A station was being built four miles from the town. It was said that the engineers asked for a bribe of fifty thousand rubles for bringing the line right up to the town, but the town council would only consent to give forty thousand; they could not come to an agreement over the difference, and now the townspeople regretted it, as they had to make a road to the station and that, it was reckoned, would cost more. The sleepers and rails had been laid throughout the whole length of the line, and trains ran up and down it, bringing building materials and laborers, and further progress was only delayed on account of the bridges which Dolzhikov was building, and some of the stations were not yet finished.
Dubechnya, as our first station was called, was a little under twelve miles from the town. I walked. The cornfields, bathed in the morning sunshine, were bright green. It was a flat, cheerful country, and in the distance there were the distinct outlines of the station, of ancient barrows, and faraway homesteads. . . . How nice it was out there in the open! And how I longed to be filled with the sense of freedom, if only for that one morning, that I might not think of what was being done in the town, not think of my needs, not feel hungry!
Nothing has so marred my existence as an acute feeling of hunger, which made images of buckwheat porridge, rissoles, and baked fish mingle strangely with my best thoughts. Here I was, standing alone in the open country, gazing upward at a lark which hovered in the air at the same spot, trilling as though in hysterics, and meanwhile I was thinking: “How nice it would be to eat a piece of bread and butter!” Or I would sit down by the roadside to rest, and shut my eyes to listen to the delicious sounds of May, and what haunted me was the smell of hot potatoes. Though I was tall and strongly built, I had as a rule little to eat, and so the predominant sensation throughout the day was hunger, and perhaps that was why I knew so well how it is that such multitudes of people toil merely for their daily bread and can talk of nothing but things to eat.
At Dubechnya they were plastering the inside of the station and building a wooden upper story to the pumping shed. It was hot; there was a smell of lime, and the workmen sauntered listlessly between the heaps of shavings and mortar rubble. The pointsman lay asleep near his sentry box, and the sun was blazing full on his face. There was not a single tree. The telegraph wire hummed faintly and hawks were perching on it here and there. I, wandering, too, among the heaps of rubbish, and not knowing what to do, recalled how the engineer, in answer to my question what my duties would consist in, had said: “We shall see when you are there”; but what could one see in that wilderness?
The plasterers spoke of the foreman, and of a certain Fyodot Vasilyev. I did not understand, and gradually I was overcome by depression—the physical depression in which one is conscious of one’s arms and legs and huge body and does not know what to do with them or where to put them.
After I had been walking about for at least a couple of hours, I noticed that there were telegraph poles running off to the right from the station, and that they ended a mile or a mile and a half away at a white stone wall. The workmen told me the office was there, and at last I reflected that that was where I ought to go.
It was a very old manor house, deserted long ago. The wall round it, of porous white stone, was moldering and had fallen away in places, and the lodge, the blank wall of which looked out on the open country, had a rusty roof with patches of tin plate gleaming here and there on it. Within the gates could be seen a spacious courtyard overgrown with rough weeds, and an old manor house with sun blinds on the windows, and a high roof red with rust. Two lodges, exactly alike, stood one on each side of the house to right and to left: one had its windows nailed up with boards; near the other, of which the windows were open, there was washing on the line, and there were calves moving about. The last of the telegraph poles stood in the courtyard, and the wire from it ran to the window of that lodge whose blank wall looked out into the open country. The door stood open; I went in. By the telegraph apparatus a gentleman with a curly dark head, wearing a reefer coat made of sailcloth, was sitting at a table; he glanced at me morosely from under his brows but immediately smiled and said:
“Hullo, Better-than-nothing!”
It was Ivan Cheprakov, an old schoolfellow of mine, who had been expelled from the second class for smoking. We used at one time, during autumn, to catch goldfinches, finches, and linnets together, and to sell them in the market early in the morning, while our parents were still in their beds. We watched for flocks of migrating starlings and shot at them with small shot; then we picked up those that were wounded, and some of them died in our hands in terrible agonies (I remember to this day how they moaned in the cage at night); those that recovered we sold and swore with the utmost effrontery that they were all cocks. On one occasion at the market I had only one starling left, which I had offered to purchasers in vain, till at last I sold it for a farthing. “Anyway, it’s better than nothing,” I said to comfort myself, as I put the farthing in my pocket, and from that day the street urchins and the schoolboys called after me: “Better-than-nothing;” and to this day the street boys and the shopkeepers mock at me with the nickname, though no one remembers how it arose.
Cheprakov was not of robust constitution: he was narrow-chested, round-shouldered, and long-legged. He wore a silk cord for a tie, had no trace of a waistcoat, and his boots were worse than mine, with the heels trodden down on one side. He stared, hardly even blinking, with a strained expression, as though he were just going to catch something, and he was always in a fuss.
“You wait a minute,” he would say fussily. “You listen. . . . Whatever was I talking about?”
We got into conversation. I learned that the estate on which I now was had until recently been the property of the Cheprakovs, and had only the autumn before passed into the possession of Dolzhikov, who considered it more profitable to put his money into land than to keep it in notes, and had already bought up three good-sized mortgaged estates in our neighborhood. At the sale Cheprakov’s mother had reserved for herself the right to live for the next two years in one of the lodges at the side and had obtained a post for her son in the office.
