dotted the fields here and there. On the highway were to be
encountered wagons loaded with brushwood and logs. The ground had
become more solid, and in places was touched with frost. Already had
the snow begun to besprinkle the sky, and the branches of the trees
were covered with rime like rabbit-skin. Already on frosty days the
red-breasted finch hopped about on the snow-heaps like a foppish Polish
nobleman, and picked out grains of corn; and children, with huge
sticks, chased wooden tops upon the ice; while their fathers lay
quietly on the stove, issuing forth at intervals with lighted pipes in
their lips, to growl, in regular fashion, at the orthodox frost, or to
take the air, and thresh the grain spread out in the barn. At last the
snow began to melt, and the ice rind slipped away: but Petro remained
the same; and, the longer it went on, the more morose he grew. He sat
in the middle of the cottage as though nailed to the spot, with the
sacks of gold at his feet. He grew shy, his hair grew long, he became
terrible; and still he thought of but one thing, still he tried to
recall something, and got angry and ill-tempered because he could not
recall it. Often, rising wildly from his seat, he gesticulates
violently, fixes his eyes on something as though desirous of catching
it: his lips move as though desirous of uttering some long-forgotten
word--and remain speechless. Fury takes possession of him: he gnaws
and bites his hands like a man half crazy, and in his vexation tears
out his hair by the handful, until, calming down, he falls into
forgetfulness, as it were, and again begins to recall, and is again
seized with fury and fresh tortures. . . . What visitation of God is
this?
Pidorka was neither dead nor alive. At first it was horrible to her to
remain alone in the cottage; but, in course of time, the poor woman
grew accustomed to her sorrow. But it was impossible to recognize the
Pidorka of former days. No blush, no smile: she was thin and worn with
grief, and had wept her bright eyes away. Once, some one who evidently
took pity on her advised her to go to the witch who dwelt in the Bear's
ravine, and enjoyed the reputation of being able to cure every disease
in the world. She determined to try this last remedy: word by word she
persuaded the old woman to come to her. This was St. John's Eve, as it
chanced. Petro lay insensible on the bench, and did not observe the
new-comer. Little by little he rose, and looked about him. Suddenly
he trembled in every limb, as though he were on the scaffold: his hair
rose upon his head, . . . and he laughed such a laugh as pierced
Pidorka's heart with fear. "I have remembered, remembered!" he cried
in terrible joy; and, swinging a hatchet round his head, he flung it at
the old woman with all his might. The hatchet penetrated the oaken
door two vershok (three inches and a half). The old woman disappeared;
and a child of seven in a white blouse, with covered head, stood in the
middle of the cottage. . . . The sheet flew off. "Ivas!" cried
Pidorka, and ran to him; but the apparition became covered from head to
foot with blood, and illumined the whole room with red light. . . .
She ran into the passage in her terror, but, on recovering herself a
little, wished to help him; in vain! the door had slammed to behind her
so securely that she could not open it. People ran up, and began to
knock: they broke in the door, as though there was but one mind among
them. The whole cottage was full of smoke; and just in the middle,
where Petrus had stood, was a heap of ashes, from which smoke was still
rising. They flung themselves upon the sacks: only broken potsherds
lay there instead of ducats. The Cossacks stood with staring eyes and
open mouths, not daring to move a hair, as if rooted to the earth, such
terror did this wonder inspire in them.
I do not remember what happened next. Pidorka took a vow to go upon a
pilgrimage, collected the property left her by her father, and in a few
days it was as if she had never been in the village. Whither she had
gone, no one could tell. Officious old women would have despatched her
to the same place whither Petro had gone; but a Cossack from Kief
reported that he had seen in a cloister, a nun withered to a mere
skeleton, who prayed unceasingly; and her fellow villagers recognized
her as Pidorka, by all the signs,--that no one had ever heard her utter
a word; that she had come on foot, and had brought a frame for the ikon
of God's mother, set with such brilliant stones that all were dazzled
at the sight.
