It was an intolerably hot July day when, slowly dragging one foot after another, I and my dog climbed up the hill beside the Kolotovka ravine in the direction of The Welcome tavern. The sun blazed in the sky, as if fit to explode; it steamed and baked everything remorselessly, and the air was full of suffocating dust. Glossy-feathered rooks and crows hung their beaks and gazed miserably at those who passed by, as if literally imploring their sympathy. Only the sparrows kept their spirits up and, spreading their feathers, chirruped away more fiercely than ever, squabbled round the fences, took off in flight from the dusty roadway and soared in grey clouds above the plantations of green hemp. I was tormented by thirst. There was no water to be got close by: in Kolotovka, as in so many other steppe villages, the peasants, for want of springs and wells, are accustomed to drink a kind of liquid mud from the ponds… But who would call that beastly drink water? I wanted to beg a glass of beer or kvas from Nikolay Ivanych.
It has to be confessed that at no time of year does Kolotovka offer a spectacle to please the eye; but it evokes an especially sad feeling when the glittering July sun pours its merciless rays down on the rust-coloured and only partly thatched roofs of the huts, and the deep ravine, and the scorched, dust-laden common ground where gaunt chickens roam about hopelessly on spindly legs, and the grey, skeletal frame of a house of aspen wood, which has holes in place of windows and is all that remains of the former manor house (now overgrown with nettles, wormwood and other weeds), and the dark-green, literally sun-smelted pond, covered with bits of goose fluff and edged with half-dried mud, and a dam knocked askew, beside which, on earth so finely trodden it resembles ash, sheep huddle miserably together, sneezing and scarcely able to draw breath from the heat, and with patient despondency hang their heads as low as possible, as if awaiting the time when the intolerable heat will finally pass.
With weary steps I drew close to Nikolay Ivanych’s dwelling, arousing, quite naturally, a state of excitement in the little boys which grew into an intently senseless staring, and in the dogs a state of dissatisfaction which expressed itself in barks so shrill and malicious that it seemed their innards were being torn out of them and they were left with nothing to do but cough and catch their breaths – when suddenly there appeared in the tavern doorway a tall, hatless man in a frieze overcoat tied low down with a blue sash. To all appearances he was a house-serf; clusters of grey hair rose untidily above his dry and wrinkled face. He called to someone, making hurried motions with his arms which clearly waved about a good deal more expansively than he wished. It was obvious that he had already managed to have something to drink.
‘Come on, come on now!’ he burbled, with an effort raising his thick eyebrows. ‘Come on, Winker, will you! You just go at a crawl, you do, mate. It’s no good, it isn’t. Here they’re waitin’ for you, and you just goin’ at a crawl… Come on.’
‘Well, I’m coming, I’m coming,’ responded a querulous voice, and there appeared from behind the hut on the right a smallish man, who was fat and lame. He wore a fairly smart cloth jacket, with his arm through one of the sleeves; a tall, pointed cap, tilted directly forward over his brows, lent his round, puffy face a sly and comic look. His little yellow eyes darted about and a strained, deferential smile never left his thin lips; while his nose, long and sharp, projected impudently in front of him like a rudder. ‘I’m coming, my dear fellow,’ he continued, limping in the direction of the drinking establishment. ‘Why’re you calling to me? Who’s waiting for me?’
‘Why’m I callin’ to you?’ the man in the frieze overcoat said reproachfully. ‘Oh, you, Winker, you’re a wonder, mate, you are – they’re callin’ you to the tavern, and you go askin’ why? It’s all good fellows that’re waitin’ for you – Yashka the Turk’s there, and Gentleman Wildman, and Barrowboy from Zhizdra. Yashka’s made a bet with Barrowboy – a pot of ale he’s staked on whoever gets the better of whom, who sings the best, that’s to say… See?’
‘Yashka’ll be singing?’ the man nicknamed Winker asked with lively interest. ‘Do you really mean that, you Nit?’
