II

Alexander Ivanovich Volgin, a bachelor and a clerk in a Moscow bank at a

salary of eight thousand roubles a year, a man much respected in his own

set, was staying in a country-house. His host was a wealthy landowner,

owning some twenty-five hundred acres, and had married his guest’s

cousin. Volgin, tired after an evening spent in playing vint* for small

stakes with [* A game of cards similar to auction bridge.] members

of the family, went to his room and placed his watch, silver

cigarette-case, pocket-book, big leather purse, and pocket-brush and

comb on a small table covered with a white cloth, and then, taking off

his coat, waistcoat, shirt, trousers, and underclothes, his silk socks

and English boots, put on his nightshirt and dressing-gown. His watch

pointed to midnight. Volgin smoked a cigarette, lay on his face for

about five minutes reviewing the day’s impressions; then, blowing

out his candle, he turned over on his side and fell asleep about one

o’clock, in spite of a good deal of restlessness. Awaking next morning

at eight he put on his slippers and dressing-gown, and rang the bell.

The old butler, Stephen, the father of a family and the grandfather of

six grandchildren, who had served in that house for thirty years,

entered the room hurriedly, with bent legs, carrying in the newly

blackened boots which Volgin had taken off the night before, a

well-brushed suit, and a clean shirt. The guest thanked him, and then

asked what the weather was like (the blinds were drawn so that the sun

should not prevent any one from sleeping till eleven o’clock if he were

so inclined), and whether his hosts had slept well. He glanced at his

watch--it was still early--and began to wash and dress. His water was

ready, and everything on the washing-stand and dressing-table was ready

for use and properly laid out--his soap, his tooth and hair brushes, his

nail scissors and files. He washed his hands and face in a leisurely

fashion, cleaned and manicured his nails, pushed back the skin with the

towel, and sponged his stout white body from head to foot. Then he began

to brush his hair. Standing in front of the mirror, he first brushed his

curly beard, which was beginning to turn grey, with two English brushes,

parting it down the middle. Then he combed his hair, which was already

showing signs of getting thin, with a large tortoise-shell comb. Putting

on his underlinen, his socks, his boots, his trousers--which were held

up by elegant braces--and his waistcoat, he sat down coatless in an easy

chair to rest after dressing, lit a cigarette, and began to think where

he should go for a walk that morning--to the park or to Littleports

(what a funny name for a wood!). He thought he would go to Littleports.

Then he must answer Simon Nicholaevich’s letter; but there was time

enough for that. Getting up with an air of resolution, he took out his

watch. It was already five minutes to nine. He put his watch into his

waistcoat pocket, and his purse--with all that was left of the hundred

and eighty roubles he had taken for his journey, and for the incidental

expenses of his fortnight’s stay with his cousin--and then he

placed into his trouser pocket his cigarette-case and electric

cigarette-lighter, and two clean handkerchiefs into his coat pockets,

and went out of the room, leaving as usual the mess and confusion which

he had made to be cleared up by Stephen, an old man of over fifty.

Stephen expected Volgin to “remunerate” him, as he said, being so

accustomed to the work that he did not feel the slightest repugnance for

it. Glancing at a mirror, and feeling satisfied with his appearance,

Volgin went into the dining-room.

There, thanks to the efforts of the housekeeper, the footman, and

under-butler--the latter had risen at dawn in order to run home to

sharpen his son’s scythe--breakfast was ready. On a spotless white cloth

stood a boiling, shiny, silver samovar (at least it looked like silver),

a coffee-pot, hot milk, cream, butter, and all sorts of fancy white

bread and biscuits. The only persons at table were the second son of the

house, his tutor (a student), and the secretary. The host, who was an

active member of the Zemstvo and a great farmer, had already left the

house, having gone at eight o’clock to attend to his work. Volgin, while

drinking his coffee, talked to the student and the secretary about

the weather, and yesterday’s vint, and discussed Theodorite’s peculiar

behaviour the night before, as he had been very rude to his father

without the slightest cause. Theodorite was the grown-up son of the

house, and a ne’er-do-well. His name was Theodore, but some one had

once called him Theodorite either as a joke or to tease him; and, as it

seemed funny, the name stuck to him, although his doings were no longer

in the least amusing. So it was now. He had been to the university, but

left it in his second year, and joined a regiment of horse guards; but

he gave that up also, and was now living in the country, doing nothing,

finding fault, and feeling discontented with everything. Theodorite

was still in bed: so were the other members of the household--Anna

Mikhailovna, its mistress; her sister, the widow of a general; and a

landscape painter who lived with the family.

Volgin took his panama hat from the hall table (it had cost twenty

roubles) and his cane with its carved ivory handle, and went out.

