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Transcriber's note:
In Footnote 1, [=a] and [)a] are used to denote that the
letters have, respectively, a macron and a breve over them
in the original book.
A RUSSIAN GENTLEMAN
----
_UNIFORM WITH THIS VOLUME_
1 Vol. Demy 8vo. 7_s._ 6_d._ net
A RUSSIAN SCHOOLBOY
1 Vol. Demy 8vo. 10_s._ 6_d._ net
YEARS OF CHILDHOOD
BY
SERGE AKSAKOFF
Translated from the Russian by
J. D. DUFF
FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
LONDON: EDWARD ARNOLD
----
A RUSSIAN GENTLEMAN
by
SERGE AKSAKOFF
Translated from the Russian by J. D. Duff
Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge
SECOND IMPRESSION
London
Edward Arnold
1917
All rights reserved
----
TO J. F. D.
----
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
Serge Aksakoff,[1] the author of this Russian classic, was born at Ufa,
in the district of Orenburg, on September 20, 1791. His father held some
office in the law-court of the town, and his grandfather lived in the
country as the owner of large estates, to which Aksakoff ultimately
succeeded. His grandfather had migrated about 1760 from Simbirsk to Ufa,
where the population consisted mainly of Tatars and a number of Finnish
tribes--Mordvinians, Choovashes, and others.
[1] The name is pronounced Aks[=a]koff, not Aks[)a]koff, and his
birthplace is called by Russians _Oo-fa_, not _Yew-fa_.
Aksakoff was educated at Kazan, and entered the Civil Service in 1808.
After serving in many different capacities--he was censor of the Press
at Moscow for some years--he retired in 1839 and devoted himself
exclusively to literature. He married in 1816; and his two sons,
Constantine and Ivan, both played a conspicuous part in the public life
of Russia. He died at Moscow, after a long and painful illness, on April
30, 1859.
His high and secure place among Russian writers Aksakoff owes to three
works--his _Years of Childhood_ and _Recollections_, which are
autobiography, and his _Family History_, which is here translated under
the title of _A Russian Gentleman_. This is his most famous work: his
portrait of his grandfather is his masterpiece, and his descriptions of
his parents' courtship and marriage are as vivid and minute as his
pictures of his own early childhood.
He began to write this book soon after his retirement from the public
service. Portions of it were published in a Moscow magazine in 1846; and
the whole work appeared, with the addition of a short Epilogue, in 1856.
He published _Recollections_ in the same volume; and _Years of
Childhood_--which should have preceded _Recollections_--followed in
1858, the last year of his life.
_A Russian Gentleman_ seems a suitable title for this book, because the
whole scene, in which a multitude of characters appear, is entirely
dominated and permeated by the tremendous personality of Aksakoff's
grandfather, Stepan Mihailovitch. Plain and rough in his appearance and
habits, but proud of his long descent; hardly able to read or write, but
full of natural intelligence; capable of furious anger and extreme
violence in his anger, but equally capable of steadfast and even
chivalrous affection; a born leader of men and the very incarnation of
truth, honour, and honesty--Stepan Mihailovitch is more like a Homeric
hero than a man of modern times.
The reader, when he reflects that Aksakoff's present narrative ends with
the day of his own birth, will be inclined to think that the author must
have had a lively imagination. I therefore translate the sentence with
which Skabichevsky, a critic of reputation, begins his review of
Aksakoff's work:--
"Aksakoff's books are remarkable, first of all, on this ground: you will
find in them no trace of creative or inventive power."
I suppose myself that he derived his information chiefly from his
mother; but there are certainly scenes in the book which he cannot have
owed to this source.
This translation has been made from the Moscow edition of 1900. I should
say here: (1) that I have abridged some of the topographical detail at
the beginning of the book; (2) that I have dealt freely with the Notes
which Aksakoff added, sometimes promoting them to the text, and
sometimes omitting them wholly or in part. I know of two previous
translations. A German translation, _Russische Familienchronik_, by
Sergius Raczynski, was published at Leipzig in 1858. This seems to me a
good translation, and I have found it useful in some difficulties. An
English translation "by a Russian Lady" was published at Calcutta in
1871; and there is a copy in the British Museum. I have not seen this;
but I have heard that it is inadequate, and the first few sentences,
which were copied out for me, seem to bear this out.
I have completed a translation of Aksakoff's remaining book of
Memoirs--his _Recollections_ of school and college; and I hope that it
may be published after a short interval.
