From that Fast of St. Peter, that memorable trip to the Fair, Tikhon
Ilitch began to drink frequently--not to the point of downright
drunkenness, but to the stage at which his face became passably red.
This did not, however, interfere in the slightest degree with his
business, and, according to his own account, it did not interfere with
his health. “Vodka polishes the blood,” he was wont to remark; and,
truth to tell, to all appearances he became more robust than ever.
Not infrequently now he called his life that of a galley-slave--the
hangman’s noose--a gilded cage. But he strode along his pathway with
ever-increasing confidence, paying no attention to the condition of
the weather or the road. Commonplace, uneventful days ruled supreme in
his house, and several years passed in such monotonous fashion that
everything merged together into one long working-day. But certain new,
vast events which no one had looked for came to pass--the war with
Japan and the revolution.
The rumours concerning the war began, of course, with bragging. “The
kazaks will soon flay his yellow skin off him, brother!” But it
smouldered so very short a time, this pale image of former boasts! A
different sort of talk speedily made itself heard.
“We have more land than we can manage!” said Tikhon Ilitch, in the
stern tone of an expert--probably for the first time in the whole
course of his life not referring to his own land in Durnovka, but to
the whole expanse of Russia. “’Tis not war, sir, but downright madness!”
Another thing made itself felt, the sort of thing which has prevailed
from time immemorial--the inclination to take the winning side. And
the news about the frightful defeats of the Russian army excited his
enthusiasm: “Ukh, that’s fine. Curse them, the brutes!” He waxed
enthusiastic also over the conquests of the revolution, over the
assassinations: “That Minister got a smashing blow!” said Tikhon Ilitch
occasionally, in the fire of his ecstasy. “He got such a good one that
not even his ashes were left!”
But his uneasiness increased, too. As soon as any discussion connected
with the land came up, his wrath awoke. “’Tis all the work of the Jews!
Of the Jews, and of those frowzy long-haired fellows, the students!”
What irritated Tikhon Ilitch worst of all was, that the son of the
deacon in Ulianovka, a student in the Theological Seminary who was
hanging around without work and living on his father, called himself
a Social-Democrat. And the whole situation was incomprehensible.
Everybody was talking about the revolution, the Revolution, while
round about everything was going on the same as ever, in the
ordinary everyday fashion: the sun shone, the rye blossomed in the
fields, the carts wended their way to the station. The populace were
incomprehensible in their taciturnity, in the evasiveness of their talk.
“They’re an underhand lot, the populace! They fairly scare one with
their slyness!” said Tikhon Ilitch. And, forgetting the Jews, he
added: “Let us assume that not all that music is craft. Changing the
government and evening up the shares of land--why, an infant could
understand that, sir. And, naturally, ’tis perfectly clear to whom they
will pay court--that populace, sir. But, of course, they hold their
tongues. And, of course, we must watch, and try to meet their humour,
so that they may go on holding their tongues. We must put a spoke
in their wheel! If you don’t, look out for yourself: they’ll scent
success, they’ll get wind of the fact that they’ve got the breeching
under their tail--and they’ll smash things to smithereens, sir!”
When he read or heard that land was to be taken from only such as
possessed more than five hundred desyatini[5] he himself became an
“agitator.” He even entered into disputes with the Durnovka people.
This is the sort of thing that would happen:--
A peasant stood alongside Tikhon Ilitch’s shop; the man had bought
vodka at the railway station, dried salt fish and cracknels at the
shop, and had doffed his cap; but he prolonged his enjoyment, and said:
“No, Tikhon Ilitch, ’tis no use your explaining. It can be taken, at a
just price. But not the way you say--that’s no good.”
An odour arose from the pine boards piled up near the granary, opposite
the yard. The dried fish and the linden bast on which the cracknels
were strung had an irritating smell. The hot locomotive of the
freight-train could be heard hissing and getting up steam beyond the
trees, behind the buildings of the railway station. Tikhon Ilitch stood
bare-headed beside his shop, screwing up his eyes and smiling slily.
Smilingly he made reply:
“Bosh! But what if he is not a master, but a tramp?”
“Who? The noble owner, you mean?”
“No--a low-born man.”
“Well, that’s a different matter. ’Tis no sin to take it from such a
man, with all his innards to boot!”
“Well now, that’s exactly the point!”
But another rumour reached them: the land would be taken from those who
owned less than five hundred desyatini! And immediately his soul was
assailed by preoccupation, suspicion, irritability. Everything that was
done in the house began to seem abhorrent.
Egorka, the assistant, brought flour-sacks out of the shop and began
to shake them. And the man’s head reminded him of the head of the town
fool, “Duck-Headed Matty.” The crown of his head ran up to a point,
his hair was harsh and thick--“Now, why is it that fools have such
thick hair?”--his forehead was sunken, his face resembled an oblique
egg, he had protruding eyes, and his eyelids, with their calf-like
lashes, seemed drawn tightly over them; it looked as if there were not
enough skin--if he were to close his eyes, his mouth would fly open of
necessity, and if he closed his mouth, he would be compelled to open
his eyes very wide. And Tikhon Ilitch shouted spitefully: “Babbler!
Blockhead! What are you shaking your head at me for?”
The cook brought out a smallish box, opened it, placed it upside down
on the ground, and began to thump the bottom with her fist. And,
understanding what that meant, Tikhon Ilitch slowly shook his head:
“Akh, you housewife, curse you! You’re knocking out the cockroaches?”
“There’s a regular cloud of them in there!” replied the cook gaily.
“When I peeped in--Lord, what a sight!”
And, gritting his teeth, Tikhon Ilitch walked out to the highway and
gazed long at the rolling plain, in the direction of Durnovka.