The old woman kept silence, and, bent in two, seemed lost in thought. Fekla rocked the cradle. Kiriak seized Marya’s hand, dragged her to the door, and, to increase her terror, roared like a beast. But at that moment he saw the visitors, and stopped.
“So you’ve come!” he began, releasing his wife. “My own brother and his family. . . .”
He prayed a moment before the image, staggered, opened his red, drunken eyes, and continued—
“My brother and family have come to their parents’ house . . . from Moscow, that means . . . The old capital, that means, the city of Moscow, mother of cities. . . . Excuse . . .”
Amid the silence of all, he dropped on the bench near the samovar, and began to drink loudly from a saucer. When he had drunk ten cupfuls he leaned back on the bench and began to snore.
Bed-time came. Nikolai, as an invalid, was given a place on the stove beside the old man; Sasha slept on the floor; and Olga went with the young women to the shed.
“Never mind, my heart!” she said, lying on the hay beside Marya. “Crying is no help. You must bear it. In the Bible it is written, ‘Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’ Don’t cry, my heart!”
And then, in a whisper, she began to tell of Moscow, of her life there, how she had served as housemaid in furnished lodgings.
“In Moscow the houses are big and built of brick,” said Olga. “There is no end of churches—forty forties of them—my heart; and the houses are all full of gentlemen, so good-looking, so smart!”
And Marya answered that she had never been in the district town, much less in Moscow; she was illiterate, and knew no prayers, not even “Our Father.” Both she and her sister-in-law Fekla, who sat some way off and listened, were ignorant in the extreme, and understood nothing. Both disliked their husbands; Marya dreaded Kiriak, shook with terror when he stayed with her, and after his departure her head ached from the smell of vodka and tobacco. And Fekla, in answer to the question did she want her husband, answered angrily—
“What ? . . . Him?”
For a time the women spoke, and then lay down.
It was cold, and a cock crew loudly, hindering sleep. When the blue morning light began to break through the chinks, Fekla rose stealthily and went out, and her movements could be heard, as she ran down the street in her bare feet.
CHAPTER II Marya
WHEN OLGA went to church she took with her Marya. As they descended the path to the meadow, both were in good humour. Olga liked the freedom of the country; and Marya found in her sister-in-law a kindred spirit. The sun was rising. Close to the meadow flew a sleepy hawk; the river was dull, for there was a slight mist, but the hill beyond it was bathed in light; the church glittered, and rooks cawed in the garden of the big house beyond.
“The old man is not bad,” said Marya. “But my mother-in-law is cross and quarrelsome. Our own corn lasted till Shrovetide; now we have to buy at the inn; and the old woman is angry, and says, ‘You eat too much.’”
“Never mind, my heart! You must bear that too. It is written in the Bible, ‘Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden.’”
Olga spoke gravely and slowly; and walked, like a pilgrim, quickly and briskly. Every day she read the Gospel, aloud, like a clerk; and though there was much that she did not understand, the sacred words touched her to tears, and words like astche, dondezhe7 she pronounced with beating heart. She believed in God, in the Virgin, in the saints; and her faith was that it was wrong to do evil to any man, even to Germans, gipsies, and Jews. When she read aloud the Gospel, even when she stopped at words she did not understand, her face grew compassionate, kindly, and bright.
“What part are you from?” asked Marya.
“Vladimir. I have been long in Moscow, since I was eight years old.”
They approached the river. On the other bank stood a woman, undressing herself.
“That is our Fekla!” said Marya. “She’s been across the river at the squire’s house. With the stewards! She’s impudent and ill-spoken—awful!”
Black-browed Fekla, with loosened hair, jumped into the river, and, young and firm as a girl, splashed in the water, making big waves.
“She’s impudent—awful!” repeated Marya.
Across the river was a shaky bridge of beams, and at that moment beneath it in the clear, transparent water swam carp. On the green bushes, imaged in the water, glistened dew. It was warm and pleasant. What a wonderful morning! And indeed, how splendid would be life in this world were it not for poverty, hideous, hopeless poverty, from which there is no escape! But look back to the village, and memory awakens all the events of yesterday; and the intoxication of joy vanishes in a wink.
The women reached the church. Marya stopped near the door, afraid to go inside. She feared, too, to sit down, though the service would not begin till nine o’clock, and stood all the time.
As the Gospel was being read the worshippers suddenly moved, and made way for the squire’s family. In came two girls in white dresses with wide-brimmed hats, and behind them a stout, rosy boy dressed as a sailor. Their coming pleased Olga; she felt that here at last were well-taught, orderly, good-looking people. But Marya looked at them furtively and gloomily, as if they were not human beings but monsters who would crush her if she failed to make way.
And when the deacon sang out in a bass voice, she fancied she heard the cry “Ma-arya!” and shuddered.
CHAPTER III Songs
THE VILLAGE quickly heard of the visitors’ arrival, and when church was over the hut was crowded. The Leonuitcheffs, Matveitcheffs, and Ilitchoffs came for news of their kinsmen in Moscow. Every man in Zhukovo who could read and write was taken to Moscow as waiter or boots; and, similarly, the village across the river supplied only bakers; and this custom obtained since before the Emancipation, when a certain legendary Luka Ivanuitch, of Zhukovo, was lord of the buffet in a Moscow club, and hired none but fellow-villagers. These, in turn attaining power, sent for their kinsmen and found them posts in inns and restaurants; so that from that time Zhukovo was called by the local population Khamskaya or Kholuefka.8 Nikolai was taken to Moscow at the age of eleven, and given a post by Ivan Makaruitch, one of the Matveitcheffs, then porter at the Hermitage Gardens. And, now, turning to the Matveitcheffs, Nikolai said gravely—
“Ivan Makaruitch was my benefactor; it is my duty to pray God for him day and night, for it was through him I became a good man.”
“Batiushka9 mine!” said tearfully a tall, old woman, Ivan Makaruitch’s sister. “And have you no news of him?”
“He was at Omon’s last winter; and this season, I heard, he’s in some gardens outside town. . . . He’s grown old. Once in the summer he’d bring home ten roubles a day, but now everywhere business is dull—the old man’s in a bad way.”
The women, old and young, looked at the high felt boots on Nikolai’s legs, and at his pale face, and said sadly—
“You’re no money-maker, Nikolai Osipuitch, no money-bringer!”
And all caressed Sasha. Sasha was past her tenth birthday, but, small and very thin, she looked not more than seven. Among the sunburnt, untidy village girls, in their long cotton shirts, pale-faced, big-eyed Sasha, with the red ribbon in her hair, seemed a toy, a little strange animal caught in the fields, and brought back to the hut.
“And she knows how to read!” boasted Olga, looking tenderly at her daughter. “Read something, child!” she said, taking a New Testament from the corner. “Read something aloud and let the orthodox listen!”