‘How is it you’ve heard about Pretty Lady but you haven’t heard about Baush? He was your grandad’s chief huntsman in charge of the hounds. Your grandad was as fond of him as he was of Pretty Lady. He was fiercely loyal, and whatever your grandad ordered him to do he’d do it in a flash, even if it meant getting knifed for it… And when he set the hounds on some scent he’d fill the whole forest with his shouts. And then he might suddenly straighten up, slip off his horse and lie down flat. When the hounds couldn’t hear his voice any more, that’d be that – finished! They’d give up the scent and wouldn’t go on no matter what. Heck, wouldn’t your grandad be angry! “Life,” he’d say, “it’s not worth living, unless I string up that good-for-nothing! I’ll tear that Antichrist inside out! I’ll pull his heels right through his throat, I will!” And it’d end by him sending to know what was wrong, why weren’t the hounds being set on. And Baush in such circumstances used usually to ask for something to drink, have a drink, then climb to his feet and start his view-halloo all over again.’
‘It seems you’re also fond of hunting, Luka Petrovich?’
‘I’d love hunting, yes… but not now. Now my time’s passed, but when I was young… I felt awkward, you know, on account of my being a farmer. It’s not for the likes of us to start trying to be gentry. Mind, there’ve been those of us farmers, drinkers and incompetents, who’ve sucked up to our lords and masters – and a lot o’ good it’s done them! They’ve just brought shame on themselves. They’d be given some trashy, stumbling horse and have their hats knocked off their heads again and again or get swiped with a horse-whip supposedly meant for the horse and they’d have to pretend to laugh at it and make others laugh. No, I tell you, the lower down the social scale you are, the stricter you’ve got to behave, otherwise you’ll be in the dirt.
‘Yes,’ Ovsyanikov continued with a sigh, ‘much water’s flowed under the bridge since I was born and now times are different. In particular I’ve noticed a great change in the gentry. The minor gentry’ve either been in state service or else can’t stay in one place, and as for the bigwigs – you can’t recognize them any more. I’ve done my fill of looking at the big ones – for instance, over the redivision of land. And I’ve gotta tell you this: it fair gladdens the heart to see how caring and polite they are. Only what surprises me is that they’ve got all their learning and talk so fancy that one can’t help being impressed, but they still don’t understand real business and can’t feel what’s in their own best interest. Why, one of their peasants, a bailiff, say, can bend them any way he wants just like a bow! Well, you probably know Korolyov, Alexander Vladimirych – he’s one of the gentry, isn’t he? Good-looking, rich, attended universities, it seems, and been abroad, is a smooth talker, self-effacing and shakes everyone by the hand. Do you know who I mean? Well, then listen to this. Last week we all gathered in Beryozovka on the invitation of the mediator, Nikifor Ilyich. And the mediator Nikifor Ilyich said to us: “Gentlemen, we’ve got to revise our boundaries. It’s a crying shame that our sector of land’s got so behind-hand. Let’s get down to business.” So we got down to it. As usual, there were discussions and arguments and our legal adviser began to get really heated. But the first one to blow up was Porfiry Ovchinnikov. And what’s he got to blow up about? He didn’t own an inch of land, but he was acting on his brother’s behalf. He shouted: “No, you won’t get the better of me! No, I’m not going to be fooled! Give the plans here! Let me get my hands on that surveyor, just let me get hold of that Judas!” “In the end, what on earth do you want?” “My God, what a fool! Do you think I’m going to tell you right now what I want? No, just you let me have those plans!” And he brought his fist down on the plans. Marfa Dmitrievna was bitterly hurt. She shouted: “How do you dare cast a slur on my reputation?” He said: “I wouldn’t want your reputation for my brown mare.” They forced some madeira on them. He was calmed down and then others started up. Korolyov, Alexander Vladimirych, sat the whole time as good as gold in the corner and sucked