The people about me began to notice me, and I took notice of them, too.
On holidays when I walked through the streets I was stared at with
much curiosity. Some greeted me earnestly while others mocked, but all
looked after me.
"Here goes our prayer-book," was heard. "Say, Matvei, are you going to
become a saint?"
"Don't laugh at him, friends; he is not a priest and he does not
believe in God for the sake of the money."
"Have there not been peasants who became saints?"
"Oh, we have all kinds of men, but that does not help us much."
"Who said he is a peasant? He has got gentleman's blood in him--but
that's a secret."
And thus they calked, and some praised and some jeered.
As for myself, I was then in a peculiar state of mind. I wished to be
at peace with all and wanted all to love me. However, try as I would to
live up to it, their insults prevented me.
Of all who persecuted me, Savelko Migun was the worst. He fell on his
knees when he saw me and prostrated himself, declaiming aloud:
"Your Holiness, I bow to the ground before you. Pray for Savelko, I beg
of you. God may do the right thing by him then. Teach me how to please
the Lord God. Must I stop stealing, or must I steal more and burn him a
wax candle?"
The crowds laughed at Savelko's jokes, but they made me feel queer and
hurt me.
He would continue:
"Oh, ye Orthodox, prostrate yourself before the Righteous One. He
fleeces the peasants in his office and then reads the gospel in church.
And God cannot hear how the peasants howl."
I was sixteen and could easily have broken his face for his insults.
But instead, I took to avoiding him. When he noticed this he gave me
no leeway at all. He composed a song, which he sang in the streets on
holidays, accompanying himself with his balalaika.
"Oh, the squires embrace the maidens,
And the maidens all grow big;
From these gentlemanly doings
Come out dirty cheats as children.
They are thrown upon the masters
Who refuse to feed them gratis;
And they put them in their office,
To the peasants' great misfortune."
It was a long song and everybody was mentioned in it, but Titoff and
I had the biggest share of all. It got to such a point that when I
caught sight of Savelko with his little thin beard, his cap on his ear
and his bald head, I trembled all over. I felt like springing on him
and breaking him into bits.
Though I was young, I could hold myself in with a strong hand. When he
walked behind me, jingling, I did not move a muscle to show that it was
hard to bear. I walked slowly and made believe I did not hear.
I began to pray more zealously, for I felt that I had no protection
except prayers, which, however, were now filled with complaints and
bitter words.
"Wherefore, O Lord, am I to blame that my father and mother abandoned
me and threw me like a kitten into the brush?"
I could find no other sin in me. I saw men and women placed on this
earth without rhyme or reason; saw each one so accustomed to his
business that the custom became law. How was I to know right off why
and against whom this strange force is directed?
However, I began to think things over, and I grew more and more
troubled as things became insufferable to me.
Our landlord, Constantine Nicolaievitch Loseff, was rich and owned
much land, and he hardly ever came to our estate, which was considered
unlucky by the family. Somebody had strangled the landlord's mother,
his father had fallen from a horse and been killed, and his wife had
run away from him here.
I only saw the landlord twice. He was a stout man, tall, wore
spectacles and had an officer's cape and cap, lined with red. They said
he held a high position under the Czar and that he was very learned and
wrote books. The two times he was on the estate he swore at Titoff very
thoroughly and even shook his fist in his face.
Titoff was the one absolute power on the estate of Sokolie. There was
not much land, and only so much grain was sown as was necessary for the
household. The rest of the land was rented to the peasants. Later there
came an order that no more land should be rented and that flax should
be sown on the whole estate. A factory was being opened nearby.
In addition to myself, there sat in a corner of the office Ivan
Makarovitch Judin. His soul was half dead and he was always drunk. He
had been a telegraph operator, but he had lost his position on account
of his drunkenness. He took care of the books, wrote the letters, made
the contracts with the peasants, and was remarkably silent. When he was
spoken to, he only nodded his head and coughed a little. At most he
answered, "All right." He was short and thin, but his face was round
and puffy, and his eyes could hardly be seen. He was entirely bald and
he walked on his tip-toes, silently and unsteadily, as the blind. On
the Feast of the Virgin of Kazin, the peasants made Judin so drunk with
vodka that he died.
I was alone now in the office, did all the work, and received a salary
from Titoff of forty rubles a year. He gave me Olga as an assistant.
I had noticed for a long time that the peasants walked around the
office as wolves around a trap. They see the trap, but they are hungry,
and the bait tempts them, so they begin to eat.
