'We'U see what you get to eat round here, you and your fme Moscow ways!' she said with malicious glee. 'We'll see about that.'
One morning early in September, Fyokla, pink with cold, healthy and handsome, brought up two pails of water. Marya and Olga were sitting at table drinking tea.
'Tea and sugar!' sneered Fyokla.
'Quite the ladies, aren't wc?' she added, putting down the pails. 'Quite the latest fashion, I suppose, this drinking tea cvery day. Mind you don't burst, you and your tca!' she went on, giving Olga a look of hate. 'Fed your face aU right in Moscow, didn't you, you fat bitch!'
She swung the yoke and hit Olga on the shoulder, making both her sisters-in-law throw up their hands.
'Oh, good heavens!' they said.
Then Fyokla went to the river to wash clothes, swearing so loudly all thc way down that they heard her in the hut.
The day passed and the long autumn evcning set in. They wcre winding silk in the hut—everyone except Fyokla who had gonc across the river. The silk came from a near-by factory and the whole family earned a little from it, about twenty copecks a week.
'We were bettcr off"as serfs,' said the old man, winding his silk. 'You worked, you ate, you slept—evcrything in its propcr turn. There was cabbage soup and gruel for dinner and the same again for supper. There was cucumbers and cabbage aplenty, you could eat away to your heart's content. Things wcre strictcr too—we all knew our place.'
The only light camc from a single lamp that gave a dim glow and smoked. When anyone stood in the way of it, a large shadow fell on the window and you could see bright moonlight. Old Osip told a leisurely tale about life before the serfs were freed. In these very parts where things wcre so drab and miserable now, there had been hunting with hounds, borzois and teams ofhuntsmen skiUcd in driving wolves towards the guns. There was vodka for the bcatcrs, and whole waggon-trains took the game to Moscow for thc young mastcrs. Bad peasants were flogged or sent to the family cstate in Tver and good ones were rewarded.
Gran also told a tale or two. She remembered every single thing. She talked about her mistress, a kind, God-fearing woman whose husband was a drunken rake. Her daughters aU made unsuitable marriages—one to a drunkard and another to a tradesman, whilc the third eloped, helped by Gran herself, who was just a girl at the time. Like thcir mother they aU died of broken hearts. Remembering all this, Gran even shed a tear.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door that made them aU start.
'Put us up for the night, Osip old friend.'
In came a little bald old man, General Zhukov's cook, the one whose cap was burnt. He sat down and listencd and then he too started re- calling old times and teUing stories. Nicholas sat listening on the stove with his legs dangling down and kept asking what food they cooked in the days of serfdom. They talked about rissoles, soups and sauces of various kinds. And the cook, who also had a good memory, named dishes that no longer existed. For instance there was something made from bulls' eyes and called, 'Wake me early in the morning.'
'Did you ever make cutlets a la marechal?' asked Nicholas.
'No.'
Nicholas shook his head reproachfully. 'Call yourselves cooks!' he said.
The little girls sat or lay on the stove, looking down without blink- ing. There seemed to be a great many of them, like cherubs in the clouds. They liked the stories. They sighed, shuddered and grew pale with ecstasy or fear. Gran's stories were the most interesting of aU and they listened breathlessly, afraid to move.
They lay down to sleep in silence. Agitated and excited by the storics, the old people thought how precious youth was, because no matter what it had been like at the time, it left only joyful, lively, stirring memories behind. And they thought of the fearful chill of death. That was not so far off—best not to think about it. The lamp wcnt out. The darkness, the two windows sharply defmed by the moonlight, the stillness and the creaking cradle somehow served only to remind them that their life was over and that there was no bringing it back.
You doze off and forget everything. But then someone suddenly touches your shoulder or breathes on your cheek and sleep is gone, your body feels numb and thoughts ofdeath will come into your mind. You turn over and forget death, but the same old miserable, dreary thoughts go round and round inside your head—about poverty, cattle feed and the rising price offlour. Then a little later you remember once again that life has passed you by and you can't put back the clock. . . .
'Oh Lord!' sighed the cook.
Someone tapped faintly on the window—Fyokla must be back. Olga stood up, yawning and whispering a prayer, opened the door and drew the bolt in the lobby. But no one came in. There was just a breath of cold from the street and the sudden brightness of the moon- light. Through the open door Olga could see the street, quiet and empty, and the moon riding in the sky.
'Who's there?' she called.
'It's me,' came the answer. 'Me.'
Near the door, clinging to the wall, stood Fyokla, completely naked, shivering with cold, her teeth chattering. She looked very pale, beautiful and strange in the bright moonlight. The shadows and glint of moonlight on her skin stood out vividly, and her dark brows and firm young breasts were especially sharply outlined.
'Them swine across the river stripped me and turned me loose like this .. .' she said. 'I've come all the way home with nothing on ... mother naked. Bring me someching to put on.'
'Well, come inside,' said Olga quietly, starting to shiver as well.
'I don't want the old folk to see me.'
Sure enough, Gran had started muttering restlessly and the old man was asking, 'Who's there?' Olga brought her own smock and skirt and put them on Fyokla and then both crept into the hut, trying not to bang the doors.
'That you, my beauty?' Gran grumbled crossly, guessing who it was. 'Gadding about in the middle of the night, are you . . . ? Need your neck wrung, you do!'
'Never mind, it's all right,' whispered Olga, wrapping Fyokla up. 'Never mind, dearie.'
It grew quiet again. They always slept badly in the hut, each with something everlastingly nagging at him and keeping him awake. With the old ma.n it was backache, with Gran it was her worries and bad temper, with Marya it was fear and with the children it was itching and being hungry. And tonight their sleep was as troubled as ever. They kept turning over, talking in their sleep or getting up for a drink.
Fyokla suddenly yelled out in her loud, harsh voice, but took a grip on herself at once and went on with occasional sobs that grew quieter and more muffled till she stopped entirely. From time to time a clock was heard striking across the river, but there was something odd about it, for it struck fim five and then three.
'Oh Lord!' sighed the cook.
It was hard to tell by looking at the windows whether it was stiU mooniight or already daybreak. Marya got up and went out and could be heard milking the cow outside and saying, 'Stea-dy there!' Gran went out too. It was stiU dark in the hut, but you could already make things out.
Nicholas, who had not slept all night, got down from. the stove. He took his tail-coat from a small green chest, put it on and, going to the window, smoothed the sleeves, held it by the tails and smiled. Then he carefully took the coat off, put it back in the chest, and lay down again.
Marya came back and started lighting the stove. She was obviously not fully awake and was still waking up as she moved about. She had probably had a dream or remembered last night's stories because she said, stretching luxuriously in front of the stove, 'No, better be free than a serf.'
VII
The 'Governor' turned up—this was what they called the local police inspector in the village. They had known for a week when he was coming and why. There were only forty households in Zhukovo, but their arrears oftaxes and rates had passed the two thousand rouble mark.