J. D. DUFF.
_Cambridge._
_Jan. 11, 1917._
----
CONTENTS
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
FRAGMENT I: STEPAN MIHAILOVITCH BAGROFF
1. _The Migration_
2. _The Government of Orenburg_
3. _Fresh Scenes._
4. _My Grandfather, on one of his Good Days_
FRAGMENT II: MIHAIL MAXIMOVITCH KUROLYESSOFF
FRAGMENT III: THE MARRIAGE OF THE YOUNG BAGROFF
FRAGMENT IV: THE YOUNG COUPLE AT BAGROVO
FRAGMENT V: LIFE AT UFA
----
A RUSSIAN GENTLEMAN
FRAGMENT I: STEPAN MIHAILOVITCH BAGROFF
1. _The Migration_
When my grandfather lived in the Government of Simbirsk, on the
ancestral estate granted to his forefathers by the Tsars of Muscovy, he
felt cramped and confined. Not that there was really want of room; for
he had arable land and pasture, timber and other necessaries in
abundance; but the trouble was, that the estate which his
great-grandfather had held in absolute possession, had ceased to belong
to one owner. This happened quite simply: for three successive
generations the family consisted of one son and several daughters; and,
when some of these daughters were married, their portions took the shape
of a certain number of serfs and a certain amount of land. Though their
shares were not large, yet, as the land had never been properly
surveyed, at this time four intruders asserted their right to share in
the management of it. To my grandfather, life under these conditions was
intolerable: there was no patience in his passionate temperament; he
loved plain dealing and hated complications and wrangles with his kith
and kin.
For some time past, he had heard frequent reports about the district of
Ufa--how there was land there without limit for the plough and for
stock, with an indescribable abundance of game and fish and all the
fruit of the earth; and how easy it was to acquire whole tracts of land
for a very trifling sum of money. If tales were true, you had only to
invite a dozen of the native Bashkir chiefs in certain districts to
partake of your hospitality; you provided two or three fat sheep, for
them to kill and dress in their own fashion; you produced a bucket of
whisky, with several buckets of strong fermented Bashkir mead and a
barrel of home-made country beer--which proves, by the way, that even in
old days the Bashkirs were not strict Mahometans--and the rest was as
simple as A B C. It was said, indeed, that an entertainment of this kind
might last a week or even a fortnight: it was impossible for Bashkirs to
do business in a hurry, and every day it was necessary to ask the
question, "Well, good friend, is it time now to discuss my business?"
The guests had been eating and drinking, without exaggeration, all day
and all night; but, if they were not completely satisfied with the
entertainment, if they had not had enough of their monotonous singing
and playing on the pipe, and their singular dances in which they stood
up or crouched down on the same spot of ground, then the greatest of the
chiefs, clicking his tongue and wagging his head, would answer with much
dignity and without looking his questioner in the face: "The time has
not come; bring us another sheep!" The sheep was forthcoming, as a
matter of course, with fresh supplies of beer and spirits; and the tipsy
Bashkirs began again to sing and dance, dropping off to sleep wherever
they felt inclined. But everything in the world has an end; and a day
came at last when the chief would look his host straight in the face and
say: "We are obliged to you, _batyushka_,[2] ever so much obliged! And
now, what is it that you want?" The rest of the transaction followed a
regular fashion. The customer began with the shrewdness native to your
true Russian: he assured the Bashkir that he did not want anything at
all; but, having heard that the Bashkirs were exceedingly kind people,
he had come to Ufa on purpose to form a friendship with them, and so on.
Then the conversation would somehow come round to the vast extent of the
Bashkir territory and the unsatisfactory ways of the present tenants,
who might pay their rent for a year or two and then pay no more and yet
continue to live on the land, as if they were its rightful owners; it
was rash to evict them, and a lawsuit became unavoidable. These remarks,
which were true enough to the facts, were followed up by an obliging
offer to relieve the kind Bashkirs of some part of the land which was
such a burden to them; and in the end whole districts were bought and
sold for a mere song. The bargain was clinched by a legal document, but
the amount of land was never stated in it, and could not be, as it had
never been surveyed. As a rule, the boundaries were settled by landmarks
of this kind: "from the mouth of such and such a stream as far as the
dead beech-tree on the wolf-track, and from the dead beech-tree in a
bee-line to the watershed, and from the watershed to the fox-earths, and
from the fox-earths to the hollow tree at Soltamratka," and so on. So
precise and permanent were the boundaries enclosing ten or twenty or
thirty thousand _dessyatines_[3] of land! And the price of all this
might be about one hundred _roubles_[4] and presents worth another
hundred, not including the cost of the entertainments.
[2] "Father," a title of respect or affection.
[3] 100 _dessyatines_ = 270 acres.
[4] A _rouble_ is worth about 2_s._
Stories of this kind had a great attraction for my grandfather. As a man
of strict integrity, he disapproved of the deception practised on the
simple Bashkirs; but he considered that the harm lay, not in the
business itself, but in the method of transacting it, and believed that
it was possible to deal fairly and yet to buy a great stretch of land at
a low price. In that case he could migrate with his family and transfer
half of his serfs to the new estate; and thus he would secure the main
object of this design. For the fact was, that for some time past he had
been so much worried by unending disputes over the management of the
land--disputes between himself and the relations who owned a small part
of it--that his desire to leave the place where his ancestors had lived
and he himself was born, had become a fixed idea. There was no other
means of securing a quiet life; and to him, now that his youth was past,
a quiet life seemed more desirable than anything else.
So he scraped together several thousand _roubles_, and said good-bye to
his wife, whom he called Arisha when he was in a good humour and Arina
when he was not; he kissed his children and gave them his blessing--his
four young daughters and the infant son who was the single scion and
sole hope of an ancient and noble family. The daughters he thought of no
importance: "What's the good of them? They look out of the house, not
in; if their name is Bagroff[5] to-day, it may be anything on earth
to-morrow; my hopes rest entirely on my boy, Alexyei"--such were my
grandfather's parting words, when he started to cross the Volga on his
way to the district of Ufa.