the knob on his walking-stick and just nodded his head. I felt real bad about it all, but just didn’t have the strength to get up and go. And I wondered what he was thinking about the lot of us? Then I saw that my Alexander Vladimirych had got up and was giving the impression he wanted to say something. The mediator put on airs and said: “Gentlemen, gentlemen, Alexander Vladimirych would like to say a word.” And you’ve gotta give the gentry credit, because they all stopped talking at that. So Alexander Vladimirych began and he said that we’ve, so to speak, forgotten what we’re doing here, that although boundary revision is indisputably advantageous to landowners, what has it really been introduced for? Why, in order to ensure that the peasant has an easier lot, can work and fulfil his obligations more easily. As it is, he may not even know what land is his and frequently has to go five miles or more to do his ploughing and so you don’t know how much to ask him to pay. Then Alexander Vladimirych said it was a sin for a landowner not to care about the welfare of his peasants, that peasants were entrusted to him by God and, finally, that, if one thought about it sensibly, their advantage was our advantage, that it was all one and the same: what was good for them was good for us, what was bad for them was bad for us, and that consequently it was sinful and foolish not to reach agreement because of trivial disputes, and so on, and so forth… Oh, the way he talked! He fairly seized one by the heart. The gentry all looked crestfallen and I myself was almost on the verge of tears. My word, you wouldn’t find a speech like that in any of the old-fashioned books! But how did it all end? He didn’t want to give up and sell just under a dozen acres of mossy bogland. He said: “I’ll drain that bog with my own men and put up a cloth factory there, with all the latest improvements. I’ve specially chosen that place,” he said, “and I’ve got my own reasons…” Though that was right and proper in its own way, it was only because Alexander Vladimirych’s neighbour, Anton Karasikov, hadn’t given Korol-oyov’s bailiff a hundred-rouble bribe in paper notes. So we dispersed without having done what we should’ve done. And Alexander Vladimirych still goes on thinking himself in the right and talks about a cloth factory, only he does nothing about draining the bog.’
‘How does he run his estate?’
‘Always bringing in new rules, he is. His peasants don’t like it, but there’s no point in listening to them. Alexander Vladimirych’s doing the right thing.’
‘How can you say that, Luka Petrovich? I thought you wanted to maintain the old ways.’
‘I’m a different matter. You see, I’m not a member of the gentry and I’m not a landowner. What’s my farm amount to, after all? In any case, I don’t know how to do things otherwise. I try to conform to justice and the law – and I say thank God for ’em! The young gentlemen don’t like the old ways and I praise them for it. It’s time to start using our heads. Only the trouble is the young gents are too clever by half. They treat the peasant like a doll, playing with him, doing this and that to him, breaking him and throwing him away. And your bailiff, who’s a peasant, too, or your manager, who’s a transplanted German, they get their claws into the peasant as well. If only one of them young gents’d set an example and show how the peasants really should be treated! Where’d it end in that case? Am I literally going to die without seeing any new ways brought in? What a parable, eh? The old’s died away but the young hasn’t been born!’
I didn’t know what to say to Ovsyanikov. He looked round, moved himself closer to me and continued in a low voice:
‘Have you heard about Vasily Nikolaich Lyubozvonov?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Then please explain to me what wonders these are. I can’t fathom it. His very own peasants have been telling me about it but I can’t make head or tail of their talk. He’s a young man, you know, and has recently come into his inheritance after the death of his mother. Well, he travelled to his estate. The peasants all gathered to have a glimpse of their master. Vasily Nikolaich went out to meet them. The peasants watched and – what a sight! ??
