The abandonment of his hope of having children and the closing of the
dram-shops by the government were great events. Tikhon visibly aged
when there no longer remained any doubt that he was not to become a
father. At first he jested about it: “No sir, I’ll get my way. Without
children a man is not a man. He’s only so-so--a sort of spot missed in
the sowing.” But later on he was assailed by terror. What did it mean?
one overlay her child, the other bore only dead children.
And the period of Nastasya Petrovna’s last pregnancy had been a
difficult time. Tikhon Ilitch suffered and raged: Nastasya Petrovna
prayed in secret, wept in secret, and was a pitiful sight when, of a
night by the light of the shrine-lamp, she slipped out of bed, assuming
that her husband was asleep, and began with difficulty to kneel down,
touch her brow to the floor as she whispered her prayers, gaze with
anguish at the holy pictures, and rise from her knees painfully, like
an old woman. Hitherto, before going to bed, she had donned slippers
and dressing-gown, said her prayers indifferently, and, as she prayed,
taken pleasure in running over the list of her acquaintances and
abusing them. Now there stood before the holy picture a simple peasant
woman in a short cotton petticoat, white woolen stockings, and a
chemise which did not cover her neck and arms, fat like those of an old
person.
Tikhon Ilitch had never, from his childhood, liked shrine-lamps,
although he had never been willing to confess it, even to himself;
nor did he like their uncertain churchly light. All his life there
had remained impressed upon his mind that November night when, in the
tiny lop-sided hut in the Black Suburb, a shrine-lamp had also burned,
peaceful and sweetly-sad, the shadows of its chains barely moving,
while everything around was deathly silent; and on the bench below the
holy pictures his father lay motionless with eyes closed, his sharp
nose raised, his big purplish-waxen hands crossed on his breast; while
by his side, just beyond the tiny window curtained with its red rag,
the conscripts marched past with wildly mournful songs and shouts,
their accordions squealing discordantly.--Now the shrine-lamp burned
uninterruptedly, and Tikhon Ilitch felt as if Nastasya Petrovna were
carrying on some sort of secret affair with uncanny powers.
A number of book-hawkers from the Vladimir government halted by the
posting-house to bait their horses--with the result that there made
its appearance in the house a “New Complete Oracle and Magician,
which foretells the future in answer to questions; with Supplement
setting forth the easiest methods of telling fortunes by cards, beans,
and coffee.” And of an evening Nastasya Petrovna would put on her
spectacles, mould a little ball of wax, and set to rolling it over the
circles of the “Oracle.” And Tikhon Ilitch would look on, with sidelong
glances. But all the answers turned out to be either insulting,
menacing, or senseless.
“Does my husband love me?” Nastasya Petrovna would inquire.
And the “Oracle” replied: “He loves you as a dog loves a stick.”
“How many children shall I have?”
“You are fated to die: the field must be cleared of weeds.”
Then Tikhon Ilitch would say: “Give it here. I’ll have a try.” And
he would propound the question: “Ought I to start a law-suit with a
person whose name I won’t mention?”
But he, likewise, got nonsense for an answer: “Count the teeth in your
mouth.”
One day Tikhon Ilitch, when he glanced into the kitchen, saw his wife
beside the cradle in which lay the cook’s baby. A speckled chicken
which was wandering along the window ledge, pecking and catching flies,
tapped the glass with its beak; but she sat there on the sleeping-board
and, while she rocked the cradle, sang in a pitiful quaver:
“Where lieth my little child?
Where is his tiny bed?
He is in the lofty chamber,
In the painted cradle gay.
Let no one come there to us,
Or knock at the chamber door!
He hath fallen asleep, he resteth
Beneath the canopy dark,
Covered with flowered silk....”
And Tikhon Ilitch’s face underwent such a change at that moment that
Nastasya Petrovna, as she glanced at him, experienced no confusion,
felt no fear, but only fell a-weeping and, brushing away her tears,
said softly: “Take me away, for Christ’s dear sake, to the Holy Man.”
And Tikhon Ilitch took her to Zadonsk. But as he went he was thinking
in his heart that God would certainly chastise him because, in the
bustle and cares of life, he went to church only for the service on
Easter Day, and otherwise lived as if he were a Tatar. Sacrilegious
thoughts also wormed their way into his head. He kept comparing
himself to the parents of the Saints, who likewise had long remained
childless. This was not clever--but he had long since come to perceive
that there dwelt within him some one who was more stupid than himself.
Before his departure he had received a letter from Mount Athos: “Most
God-loving Benefactor, Tikhon Ilitch! Peace be unto you, and salvation,
the blessing of the Lord and the honourable Protection of the All-Sung
Mother of God, from her earthly portion, the holy Mount Athos! I
have had the happiness of hearing about your good works, and that
with love you apportion your mite for the building and adornment of
God’s temples and monastic cells. With the years my hovel has reached
such a dilapidated condition....” And Tikhon Ilitch sent a ten-ruble
banknote to be used for repairing the hovel. The time was long past
when he had believed, with ingenuous pride, that rumours concerning
him had actually reached as far as Mount Athos, and he knew well
enough that far too many hovels on Mount Athos had become dilapidated.
Nevertheless, he sent the money.
But even that proved of no avail.
The government monopoly of the liquor trade acted as salt on a raw
wound. When the hope of children failed him utterly, the thought
occurred ever more frequently to Tikhon Ilitch: “What’s the object
of all this convict hard labour, anyway? devil take it!” And his
hands began to tremble with rage, his brows to contract and arch
themselves, his upper lip to quiver--especially when he uttered
the phrase which was incessantly in his mouth: “Bear in mind--!” He
continued, as before, to affect youthfulness--wore dandyfied soft boots
and an embroidered shirt fastened at one side, Russian style, under
a double-breasted short coat. But his beard grew ever whiter, more
sparse, more tangled.
And that summer, as if with malicious intent, turned out to be hot and
dry. The rye was absolutely ruined. It became a pleasure to whine to
the buyers. “I’m closing down my business--shutting up shop!” Tikhon
Ilitch said with satisfaction, referring to his liquor trade. He
enunciated every word clearly. “The Minister has a fancy for going into
trade on his own account, to be sure!”
“Okh, just look at you!” groaned Nastasya Petrovna. “You’re calling
down bad luck. You’ll be chased off to a place so far that even the
crows don’t drag their bones there!”
“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” Tikhon Ilitch interrupted her brusquely,
with a frown. “No, ma’am! You can’t gag every mouth with a kerchief!”
And again, enunciating even more sharply, he addressed the customer:
“And the rye, sir, is a joy to behold! Bear that in mind--a joy to
everybody! By night, sir, if you’ll believe it--by night, sir, even
then it can be seen. You step out on the threshold and gaze at the
fields by the light of the moon: it’s as sparse as the hair on a bald
head. You go out and stare: the fields are shining-naked!”