[5] Bagroff is a pseudonym for Aksakoff.
But perhaps I had better begin by telling you what sort of a man my
grandfather was.
Stepan Mihailovitch Bagroff--this was his name--was under the middle
height; but his prominent chest, uncommonly broad shoulders, sinewy
arms, and wiry muscular frame, gave proof of his extraordinary
strength. When it happened, in the rough-and-tumble amusements of
young men, that a number of his brother-officers fastened on him at
once, he would hurl them from him, as a sturdy oak hurls off the
rain-drops, when its branches rock in the breeze after a shower. He
had fair hair and regular features; his eyes were large and dark-blue,
quick to light up with anger but friendly and kind in his hours of
composure; his eyebrows were thick and the lines of his mouth pleasant
to look at. The general expression of his features was singularly
frank and open: no one could help trusting him; his word or his
promise was better than any bond, and more sacred than any document
guaranteed by Church or State. His natural intelligence was clear and
strong. All landowners of that time were ignorant men, and he had
received no sort of education; indeed he could hardly read and write
his native language. But, while serving in the Army, and before he was
promoted from the ranks, he had mastered the elementary rules of
arithmetic and the use of the reckoning-board--acquirements of which
he liked to speak even when he was an old man. It is probable that his
period of service was not long; for he was only quarter-master of the
regiment when he retired. But in those days even nobles served for
long in the ranks or as non-commissioned officers, unless indeed they
passed through this stage in their cradles, first enrolled as
sergeants in the Guards and then making a sudden appearance as
captains in line regiments. Of the career of Stepan Mihailovitch in
the Army I know little; but I have been told that he was often
employed in the capture of the highwaymen who infested the Volga, and
always showed good sense in the formation of his plans and reckless
courage in their execution; that the outlaws knew him well by sight
and feared him like fire. On retiring from the Army, he lived for some
years on his hereditary estate of Bagrovo[6] and became very skilful
in the management of land. It was not his way to be present from
morning to night where his labourers were at work, nor did he stand
like a sentry over the grain, when it was coming in and going out;
but, when he was on the spot, he looked to some purpose, and, if he
noticed anything amiss, especially any attempt to deceive him, he
never failed to visit the offender with a summary form of punishment
which may rouse the displeasure of my readers. But my grandfather,
while acting in accordance with the spirit of his age, reasoned in a
fashion of his own. In his view, to punish a peasant by fines or by
forced labour on the estate made the man less substantial and
therefore less useful to his owner; and to separate him from his
family and banish him to a distant estate was even worse, for a man
deprived of family ties was sure to go downhill. But to have recourse
to the police was simply out of the question; that would have been
considered the depth of disgrace and shame; every voice in the village
would have been raised to mourn for the offender as if he were dead,
and he would have considered himself as disgraced and ruined beyond
redemption. And it must be said for my grandfather, that he was never
severe except when his anger was hot; when the fit had passed away,
the offence was forgotten. Advantage was often taken of this:
sometimes the offender had time to hide, and the storm passed by
without hurting any one. Before long, his people became so
satisfactory that none of them gave him any cause to lose his temper.
[6] Bagrovo is a pseudonym for Aksakovo.
After getting his estate into good order, my grandfather married; his
bride was Arina Vassilyevna Nyeklyoodoff, a young lady of little fortune
but, like himself, of ancient descent. This gives me an opportunity to
explain that his pedigree was my grandfather's foible: he was moderately
well-to-do, owning only 180 serfs, but his descent, which he traced
back, by means of Heaven knows what documents, for six hundred years all
the way to a Varyag[7] prince called Shimon, he valued far more than any
riches or office in the State. At one time he was much attracted by a
rich and beautiful girl, but he would not marry her, merely because her
great-grandfather was not a noble.
[7] The earliest Russian chronicles report that the Russian empire was
founded in the 8th century by certain foreign princes called
_Varyags_. The nationality of these princes has been a subject of
endless controversy, some historians maintaining that they were
Norsemen, others denying it.
After this account of Stepan Mihailovitch, let us go back to the course
of the narrative.