‘I do mean that,’ the Nit answered with dignity, ‘and there’s no need for you to be askin’ silly questions. ’Course he’ll be singin’ if he’s made a bet, you old bumbler you, you ruddy menace, Winker!’
‘Well, get going, then, you dimwit!’ Winker retorted.
‘Come on, then, and give me a kiss, me old dear,’ the Nit said in his prattling way, holding wide his arms.
‘Look at him, gone soft in the head in his old age,’ Winker responded contemptuously, thrusting him aside with his elbow, and both of them, bending down, went in through the low door.
The conversation I had heard strongly aroused my curiosity. More than once rumours had reached me about Yashka the Turk as the best singer in the region, and now I was suddenly presented with a chance of hearing him in competition with another master. I redoubled my steps and entered the establishment.
Probably few of my readers have had a chance of seeing the inside of a rural tavern; but we hunters drop in anywhere and everywhere! They are exceedingly simply arranged. They consist usually of a dark entrance and a parlour divided in two by a partition beyond which none of the patrons has the right to go. In this partition, above a wide oak table, there is a big longitudinal opening. The drink is sold at this table, or counter. Labelled bottles of various sizes stand in rows on the shelves directly opposite the opening. In the forward part of the hut, which is given over to the patrons, there are benches, one or two empty barrels and a corner table. Rural taverns are for the most part fairly dark, and you will hardly ever see on the log walls any of those brightly coloured popular prints with which most peasant huts are adorned.
When I entered The Welcome tavern, quite a large company was already gathered there.
Behind the counter, as usual, and occupying almost the whole width of the opening, stood Nikolay Ivanych, dressed in a colourful calico shirt and, with a lazy smirk on his plump cheeks, pouring out with his large white hand two glasses of liquor for the two friends who had just entered, Winker and the Nit; while at his back, in a corner beside the window, his sharp-eyed wife could be seen. In the middle of the parlour stood Yashka the Turk, a thin, lithe man of about twenty-three dressed in a long-hemmed coat of a light shade of blue. He looked like a daredevil factory lad and, so it seemed, could hardly boast of perfect health. His sunken cheeks, large restless grey eyes, straight nose with delicate spirited nostrils, white sloping forehead below backswept light-auburn curls, large but beautiful, expressive lips – his entire face betokened a man of sensibility and passion. He was in a state of great excitement: he blinked his eyes, breathed irregularly and his hands shook feverishly – indeed, he was in a fever, that anxious, sudden state of fever which is familiar to everyone who speaks or sings before an assembled company. Beside him stood a man of about forty, broad-shouldered, with broad cheekbones, a low forehead, narrow Mongol eyes, short flat nose, square chin and black shiny hair as hard as bristles. The expression on his dark, lead-coloured face, especially on his pale lips, could have been called savage, had it not also been so tranquilly thoughtful. He hardly stirred at all and did no more than look slowly round him from time to time, like an ox looking round from beneath a yoke. He was dressed in a kind of very worn frockcoat with smooth bronze buttons; an old black silk kerchief encased his huge neck. He was called Gentleman Wildman. Directly opposite him, on a bench beneath the icons, sat Yashka’s rival, Barrowboy from Zhizdra. He was a thickset man of about thirty, small in stature, pock-marked and curly-headed, with a blunt turned-up nose, lively brown eyes and a wispy little beard. He was glancing rapidly about him, his hands tucked under him, carelessly chattering and now and then tapping his dandified, fancifully decorated boots. His dress consisted of a new thin peasant coat of grey cloth with a velveteen collar, to which the edge of the red shirt tightly fastened round his neck stood out in sharp contrast. In the opposite corner, to the right of the door, there sat at a table some little
peasant or other wearing a narrow, worn-out coat with an enormous tear in the shoulder. Sunlight streamed in a pale yellow flood through the dusty panes of the two small windows and seemed to be unable to overcome the habitual darkness of the parlour: everything was so meagrely lit that it seemed blurred. Despite this, the air was almost cool, and all sense of the suffocating and oppressive heat slipped from my shoulders like a discarded burden as soon as I stepped through the porch.
