The next day Mr. Polutikin was obliged to go to town about some
business with his neighbour Pitchukoff. This neighbour Pitchukoff had
ploughed over some land of Polutikin's, and had flogged a peasant woman
of his on this same piece of land. I went out hunting alone, and before
evening I turned into Hor's house. On the threshold of the cottage I
was met by an old man--bald, short, broad-shouldered, and stout--Hor
himself. I looked with curiosity at the man. The cut of his face
recalled Socrates; there was the same high, knobby forehead, the same
little eyes, the same snub nose. We went into the cottage together. The
same Fedya brought me some milk and black bread. Hor sat down on a
bench, and, quietly stroking his curly beard, entered into conversation
with me. He seemed to know his own value; he spoke and moved slowly;
from time to time a chuckle came from between his long moustaches.
We discussed the sowing, the crops, the peasant's life.... He always
seemed to agree with me; only afterwards I had a sense of awkwardness
and felt I was talking foolishly.... In this way our conversation was
rather curious. Hor, doubtless through caution, expressed himself very
obscurely at times.... Here is a specimen of our talk.
"Tell me, Hor," I said to him, "why don't you buy your freedom from
your master?"
"And what would I buy my freedom for? Now I know my master, and I know
my rent.... We have a good master."
'It's always better to be free,' I remarked. Hor gave me a dubious look.
'Surely,' he said.
'Well, then, why don't you buy your freedom?' Hor shook his head.
'What would you have me buy it with, your honour?'
'Oh, come, now, old man!'
'If Hor were thrown among free men,' he continued in an undertone, as
though to himself, 'everyone without a beard would be a better man than
Hor.'
'Then shave your beard.'
'What is a beard? a beard is grass: one can cut it.'
'Well, then?'
'But Hor will be a merchant straight away; and merchants have a fine
life, and they have beards.'
'Why, do you do a little trading too?' I asked him.
'We trade a little in a little butter and a little tar.... Would your
honour like the cart put to?'
'You're a close man and keep a tight rein on your tongue,' I thought to
myself. 'No,' I said aloud, 'I don't want the cart; I shall want to be
near your homestead to-morrow, and if you will let me, I will stay the
night in your hay-barn.'
'You are very welcome. But will you be comfortable in the barn? I will
tell the women to lay a sheet and put you a pillow.... Hey, girls!' he
cried, getting up from his place; 'here, girls!... And you, Fedya, go
with them. Women, you know, are foolish folk.'
A quarter of an hour later Fedya conducted me with a lantern to the
barn. I threw myself down on the fragrant hay; my dog curled himself up
at my feet; Fedya wished me good-night; the door creaked and slammed
to. For rather a long time I could not get to sleep. A cow came up to
the door, and breathed heavily twice; the dog growled at her with
dignity; a pig passed by, grunting pensively; a horse somewhere near
began to munch the hay and snort.... At last I fell asleep.
At sunrise Fedya awakened me. This brisk, lively young man pleased me;
and, from what I could see, he was old Hor's favourite too. They used
to banter one another in a very friendly way. The old man came to meet
me. Whether because I had spent the night under his roof, or for some
other reason, Hor certainly treated me far more cordially than the day
before.
'The samovar is ready,' he told me with a smile; 'let us come and have
tea.'
We took our seats at the table. A robust-looking peasant woman, one of
his daughters-in-law, brought in a jug of milk. All his sons came one
after another into the cottage.
'What a fine set of fellows you have!' I remarked to the old man.
'Yes,' he said, breaking off a tiny piece of sugar with his teeth; 'me
and my old woman have nothing to complain of, seemingly.'
'And do they all live with you?'
'Yes; they choose to, themselves, and so they live here.'
'And are they all married?'
'Here's one not married, the scamp!' he answered, pointing to Fedya,
who was leaning as before against the door. 'Vaska, he's still too
young; he can wait.'
'And why should I get married?' retorted Fedya; 'I'm very well off as I
am. What do I want a wife for? To squabble with, eh?'
'Now then, you ... ah, I know you! you wear a silver ring.... You'd
always be after the girls up at the manor house.... "Have done, do, for
shame!"' the old man went on, mimicking the servant girls. 'Ah, I know
you, you white-handed rascal!'
'But what's the good of a peasant woman?'
'A peasant woman--is a labourer,' said Hor seriously; 'she is the
peasant's servant.'
'And what do I want with a labourer?'
'I dare say; you'd like to play with the fire and let others burn their
fingers: we know the sort of chap you are.'
'Well, marry me, then. Well, why don't you answer?'
'There, that's enough, that's enough, giddy pate! You see we're
disturbing the gentleman. I'll marry you, depend on it.... And you,
your honour, don't be vexed with him; you see, he's only a baby; he's
not had time to get much sense.'
Fedya shook his head.
'Is Hor at home?' sounded a well-known voice; and Kalinitch came into
the cottage with a bunch of wild strawberries in his hands, which he
had gathered for his friend Hor. The old man gave him a warm welcome. I
looked with surprise at Kalinitch. I confess I had not expected such a
delicate attention on the part of a peasant.