My grandfather first crossed the Volga by the ferry near Simbirsk, and
then struck across the steppe on the further side, and travelled on till
he came to Sergievsk, which stands on a hill at the meeting of two
rivers and gives a name to the sulphur springs twelve _versts_[8] from
the town. The deeper he plunged into the district of Ufa, the more he
was impressed by the spaciousness and fertility of that country. The
first place where he found trees growing was the district of
Boogoorooslan; and in the town of that name, perched on a high hill
above the river, he made a halt, wishing to make inquiries and learn
more particulars of the lands that were for sale. Of land belonging to
the Bashkirs there was little left in this district: some of the
occupiers were tenants of the Crown, whom the Government had settled on
lands confiscated for rebellion, though later they granted a general
pardon and restored their territory to the Bashkir owners; part of the
land had been let to tenants by the Bashkirs themselves; and part had
been bought up by migrating landowners. Using Boogoorooslan as a centre,
my grandfather made expeditions to the surrounding districts and spent
some time in the beautiful country watered by the Ik and the Dyoma.[9]
It is an enchanting region; and even in his old age Stepan Mihailovitch
often spoke with enthusiasm of the first impression produced on him by
the astonishing richness of that soil. But he did not allow himself to
be carried away. Ascertaining on the spot that any purchaser of Bashkir
land was quite sure to be involved in endless disputes and lawsuits--for
it was impossible for the acquirer to make sure either of his own title
or of the number of the former owners--my grandfather, who feared and
hated like poison the very name of a lawsuit, resolved to buy no land
direct from the Bashkirs or without formal legal documents to confirm
his ownership. Thus he hoped to exclude the possibility of disputes, and
surely he had reason for such a hope; but things turned out very
differently, and the last claim was only settled by his youngest
grandson when he was forty years old.
[8] A _verst_ is two-thirds of a mile.
[9] Pronounce Dyaw-ma.
My grandfather returned reluctantly from the banks of the Ik and the
Dyoma to Boogoorooslan, where he bought land from a Russian lady near
the river of that name and distant twenty-five _versts_ from the town.
The river is rapid and deep and never runs dry. For forty _versts_, from
the town of Boogoorooslan to the Crown settlement of Fair Bank, the
country on both sides of the river was uninhabited, so that there was
ample room; and the amenities of the spot were wonderful. The river was
so transparent that, if you threw in a copper coin, you could see it
resting on the bottom even in pools fifteen feet deep. In some places
there was a thick border of trees and bushes--birches, poplars,
service-trees, guelder-roses, and bird-cherries, where the hop-bines
trailed their green festoons and hung their straw-coloured clusters from
tree to tree; in other places, the grass grew tall and strong, with an
infinite profusion of flowers, including tall Meadow Sweet, Lords' Pride
(the scarlet Lychnis), Kings' Curls (the Martagon lily), and Cat-grass
or Valerian. The river flows along a valley varying in breadth and
bordered on both sides by sloping hills with a steep cliff here and
there; the slopes were thickly covered with hard-wood trees of all
sorts. As you got out of the valley, the level steppe spread out before
you, a black virgin soil over two feet in depth. Along the river and in
the neighbouring marshes, wild ducks of all kinds, and geese, woodcocks,
and snipe made their nests and filled the air with their different notes
and calls; while on the table-land above, where the grass grew thick and
strong, the music in the air was as rich and quite distinct. Every kind
of bird that lives in the steppe bred there in multitudes--bustards,
cranes, and hawks; and on the wooded slopes there were quantities of
black-game. The river swarmed with every variety of fish that could
endure its ice-cold water--pike, perch, chub, dace, and even salmon.
Both steppe and forest were filled beyond belief with wild creatures. In
a word, the place was, and still is, a paradise for the sportsman.
My grandfather bought about 12,000 acres for 2500 _roubles_. That was a
large sum in those days, and the price was much higher than was
generally paid. When he had assured his title by legal documents, he
went back with a light heart to his expectant family in the Government
of Simbirsk. There he set to work with fierce energy and made all
preparations for transferring at once a portion of his serfs to the new
estate. It was an anxious and troublesome job, because the distance was
considerable--about 400 _versts_. That same autumn twenty families of
serfs started for the district of Boogoorooslan, taking with them
ploughs and harrows with rye for sowing. They chose their ground and set
to work on the virgin soil. Two thousand acres were lightly ploughed,
then harrowed, and sown with winter rye; two thousand more were ploughed
in preparation for the spring sowing; and some cottages were built. When
this was done, the men travelled back to spend the winter at home. When
winter was over, twenty more labourers again went forth; and, as the
spring advanced, they sowed the two thousand acres with spring wheat,
erected fences round the cottages and byres, and made stoves for the
cottages out of clay. The second party then returned home. These were
distinct from the actual settlers, who remained at home, preparing for
their move and selling off what they did not need--their houses and
kailyards, stock and corn, and all sorts of odds and ends.
The date fixed was the middle of June, that the colonists might reach
their destination before St. Peter's Day,[10] when hay-cutting begins.
The carts were packed with the women and children and old people, and
awnings of bast bent over them to protect them from the sun and rain;
the indispensable pots and pans were piled up inside, the cocks and hens
perched on the top, and the cows tied on behind; and off they started.
