The door opened slowly, and bending to pass through, Rybin strode in
heavily.
"Here I am!" he said, raising his head and smiling.
He wore a short fur overcoat, all stained with tar, a pair of dark
mittens stuck from his belt, and his head was covered with a shaggy fur
cap.
"Are you well? Have they let you out of prison, Pavel? So, how are you,
Nilovna?"
"Why, you? How glad I am to see you!"
Slowly removing his overclothes, Rybin said:
"Yes, I've turned muzhik again. You're gradually turning gentlemen, and
I am turning the other way. That's it!"
Pulling his ticking shirt straight, he passed through the room, examined
it attentively, and remarked:
"You can see your property has not increased, but you've grown richer in
books. So! That's the dearest possession, books are, it's true. Well,
tell me how things are going with you."
"Things are going forward," said Pavel.
"Yes," said Rybin.
"We plow and we sow,
All high and low,
Boasting is cheap,
But the harvest we reap,
A feast we'll make,
And a rest we'll take."
"Will you have some tea?" asked the mother.
"Yes, I'll have some tea, and I'll take a sip of vodka, too; and if
you'll give me something to eat, I won't decline it, either. I am glad
to see you--that's what!"
"How's the world wagging with you, Mikhaïl Ivanych?" Pavel inquired,
taking a seat opposite Rybin.
"So, so. Fairly well. I settled at Edilgeyev. Have you ever heard of
Edilgeyev? It's a fine village. There are two fairs a year there; over
two thousand inhabitants. The people are an evil pack. There's no land.
It's leased out in lots. Poor soil!"
"Do you talk to them?" asked Pavel, becoming animated.
"I don't keep mum. You know I have all your leaflets with me. I grabbed
them away from here--thirty-four of them. But I carry on my propaganda
chiefly with the Bible. You can get something out of it. It's a thick
book. It's a government book. It's published by the Holy Synod. It's
easy to believe!" He gave Pavel a wink, and continued with a laugh: "But
that's not enough! I have come here to you to get books. Yefim is here,
too. We are transporting tar; and so we turned aside to stop at your
house. You stock me up with books before Yefim comes. He doesn't have to
know too much!"
"Mother," said Pavel, "go get some books! They'll know what to give you.
Tell them it's for the country."
"All right. The samovar will be ready in a moment, and then I'll go."
"You have gone into this movement, too, Nilovna?" asked Rybin with a
smile. "Very well. We have lots of eager candidates for books. There's a
teacher there who creates a desire for them. He's a fine fellow, they
say, although he belongs to the clergy. We have a woman teacher, too,
about seven versts from the village. But they don't work with illegal
books; they're a 'law and order' crowd out there; they're afraid. But I
want forbidden books--sharp, pointed books. I'll slip them through their
fingers. When the police commissioners or the priest see that they are
illegal books, they'll think it's the teachers who circulate them. And
in the meantime I'll remain in the background."
Well content with his hard, practical sense, he grinned merrily.
"Hm!" thought the mother. "He looks like a bear and behaves like a fox."
Pavel rose, and pacing up and down the room with even steps, said
reproachfully:
"We'll let you have the books, but what you want to do is not right,
Mikhaïl Ivanovich."
"Why is it not right?" asked Rybin, opening his eyes in astonishment.
"You yourself ought to answer for what you do. It is not right to manage
matters so that others should suffer for what you do." Pavel spoke
sternly.
Rybin looked at the floor, shook his head, and said:
"I don't understand you."
"If the teachers are suspected," said Pavel, stationing himself in front
of Rybin, "of distributing illegal books, don't you think they'll be put
in jail for it?"
"Yes. Well, what if they are?"
"But it's you who distribute the books, not they. Then it's you that
ought to go to prison."
"What a strange fellow you are!" said Rybin with a smile, striking his
hand on his knee. "Who would suspect me, a muzhik, of occupying myself
with such matters? Why, does such a thing happen? Books are affairs of
the masters, and it's for them to answer for them."
The mother felt that Pavel did not understand Rybin, and she saw that he
was screwing up his eyes--a sign of anger. So she interjected in a
cautious, soft voice:
"Mikhaïl Ivanovich wants to fix it so that he should be able to go on
with his work, and that others should take the punishment for it."
"That's it!" said Rybin, stroking his beard.
"Mother," Pavel asked dryly, "suppose some of our people, Andrey, for
example, did something behind my back, and I were put in prison for it,
what would you say to that?"
The mother started, looked at her son in perplexity, and said, shaking
her head in negation:
"Why, is it possible to act that way toward a comrade?"