? the master appeared wearing velveteen pantaloons just like a coachman and he’d put on fancy boots with trimmings and a red peasant shirt and a coachman’s caftan.5 He wore his beard long and had such a weird kind of hat on his head and his face was kinda weird – maybe he was drunk, maybe not, but he certainly wasn’t in his right mind. “Greetings, lads,” he said. “God be with you!” The peasants all bowed low to him, ‘cept they didn’t say anything, being shy, you know. And so he got all shy as well. He tried to make a speech. “I’m a Russian, like,” he said, “and you’re Russian. I love all things Russian… Er, I’ve got a Russian soul, so to speak, and, er, I’ve got Russian blood…” Then he suddenly gave an order: “Well, my children, sing me a real Russian, real folksy song!” The peasants’ knees started fair shaking at that and they felt right idiots. One bold fellow struck up a song, only to sit flat down on the ground at once and hide himself behind the others… This is what you’ve got to wonder at, you know: we’ve had landowners like that, bloody awful gents, mad as hatters, it’s true, who’ve decked themselves out as coachmen and danced and played the guitar and sung and drunk with their own house servants and feasted with their peasants. But this one, this Vasily Nikolaich, is just like a girl, he’s all the time reading and writing books or he goes around chanting verses, never talking to anyone, mind, fighting shy of people, strolling by himself in the garden as if he’s bored or sad. The former bailiff was terrified at first. Before Vasily Nikolaich’s arrival he dashed round all the peasant houses and fawned on ’em, just like a cat who knows he’s eaten somebody else’s meat. And the peasants raised their expectations and thought: “You’re in for it, mate. O-oh, they’ll get you to answer for what you done, you’ll dance to a new tune, you old skinflint!” But instead it worked out – well, how can I put it? – I don’t think the Good Lord himself really knows how it’s worked out! Vasily Nikolaich summoned the bailiff to him and said: “You’ve got to be just in what you do, don’t oppress anyone, do you hear?” But since then he’s never spoken to him again! He’s lived on his estate like a stranger. Well, of course, the bailiff heaved a deep sigh, and the peasants haven’t dared approach Vasily Nikolaich because they’re frightened to. And what’s also worthy of surprise is that their master goes around bowing to them and giving them welcome looks, while they simply get stomach cramps from fright. What sort of wonders are these, eh?… Or maybe I’ve grown old and stupid and just don’t understand things any more…’
I told Ovsyanikov that Mr Lyubozvonov was probably sick.
‘Sick indeed! He’s broader than he’s tall and his face, God help him, is thick as thick, despite his being young… Still, God knows!’ (And Ovsyanikov gave a deep sigh.)
‘Well,’ I said, ‘the gentry apart, what’ll you tell me about the farmers, Luka Petrovich?’
‘No, allow me to refuse on that one,’ he declared hurriedly. ‘True, I’d tell you a thing or two – but so what!’ (Ovsyanikov gave a wave of the hand.) ‘Let’s have some tea. Peasants are peasants, that’s the truth, and how could we be otherwise, eh?’
He fell silent. Tea was served. Tatyana Ilyinichna rose from where she’d been sitting and drew closer to us. In the course of the evening she’d several times gone out noiselessly and returned just as quietly. Silence reigned in the room. Ovsyanikov in a slow and dignified way drank cup after cup.
‘Mitya came to see us today,’ Tatyana Ilyinichna remarked quietly.
Ovsyanikov frowned.
‘What did he want?’
‘He came to make his apologies.’
Ovsyanikov shook his head.
‘Well,’ he continued, turning to me, ‘tell me, what can you do about relatives? You can’t turn your back on ‘em… God’s gone and rewarded me too with a nephew of sorts. He’s a young fellow with brains, plenty of bounce, no denying it. He was good at learning, but I don’t think he’ll ever stick at anything. He was on government service and threw it up ‘cos he didn’t think he’d get anywhere with it… Well, he’s not a gent, is he? And not all gentlemen get made generals rightaway, do they? So now he’s got no work… And who knows where he’ll get to next, maybe he’ll become a government informer! He composes petitions for peasants, writes reports, tells the village constable what to do, gives the surveyors what for, goes round the pubs drinking and passes the time of day with soldiers on discharge, with townee types and porters from the post-stations. How long will it be before disaster strikes? He’s already received threats from the police. It’s a good thing, though, he’s a bit of a joker. He can make ‘em laugh, only to get them into a proper pickle afterwards… Enough of this, though, isn’t he sitting in your little room right now?’ he added, turning to his wife. ‘I know you, you’re much too kind-hearted. You’ve been protecting him, haven’t you?’
Tatyana Ilyinichna bowed her head, smiled and blushed.
‘Well, you see,’ Ovsyanikov continued. ‘Oh, you softie, you! Well, tell him to come in – on account of having a dear guest with us, I’ll forgive him… Well, tell him, tell him…’
Tatyana Ilyinichna went to the door and called out: ‘Mitya!’
Mitya, a fellow of about twenty-eight, tall, well-built and curly-haired, came into the room and, on seeing me, stopped in the doorway. He wore German-style clothes, but the puffing of the sleeves at the shoulders was of such unnatural size that they served as clear demonstration of the fact that it was not just a tailor but an All-Russian tailor who’d made them.