The poor settlers shed bitter tears as they parted for ever with their
past life, with the church in which they had been christened and
married, and with the graves of their fathers and grandfathers. Nobody
likes moving, and a Russian peasant least of all; but to move in those
days to an unknown land inhabited by unbelievers, where the churches
were so distant that a man might die without confession and infants
remain long unchristened, a land of which rumour reported evil as well
as good--this seemed a terrible ordeal. When the peasants had gone, my
grandfather started after them. He had taken a vow that, when
circumstances allowed, he would build a church dedicated to the
Presentation of Our Lady--it was actually built by his son--and he named
the new settlement after the festival. But the peasants, whose example
was followed by their neighbours, called it New Bagrovo, after their
master and in memory of Old Bagrovo, from which they had come; and to
this day the formal name is only used in legal documents. No one knows
the village, with its fine stone church and high manor-house, by any
other name than Bagrovo. With unremitting care and attention my
grandfather watched the labour of the people on their own land and on
his; the hay was mown, the winter rye and spring corn were cut down and
carried, and the right moment was chosen for each operation. The yield
of the crops was fabulous. The peasants thought things were not so bad
after all. By November, cottages were built for them all, and the
beginning of a house for the owner was run up. All this was not done
without help from neighbours. In spite of the long distances, they came
willingly to lend a hand to the new landowner, who proved to be sensible
and friendly; they ate and drank and turned to with a will, and sang as
they worked. In that winter my grandfather went to Simbirsk and brought
back his wife and children with him.
[10] June 29.
Next year forty more serfs were transferred and set up in their new
abodes; and this proved an easier job. My grandfather's first operation
in this year was to build a mill; without it, it had been necessary to
drive forty _versts_ to get his corn ground. A spot was chosen where the
river was not deep, the bottom sound, and the banks high and solid. Then
a dam of earth and brushwood was started from each bank, like a pair of
hands ready to clasp; next, the dam was wattled with osiers, to make it
more substantial; and all that remained was to stop the swift strong
current and force it to fill the basin intended for it. The mill itself,
with two pairs of millstones, was built beforehand on the lower bank.
All the machinery was ready and even greased. It was the business of the
river, when checked in its natural course, to fill the broad dam and
pour through wooden pipes down upon the great wheel. When all was ready
and four long oaken piles had been firmly driven into the clay bottom of
the river, my grandfather invited his neighbours to lend him their
assistance for two days; and they came, bringing horses and carts,
spades, forks, and axes. On the first day, great piles of brushwood,
straw, manure, and fresh-cut sods were heaped up on both banks of the
Boogoorooslan, while the river continued to pour down its waters at its
own sweet will. Hardly any one slept that night, and next morning at
sunrise about a hundred men set to work to dam the stream; they all
looked solemn and serious, as if they had important business before
them. They began on both sides at the same moment. With loud cries they
hurled with sturdy arms faggots of brushwood into the water; part was
carried down by the stream, but part stuck against the piles and sank
across the channel. Next came bundles of straw weighted with stones,
then soil and manure, then more brushwood, followed by more straw and
manure, and, on the top of all, a thick layer of sods. All this
accumulation was swallowed up till it rose at last above the surface of
the water. At once, a dozen strong and active men sprang on to the
barrier and began to tread it and stamp it down. The operation was
performed with the utmost speed; and the general excitement was so great
and the noise so vociferous, that a passer-by, if he had not known the
reason of it, might have been frightened. But there was no one there to
be frightened by it: only the uninhabited steppes and dark forests and
all the region round re-echoed the shouts of the labourers. The voices
of women and children swelled the chorus; for such an important affair
aroused interest in every breast, and the noise and excitement were
universal. The resistance of the river was not overcome at once. For
long it tore away and carried down brushwood and straw, manure and turf;
but man at last conquered. The baffled water stopped, as if reflecting;
then it turned back, and rose till it poured over its banks and
inundated the fields. By evening the mill-pond had taken shape; or one
might call it a floating lake, where the banks and all the green grass
and bushes had disappeared; only the tops of submerged trees, doomed to
die, stuck up here and there. Next day the mill began to work, and goes
on working and grinding to this day.
2. _The Government of Orenburg_
How wonderful in those days was that region, in its wild and virginal
richness! It is different now; it is not even what it was when I first
knew it, when it was still fresh and blooming and undeflowered by hordes
of settlers from every quarter. It is changed; but it is still beautiful
and spacious, fertile and infinitely various, the Government of
Orenburg. The name sounds strange, and the termination "burg" is
inappropriate enough. But when I first knew that earthly paradise, it
was still called the "Province of Ufa."
Thirty years ago, one who was born within it[11] expressed in verse his
fears for the future of the land; and these have been realised in part,
and the process still goes on. But still hast thou power to charm,
wondrous land! Bright and clear, like great deep cups, are thy
lakes--Kandry and Karatabyn. Full of water and full of all manner of
fish are thy rivers, whether they race down the valleys and rocky gorges
of the Ural Mountains, or steal softly, glittering like a string of
jewels, through the prairie-grass of the steppes. Wondrous are these
rivers of the steppe, formed by the union of countless little streams
flowing from deep water-holes--streams so tiny that you can hardly see
the trickle of water in them. And thy rivers that flow swift from
fountain-heads and run under the shade of trees and bushes are
transparent and cold as ice even in the heat of summer; and all kinds of
trout, good to eat and beautiful to see, live there; but they soon die
out, when man begins to defile with unclean hands the virgin streams of
their clear cool retreats. Fertile is the black soil of thy corn-land,
and rich thy pastures; and thy fields are covered in spring with the
milk-white blossom of the cherry-tree and wild peach, while in summer
the fragrant strawberries spread over them like a scarlet cloth, and the
small cherries that turn purple later when they ripen in autumn. Rich is
the harvest that rewards the peasant, however idle and ignorant, when he
scratches with his rude ploughshare the surface of thy soil. Fresh and
green and mighty stand thy forests of all manner of trees; and buzzing
swarms of wild bees fill their self-chosen nests among the leaves with
the fragrant honey of the lime blossom. The Ufa marten, with its
priceless fur, is still to be found in the wooded head-waters of the
great rivers.