"Aha! Yes!" Rybin drawled. "I understand you, Pavel." And with a comical
wink toward the mother, he added: "This is a delicate matter, mother."
And again turning to Pavel he held forth in a didactic manner: "Your
ideas on this subject are very green, brother. In secret work there is
no honor. Think! In the first place, they'll put those persons in prison
on whom they find the books, and not the teachers. That's number one!
Secondly, even though the teachers give the people only legal books to
read, you know that they contain prohibited things just the same as in
the forbidden books; only they are put in a different language. The
truths are fewer. That's number two. I mean to say, they want the same
thing that I do; only they proceed by side paths, while I travel on the
broad highway. And thirdly, brother, what business have I with them? How
can a traveler on foot strike up friendship with a man on horseback?
Toward a muzhik, maybe, I wouldn't want to act that way. But these
people, one a clergyman, the other the daughter of a land proprietor,
why they want to uplift the people, I cannot understand. Their ideas,
the ideas of the masters, are unintelligible to me, a muzhik. What I do
myself, I know, but what they are after I cannot tell. For thousands of
years they have punctiliously and consistently pursued the business of
being masters, and have fleeced and flayed the skins of the muzhiks; and
all of a sudden they wake up and want to open the muzhik's eyes. I am
not a man for fairy tales, brother, and that's in the nature of a fairy
tale. That's why I can't get interested in them. The ways of the masters
are strange to me. You travel in winter, and you see some living
creature in front of you. But what it is--a wolf, a fox, or just a plain
dog--you don't know."
The mother glanced at her son. His face wore a gloomy expression.
Rybin's eyes sparkled with a dark gleam. He looked at Pavel, combing
down his beard with his fingers. His air was at once complacent and
excited.
"I have no time to flirt," he said. "Life is a stern matter. We live in
dog houses, not in sheep pens, and every pack barks after its own
fashion."
"There are some masters," said the mother, recalling certain familiar
faces, "who die for the people, and let themselves be tortured all their
lives in prison."
"Their calculations are different, and their deserts are different,"
said Rybin. "The muzhik grown rich turns into a gentleman, and the
gentleman grown poor goes to the muzhik. Willy-nilly, he must have a
pure soul, if his purse is empty. Do you remember, Pavel, you explained
to me that as a man lives, so he also thinks, and that if the workingman
says 'Yes,' the master must say 'No,' and if the workingman says 'No,'
the master, because of the nature of the beast, is bound to cry 'Yes.'
So you see, their natures are different one from the other. The muzhik
has his nature, and the gentleman has his. When the peasant has a full
stomach, the gentleman passes sleepless nights. Of course, every fold
has its black sheep, and I have no desire to defend the peasants
wholesale."
Rybin rose to his feet somber and powerful. His face darkened, his beard
quivered as if he ground his teeth inaudibly, and he continued in a
lowered voice:
"For five years I beat about from factory to factory, and got
unaccustomed to the village. Then I went to the village again, looked
around, and I found I could not live like that any more! You understand?
I _can't_. You live here, you don't know hunger, you don't see such
outrages. There hunger stalks after a man all his life like a shadow,
and he has no hope for bread--no hope! Hunger destroys the soul of the
people; the very image of man is effaced from their countenances. They
do not live, they rot in dire unavoidable want. And around them the
government authorities watch like ravens to see if a crumb is not left
over. And if they do find a crumb, they snatch that away, too, and give
you a punch in the face besides."
Rybin looked around, bent down to Pavel, his hand resting on the table:
"I even got sick and faint when I saw that life again. I looked around
me--but I couldn't! However, I conquered my repulsion. 'Fiddlesticks!' I
said. 'I won't let my feelings get the better of me. I'll stay here. I
won't get your bread for you; but I'll cook you a pretty mess, I will.'
I carry within me the wrongs of my people and hatred of the oppressor. I
feel these wrongs like a knife constantly cutting at my heart."
Perspiration broke out on his forehead; he shrugged his shoulders and
slowly bent toward Pavel, laying a tremulous hand on his shoulder:
"Give me your help! Let me have books--such books that when a man has
read them he will not be able to rest. Put a prickly hedgehog to his
brains. Tell those city folks who write for you to write for the
villagers also. Let them write such hot truth that it will scald the
village, that the people will even rush to their death."
He raised his hand, and laying emphasis on each word, he said hoarsely:
"Let death make amends for death. That is, die so that the people should
arise to life again. And let thousands die in order that hosts of people
all over the earth may arise to life again. That's it! It's easy to
die--but let the people rise to life again! That's a different thing!
Let them rise up in rebellion!"