But this was not the end, if you please. On the same day that the Evil
One made way with Petrus, Basavriuk appeared again; but all fled from
him. They knew what sort of a bird he was,--none else than Satan, who
had assumed human form in order to unearth treasures; and, since
treasures do not yield to unclean hands, he seduced the young. That
same year, all deserted their earth huts, and collected in a village;
but, even there, there was no peace, on account of that accursed
Basavriuk. My late grandfather's aunt said that he was particularly
angry with her, because she had abandoned her former tavern, and tried
with all his might to revenge himself upon her. Once the village
elders were assembled in the tavern, and, as the saying goes, were
arranging the precedence at the table, in the middle of which was
placed a small roasted lamb, shame to say. They chattered about this,
that, and the other,--among the rest about various marvels and strange
things. Well, they saw something; it would have been nothing if only
one had seen it, but all saw it; and it was this: the sheep raised his
head; his goggling eyes became alive and sparkled; and the black,
bristling moustache, which appeared for one instant, made a significant
gesture at those present. All, at once, recognized Basavriuk's
countenance in the sheep's head: my grandfather's aunt thought it was
on the point of asking for vodka. . . . The worthy elders seized their
hats, and hastened home.
Another time, the church starost [Footnote: Elder] himself, who was
fond of an occasional private interview with my grandfather's
brandy-glass, had not succeeded in getting to the bottom twice, when he
beheld the glass bowing very low to him. "Satan take you, let us make
the sign of the cross over you!" . . . And the same marvel happened to
his better-half. She had just begun to mix the dough in a huge
kneading-trough, when suddenly the trough sprang up. "Stop, stop!
where are you going?" Putting its arms akimbo, with dignity, it went
skipping all about the cottage. . . . You may laugh, but it was no
laughing-matter to our grandfathers. And in vain did Father Athanasii
go through all the village with holy water, and chase the Devil through
all the streets with his brush; and my late grandfather's aunt long
complained that, as soon as it was dark, some one came knocking at her
door, and scratching at the wall.
Well! All appears to be quiet now, in the place where our village
stands; but it was not so very long ago--my father was still
alive--that I remember how a good man could not pass the ruined tavern,
which a dishonest race had long managed for their own interest. From
the smoke-blackened chimneys, smoke poured out in a pillar, and rising
high in the air, as if to take an observation, rolled off like a cap,
scattering burning coals over the steppe; and Satan (the son of a dog
should not be mentioned) sobbed so pitifully in his lair, that the
startled ravens rose in flocks from the neighboring oak-wood, and flew
through the air with wild cries.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
BY
COUNT LYOF N. TOLSTOI
From "The Invaders." Translated by N. H. Dole.
1887
(Prince Nekhiludof Relates how, during an Expedition in the Caucasus,
he met an Acquaintance from Moscow)
Our division had been out in the field. The work in hand was
accomplished: we had cut a way through the forest, and each day we were
expecting from headquarters orders for our return to the fort. Our
division of fieldpieces was stationed at the top of a steep
mountain-crest which was terminated by the swift mountain-river Mechik,
and had to command the plain that stretched before us. Here and there
on this picturesque plain, out of the reach of gunshot, now and then,
especially at evening, groups of mounted mountaineers showed
themselves, attracted by curiosity to ride up and view the Russian camp.
The evening was clear, mild, and fresh, as it is apt to be in December
in the Caucasus; the sun was setting behind the steep chain of the
mountains at the left, and threw rosy rays upon the tents scattered
over the slope, upon the soldiers moving about, and upon our two guns,
which seemed to crane their necks as they rested motionless on the
earthwork two paces from us. The infantry picket, stationed on the
knoll at the left, stood in perfect silhouette against the light of the
sunset; no less distinct were the stacks of muskets, the form of the
sentry, the groups of soldiers, and the smoke of the smouldering
camp-fire.
At the right and left of the slope, on the black, sodden earth, the
tents gleamed white; and behind the tents, black, stood the bare trunks
of the platane forest, which rang with the incessant sound of axes, the
crackling of the bonfires, and the crashing of the trees as they fell
under the axes. The bluish smoke arose from tobacco-pipes on all
sides, and vanished in the transparent blue of the frosty sky. By the
tents and on the lower ground around the arms rushed the Cossacks,
dragoons, and artillerists, with great galloping and snorting of horses
as they returned from getting water. It began to freeze; all sounds
were heard with extraordinary distinctness, and one could see an
immense distance across the plain through the clear, rare atmosphere.
The groups of the enemy, their curiosity at seeing the soldiers
satisfied, quietly galloped off across the fields, still yellow with
the golden corn-stubble, toward their auls, or villages, which were
visible beyond the forest, with the tall posts of the cemeteries and
the smoke rising in the air.