Crossing the veranda, gay with flowers, he walked through the flower

garden, in the centre of which was a raised round bed, with rings of

red, white, and blue flowers, and the initials of the mistress of the

house done in carpet bedding in the centre. Leaving the flower garden

Volgin entered the avenue of lime trees, hundreds of years old, which

peasant girls were tidying and sweeping with spades and brooms. The

gardener was busy measuring, and a boy was bringing something in a

cart. Passing these Volgin went into the park of at least a hundred

and twenty-five acres, filled with fine old trees, and intersected by

a network of well-kept walks. Smoking as he strolled Volgin took his

favourite path past the summer-house into the fields beyond. It was

pleasant in the park, but it was still nicer in the fields. On the right

some women who were digging potatoes formed a mass of bright red and

white colour; on the left were wheat fields, meadows, and grazing

cattle; and in the foreground, slightly to the right, were the dark,

dark oaks of Littleports. Volgin took a deep breath, and felt glad that

he was alive, especially here in his cousin’s home, where he was so

thoroughly enjoying the rest from his work at the bank.

“Lucky people to live in the country,” he thought. “True, what with his

farming and his Zemstvo, the owner of the estate has very little peace

even in the country, but that is his own lookout.” Volgin shook his

head, lit another cigarette, and, stepping out firmly with his powerful

feet clad in his thick English boots, began to think of the heavy

winter’s work in the bank that was in front of him. “I shall be there

every day from ten to two, sometimes even till five. And the board

meetings . . . And private interviews with clients. . . . Then the Duma.

Whereas here. . . . It is delightful. It may be a little dull, but it is

not for long.” He smiled. After a stroll in Littleports he turned back,

going straight across a fallow field which was being ploughed. A herd of

cows, calves, sheep, and pigs, which belonged to the village community,

was grazing there. The shortest way to the park was to pass through the

herd. He frightened the sheep, which ran away one after another, and

were followed by the pigs, of which two little ones stared solemnly at

him. The shepherd boy called to the sheep and cracked his whip. “How far

behind Europe we are,” thought Volgin, recalling his frequent holidays

abroad. “You would not find a single cow like that anywhere in Europe.”

Then, wanting to find out where the path which branched off from the

one he was on led to and who was the owner of the herd, he called to the

boy.

“Whose herd is it?”

The boy was so filled with wonder, verging on terror, when he gazed

at the hat, the well-brushed beard, and above all the gold-rimmed

eyeglasses, that he could not reply at once. When Volgin repeated his

question the boy pulled himself together, and said, “Ours.” “But whose

is ‘ours’?” said Volgin, shaking his head and smiling. The boy was

wearing shoes of plaited birch bark, bands of linen round his legs, a

dirty, unbleached shirt ragged at the shoulder, and a cap the peak of

which had been torn.

“Whose is ‘ours’?”

“The Pirogov village herd.”

“How old are you?

“I don’t know.”

“Can you read?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Didn’t you go to school?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Couldn’t you learn to read?”

“No.”

“Where does that path lead?”

The boy told him, and Volgin went on towards the house, thinking how

he would chaff Nicholas Petrovich about the deplorable condition of the

village schools in spite of all his efforts.

On approaching the house Volgin looked at his watch, and saw that it was

already past eleven. He remembered that Nicholas Petrovich was going to

drive to the nearest town, and that he had meant to give him a letter

to post to Moscow; but the letter was not written. The letter was a very

important one to a friend, asking him to bid for him for a picture

of the Madonna which was to be offered for sale at an auction. As he

reached the house he saw at the door four big, well-fed, well-groomed,

thoroughbred horses harnessed to a carriage, the black lacquer of which

glistened in the sun. The coachman was seated on the box in a kaftan,

with a silver belt, and the horses were jingling their silver bells from

time to time.

A bare-headed, barefooted peasant in a ragged kaftan stood at the front

door. He bowed. Volgin asked what he wanted.

“I have come to see Nicholas Petrovich.”

“What about?”

“Because I am in distress--my horse has died.”

Volgin began to question him. The peasant told him how he was situated.

He had five children, and this had been his only horse. Now it was gone.

He wept.

“What are you going to do?”

“To beg.” And he knelt down, and remained kneeling in spite of Volgin’s

expostulations.

“What is your name?”

“Mitri Sudarikov,” answered the peasant, still kneeling.

Volgin took three roubles from his purse and gave them to the peasant,

who showed his gratitude by touching the ground with his forehead, and

then went into the house. His host was standing in the hall.

“Where is your letter?” he asked, approaching Volgin; “I am just off.”

“I’m awfully sorry, I’ll write it this minute, if you will let me.