[11] Aksakoff himself.
The original inhabitants of the land are men of peace, the wandering
tribes of Bashkirs. Their herds of horses and cattle and flocks of
sheep, though far smaller than they were once, are still numerous. When
the fierce storms of winter are over, the Bashkirs crawl forth, thin and
wasted like flies in winter. With the first warmth and the first
sprouting of the grass they drive out into the open their half-starved
herds and flocks, and drag themselves after them, with their wives and
children. A few weeks change them beyond recognition, both men and
animals. What were mere skeletons have become spirited and tireless
horses; and the stallion proudly guards his mares as they graze, and
keeps both man and beast at a distance. The meagre cattle have grown
fat, and their udders swell with milk. But for cow's milk the Bashkir
cares nothing. For the _koumiss_[12] is now in season and already
fermenting in the bags of horse-hide; and every creature that can drink,
from the infant in arms to the tottering old man, swallows the
health-giving beverage, a drink for heroes. And the result is
marvellous: all the traces of winter and starvation soon disappear, and
even the troubles of old age; their faces fill out, and pale sunken
cheeks take on the hue of health. But their deserted villages are a sad
and even alarming sight. A traveller unfamiliar with the country might
well start, appalled by the emptiness and deadness of the place. There
stand the deserted huts with their white chimneys, and the empty
window-frames look mournfully at him like human faces with no eyes in
the sockets. He may hear the bark of a half-starved watch-dog, whom his
master visits and feeds at long intervals, or the mewing of a cat that
has run wild and finds food for herself; but that is all: not one human
being remains.
[12] Mare's milk, fermented.
How varied and picturesque, each in its own way, are the different
regions of the land--the forests, the steppes, and, more than all, the
hills, where all metals, even gold, are found along the slopes of the
Ural ridge! How vast the expanse, from the borders of Vyatka and Perm,
where the mercury often freezes in winter, to the little town of Guryeff
on the edge of Astrakhan, where small grapes ripen in the open
air--grapes whose wine the Cossack trades in and drinks himself for
coolness in summer and warmth in winter. How noble is the fishing in the
Urals, unlike any other both in the fish that are caught and in the
manner of catching them! It only needs a faithful and lively description
to attract general attention.
But I must ask pardon. I have gone too far in the description of the
beautiful country where I was born. Now let us go back and observe the
life and unwearied activity of my grandfather.
3. _Fresh Scenes._
Stepan Mihailovitch had peace at last. Many a time he thanked God from
the bottom of his heart, when the move was completed and he found
elbow-room on the banks of the Boogoorooslan. His spirits rose, and even
his health was better. No petitions, no complaints, no disputes, no
disturbance! No tiresome relations, no divided ownership! No thieves to
fell his trees, no trespassers to trample down his corn and meadows! He
was undisputed master at last in his own house, and beyond it: he might
feed sheep, or mow grass, or cut firewood where he pleased without a
word from any one.
The peasants too soon became accustomed to the new habitation and soon
grew to love it. And that was but natural. Old Bagrovo had wood, but
little water; meadow-land was so scarce that it was hard for them to
find grazing for one horse and one cow apiece; and, though the natural
soil was good, it had been cropped over and over from time immemorial
till its fertility was exhausted. The new site gave them wide and
fertile fields and meadows, never touched till now by ploughshare or
scythe; it gave them a rapid river with good fresh water, and springs in
abundance; it gave them a broad pond with fish in it and the river
running through it; and it gave them a mill at their very doors, whereas
before they had to travel twenty-five _versts_ to have a load of corn
ground, and perhaps to wait after all a couple of days till their turn
came.
It surprises you perhaps that I called Old Bagrovo waterless; and you
may blame my ancestors for choosing such a spot to settle in. But they
were not to blame, and things were different in old days. Once on a time
Old Bagrovo stood on a pretty stream, the Maina, which took its rise
from the Mossy Lakes three _versts_ distant; and also along the whole
settlement there stretched a lake, not broad but long and clear, and
deep in the middle, with a bottom of white sand; and another streamlet,
called The White Spring, issued from this lake. So it was in former
times, but it is quite another story now. Tradition tells that the Mossy
Lakes were once deep round pools surrounded by trees, with ice-cold
water and treacherous banks, and no one ventured near them except in
winter, because the banks were said to give way under foot and engulf
the bold disturber of the water-spirit's solitary reign. But man is the
sworn foe of Nature, and she can never withstand his treacherous warfare
against her beauty. Ancient tradition, unsupported by modern instances,
ceased to be believed. The people steeped their flax on the banks and
drove their herds there to water; and the Mossy Lakes were polluted by
degrees, and grew shallow at the edges, and even dried up in places
where the wood all round was cut. Then a thick scurf formed on the top;
moss grew over it, and the vein-like roots of water-plants bound it
together, till it was covered with tussocks and bushes and even
fir-trees of some size. One of the pools is now entirely covered; of the
other are left two deep water-holes, which even now are formidable for a
stranger to approach, because the soil, with all its covering of plants
and bushes and trees, rises and falls beneath the foot like a wave at
sea. Owing to the dwindling of these lakes, the Maina now issues from
the ground some distance below the settlement, and its upper waters have
dried up. The lake by the village has become a filthy stinking canal;
the sandy bottom is covered to a depth of over seven feet by mud and
refuse of all kinds from the peasants' houses; of the White Spring not a
trace is left, and the memory of it will soon be forgotten.