The mother brought in the samovar, looking askance at Rybin. His strong,
heavy words oppressed her. Something in him reminded her of her husband.
He, too, showed his teeth, waved his hands, and rolled up his sleeves;
in him, too, there was that impatient wrath, impatient but dumb. Rybin
was not dumb; he was not silent; he spoke, and therefore was less
terrible.
"That's necessary," said Pavel, nodding his head. "We need a newspaper
for the villages, too. Give us material, and we'll print you a
newspaper."
The mother looked at her son with a smile, and shook her head. She had
quietly put on her wraps and now went out of the house.
"Yes, do it. We'll give you everything. Write as simply as possible, so
that even calves could understand," Rybin cried. Then, suddenly stepping
back from Pavel, he said, as he shook his head:
"Ah, me, if I were a Jew! The Jew, my dear boy, is the most believing
man in the world! Isaiah, the prophet, or Job, the patient, believed
more strongly than Christ's apostles. They could say words to make a
man's hair stand on end. But the apostles, you see, Pavel, couldn't. The
prophets believed not in the church, but in themselves; they had their
God in themselves. The apostles--they built churches; and the church is
law. Man must believe in himself, not in law. Man carries the truth of
God in his soul; he is not a police captain on earth, nor a slave! All
the laws are in myself."
The kitchen door opened, and somebody walked in.
"It's Yefim," said Rybin, looking into the kitchen. "Come here, Yefim.
As for you, Pavel, think! Think a whole lot. There is a great deal to
think about. This is Yefim. And this man's name is Pavel. I told you
about him."
A light-haired, broad-faced young fellow in a short fur overcoat, well
built and evidently strong, stood before Pavel, holding his cap in both
hands and looking at him from the corners of his gray eyes.
"How do you do?" he said hoarsely, as he shook hands with Pavel, and
stroked his curly hair with both hands. He looked around the room,
immediately spied the bookshelf, and walked over to it slowly.
"Went straight to them!" Rybin said, winking to Pavel.
Yefim started to examine the books, and said:
"A whole lot of reading here! But I suppose you haven't much time for
it. Down in the village they have more time for reading."
"But less desire?" Pavel asked.
"Why? They have the desire, too," answered the fellow, rubbing his chin.
"The times are so now that if you don't think, you might as well lie
down and die. But the people don't want to die; and so they've begun to
make their brains work. 'Geology'--what's that?"
Pavel explained.
"We don't need it!" Yefim said, replacing the book on the shelf.
Rybin sighed noisily, and said:
"The peasant is not so much interested to know where the land came from
as where it's gone to, how it's been snatched from underneath his feet
by the gentry. It doesn't matter to him whether it's fixed or whether it
revolves--that's of no importance--you can hang it on a rope, if you
want to, provided it feeds him; you can nail it to the skies, provided
it gives him enough to eat."
"'The History of Slavery,'" Yefim read out again, and asked Pavel: "Is
it about us?"
"Here's an account of Russian serfdom, too," said Pavel, giving him
another book. Yefim took it, turned it in his hands, and putting it
aside, said calmly:
"That's out of date."
"Have you an apportionment of land for yourself?" inquired Pavel.
"We? Yes, we have. We are three brothers, and our portion is about ten
acres and a half--all sand--good for polishing brass, but poor for
making bread." After a pause he continued: "I've freed myself from the
soil. What's the use? It does not feed; it ties one's hands. This is the
fourth year that I'm working as a hired man. I've got to become a
soldier this fall. Uncle Mikhaïl says: 'Don't go. Now,' he says, 'the
soldiers are being sent to beat the people.' However, I think I'll go.
The army existed at the time of Stepan Timofeyevich Razin and Pugachev.
The time has come to make an end of it. Don't you think so?" he asked,
looking firmly at Pavel.
"Yes, the time has come." The answer was accompanied by a smile. "But
it's hard. You must know what to say to soldiers, and how to say it."
"We'll learn; we'll know how," Yefim said.
"And if the superiors catch you at it, they may shoot you down," Pavel
concluded, looking curiously at Yefim.
"They will show no mercy," the peasant assented calmly, and resumed his
examination of the books.
"Drink your tea, Yefim; we've got to leave soon," said Rybin.
"Directly." And Yefim asked again: "Revolution is an uprising, isn't
it?"
Andrey came, red, perspiring, and dejected. He shook Yefim's hand
without saying anything, sat down by Rybin's side, and smiled as he
looked at him.
"What's the trouble? Why so blue?" Rybin asked, tapping his knee.
"Nothing."
"Are you a workingman, too?" asked Yefim, nodding his head toward the
Little Russian.