My arrival, as I could sense, somewhat confused Nikolay Ivanych’s guests to start with; but seeing that he bowed to me as to someone familiar, they were put at their ease and paid no more attention to me. I asked for some beer and sat down in the corner next to the peasant in the torn coat.
‘Well, what’s doing?’ the Nit suddenly roared, drinking back his glass at a gulp and accompanying his exclamation with the same strange waving gestures, without which he evidently never pronounced a single word. ‘What’re we waiting for? Begin now, if you’re goin’ to begin. Eh? Yashka?’
‘Get started, get started,’ Nikolay Ivanych added by way of encouragement.
‘We’ll begin, presuming it’s all right,’ Barrowboy announced with cold-blooded audacity and a self-confident smile. ‘I’m ready.’
‘And I’m ready,’ Yakov declared excitedly.
‘Well, get going, lads, get going,’ Winker hissed squeakily.
But, despite the unanimously expressed wish, no one began; Barrowboy did not even rise from the bench. There was a general air of expectancy.
‘Begin!’ said Gentleman Wildman in a sharp, sullen voice.
Yakov shuddered. Barrowboy rose, gave a tug at his sash and coughed.
‘An’ who’s to begin?’ he asked in a slightly less confident voice, speaking to Gentleman Wildman who continued to stand motion-lessly in the middle of the room, his stout legs set wide apart and his powerful arms thrust into the pockets of his broad trousers, almost up to the elbows.
‘It’s you, you, Barrowboy,’ the Nit started babbling, ‘you’re the one, mate.’
Gentleman Wildman looked at him from beneath his brows. The Nit gave a faint croak, got confused, glanced somewhere up towards the ceiling, shrugged his shoulders and became silent.
‘Throw for it,’ Gentleman Wildman announced in measured tones. ‘Put the ale on the counter.’
Nikolay Ivanych bent down, lifted the pot of ale from the floor with a groan and set it on the table.
Gentleman Wildman glanced at Yakov and said: ‘Well!’ Yakov dug around in his pockets and produced a copper which he tested between his teeth. Barrowboy extracted from beneath the hem of his coat a new leather money-bag, slowly untied the string and, having poured a mass of small change into his hand, picked out a new copper coin. The Nit shoved his threadbare cap with its torn, battered peak down in front of them: Yakov threw his coin in it, as did Barrowboy.
‘You choose,’ said Gentleman Wildman, turning to Winker.
Winker gave a self-satisfied grin, seized the cap in both hands and began shaking it. Momentarily a profound silence reigned while the coins chinked faintly against each other. I looked attentively around: all the faces expressed tense expectancy; Gentleman Wildman screwed up his eyes; my neighbour, the little peasant in the torn coat, even he stretched his neck forward in curiosity. Winker put his hand into the cap and drew out Barrowboy’s coin; everyone sighed with relief. Yakov reddened, and Barrowboy drew his hand through his hair.
‘Didn’t I say it was you!’ the Nit exclaimed. ‘Sure I did!’
‘Now, now, none o’ that squawking,’ Gentleman Wildman remarked contemptuously. ‘Begin!’ he went on, nodding his head to Barrowboy.
‘What song ought I to sing?’ asked Barrowboy, becoming upset.
‘Sing what you like,’ answered Winker. ‘Whatever comes into your head, sing that.’
‘Of course, sing what you like,’ added Nikolay Ivanych, slowly folding his arms across his chest. ‘Nobody’s giving you any orders. Sing what you like, only sing it well. Afterwards we’ll decide as our conscience dictates.’
‘Nacherly, as conscience dictates,’ the Nit inserted, and licked the edge of his empty glass.
‘Give me time, mates, to get my throat cleared a bit,’ Barrowboy started saying, passing his fingers along the collar of his coat.