When my grandfather had settled down at New Bagrovo, he set to work,
with all his natural activity and energy, to grow corn and breed stock.
The peasants caught the contagion of his enthusiasm and worked so hard
and steadily that they were soon as well set up and provided for as if
they had been old inhabitants. After a few years, their stackyards took
up thrice as much room as the village-street; and their drove of stout
horses, their herds and flocks and pigs, would have done honour to a
large and prosperous settlement.
After the success of Stepan Mihailovitch, migration to Ufa or Orenburg
became more fashionable every year. Native tribes came streaming from
every quarter--Mordvinians, Choovashes, Tatars, and Meshchers, and
plenty of Russian settlers too--Crown-tenants from different districts,
and landowners, large and small. My grandfather began to have
neighbours. His brother-in-law, Ivan Nyeklyoodoff, bought land within
twelve _versts_ of Bagrovo, transferred his serfs there, built a wooden
church, named his estate Nyeklyoodovo, and came to live there with his
family. This afforded no gratification to my grandfather, who had a
strong dislike to all his wife's relations--all "Nyeklyoodovdom," as he
used to call them. Then a landowner called Bakmetyeff bought land still
closer, about ten _versts_ from Bagrovo, on the upper waters of the
Sovrusha, which runs to the south-west like the Boogoorooslan. On the
other side, twelve _versts_ along the river Nasyagai, another settlement
was planted, Polibino, which now belongs to the Karamzin family. The
Nasyagai is a larger and finer river than the Boogoorooslan, with more
water and more fish in it, and birds still breed there much more freely.
On the road to Polibino, and eight _versts_ from Bagrovo, a number of
Mordvinians settled in a large village called Noikino, and built a mill
on the streamlet of Bokla. Close to the mill, the Bokla runs into the
Nasyagai, which rolls its swift strong current straight to the
south-west, and is reinforced by the Boogoorooslan not far from the town
of that name. Then the Nasyagai unites with the Great Kinel, and loses
thenceforth its sounding and significant[13] name.
[13] Na-sya-gai = "Pursuer."
The latest arrivals were some Mordvinian colonists, a detachment from
the larger settlement at Mordovsky Boogoorooslan, nine _versts_ from
Bagrovo. This smaller settlement, called Kivatsky, was within two
_versts_ of my grandfather, down the river; and he made a wry face at
first; for it reminded him of old times in Simbirsk. But the result was
quite different. They were good-tempered, quiet people, who respected my
grandfather as much as the official in charge of them.
Before many years had passed, Stepan Mihailovitch had gained the deep
respect and love too of the whole district. He was a real benefactor to
his neighbours, near or far, old or new, and especially to the latter,
owing to their ignorance of the place and lack of supplies, and the
various difficulties which always befall settlers. Too often people
start off on this difficult job without due preparation, without even
providing themselves with bread and corn or the means to buy them. My
grandfather's full granaries were always open to such people. "Take what
you want, and pay me back next harvest, if you can; and if you
can't--well, never mind!"--with such words as these he used to
distribute with a generous hand corn seed and flour. And more than this:
he was so sensible, so considerate towards petitioners, and so
inflexibly strict in the keeping of his word, that he soon became quite
an oracle in that newly settled corner of the spacious district of
Orenburg. Not only did he help his neighbours by his generosity, but he
taught them how to behave. To speak the truth was the only key to his
favour: a man who had once lied to him and deceived him was ill advised
if he came again to Bagrovo: he would be certain to depart with empty
hands, and might think himself lucky if he came off with a whole skin.
My grandfather settled many family disputes and smothered many lawsuits
at their first birth. People travelled from every quarter to seek his
advice and hear his decision; and both were punctiliously followed. I
have known grandsons and great-grandsons of that generation and heard
them speak of Stepan Mihailovitch; and the figure of the strict master
but kind benefactor is still unforgotten. I have often heard striking
facts told about him by simple people, who shed tears and crossed
themselves as they ejaculated a prayer for his soul's rest. It is not
surprising that his peasants loved so excellent a master; but he was
loved also by his personal servants who had often to endure the terrible
storms of his furious rage. Many of his younger servants spent their
last days under my roof; and in their old age they liked to talk of
their late master--of his strict discipline and passionate temper, and
also of his goodness and justice; and they never spoke of him with dry
eyes.