‘Well, come in, come in,’ said the old man, ‘why’re you so shy? Thank your aunt that you’re forgiven. There you are, my dear sir, I’d like to introduce you,’ he went on, pointing at Mitya. ‘My very own nephew but I’ll never see eye to eye with him, come the end of the world!’ (We bowed to each other.) ‘Well, tell us what you’ve been up to there? Why’re they making complaints against you, eh?’
Mitya clearly didn’t want to explain and justify himself in front of me.
‘Later, uncle,’ he muttered.
‘No, not later, but right now,’ the old man continued. ‘I know you feel awkward in front of a landowner and a gentleman. So much the better, it’ll serve you right. Come on, come on, tell us… we’ll listen.’
‘I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,’ Mitya began vivaciously and shook his head. ‘Judge for yourself, uncle. The Reshetilov farmers came to me and said: “Help us, mate.” “What’s wrong?” “This is what’s wrong: our grain stores are in tip-top shape, couldn’t be better, but suddenly along comes an official and says he’s got orders to inspect ’em. He looked ’em over and says: ‘They’re in a right mess, your stores, they’ve got serious shortcomings, I’ll have to report to higher authority.’ ‘What are these shortcomings?’ ‘I know what they are,’ he says… We got together and decided on the usual sort of bribe to give the official, when up spoke the old man Prokhorych and said, you’ll only be whetting his appetite if you do that. What’s the point of it? Or haven’t we got any come-back at all? We listened to what the old man said and the official got real annoyed and put in a complaint and reported against us. And now they’re making us answer for it.” “Well, are your grain stores really in proper shape?” I asked. “As God is our witness, they’re in tip-top shape and they contain the legal amount of grain…” “Well,” I said, “you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of in that case,” and I wrote out a statement for them… And it’s still not clear which way the business’ll go… But it’s understandable you’ve had people complaining about me in this case because everyone knows which side his bread is buttered.’
‘Yes, everyone knows that except you,’ said the old man under his breath. ‘But what fun and games have you been up to with the Shutolomovsky peasants?’
‘How d’you know about that?’
‘Oh, I know.’
‘I’m in the right there, too. Again judge for yourself. The Shutolomovsky peasants’ neighbour, Mr Bespandin, began ploughing up about a dozen acres of their land. It’s mine, he said, mine. The Shutolomovsky people are on q
uit-rent and their landowner’s gone abroad, so who’ve they got to stand up for them, eh? You be judge of that. And the land’s theirs without doubt, peasant land, always has been. So they came to me and asked me to write out a petition. And I wrote it. And Mr Bespandin got to know about it and started making threats: “I’ll pull that bloody Mitya’s shoulder blades out of their sockets,” he said, “and I’ll just about tear his head from his shoulders…” Well, let’s see if he tears it off. It’s still on so far.’
‘Well, don’t you start boasting, that won’t do your head much good,’ said the old man. ‘You’re crazy, completely crazy!’
‘Uncle, isn’t it just what you’ve been telling me yourself…’
‘I know it, I know exactly what you’re going to say to me,’ Ovsyanikov interrupted him. ‘You’re going to say: A man must live injustice and should help his neighbour. It’s also true that he mustn’t spare himself. Well, do you always behave as you should? Don’t they sometimes take you into a pub, eh? Give you a drink, fawn on you and say: “Dmitry Alekseich, well, sir, you help us and we’ll show you how grateful we are,” and, you know, maybe there’s a coin or a banknote slipping into your hand from somewhere, eh? Doesn’t that happen? Say it doesn’t, eh?’
‘Sure, I’m guilty of that,’ answered Mitya, looking down at the floor, ‘but I don’t take anything from poor people and I don’t do anything to be ashamed of.’
‘You don’t take anything now, but when things start going wrong for you, you’ll start taking. Nothing to be ashamed of indeed… Oh, you, you think you’re taking the sides of the saints! Have you forgotten Borka Perekhodov? Who fussed over him? Who gave him protection, eh?’
‘Perekhodov suffered because of what he did himself, true enough…’
‘Stole government money… Some joke that!’
‘Uncle, you’ve got to remember his poverty, his family…’