood pools of water—much snow had been brought in on their boots and bark-shoes. The wind from the open door blew on their backs. The priest glanced sternly now at the door, again at the groom and bride—at their tense forms, prepared for anything that might present itself; at their faces, congealed, as it were, in obedience and submission, illuminated from below by the golden gleam of candles. From habit, he pronounced some words as if he felt them, making
them stand out apart from the touching prayers; but in reality he was thinking not at all of the words or of those to whom they were applied.
" 'O God most pure, the Creator of every living thing,'" he said hastily, now lowering, now raising his voice. " 'Thou who didst bless Thy servant Abra-
]289]
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ham, and, opening the womb of Sarah . . . who didst give Isaac unto Rebecca . . . who didst join Jacob unto Rachel . . . vouchsafe unto these Thy servants.
"Name—?" he interrupted himself in a stern whisper, without altering the expression of his countenance, addressing the lay reader. And, having caught the answer, "Denis, Avdotya," he continued, with feeling: 'Vouchsafe unto these Thy servants, Denis and Evdokhia,.a peaceful life, length of days, chastity. . . . grant that they may behold their children's children . . . and give them of the dew of heaven from on high. . . . Fill their houses with wheat and wine and oil . . . exhalt thou them like unto the cedars of Lebanon. . . .' "
But even if those who were present had listened to him and understood, they would have been thinking of the blizzard, the strange horses, the return home through the twilight to Durnovka, Syery's house—and not of Abraham and Isaac. And they would have grinned at comparing Deniska to a cedar of Lebanon. And it was awkward for Deniska himself, his short legs encased in borrowed boots, his body clad in an old undercoat, to admit that the bride was taller than he; it was awkward and terrible to bear on his motionless head the imperial crown x —a huge brass crown with a cross on top, resting far down on his very ears. And the hand of the Bride, who looked more beautiful
1 In the marriage service crowns are used for bride and groom, but generally they are held a short distance above the heads, by best men standing behind.— trans.
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and more lifeless than ever in her crown, trembled, and the wax of the melting candle dripped down on the flounce of her blue gown. . . .
The return home was more comfortable. The blizzard was even more terrible in the twilight, but they were cheered by the consciousness that a burden had been removed from their shoulders: whether for good or for evil, the deed had been done. So they whipped up their horses smartly, dashing ahead at random, trusting solely to the ill-defined forms of the small trees which marked out the road. And the loud-mouthed wife of Vanka Krasny stood upright in the leading sledge and danced, flourishing her handkerchief and screeching to the gale, through the dark, raging turmoil, through the snow which whipped against her lips and drowned her wolfs voice:
The dove, the grey dove, Has a head of gold."
Moscow, 1909.
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UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY
PG Bunin, Ivan Alekseevich 3A53 The village
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The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood] Page 22