“I should think he could buy!” Cheprakov said of the engineer. “See what he fleeces out of the contractors alone! He fleeces everyone!”
Then he took me to dinner, deciding fussily that I should live with him in the lodge and have my meals from his mother.
“She is a bit stingy,” he said, “but she won’t charge you much.”
It was very cramped in the little rooms in which his mother lived; they were all, even the passage and the entry, piled up with furniture which had been brought from the big house after the sale; and the furniture was all old-fashioned mahogany. Madam Cheprakov, a very stout middle-aged lady with slanting Chinese eyes, was sitting in a big armchair by the window, knitting a stocking. She received me ceremoniously.
“This is Poloznev, Mamma,” Cheprakov introduced me. “He is going to serve here.”
“Are you a nobleman?” she asked in a strange, disagreeable voice: it seemed to me to sound as though fat were bubbling in her throat.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Sit down.”
The dinner was a poor one. Nothing was served but pies filled with bitter curd, and milk soup. Elena Nikiforovna, who presided, kept blinking in a queer way, first with one eye and then with the other. She talked, she ate, but yet there was something deathly about her whole figure, and one almost fancied the faint smell of a corpse. There was only a glimmer of life in her, a glimmer of consciousness that she had been a lady who had once had her own serfs, that she was the widow of a general whom the servants had to address as “Your Excellency”; and when these feeble relics of life flickered up in her for an instant she would say to her son:
“Jean, you are not holding your knife properly!”
Or she would say to me, drawing a deep breath, with the mincing air of a hostess trying to entertain a visitor:
“You know we have sold our estate. Of co
urse, it is a pity, we are used to the place, but Dolzhikov has promised to make Jean stationmaster of Dubechnya, so we shall not have to go away; we shall live here at the station, and that is just the same as being on our own property! The engineer is so nice! Don’t you think he is very handsome?”
Until recently the Cheprakovs had lived in a wealthy style, but since the death of the general everything had been changed. Elena Nikiforovna had taken to quarreling with the neighbors, to going to law, and to not paying her bailiffs or her laborers; she was in constant terror of being robbed, and in some ten years Dubechnya had become unrecognizable.
Behind the great house was an old garden which had already run wild, and was overgrown with rough weeds and bushes. I walked up and down the veranda, which was still solid and beautiful; through the glass doors one could see a room with parqueted floor, probably the drawing-room; an old-fashioned piano and pictures in deep mahogany frames—there was nothing else. In the old flower beds all that remained were peonies and poppies, which lifted their white and bright red heads above the grass. Young maples and elms, already nibbled by the cows, grew beside the paths, drawn up and hindering each other’s growth. The garden was thickly overgrown and seemed impassable, but this was only near the house where there stood poplars, fir trees, and old lime trees, all of the same age, relics of the former avenues. Further on, beyond them, the garden had been cleared for the sake of hay, and here it was not moist and stuffy, and there were no spiders’ webs in one’s mouth and eyes. A light breeze was blowing. The further one went the more open it was, and here in the open space were cherries, plums, and spreading apple trees, disfigured by props and by canker, and pear trees so tall that one could not believe they were pear trees. This part of the garden was let to some shopkeepers of the town, and it was protected from thieves and starlings by a feeble-minded peasant who lived in a shanty in it.
The garden, growing more and more open, till it became definitely a meadow, sloped down to the river, which was overgrown with green weeds and osiers. Near the milldam was the millpond, deep and full of fish; a little mill with a thatched roof was working away with a wrathful sound, and frogs croaked furiously. Circles passed from time to time over the smooth, mirrorlike water, and the water lilies trembled, stirred by the lively fish. On the further side of the river was the little village Dubechnya. The still, blue millpond was alluring with its promise of coolness and peace. And now all this—the millpond and the mill and the snug-looking banks—belonged to the engineer!
And so my new work began. I received and forwarded telegrams, wrote various reports, and made fair copies of the notes of requirements, the complaints, and the reports sent to the office by the illiterate foremen and workmen. But for the greater part of the day I did nothing but walk about the room waiting for telegrams, or made a boy sit in the lodge while I went for a walk in the garden, until the boy ran to tell me that there was a tapping at the operating machine. I had dinner at Madam Cheprakov’s. Meat we had very rarely: our dishes were all made of milk, and Wednesdays and Fridays were fast days, and on those days we had pink plates which were called Lenten plates. Madam Cheprakov was continually blinking—it was her invariable habit, and I always felt ill at ease in her presence.
As there was not enough work in the lodge for one, Cheprakov did nothing, but simply dozed, or went with his gun to shoot ducks on the millpond. In the evenings he drank too much in the village or the station, and, before going to bed, stared in the looking glass and said: “Hullo, Ivan Cheprakov.”
When he was drunk he was very pale and kept rubbing his hands and laughing with a sound like a neigh: “Hee-hee-hee!” By way of bravado he used to strip and run about the country naked. He used to eat flies and say they were rather sour.
