In former days conversation in the railway carriages had turned
exclusively on the rain and the drought, on the fact that “God fixes
the price for grain.” Now, the sheets of newspapers rustled in the
hands of many passengers, and discussion busied itself with the Duma,
the rights of the people, the expropriation of the land. No one even
noticed the pouring rain which pattered on the roof, although the
travellers belonged to the class which was always greedy for spring
rains--grain dealers, peasants, petty burghers from the farms. A
young soldier who had lost his leg passed along: he was suffering
from jaundice, his black eyes were mournful, he hobbled and clattered
his wooden leg as he doffed his tall Mandzhurian fur cap and, like a
beggar, made the sign of the cross every time he received an alms. A
noisy, angry discussion started up on the subject of the Government,
the Minister Durnovo, and some governmental oats. They referred,
jeeringly, to that which formerly had evoked their naif enthusiasm: how
“Vitya,”[24] with the object of frightening the Japanese at Portsmouth,
had ordered his trunks to be packed.
A young man, with his hair cut close like beaver fur, who sat opposite
Kuzma, reddened, grew embarrassed, and made haste to interpose:
“Excuse me, gentlemen! You are talking about liberty. I serve in
the office of the tax inspector, and I write articles for the city
newspapers. Do you think that is any business of his? He asserts that
he, too, believes in liberty, but when he found out that I had written
about the abnormal condition of our fire department, he sent for me and
said: ‘Damn you, if you write any more pieces like that I’ll wring your
neck!’ Permit me: if my views are more on the left than his--”
“Views?” suddenly shouted the alto voice of a dwarf, the young
man’s neighbour, a fat skopetz[25] in bottle-shaped boots--miller
Tchernyaeff, who had been casting sidelong glances at him all the while
from his pig-like little eyes. And, without giving him a chance to
reply, he roared: “Views? You mean to say you have views? And you’re
more of a Left? Why, I’ve known you ever since you were running around
without breeches in your childhood! And you were perishing with hunger,
along with your father--you mendicants! You ought to be washing the
inspector’s feet and drinking the dirty water!”
“The Con-sti-tu-u-tion,” interjected Kuzma in a shrill tone,
interrupting the eunuch; and rising from his seat and jostling the
knees of the sitting passengers, he went down the carriage to the door.
The eunuch’s feet were small, plump, and repulsive, like those of some
aged housekeeper; his face, also, was feminine, large, yellow, solid,
like gutta-percha; his lips were thin. And Polozoff was another nice
one--the teacher at the pro-gymnasium, the man who had been nodding
his head so amiably, and leaning on his stick, as he listened to the
eunuch; a squat, well-nourished man of thirty, in high shoes with the
tops tucked under grey trousers, a grey hat, and a grey coat with
sleeve-flaps; a clear-eyed fellow with a round nose and a luxuriant
sandy beard spreading all over his chest. A teacher, but he wore
a heavy gold seal ring on his forefinger. And he already owned a
small house--the dowry he had acquired along with the Archpriest’s
daughter.[26] His feet also were small, his hands were short, his
fingers mere stumps; he was neat, groomed to a surprising nicety,
and he took a bath every day. He was said to be an execrable man;
the Lord forbid! Yes, decidedly peasants and petty citizens were not
fit for such as he. Kuzma, as he opened the door to the platform,
inhaled a deep breath of the cold and fragrant rain-drenched air.
The rain droned dully on the roof over the platform, poured off it
in streams, and spurts of it spattered over Kuzma. After the town
the air of the fields, mingled with the exciting odour of the smoke
from the locomotive, intoxicated him. The carriages, as they swayed,
rattled louder than the noise of the rain; rising and falling as they
approached, the telegraph wires floated past; on both sides ran the
dense vividly-green borders of a hazel copse. A motley-hued gang of
small boys suddenly sprang out from under the foot of the embankment
and shouted something or other shrilly in chorus. Kuzma burst out
laughing from sheer pleasure, and his whole face was covered with tiny
wrinkles. But when he raised his eyes, he saw on the opposite platform
a pilgrim; a kindly, jaded peasant face, a grey beard, a broad-brimmed
hat, a cloth coat girt with a rope, a pouch and a tin tea-kettle
hanging on his back, and, on his skinny feet, bast-shoes. The pilgrim
was smiling, too. And Kuzma shouted to him, athwart the rumbling and
the noise: “What’s your name, grandfather?”
“Anton. Anton Bezpalykh,” replied the old man with amiable readiness,
in a thin voice.
“Just back from a pilgrimage?”
“From Voronezh.”
“Are they burning out the landed proprietors there?”
“Yes, they are....”
“Well, that’s fine!”
“What’s that you say?”
“I say ’tis fine!” shouted Kuzma. And, turning aside and blinking away
the welling tears, he began with trembling hands to roll himself a
cigarette. But his thoughts had already grown confused. “The pilgrim
is one of the people, but do not the eunuch and the teacher belong to
the people? ’Tis only forty-five years since serfdom was abolished--so
what can be expected of the people? Yes, but who is to blame for it?
The people themselves. Russia under the Russian yoke; the Little
Brothers[27] of divers sorts under the Turkish; the Galicians under the
Austrians--and ’tis useless to say anything about the Poles. Hey there,
thou great Slavonic family!” And Kuzma’s face once more lightened.
Darting oblique glances about him on all sides, he began to twiddle his
fingers, wring them, and crack their joints.