Our tent was pitched not far from the guns on a place high and dry,
from which we had a remarkably extended view. Near the tent, on a
cleared space, around the battery itself, we had our games of skittles,
or chushki. The obliging soldiers had made for us rustic benches and
tables. On account of all these amusements, the artillery officers,
our comrades, and a few infantry men liked to gather of an evening
around our battery, and the place came to be called the club.
As the evening was fine, the best players had come, and we were amusing
ourselves with skittles [Footnote: Gorodki]. Ensign D., Lieutenant O.,
and myself had played two games in succession; and to the common
satisfaction and amusement of all the spectators, officers, soldiers,
and servants [Footnote: Denshchiki ] who were watching us from their
tents, we had twice carried the winning party on our backs from one end
of the ground to the other. Especially droll was the situation of the
huge fat Captain S., who, puffing and smiling good-naturedly, with legs
dragging on the ground, rode pickaback on the feeble little Lieutenant
O.
When it grew somewhat later, the servants brought three glasses of tea
for the six men of us, and not a spoon; and we who had finished our
game came to the plaited settees.
There was standing near them a small bow-legged man, a stranger to us,
in a sheepskin jacket, and a papakha, or Circassian cap, with a long
overhanging white crown. As soon as we came near where he stood, he
took a few irresolute steps, and put on his cap; and several times he
seemed to make up his mind to come to meet us, and then stopped again.
But after deciding, probably, that it was impossible to remain
irresolute, the stranger took off his cap, and, going in a circuit
around us, approached Captain S.
"Ah, Guskantinli, how is it, old man?" [Footnote: Nu chto, batenka,]
said S., still smiling good-naturedly, under the influence of his ride.
Guskantni, as S. called him, instantly replaced his cap, and made a
motion as though to thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket;
[Footnote: Polushubok, little half shuba, or fur cloak.] but on the
side toward me there was no pocket in the jacket, and his small red
hand fell into an awkward position. I felt a strong desire to make out
who this man was (was he a yunker, or a degraded officer?), and, not
realizing that my gaze (that is, the gaze of a strange officer)
disconcerted him, I continued to stare at his dress and appearance.
I judged that he was about thirty. His small, round, gray eyes had a
sleepy expression, and at the same time gazed calmly out from under the
dirty white lambskin of his cap, which hung down over his face. His
thick, irregular nose, standing out between his sunken cheeks, gave
evidence of emaciation that was the result of illness, and not natural.
His restless lips, barely covered by a sparse, soft, whitish moustache,
were constantly changing their shape as though they were trying to
assume now one expression, now another. But all these expressions
seemed to be endless, and his face retained one predominating
expression of timidity and fright. Around his thin neck, where the
veins stood out, was tied a green woollen scarf tucked into his jacket,
his fur jacket, or polushubok, was worn bare, short, and had dog-fur
sewed on the collar and on the false pockets. The trousers were
checkered, of ash-gray color, and his sapogi had short, unblacked
military bootlegs.
"I beg of you, do not disturb yourself," said I when he for the second
time, timidly glancing at me, had taken off his cap.
He bowed to me with an expression of gratitude, replaced his hat, and,
drawing from his pocket a dirty chintz tobacco-pouch with lacings,
began to roll a cigarette.
I myself had not been long a yunker, an elderly yunker; and as I was
incapable, as yet, of being good-naturedly serviceable to my younger
comrades, and without means, I well knew all the moral difficulties of
this situation for a proud man no longer young, and I sympathized with
all men who found themselves in such a situation, and I endeavored to
make clear to myself their character and rank, and the tendencies of
their intellectual peculiarities, in order to judge of the degree of
their moral sufferings. This yunker or degraded officer, judging by
his restless eyes and that intentionally constant variation of
expression which I noticed in him, was a man very far from stupid, and
extremely egotistical, and therefore much to be pitied.
Captain S. invited us to play another game of skittles, with the stakes
to consist, not only of the usual pickaback ride of the winning party,
but also of a few bottles of red wine, rum, sugar, cinnamon, and cloves
for the mulled wine which that winter, on account of the cold, was
greatly popular in our division.
Guskantini, as S. again called him, was also invited to take part; but
before the game began, the man, struggling between gratification
because he had been invited and a certain timidity, drew Captain S.
aside, and began to say something in a whisper. The good-natured
captain punched him in the ribs with his big, fat hand, and replied,
loud enough to be heard:
"Not at all, old fellow [Footnote: Batenka, Malo-Russian diminutive,
little father], I assure you."