That day I started out to hunt four hours later than usual, and the
following three days I spent at Hor's. My new friends interested me. I
don't know how I had gained their confidence, but they began to talk to
me without constraint. The two friends were not at all alike. Hor was a
positive, practical man, with a head for management, a rationalist;
Kalinitch, on the other hand, belonged to the order of idealists and
dreamers, of romantic and enthusiastic spirits. Hor had a grasp of
actuality--that is to say, he looked ahead, was saving a little money,
kept on good terms with his master and the other authorities; Kalinitch
wore shoes of bast, and lived from hand to mouth. Hor had reared a
large family, who were obedient and united; Kalinitch had once had a
wife, whom he had been afraid of, and he had had no children. Hor took
a very critical view of Mr. Polutikin; Kalinitch revered his master.
Hor loved Kalinitch, and took protecting care of him; Kalinitch loved
and respected Hor. Hor spoke little, chuckled, and thought for himself;
Kalinitch expressed himself with warmth, though he had not the flow of
fine language of a smart factory hand. But Kalinitch was endowed with
powers which even Hor recognised; he could charm away haemorrhages,
fits, madness, and worms; his bees always did well; he had a light
hand. Hor asked him before me to introduce a newly bought horse to his
stable, and with scrupulous gravity Kalinitch carried out the old
sceptic's request. Kalinitch was in closer contact with nature; Hor
with men and society. Kalinitch had no liking for argument, and
believed in everything blindly; Hor had reached even an ironical point
of view of life. He had seen and experienced much, and I learnt a good
deal from him. For instance, from his account I learnt that every year
before mowing-time a small, peculiar-looking cart makes its appearance
in the villages. In this cart sits a man in a long coat, who sells
scythes. He charges one rouble twenty-five copecks--a rouble and a half
in notes--for ready money; four roubles if he gives credit. All the
peasants, of course, take the scythes from him on credit. In two or
three weeks he reappears and asks for the money. As the peasant has
only just cut his oats, he is able to pay him; he goes with the
merchant to the tavern, and there the debt is settled. Some landowners
conceived the idea of buying the scythes themselves for ready money and
letting the peasants have them on credit for the same price; but the
peasants seemed dissatisfied, even dejected; they had deprived them of
the pleasure of tapping the scythe and listening to the ring of the
metal, turning it over and over in their hands, and telling the
scoundrelly city-trader twenty times over, 'Eh, my friend, you won't
take me in with your scythe!' The same tricks are played over the sale
of sickles, only with this difference, that the women have a hand in
the business then, and they sometimes drive the trader himself to the
necessity--for their good, of course--of beating them. But the women
suffer most ill-treatment through the following circumstances.
Contractors for the supply of stuff for paper factories employ for the
purchase of rags a special class of men, who in some districts are
called eagles. Such an 'eagle' receives two hundred roubles in
bank-notes from the merchant, and starts off in search of his prey.
But, unlike the noble bird from whom he has derived his name, he does
not swoop down openly and boldly upon it; quite the contrary; the
'eagle' has recourse to deceit and cunning. He leaves his cart
somewhere in a thicket near the village, and goes himself to the
back-yards and back-doors, like someone casually passing, or simply a
tramp. The women scent out his proximity and steal out to meet him. The
bargain is hurriedly concluded. For a few copper half-pence a woman
gives the 'eagle' not only every useless rag she has, but often even
her husband's shirt and her own petticoat. Of late the women have
thought it profitable to steal even from themselves, and to sell hemp
in the same way--a great extension and improvement of the business for
the 'eagles'! To meet this, however, the peasants have grown more
cunning in their turn, and on the slightest suspicion, on the most
distant rumors of the approach of an 'eagle,' they have prompt and
sharp recourse to corrective and preventive measures. And, after all,
wasn't it disgraceful? To sell the hemp was the men's business--and
they certainly do sell it--not in the town (they would have to drag it
there themselves), but to traders who come for it, who, for want of
scales, reckon forty handfuls to the pood--and you know what a
Russian's hand is and what it can hold, especially when he 'tries his
best'! As I had had no experience and was not 'country-bred' (as they
say in Orel) I heard plenty of such descriptions. But Hor was not
always the narrator; he questioned me too about many things. He learned
that I had been in foreign parts, and his curiosity was aroused....
Kalinitch was not behind him in curiosity; but he was more attracted by
descriptions of nature, of mountains and waterfalls, extraordinary
buildings and great towns; Hor was interested in questions of
government and administration. He went through everything in order.