I forgot all about it. It’s so pleasant here that one can forget

anything.”

“All right, but do be quick. The horses have already been standing a

quarter of an hour, and the flies are biting viciously. Can you wait,

Arsenty?” he asked the coachman.

“Why not?” said the coachman, thinking to himself, “why do they order

the horses when they aren’t ready? The rush the grooms and I had--just

to stand here and feed the flies.”

“Directly, directly,” Volgin went towards his room, but turned back to

ask Nicholas Petrovich about the begging peasant.

“Did you see him?--He’s a drunkard, but still he is to be pitied. Do be

quick!”

Volgin got out his case, with all the requisites for writing, wrote the

letter, made out a cheque for a hundred and eighty roubles, and, sealing

down the envelope, took it to Nicholas Petrovich.

“Good-bye.”

Volgin read the newspapers till luncheon. He only read the Liberal

papers: The Russian Gazette, Speech, sometimes The Russian Word--but he

would not touch The New Times, to which his host subscribed.

While he was scanning at his ease the political news, the Tsar’s doings,

the doings of President, and ministers and decisions in the Duma,

and was just about to pass on to the general news, theatres, science,

murders and cholera, he heard the luncheon bell ring.

Thanks to the efforts of upwards of ten human beings--counting

laundresses, gardeners, cooks, kitchen-maids, butlers and footmen--the

table was sumptuously laid for eight, with silver waterjugs, decanters,

kvass, wine, mineral waters, cut glass, and fine table linen, while

two men-servants were continually hurrying to and fro, bringing in and

serving, and then clearing away the hors d’oeuvre and the various hot

and cold courses.

The hostess talked incessantly about everything that she had been doing,

thinking, and saying; and she evidently considered that everything that

she thought, said, or did was perfect, and that it would please every

one except those who were fools. Volgin felt and knew that everything

she said was stupid, but it would never do to let it be seen, and so he

kept up the conversation. Theodorite was glum and silent; the student

occasionally exchanged a few words with the widow. Now and again there

was a pause in the conversation, and then Theodorite interposed, and

every one became miserably depressed. At such moments the hostess

ordered some dish that had not been served, and the footman hurried off

to the kitchen, or to the housekeeper, and hurried back again. Nobody

felt inclined either to talk or to eat. But they all forced themselves

to eat and to talk, and so luncheon went on.

The peasant who had been begging because his horse had died was named

Mitri Sudarikov. He had spent the whole day before he went to the squire

over his dead horse. First of all he went to the knacker, Sanin, who

lived in a village near. The knacker was out, but he waited for him, and

it was dinner-time when he had finished bargaining over the price of the

skin. Then he borrowed a neighbour’s horse to take his own to a field

to be buried, as it is forbidden to bury dead animals near a village.

Adrian would not lend his horse because he was getting in his potatoes,

but Stephen took pity on Mitri and gave way to his persuasion. He even

lent a hand in lifting the dead horse into the cart. Mitri tore off the

shoes from the forelegs and gave them to his wife. One was broken, but

the other one was whole. While he was digging the grave with a spade

which was very blunt, the knacker appeared and took off the skin; and

the carcass was then thrown into the hole and covered up. Mitri felt

tired, and went into Matrena’s hut, where he drank half a bottle of

vodka with Sanin to console himself. Then he went home, quarrelled with

his wife, and lay down to sleep on the hay. He did not undress, but

slept just as he was, with a ragged coat for a coverlet. His wife was

in the hut with the girls--there were four of them, and the youngest was

only five weeks old. Mitri woke up before dawn as usual. He groaned

as the memory of the day before broke in upon him--how the horse had

struggled and struggled, and then fallen down. Now there was no horse,

and all he had was the price of the skin, four roubles and eighty

kopeks. Getting up he arranged the linen bands on his legs, and went

through the yard into the hut. His wife was putting straw into the stove

with one hand, with the other she was holding a baby girl to her breast,

which was hanging out of her dirty chemise.

Mitri crossed himself three times, turning towards the corner in which

the ikons hung, and repeated some utterly meaningless words, which he

called prayers, to the Trinity and the Virgin, the Creed and our Father.

“Isn’t there any water?”

“The girl’s gone for it. I’ve got some tea. Will you go up to the

squire?”

“Yes, I’d better.” The smoke from the stove made him cough. He took a

rag off the wooden bench and went into the porch. The girl had just come

back with the water. Mitri filled his mouth with water from the pail and

squirted it out on his hands, took some more in his mouth to wash his

face, dried himself with the rag, then parted and smoothed his curly

hair with his fingers and went out. A little girl of about ten, with

nothing on but a dirty shirt, came towards him. “Good-morning, Uncle

Mitri,” she said; “you are to come and thrash.” “All right, I’ll come,”

replied Mitri. He understood that he was expected to return the help

given the week before by Kumushkir, a man as poor as he was himself,

when he was thrashing his own corn with a horse-driven machine.