Yet this kind, helpful, and even considerate man was subject at times to
fearful explosions of anger which utterly defaced the image of humanity
in him and made him capable, for the time, of repulsive and ferocious
actions. I once saw him in this state when I was a child--it was many
years after the time I am writing about--and the fear that I felt has
left a lively impression on my mind to this day. I seem to see him
before me now. He was angry with one of his daughters; I believe she had
told him a lie and persisted in it. It was impossible to recognise his
former self. He was trembling all over and supported on each side by a
servant; his face was convulsed, and a fierce fire shot from his eyes
which were clouded and darkened with fury. "Let me get at her!"--he
called out in a strangled voice. (So far, my recollection is clear; and
the rest I have often heard others tell.) My grandmother tried to throw
herself at his feet, to intercede for the culprit; but in an instant her
kerchief and cap flew to a distance, and Stepan Mihailovitch was
dragging his wife though she was now old and stout, over the floor by
her hair. Meantime, not only the offender, but all her sisters, and even
their brother with his young wife and little son,[14] had fled out of
doors and sought concealment in the wood that grew round the house. The
rest of them spent the whole night there; but the daughter-in-law,
fearing that her child would catch cold, went back and passed the night
in a servant's cottage. For a long time my grandfather raged at large
through the deserted house. At last, when he was weary of dragging his
wife about by the hair, and weary of striking his servants, Mazan and
Tanaichonok, he dropped upon his bed utterly exhausted and soon fell
into a deep sleep which lasted till the following morning.
[14] _I.e._ the author, who in childhood was called Seryozha (short for
Serghei).
At dawn Stepan Mihailovitch woke up. His face was bright and clear, and
his voice cheerful as he hailed his wife. She hurried in at once from
the next room, looking as if nothing had happened the day before. "I
want my tea! Where are the children, and Alexyei and his wife? I want to
see Seryozha"--thus spoke the madman on his waking, and all the family
appeared, composed and cheerful, in his presence. But there was one
exception. His daughter-in-law was a woman of strong character herself,
and no entreaties could induce her to smile so soon upon the wild beast
of the day before; and her little son kept constantly saying, "I won't
go to grandfather! I'm frightened!" She really did not feel well and
excused herself on that ground; and she kept her child in her room. The
family were horrified and expected a renewal of the storm. But the wild
beast of yesterday had wakened up as a human being. He talked playfully
over his tea and then went himself to visit the invalid. She was really
unwell and was lying in bed, looking thin and altered. The old man sat
down beside her, kissed her, said kind things to her, and caressed his
grandson; then he left the room, saying that he would find the day long
"without his dear daughter-in-law." Half an hour later she entered his
room, wearing a pretty dress which he used to say especially became her,
and holding her son by the hand. My grandfather welcomed her almost in
tears: "Just see!" he said fondly; "though she was not well, she got up
and dressed, regardless of herself, and came to cheer up an old man."
His wife and daughters bit their lips and looked down; for they all
disliked his favourite; but she answered his affectionate greeting with
cheerful respect, and looked proudly and triumphantly at her
ill-wishers.
But I will say no more of the dark side of my grandfather's character. I
would rather dwell on his bright side and describe one of his good days,
which I have often and often heard spoken of.
4. _My Grandfather, on one of his Good Days_
It was the end of June, and the weather was very hot. After a stifling
night, a fresh breeze set in from the East at dawn, the breeze which
always flags when the sun grows hot. At sunrise my grandfather awoke. It
was hot in his bedroom; for the room was not large, and, though the
window with its narrow old-fashioned sash was raised as high as it would
go, he had curtains of home-made muslin round his bed. This precaution
was indispensable: without it, the wicked mosquitos would have kept him
awake and devoured him. The winged musicians swarmed round the bed,
drove their long probosces into the fine fabric which protected him, and
kept up their monotonous serenade all through the night. It sounds
absurd, but I cannot conceal the fact that I like the shrill high note
and even the bite of the mosquito; for it reminds me of sleepless nights
in high summer on the banks of the Boogoorooslan, where the bushes grew
thick and green and all round the nightingales called; and I remember
the beating heart of youth and that vague feeling, half pleasure and
half pain, for which I would now give up all that remains of the sinking
fire of life.
My grandfather woke up, rubbed the sweat off his high forehead with a
hot hand, put his head out between the curtains, and burst out laughing.
His two servants, Mazan and Tanaichonok, lay stretched on the floor;
their attitudes might have made any one laugh, and they snored lustily.
"Confound the rascals! How they snore!" said my grandfather, and smiled
again. You could never be sure about Stepan Mihailovitch. It might have
been expected that such forcible language would have been followed up by
a blow in the ribs from the blackthorn staff which always stood by his
bed, or a kick, or even a salutation in the form of a stool. But no: my
grandfather had laughed on opening his eyes, and he kept up that mood
throughout the day. He rose quickly, crossed himself once or twice, and
thrust his bare feet into a pair of old rusty leather slippers; then,
wearing only his shirt of coarse home-made linen--my grandmother would
not give him any better--he went out upon the stoop,[15] to enjoy the
freshness and moisture of the morning all round him.
[15] This word from S. Africa seems best for an unroofed veranda, such
as this was.