'Well, is that with them as it is with us, or different?... Come, tell
us, your honour, how is it?' 'Ah, Lord, thy will be done!' Kalinitch
would exclaim while I told my story; Hor did not speak, but frowned
with his bushy eyebrows, only observing at times, 'That wouldn't do for
us; still, it's a good thing--it's right.' All his inquiries, I cannot
recount, and it is unnecessary; but from our conversations I carried
away one conviction, which my readers will certainly not anticipate ...
the conviction that Peter the Great was pre-eminently a
Russian--Russian, above all, in his reforms. The Russian is so
convinced of his own strength and powers that he is not afraid of
putting himself to severe strain; he takes little interest in his past,
and looks boldly forward. What is good he likes, what is sensible he
will have, and where it comes from he does not care. His vigorous sense
is fond of ridiculing the thin theorising of the German; but, in Hor's
words, 'The Germans are curious folk,' and he was ready to learn from
them a little. Thanks to his exceptional position, his practical
independence, Hor told me a great deal which you could not screw or--as
the peasants say--grind with a grindstone, out of any other man. He
did, in fact, understand his position. Talking with Hor, I for the
first time listened to the simple, wise discourse of the Russian
peasant. His acquirements were, in his own opinion, wide enough; but he
could not read, though Kalinitch could. 'That ne'er-do-weel has
school-learning,' observed Hor, 'and his bees never die in the winter.'
'But haven't you had your children taught to read?' Hor was silent a
minute. 'Fedya can read.' 'And the others?' 'The others can't.' 'And
why?' The old man made no answer, and changed the subject. However,
sensible as he was, he had many prejudices and crotchets. He despised
women, for instance, from the depths of his soul, and in his merry
moments he amused himself by jesting at their expense. His wife was a
cross old woman who lay all day long on the stove, incessantly
grumbling and scolding; her sons paid no attention to her, but she kept
her daughters-in-law in the fear of God. Very significantly the
mother-in-law sings in the Russian ballad: 'What a son art thou to me!
What a head of a household! Thou dost not beat thy wife; thou dost not
beat thy young wife....' I once attempted to intercede for the
daughters-in-law, and tried to rouse Hor's sympathy; but he met me with
the tranquil rejoinder, 'Why did I want to trouble about such ...
trifles; let the women fight it out. ... If anything separates them, it
only makes it worse ... and it's not worth dirtying one's hands over.'
Sometimes the spiteful old woman got down from the stove and called the
yard dog out of the hay, crying, 'Here, here, doggie'; and then beat it
on its thin back with the poker, or she would stand in the porch and
'snarl,' as Hor expressed it, at everyone that passed. She stood in awe
of her husband though, and would return, at his command, to her place
on the stove. It was specially curious to hear Hor and Kalinitch
dispute whenever Mr. Polutikin was touched upon.
'There, Hor, do let him alone,' Kalinitch would say. 'But why doesn't
he order some boots for you?' Hor retorted. 'Eh? boots!... what do I
want with boots? I am a peasant.' 'Well, so am I a peasant, but look!'
And Hor lifted up his leg and showed Kalinitch a boot which looked as
if it had been cut out of a mammoth's hide. 'As if you were like one of
us!' replied Kalinitch. 'Well, at least he might pay for your bast
shoes; you go out hunting with him; you must use a pair a day.' 'He
does give me something for bast shoes.' 'Yes, he gave you two coppers
last year.'
Kalinitch turned away in vexation, but Hor went off into a chuckle,
during which his little eyes completely disappeared.
Kalinitch sang rather sweetly and played a little on the balalaëca. Hor
was never weary of listening to him: all at once he would let his head
drop on one side and begin to chime in, in a lugubrious voice. He was
particularly fond of the song, 'Ah, my fate, my fate!' Fedya never lost
an opportunity of making fun of his father, saying, 'What are you so
mournful about, old man?' But Hor leaned his cheek on his hand, covered
his eyes, and continued to mourn over his fate.... Yet at other times
there could not be a more active man; he was always busy over
something--mending the cart, patching up the fence, looking after the
harness. He did not insist on a very high degree of cleanliness,
however; and, in answer to some remark of mine, said once, 'A cottage
ought to smell as if it were lived in.'
'Look,' I answered, 'how clean it is in Kalinitch's beehouse.'
'The bees would not live there else, your honour,' he said with a sigh.
'Tell me,' he asked me another time, 'have you an estate of your own?'
'Yes.' 'Far from here?' 'A hundred miles.' 'Do you live on your land,
your honour?' 'Yes.'
'But you like your gun best, I dare say?'
'Yes, I must confess I do.' 'And you do well, your honour; shoot grouse
to your heart's content, and change your bailiff pretty often.'
On the fourth day Mr. Polutikin sent for me in the evening. I was sorry
to part from the old man. I took my seat with Kalinitch in the trap.
'Well, good-bye, Hor--good luck to you,' I said; 'good-bye, Fedya.'
'Good-bye, your honour, good-bye; don't forget us.' We started; there
was the first red glow of sunset. 'It will be a fine day to-morrow,' I
remarked looking at the clear sky. 'No, it will rain,' Kalinitch
replied; 'the ducks yonder are splashing, and the scent of the grass is
strong.' We drove into the copse. Kalinitch began singing in an
undertone as he was jolted up and down on the driver's seat, and he
kept gazing and gazing at the sunset.
The next day I left the hospitable roof of Mr. Polutikin.