When I was alone in the office and became acquainted with all the books
and plans, I realized, even with my poor understanding, that our whole
arrangement was nothing more than theft. The peasants were head over
ears in debt and worked, not for themselves, but for Titoff. I cannot
say that I was either very much surprised or ashamed at this discovery.
And even if I did understand now why Savelko swore at me and insulted
me, still I did not think it was right of him. Was it then I who had
originated this stealing?
I saw that Titoff was not quite straight even with the landlord, and
that he stuffed his pockets as much as he dared.
I became bolder toward him, for I realized that in some way I was
necessary to him. And now I understood why. I had to hide him, the
thief, from the Lord God. He now called me his "dear son," and his wife
did so too. They dressed me well, for which, of course, I was grateful.
But my heart did not go out toward them, and my soul was not warmed by
their goodness. I became more and more friendly with Olga, however. I
liked her wistful smile, her low voice and her love of flowers.
Titoff and his wife walked before God with sunken heads, like a team of
horses, and behind their timid glances seemed to be continually hiding
something which must have been even greater than theft.
I did not like Titoff's hands. He always hid them in a manner which
made me suspicious. Perhaps those hands had strangled some one; perhaps
there was blood on them. They kept asking me, he as well as she:
"Pray for our sins, Motia."
One day I could stand it no longer. I asked them:
"Are you then more sinful than others?"
Nastasia sighed and went away, and he turned on his heel and did not
answer.
In the house he was thoughtful and spoke very little, and then only on
business. He never swore at the peasants, but he was always haughty
with them, which was worse than swearing. He never conceded a point and
stood his ground as firmly as if he were sunk to the waist in the earth.
"One should give in to them," I said to him once.
"Never," he answered. "Not an iota must you give in, or you are lost."
Another time he ordered me to count false, and I said to him:
"You can't do that."
"Why not?"
"It is a sin."
"It is not you who are forcing me to sin, but I you. Write as I tell
you. No one will ask any account of you, you are only my hand. Your
piety will not suffer by it; have no fear. For ten rubles a month
neither I nor anybody else can live honorably. Do you understand that?"
"Oh, you scoundrel!" I said to myself. But aloud I said to him: "That
is quite enough. Things must end right here. If you don't stop this
swindling I will tell the village all about your deals."
He pulled his mustache up to his nose, lifted his shoulders to his
ears, showed his teeth and stared at me with his round, bulging eyes.
We measured each other.
"You will do that, really?" he said to me in a low voice.
"Yes."
Titoff burst out laughing, and it sounded as if some one had thrown
silver pieces on the ground.
"All right, my holy one, that is all that I needed. From now on we will
manage this affair differently. We won't bother any more with kopecks.
We will deal with rubles. If the thief's dress is too tight, he becomes
honest."
He went out, slamming the door so that the panes in the windows rattled.
It seemed to me that Titoff was a little more cross after that. Still
I was not quite sure of it. But he left me in, peace from then on.
He was a terrible miser, and though he did not deny himself anything,
nevertheless he knew how to value a penny. He ate well and was very
fond of women, and as he had the power in his hands, there was not a
woman in the village who dared to refuse him. He let the young girls
alone, and only went to the married women. He made my blood hot once or
twice.
"What is the matter, Matvei?" he asked. "Are you timid? To take a woman
is like giving charity. In the country every woman yearns for love.
But the men are weak and worn out, and what can the women expect from
them? You are a strong, handsome young fellow; why not make love to the
women? You would get some pleasure out of it yourself."
He followed every villainy, the low rascal. Once he asked me:
"Do you think, Matvei, that a pious man is of much value in the eyes of
God?"
I did not like such questions. "I don't know," I answered.
He remained doubtful for a minute and then he said:
"God led Lot out of Sodom and saved Noah; but thousands perished by
fire and water. Still it says, 'Thou shalt not kill.' Often it seems
to me that these thousands perished because among them there were a
few pious and virtuous people. God saw that despite the stringent laws
which He gave, there were several who could lead a righteous life. If
there had been no pious men in Sodom, God would have seen that it was
impossible to observe His commandments and He might have lightened
them without putting to death thousands of people. They call Him the
All-merciful One. But where is His mercy?"
I did not understand then that this man was only seeking license to
sin. Nevertheless, the words angered me.
"You are blaspheming," I said. "You are afraid of God, but you don't
love Him."
He drew his hands out of his pockets, threw them behind his back, and
his face turned gray. It was plain that he was in great wrath.
