Marya saw who it 'Tlut's our Fyolli. She's ^^ acrou the river, playing around with the sbff at the manor. She's a bad girl and she somcthing terrible.'
Black-browed Fyokk with .her hair do^, stil young, and sttong as a girl, struck out from thc bank and t^^hcd thc watcr with hcr lcgs, sending waves in al directioru.
' She's a bad girl,' Marya repeated. ' A real bad lot.'
There was a rickety wooden footbridge across the river and just below it in the clear, limpid water moved shoals of broad-headed chub. Dew sparkled on the green bushes that stared into the water and there was a breath of warmth and cheerfulness in the air. What a lovely morning! And how lovely life on earth might be but for poverty— sheer, grinding poverty that you could not escape from. One glance at the village and yesterday's events came vividly to mind, dispersing in a moment the atmosphere of blissful enchantment.
They reached the church. Marya stopped by the porch and ventured no farther, not even daring to sit down, though the bells were not rung for service till after eight o'clock. She remained standing all the time.
During the reading of the Gospel the congregation suddenly moved to make way for the squire's family. Two girls, wearing white dresses and broad-brimmed hats, came in with a plump, rosy little boy in a sailor suit. Olga was touched by their appearance, and one glance decided her that these were nice, cultivated, fmc-looking people. But Marya gave the new arrivals a sullen, morose, glowering look as if they_ were not human, but monsters that would crush her if she did not get out of their way.
Whenever the priest's deep voice boomed out she fancied she heard the shout of 'Ma-arya!' and shuddered.
III
The village learnt of the visitors' arrival and a crowd gathercd in the hut after service. The Le6nychevs, the Matveichevs and the Ilichovs came for news of relatives working in Moscow. All the lads from Zhukovo who could read and write were packed off" to Moscow to be waiters and hotel servants, just as the boys from the village across the river all went as bakers. This had been going on for some time, since the days of serfdom when a certain Luke—a Zhukovo man, now a legendary figure—had been steward at a Mo5cow club. He would only take on people from his own village to work under him, and as soon as they found their feet they sent for their own relatives and fixed them up in restaurants and taverns. Ever since then Zhukovo village has been called 'Lower Flunkey' or some such name round those parts. Nicholas had been sent to Moscow when he was eleven and was found a j ob by Ivan, a Matveichev, then an usher at the Hermitage
Garden Theatre. Meeting the Matveichcvs now, Nicholas addressed them authoritatively.
'Mr. Ivan did a lot for mc. I miist pray for him day and night. It was him that gave me my start.'
'Yes, my friend,' said a tall old woman, Ivan's sister, tearfully. 'But not a \vord do we hear of the poor dear.'
'Last winter he was working at Aumont's and this season I heard he was out oftown somewhere in a garden rcstaurant. . . . He's looking much older. Time was he brought home his ten roubles a day in the summer season, but things are quieter everywherc now and the old fellow's having a thin time.'
Thc women looked at Nicholas's feet—hc wore felt boots—and his pale face.
'You'll never bring much home, Nicholas, that you won't,' they said sadly. 'No indeed!'
They all made a fuss of Sasha. She was ten, but short for her agc and very thin. She did not look more than seven. Fair-haired Sasha, with her huge, dark eyes and the red ribbon in her hair, seemed a bit funny among the other little girls, sunburnt with their crude hair-cuts and long, faded smocks. She was like a small animal caught in the ficlds and brought into the hut.
'The little pet can even read,' boasted Olga, looking lovingly at her daughter. 'Read something, dear,' she said, fetching the Gospels from the comer. 'You read a bit and these good Christian folk wiU listen.'
It was a heavy old copy ofthe Gospels in a leather binding with dog- cared edges. It smelt as if monks had come into the hut. Sasha raised her eyebrows and began intoning loudly.
'And when they were departed, behold, the angel of the Lord . .. appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arise, and take the young child and his mother. .. .'
'The young child and his mother,' Olga repeated, glowing with excitement.
'And flee into Egypt . .. and be thou there until I bring thee word. . ..'
At this 'bring thee word' Olga broke down and wept. First Marya and then Ivan Matveichev's sister looked at her and sobbed. The old man had a coughing fit and fidgeted about looking for some little present for his granddaughter, but found nothing and gave up with a wave of his hand. After the reading was over the neighbours went home, much moved and delighted with Olga and Sasha.
It was a holiday, so the family stayed at home all day. The old woman—'Gran' to her husband, daughters-in-law and grandchildren alike—tried to do everything herself. She lit the stove, put on the samovar, even took the others their dinner in the fields, and then complained of being worked to death. She was always worrying— someone might eat too much or the old man and her daughters-in-law might sit around doing nothing. Thinking that she heard the inn- keeper's geese getting at her kitchen-garden round the back, she some- times dashed out of the hut with a long stick and screeched for half an hour among cabbages as scraggy and decrepit as herself. Or she would ^^^ that a crow was after her chicks and rush at it swearing. She stormed and grumbled from morning W night and the row she made often caused people in the street to halt in their tracks.
She was not very kind to the old man—said he was bone idle and a thorough pest. The man was no good. In fact he was hopeless and might just have sat talking on the stove and never done a stroke of work if she had not kept on at him. He held forth to his so'n about certain enemies ofhis and complained of being wronged by the neigh- bours every day. This talk was very tiresome.
'Aye,' he would say, holding his sidcs. 'Aye. . .. Last week in Sep- tember I sold some hay at a rouble the hundredweight. All my own idea. .. . Aye. .. . And very nice too. .. . WeU, I'm carting my hay one morning, pleasing myselfand minding my own business, when the gaffer, Antip Sedelnikov, comes out of the inn—worse luck. "Where d'you think you're taking that lot, you so-and-so?" says he and clouts me on the ear.'
Kiryak had a hangover and a shocking headache and could hardly face his brother.
'Look what the vodka does for you. Oh, my God!' he muttered, shaking his aching head. 'Forgive me, dearest brother and sister, for Christ's sake. It's not much fun for me either.'
As it was a holiday they bought herring at the inn and made hcrruig's head broth. At noon they aU sat down to drink tea and went on and on till the sweat poured off them. Only when they seemed bloated with tea did they start eating the broth, out of a single pot. As for the herring, Gran hid it.
In the evening a potter was firing pots on the slope. Down on the meadow, girls danced country dances and sang. Someone played an accordion. On the far side of the river another kiln was burning and girls were singing. Their songs sounded gentle and melodious at a dis- tance. In and around the inn rowdy pcasants sang in discordant, drunken voiccs and swore so hard that Olga could only shudder. 'Oh, my goodness ...!' she said.
She wondered why they never seemed to stop swearing and why old men with one foot in the grave swore loudest and longest of all. Obviously used to it from the cradle, children and girls heard the bad language without being in the least put out.
Midnight passed and the kilns went out on both sides of the river, but the merrymaking continucd down on the meadow and at the iim Kiryak and the old man, both drunk, linked arms, banging into each other's shoulders, and went up to the barn where Olga and Marya were lying.
'Let her be,' urged the old man. 'Let her be. . .. She never did no harm. . . . It's all wrong. .. .'