‘Now, now, don’t start trying to get out of it – begin!’ Gentleman Wildman said decisively, and lowered his eyes to the floor.
Barrowboy thought for a moment, gave a shake of the head and took a step forward. Yakov fixed his eyes on him, drinking him in…
But before I embark on a description of the contest itself, I consider it necessary to say a few words about each of the participants in my story. The lives of some of them were already known to me before I encountered them in The Welcome tavern; about the others I picked up information at a later date.
Let’s begin with the Nit. This man’s real name was Yevgraf Ivanov; but no one in the region knew him as anything save the Nit, and he prided himself on such a nickname because it suited him so well. And there is no doubt that nothing could have been more appropriate for describing his insignificant and eternally agitated countenance. He was a feckless, bachelor house-serf, long ago given up for good by his masters, who, though having no post and not receiving a penny in wages, nevertheless found means each day of making merry at other people’s expense. He had a mass of acquaintances who plied him with drink and tea, they themselves not knowing why, because not only was he far from entertaining company but he even, to the contrary, bored everyone stiff with his senseless chatter, intolerable sponging, feverish body-movements and endless unnatural laughter. He did not know how to sing or dance; since birth he had never once spoken not only an intelligent, but even a sensible, word; he rattled on the whole time and talked whatever nonsense came into his head – he was a real nit, in fact! Even so, no drinking bout could occur within a twenty-five mile radius without his lanky figure milling round among the guests, to such an extent had people grown used to him and accustomed to his presence like an unavoidable evil. True, he was treated with contempt, but Gentleman Wildman was the only one who knew how to tame his witless outbursts.
Winker bore no sort of resemblance to the Nit. The title of Winker also suited him, although he did not wink his eyes more than other people; everyone knows, though, what past-masters Russians are at contriving nicknames. Despite my attempting to gain a fuller picture of this man’s past, his life still contained for me – and probably for many others as well – dark spots, areas, as bookish people like to say, obscured by profound mists of uncertainty. I learnt simply that he had at one time been a coachman for an elderly childless lady, that he had run off with the troika of horses left in his charge, had disappeared for a whole year and, having no doubt discovered for himself the disadvantages and perils of a vagrant’s life, returned of his own accord, but already lame, threw himself at the feet of his mistress and, having erased his crime during the course of several years of exemplary behaviour, gradually regained her favour, finally earned her complete trust, became one of her bailiffs and, at her death, turned out in some mysterious way to have been given his freedom, enrolled himself among the petit-bourgeois stratum of the population, began renting areas of kitchen garden from his neighbours, grew rich and now lived in the pink. He was a man of experience, with a mind to his own affairs, neither malicious nor kindly, but chiefly prudent; he was a tough nut, who knew what people were like and had learned how to make use of them. He was cautious and at the same time as resourceful as a vixen; he was as garrulous as an old woman and yet he never used to say too much, but always made everyone else speak their minds; mind you, he never tried to pass himself off as a simpleton, as some rascals of that ilk do, and it would have been difficult for him to pretend because I had never seen more perspicacious and intelligent eyes than his crafty little ‘peepers’.* Their gaze was never simple and straightforward – they were always looking you up and down, always investigating you. Sometimes Winker would
spend whole weeks thinking over some apparently simple operation, and then in a flash he would make up his mind to launch into a desperately audacious business; it would seem that he was about to come a cropper, and yet before you’d had time to give a second look everything was a howling success, everything was going along swimmingly. He was fortunate and he believed in his good fortune, just as he believed in omens. He was in general very superstitious. He was not liked, because he did not concern himself with other people’s business, but he was respected. His entire family consisted of one small son, on whom he doted, and who, being educated by such a father, would no doubt go a long way. ‘Wee Willy Winker takes after his father’ were the words already being spoken under their breaths by old men sitting on earthen seats and discussing this and that between themselves on summer evenings; and everybody understood what was meant by that and felt no need to add anything to it.