"Yes," Andrey answered. "Why?"
"This is the first time he's seen factory workmen," explained Rybin. "He
says they're different from others."
"How so?" Pavel asked.
Yefim looked carefully at Andrey and said:
"You have sharp bones; peasants' bones are rounder."
"The peasant stands more firmly on his feet," Rybin supplemented. "He
feels the ground under him although he does not possess it. Yet he feels
the earth. But the factory workingman is something like a bird. He has
no home. To-day he's here, to-morrow there. Even his wife can't attach
him to the same spot. At the least provocation--farewell, my dear! and
off he goes to look for something better. But the peasant wants to
improve himself just where he is without moving off the spot. There's
your mother!" And Rybin went out into the kitchen.
Yefim approached Pavel, and with embarrassment asked:
"Perhaps you will give me a book?"
"Certainly."
The peasant's eyes flashed, and he said rapidly:
"I'll return it. Some of our folks bring tar not far from here. They
will return it for me. Thank you! Nowadays a book is like a candle in
the night to us."
Rybin, already dressed and tightly girt, came in and said to Yefim:
"Come, it's time for us to go."
"Now, I have something to read!" exclaimed Yefim, pointing to the book
and smiling inwardly. When he had gone, Pavel animatedly said, turning
to Andrey:
"Did you notice those fellows?"
"Y-yes!" slowly uttered the Little Russian. "Like clouds in the
sunset--thick, dark clouds, moving slowly."
"Mikhaïl!" exclaimed the mother. "He looks as if he had never been in a
factory! A peasant again. And how formidable he looks!"
"I'm sorry you weren't here," said Pavel to Andrey, who was sitting at
the table, staring gloomily into his glass of tea. "You could have seen
the play of hearts. You always talk about the heart. Rybin got up a lot
of steam; he upset me, crushed me. I couldn't even reply to him. How
distrustful he is of people, and how cheaply he values them! Mother is
right. That man has a formidable power in him."
"I noticed it," the Little Russian replied glumly. "They have poisoned
people. When the peasants rise up, they'll overturn absolutely
everything! They need bare land, and they will lay it bare, tear down
everything." He spoke slowly, and it was evident that his mind was on
something else. The mother cautiously tapped him on the shoulder.
"Pull yourself together, Andriusha."
"Wait a little, my dear mother, my own!" he begged softly and kindly.
"All this is so ugly--although I didn't mean to do any harm. Wait!" And
suddenly rousing himself, he said, striking the table with his hand:
"Yes, Pavel, the peasant will lay the land bare for himself when he
rises to his feet. He will burn everything up, as if after a plague, so
that all traces of his wrongs will vanish in ashes."
"And then he will get in our way," Pavel observed softly.
"It's our business to prevent that. We are nearer to him; he trusts us;
he will follow us."
"Do you know, Rybin proposes that we should publish a newspaper for the
village?"
"We must do it, too. As soon as possible."
Pavel laughed and said:
"I feel bad I didn't argue with him."
"We'll have a chance to argue with him still," the Little Russian
rejoined. "You keep on playing your flute; whoever has gay feet, if they
haven't grown into the ground, will dance to your tune. Rybin would
probably have said that we don't feel the ground under us, and need not,
either. Therefore it's our business to shake it. Shake it once, and the
people will be loosened from it; shake it once more, and they'll tear
themselves away."
The mother smiled.
"Everything seems to be simple to you, Andriusha."
"Yes, yes, it's simple," said the Little Russian, and added gloomily:
"Like life." A few minutes later he said: "I'll go take a walk in the
field."
"After the bath? The wind will blow through you," the mother warned.
"Well, I need a good airing."
"Look out, you'll catch a cold," Pavel said affectionately. "You'd
better lie down and try to sleep."
"No, I'm going." He put on his wraps, and went out without speaking.
"It's hard for him," the mother sighed.
"You know what?" Pavel observed to her. "It's very good that you started
to say 'thou' to him after that."
She looked at him in astonishment, and after reflecting a moment, said:
"Um, I didn't even notice how it came. It came all of itself. He has
grown so near to me. I can't tell you in words just how I feel. Oh, such
a misfortune!"
"You have a good heart, mamma," Pavel said softly.
"I'm very glad if I have. If I could only help you in some way, all of
you. If I only could!"
"Don't fear, you will."
She laughed softly:
"I can't help fearing; that's exactly what I can't help. But thank you
for the good word, my dear son."
"All right, mother; don't let's talk about it any more. Know that I love
you; and I thank you most heartily."
She walked into the kitchen in order not to annoy him with her tears.