"Whether it is so or not, I don't know," he answered, "but it seems
to me that you pious ones use God as a ruler by which you mark off
the sins of others. Without such as you, God would have a hard time
measuring sins."
He took no notice of me for a long time after that. But an insufferable
hatred rose in my soul against this man. I avoided him even more than
I did Savelko. If at night I mentioned his name in my prayers, an
ungovernable anger possessed me. It was at this time that I said my
first spontaneous prayer:
"I do not wish to seek grace for a thief, O Lord. I ask that he be
punished. May he not rob the poor without being punished."
And I prayed to God so ardently that Titoff be punished that I grew
frightened at the terrible fate that awaited him.
Soon after this I bad another encounter with Migun. He came to the
office for lime-bast,[1] when I happened to be alone. I asked him:
"Why do you always make fun of me, Savel?"
He showed his teeth and stared at me with his piercing eyes.
"I haven't much business here," he said. "I only came for lime-bast."
My legs trembled beneath me and my hands clenched of themselves. I
clutched his throat and shook him lightly.
"What have I done?"
He was not frightened, nor was he angry. He simply took my hand
and pushed it from his throat as if it were he, not I, who was the
stronger. "When you are choking some one, he cannot speak well," he
said. "Let me alone," he continued; "I have received beatings enough,
and I don't need yours. Besides, you mustn't strike any one. It is
against the commandments."
He spoke quietly and mockingly, in a light tone. I shouted:
"What do you want here?"
"Some lime-bast."
[Footnote 1: A vegetable fiber made from the bark of the lime tree.]
I saw that I could make no headway with him by words, and my anger was
already gone. I now only felt hurt and cold.
"You are all beasts," I said. "Can you make fun of a man because his
parents abandoned him?"
He threw his words at me as if they were little stones:
"Don't be a hypocrite. We know you by your actions. You eat stolen
bread and others suffer want."
"You lie!" I said. "I work for my bread."
"Without work you can't even steal a chicken. That is an old story."
He looked at me with a devilish smile in his eyes and said pityingly:
"Oh, Matvei, what a good child you used to be. And now you have become
learned, despite God, and like all thieves in our country, you found
a religion based on God's truth that all men have not equally long
fingers."
I threw him out of the office. I did not want to understand his play on
words, for I considered myself a true servant of God and valued my own
opinion more than any one else's.
I felt strange and fearful, as if the strength of my soul was
vanishing. I had not sunk so low as to whine before God against man,
for I was no Pharisee for all that I was a fool. I knelt before the
holy Virgin of Abalatzk and looked up at her countenance and at her
hands, which were uplifted to heaven. The little fire in the holy lamp
flickered and a faint shadow spread over the ikon. The same shadow fell
on my heart and something strange and invisible and oppressive rose up
betwixt God and myself. I lost all joy in prayer, and I became wretched
and even Olga was no longer a comfort to me.
But she looked at me all the more kindly. I was eighteen at this time,
a well developed youth, with red curly hair and a pale face. I wanted
to come nearer her, yet was embarrassed, for I was innocent before
women then. The women in the village laughed at me for it, and it even
seemed to me at times that Olga herself smiled at me in a queer way.
More than once the enticing thought came to me: "There, that's my wife."
Day in, day out, I sat with her in the office in silence. When she
asked me some questions about the business I answered, and in that lay
our whole conversation.
She was slender and white, like a young birch, and her eyes were blue
and thoughtful. To me she seemed pretty and tender in her quiet,
mysterious wistfulness.
Once she asked me:
"What makes you so sad, Matvei?"
I had never spoken about myself with any one before, nor had ever
wished to. But here suddenly my heart opened and I poured out all my
misery to her. I told her of the shame of my birth, of the abuse that
I suffered for it, and of the loneliness and wretchedness of my soul,
and of her father. I told her everything. I did not do it to complain.
It was only to unburden myself of my inmost thoughts, of which I had
amassed quite a quantity--all worthless, I suppose.
"I had better enter a monastery," I ended.
She became depressed, hung her head and did not answer. I was pleased
at her distress, but her silence hurt me. Three days later she said to
me softly:
"It is wrong to watch people so much. Each one lives for himself. To be
sure, now you are alone, but when you will have your own family, you
will need no one and you will live like the rest, for yourself, in your
own house and home. As for my father, don't judge him. I see that no
one loves him, but I can't see wherein he is worse than the rest. Where
does one see love anyway?"
Her words consoled me. I always did everything impetuously, and so
here, too, I burst forth:
"Would you marry me?"
She turned and whispered:
"Yes."