When the game was over, and that side in which the stranger whose rank
was so low had taken part, had come out winners, and it fell to his lot
to ride on one of our officers, Ensign D., the ensign grew red in the
face: he went to the little divan and offered the stranger a cigarette
by way of a compromise.
While they were ordering the mulled wine, and in the steward's tent
were heard assiduous preparations on the part of Nikita, who had sent
an orderly for cinnamon and cloves, and the shadow of his back was
alternately lengthening and shortening on the dingy sides of the tent,
we men, seven in all, sat around on the benches; and while we took
turns in drinking tea from the three glasses, and gazed out over the
plain, which was now beginning to glow in the twilight, we talked and
laughed over the various incidents of the game.
The stranger in the fur jacket took no share in the conversation,
obstinately refused to drink the tea which I several times offered him,
and as he sat there on the ground in Tartar fashion, occupied himself
in making cigarettes of fine-cut tobacco, and smoking them one after
another, evidently not so much for his own satisfaction as to give
himself the appearance of a man with something to do. When it was
remarked that the summons to return was expected on the morrow, and
that there might be an engagement, he lifted himself on his knees, and,
addressing Captain B. only, said that he had been at the adjutant's,
and had himself written the order for the return on the next day. We
all said nothing while he was speaking; and notwithstanding the fact
that he was so bashful, we begged him to repeat this most interesting
piece of news. He repeated what he had said, adding only that he had
been staying at the adjutant's (since he made it his home there) when
the order came.
"Look here, old fellow, if you are not telling us false, I shall have
to go to my company and give some orders for to-morrow," said Captain S.
"No . . . why . . . it may be, I am sure," . . . stammered the
stranger, but suddenly stopped, and, apparently feeling himself
affronted, contracted his brows, and, muttering something between his
teeth, again began to roll a cigarette. But the fine-cut tobacco in
his chintz pouch began to show signs of giving out, and he asked S. to
lend him a little cigarette. [Footnote: PAPIROSTCHKA, diminished
diminutive of PAPIROSKA, from PAPIROS.]
We kept on for a considerable time with that monotonous military
chatter which every one who has ever been on an expedition will
appreciate; all of us, with one and the same expression, complaining of
the dullness and length of the expedition, in one and the same fashion
sitting in judgment on our superiors, and all of us likewise, as we had
done many times before, praising one comrade, pitying another,
wondering how much this one had gained, how much that one had lost, and
so on, and so on.
"Here, fellows, this adjutant of ours is completely broken up," said
Captain S. "At headquarters he was everlastingly on the winning side;
no matter whom he sat down with, he'd rake in everything: but now for
two months past he has been losing all the time. The present
expedition hasn't been lucky for him. I think he has got away with two
thousand silver rubles and five hundred rubles' worth of articles,--the
carpet that he won at Mukhin's, Nikitin's pistols, Sada's gold watch
which Vorontsof gave him. He has lost it all."
"The truth of the matter in his case," said Lieutenant O., "was that he
used to cheat everybody; it was impossible to play with him."
"He cheated every one, but now it's all gone up in his pipe;" and here
Captain S. laughed good-naturedly. "Our friend Guskof here lives with
him. He hasn't quite lost HIM yet: that's so, isn't it, old fellow?"
[Footnote: Batenka] he asked, addressing Guskof.
Guskof tried to laugh. It was a melancholy, sickly laugh, which
completely changed the expression of his countenance. Till this moment
it had seemed to me that I had seen and known this man before; and,
besides the name Guskof, by which Captain S. called him, was familiar
to me; but how and when I had seen and known him, I actually could not
remember.
"Yes," said Guskof, incessantly putting his hand to his moustaches, but
instantly dropping it again without touching them. "Pavel
Dmitrievitch's luck has been against him in this expedition, such a
veine de malheur" he added in a careful but pure French pronunciation,
again giving me to think that I had seen him, and seen him often,
somewhere. "I know Pavel Dmitrievitch very well. He has great
confidence in me," he proceeded to say; "he and I are old friends; that
is, he is fond of me," he explained, evidently fearing that it might be
taken as presumption for him to claim old friendship with the adjutant.
"Pavel Dmitrievitch plays admirably; but now, strange as it may seem,
it's all up with him, he is just about perfectly ruined; la chance a
tourne," he added, addressing himself particularly to me.
At first we had listened to Guskof with condescending attention; but as
soon as he made use of that second French phrase, we all involuntarily
turned from him.