“Tell them I’ll come--I’ll come at lunch time. I’ve got to go to

Ugrumi.” Mitri went back to the hut, and changing his birch-bark shoes

and the linen bands on his legs, started off to see the squire. After

he had got three roubles from Volgin, and the same sum from Nicholas

Petrovich, he returned to his house, gave the money to his wife, and

went to his neighbour’s. The thrashing machine was humming, and the

driver was shouting. The lean horses were going slowly round him,

straining at their traces. The driver was shouting to them in a

monotone, “Now, there, my dears.” Some women were unbinding sheaves,

others were raking up the scattered straw and ears, and others again

were gathering great armfuls of corn and handing them to the men to feed

the machine. The work was in full swing. In the kitchen garden, which

Mitri had to pass, a girl, clad only in a long shirt, was digging

potatoes which she put into a basket.

“Where’s your grandfather?” asked Mitri. “He’s in the barn.” Mitri went

to the barn and set to work at once. The old man of eighty knew of

Mitri’s trouble. After greeting him, he gave him his place to feed the

machine.

Mitri took off his ragged coat, laid it out of the way near the fence,

and then began to work vigorously, raking the corn together and throwing

it into the machine. The work went on without interruption until the

dinner-hour. The cocks had crowed two or three times, but no one paid

any attention to them; not because the workers did not believe them, but

because they were scarcely heard for the noise of the work and the talk

about it. At last the whistle of the squire’s steam thrasher sounded

three miles away, and then the owner came into the barn. He was

a straight old man of eighty. “It’s time to stop,” he said; “it’s

dinner-time.” Those at work seemed to redouble their efforts. In a

moment the straw was cleared away; the grain that had been thrashed was

separated from the chaff and brought in, and then the workers went into

the hut.

The hut was smoke-begrimed, as its stove had no chimney, but it had been

tidied up, and benches stood round the table, making room for all those

who had been working, of whom there were nine, not counting the owners.

Bread, soup, boiled potatoes, and kvass were placed on the table.

An old one-armed beggar, with a bag slung over his shoulder, came in

with a crutch during the meal.

“Peace be to this house. A good appetite to you. For Christ’s sake give

me something.”

“God will give it to you,” said the mistress, already an old woman, and

the daughter-in-law of the master. “Don’t be angry with us.” An old

man, who was still standing near the door, said, “Give him some bread,

Martha. How can you?”

“I am only wondering whether we shall have enough.” “Oh, it is wrong,

Martha. God tells us to help the poor. Cut him a slice.”

Martha obeyed. The beggar went away. The man in charge of the

thrashing-machine got up, said grace, thanked his hosts, and went away

to rest.

Mitri did not lie down, but ran to the shop to buy some tobacco. He was

longing for a smoke. While he smoked he chatted to a man from Demensk,

asking the price of cattle, as he saw that he would not be able to

manage without selling a cow. When he returned to the others, they were

already back at work again; and so it went on till the evening.

Among these downtrodden, duped, and defrauded men, who are becoming

demoralised by overwork, and being gradually done to death by

underfeeding, there are men living who consider themselves Christians;

and others so enlightened that they feel no further need for

Christianity or for any religion, so superior do they appear in their

own esteem. And yet their hideous, lazy lives are supported by the

degrading, excessive labour of these slaves, not to mention the labour

of millions of other slaves, toiling in factories to produce samovars,

silver, carriages, machines, and the like for their use. They live among

these horrors, seeing them and yet not seeing them, although often

kind at heart--old men and women, young men and maidens, mothers and

children--poor children who are being vitiated and trained into moral

blindness.

Here is a bachelor grown old, the owner of thousands of acres, who has

lived a life of idleness, greed, and over-indulgence, who reads The

New Times, and is astonished that the government can be so unwise as to

permit Jews to enter the university. There is his guest, formerly the

governor of a province, now a senator with a big salary, who reads with

satisfaction that a congress of lawyers has passed a resolution in favor

of capital punishment. Their political enemy, N. P., reads a liberal

paper, and cannot understand the blindness of the government in allowing

the union of Russian men to exist.

Here is a kind, gentle mother of a little girl reading a story to her

about Fox, a dog that lamed some rabbits. And here is this little girl.

During her walks she sees other children, barefooted, hungry, hunting

for green apples that have fallen from the trees; and, so accustomed is

she to the sight, that these children do not seem to her to be children

such as she is, but only part of the usual surroundings--the familiar

landscape.

Why is this?