4.
One day, after dinner, he ran breathless into the lodge and said: “Go along, your sister has come.”
I went out, and there I found a hired brake from the town standing before the entrance of the great house. My sister had come in it with Anyuta Blagovo and a gentleman in a military tunic. Going up closer I recognized the latter: it was the brother of Anyuta Blagovo, the army doctor.
“We have come to you for a picnic,” he said; “is that all right?”
My sister and Anyuta wanted to ask how I was getting on here, but both were silent and simply gazed at me. I was silent too. They saw that I did not like the place, and tears came into my sister’s eyes, while Anyuta Blagovo turned crimson.
We went into the garden. The doctor walked ahead of us all and said enthusiastically:
“What air! Holy Mother, what air!”
In appearance he was still a student. And he walked and talked like a student, and the expression of his gray eyes was as keen, honest, and frank as a nice student’s. Beside his tall and handsome sister he looked frail and thin; and his beard was thin too, and his voice, too, was a thin but rather agreeable tenor. He was serving in a regiment somewhere and had come home to his people for a holiday, and said he was going in the autumn to Petersburg for his examination as a doctor of medicine. He was already a family man, with a wife and three children; he had married very young, in his second year at the university, and now people in the town said he was unhappy in his family life and was not living with his wife.
“What time is it?” my sister asked uneasily. “We must get back in good time. Papa let me come to see my brother on condition I was back at six.”
“Oh, bother your papa!” sighed the doctor.
I set the samovar. We put down a carpet before the veranda of the great house and had our tea there, and the doctor knelt down, drank out of his saucer, and declared that he now knew what bliss was. Then Cheprakov came with the key and opened the glass door, and we all went into the house. There it was half dark and mysterious, and smelled of mushrooms, and our footsteps had a hollow sound as though there were cellars under the floor. The doctor stopped and touched the keys of the piano, and it responded faintly with a husky, quivering, but melodious chord; he tried his voice and sang a song, frowning and tapping impatiently with his foot when some note was mute. My sister did not talk about going home but walked about the rooms and kept saying:
“How happy I am! How happy I am!”
There was a note of astonishment in her voice, as though it seemed to her incredible that she, too, could feel lighthearted. It was the first time in my life I had seen her so happy. She actually looked prettier. In profile she did not look nice; her nose and mouth seemed to stick out and had an expression as though she were pouting, but she had beautiful dark eyes, a pale, very delicate complexion, and a touching expression of goodness and melancholy, and when she talked she seemed charming and even beautiful. We both, she and I, took after our mother, were broad-shouldered, strongly built, and capable of endurance, but her pallor was a sign of ill-health; she often had a cough, and I sometimes caught in her face that look one sees in people who are seriously ill, but for some reason conceal the fact. There was something naive and childish in her gaiety now, as though the joy that had been suppressed and smothered in our childhood by harsh education had now suddenly awakened in her soul and found a free outlet.
But when evening came on and the horses were brought round, my sister sank into silence and looked thin and shrunken, and she got into the brake as though she were going to the scaffold.
When they had all gone, and the sound had died away . . . I remembered that Anyuta Blagovo had not said a word to me all day.
“She is a wonderful girl!” I thought. “Wonderful girl!”
St. Peter’s fast came, and we had nothing but Lenten dishes every day. I was weighed down by physical depression due to idleness and my unsettled position, and dissatisfied with myself. Listless and hungry, I lounged about the garden and only waited for a suitable mood to go away.
Towards evening one day, when Radish was sitting in the lodge, Dolzhikov, very sunburnt and gray with dust, walked in unexpectedly. He had been spending three days on his land, and had come now to Dubec
hnya by the steamer, and walked to us from the station. While waiting for the carriage, which was to come for him from the town, he walked round the grounds with his bailiff, giving orders in a loud voice, then sat for a whole hour in our lodge, writing letters. While he was there telegrams came for him, and he himself tapped off the answers. We three stood in silence at attention.
“What a muddle!” he said, glancing contemptuously at a record book. “In a fortnight I am transferring the office to the station, and I don’t know what I am to do with you, my friends.”
“I do my best, your honor,” said Cheprakov.
“To be sure, I see how you do your best. The only thing you can do is to take your salary.” The engineer went on, looking at me, “You keep relying on patronage to faire la carrière as quickly and as easily as possible. Well, I don’t care for patronage. No one took any trouble on my behalf. Before they gave me a railway contract I went about as a mechanic and worked in Belgium as an oiler. And you, Pantelei, what are you doing here?” he asked, turning to Radish. “Drinking with them?”
He, for some reason, always called humble people Pantelei, and such as me and Cheprakov he despised, and called them drunkards, beasts, and rabble to their faces. Altogether he was cruel to humble subordinates and used to fine them and turn them off coldly without explanations.
At last the horses came for him. As he said good-bye he promised to turn us all off in a fortnight; he called his bailiff a blockhead; and then, lolling at ease in his carriage, drove back to the town.
“Andrei Ivanich,” I said to Radish, “take me on as a workman.”