"I have played with him a thousand times, and we agreed then that it
was strange," said Lieutenant O., with peculiar emphasis on the word
STRANGE [Footnote: Stranno]. "I never once won a ruble from him. Why
was it, when I used to win of others?"
"Pavel Dmitrievitch plays admirably: I have known him for a long time,"
said I. In fact, I had known the adjutant for several years; more than
once I had seen him in the full swing of a game, surrounded by
officers, and I had remarked his handsome, rather gloomy and always
passionless calm face, his deliberate Malo-Russian pronunciation, his
handsome belongings and horses, his bold, manly figure, and above all
his skill and self-restraint in carrying on the game accurately and
agreeably. More than once, I am sorry to say, as I looked at his plump
white hands with a diamond ring on the index-finger, passing out one
card after another, I grew angry with that ring, with his white hands,
with the whole of the adjutant's person, and evil thoughts on his
account arose in my mind. But as I afterwards reconsidered the matter
coolly, I persuaded myself that he played more skilfully than all with
whom he happened to play: the more so, because as I heard his general
observations concerning the game,--how one ought not to back out when
one had laid the smallest stake, how one ought not to leave off in
certain cases as the first rule for honest men, and so forth, and so
forth,--it was evident that he was always on the winning side merely
from the fact that he played more sagaciously and coolly than the rest
of us. And now it seemed that this self-reliant, careful player had
been stripped not only of his money but of his effects, which marks the
lowest depths of loss for an officer.
"He always had devilish good luck with me," said Lieutenant O. "I made
a vow never to play with him again."
"What a marvel you are, old fellow!" said S., nodding at me, and
addressing O. "You lost three hundred silver rubles, that's what you
lost to him."
"More than that," said the lieutenant savagely.
"And now you have come to your senses; it is rather late in the day,
old man, for the rest of us have known for a long time that he was the
cheat of the regiment," said S., with difficulty restraining his
laughter, and feeling very well satisfied with his fabrication. "Here
is Guskof right here,--he FIXES his cards for him. That's the reason
of the friendship between them, old man" [Footnote: BATENKA MOI] . . .
and Captain S., shaking all over, burst out into such a hearty "ha, ha,
ha!" that he spilt the glass of mulled wine which he was holding in his
hand. On Guskof's pale emaciated face there showed something like a
color; he opened his mouth several times, raised his hands to his
moustaches, and once more dropped them to his side where the pockets
should have been, stood up, and then sat down again, and finally in an
unnatural voice said to S.:
"It's no joke, Nikolai Ivanovitch, for you to say such things before
people who don't know me and who see me in this unlined jacket . . .
because--" His voice failed him, and again his small red hands with
their dirty nails went from his jacket to his face, touching his
moustache, his hair, his nose, rubbing his eyes, or needlessly
scratching his cheek.
"As to saying that, everybody knows it, old fellow," continued S.,
thoroughly satisfied with his jest, and not heeding Guskof's complaint.
Guskof was still trying to say something; and placing the palm of his
right hand on his left knee in a most unnatural position, and gazing at
S., he had an appearance of smiling contemptuously.
"No," said I to myself, as I noticed that smile of his, "I have not
only seen him, but have spoken with him somewhere."
"You and I have met somewhere," said I to him when, under the influence
of the common silence, S.'s laughter began to calm down. Guskof's
mobile face suddenly lighted up, and his eyes, for the first time with
a truly joyous expression, rested upon me.
"Why, I recognized you immediately," he replied in French. "In '48 I
had the pleasure of meeting you quite frequently in Moscow at my
sister's."
I had to apologize for not recognizing him at first in that costume and
in that new garb. He arose, came to me, and with his moist hand
irresolutely and weakly seized my hand, and sat down by me. Instead of
looking at me, though he apparently seemed so glad to see me, he gazed
with an expression of unfriendly bravado at the officers.
Either because I recognized in him a man whom I had met a few years
before in a dresscoat in a parlor, or because he was suddenly raised in
his own opinion by the fact of being recognized,--at all events it
seemed to me that his face and even his motions completely changed:
they now expressed lively intelligence, a childish self-satisfaction in
the consciousness of such intelligence, and a certain contemptuous
indifference; so that I confess, notwithstanding the pitiable position
in which he found himself, my old acquaintance did not so much excite
sympathy in me as it did a sort of unfavorable sentiment.