‘Boo-oo!’ cried the bittern, ‘boo-oo!’
Then suddenly she heard a man’s voice, quite distinctly.
‘Get those horses harnessed, Vavila.’
Right ahead of her to one side of the road was a bonfire. The flames had died down and there remained only smouldering embers. She could hear a horse munching and then she made out two carts in the darkness, one laden with a barrel and the other, which was slightly lower, with two sacks; and she saw the shapes of two men. One of them was leading the horse to be harnessed, while the other stood motionless by the fire with his hands behind his back. A dog growled near one of the carts. The man who was leading the horse stopped and said, ‘Sounds like someone’s coming.’ The other one shouted at the dog, ‘Sharik, be quiet!’
From the voice she could tell it was an old man. Lipa stopped and said, ‘God be with you!’
The old man went up to her and after some hesitation said, ‘Hullo!’
‘Your dog doesn’t bite, does he, Grandpa?’
‘Don’t worry, he won’t touch you.’
‘I’ve just come from the hospital,’ Lipa said after a short silence. ‘My little boy’s just died there, I’m taking him home.’
The old man must have found this news unpleasant, as he moved away and said hurriedly, ‘Don’t worry, dear, it’s God’s will.’ Then he turned to his companion and said, ‘Stop dawdling, lad. Come on, look lively!’
‘Can’t find the shaft,’ the boy replied. ‘T’ain’t ’ere.’
‘You’re a dead loss, Vavila!’
The old man picked up a smouldering ember and blew on it; in its light she could distinguish his nose and eyes. When they at last managed to find the shaft he went over to Lipa holding the burning wood and looked at her. His face was full of compassion and tenderness.
‘Well, you’re a mother,’ he said. ‘Every mother feels sorry for her child.’
With these words he sighed and shook his head. Vavila threw something onto the fire, stamped on it and suddenly there was nothing but darkness again. Everything disappeared and once more all Lipa could see were those same fields, the starlit sky; the birds were still making a noise, keeping each other awake, and Lipa thought she could hear a corncrake crying from the very spot where the bonfire had been. But a minute later she could see the carts again, the old man and the tall figure of Vavila. The carts creaked as they moved out onto the road.
‘Are you holy men?’ Lipa asked the old man.
‘No, we’re from Firsanovo.’
‘When you looked at me just now, it made my heart go soft all over. And that boy’s so well-behaved. That’s why I thought you were holy men.’
‘Got far to go?’
‘Ukleyevo.’
‘Get in, we’ll take you as far as Kuzmyonki. From there you go straight on and we turn left.’
Vavila sat in the cart with the barrel, while the old man and Lipa climbed into the other. They moved at walking-pace, with Vavila leading the way.
‘My little boy suffered all day long,’ Lipa said. ‘He’d look at me with his little eyes and say nothing – he wanted to tell me something, but couldn’t. God in heaven, Holy Virgin! I just fell on the floor with grieving. Then I’d get up and fall down by his bed. Can you tell me, Grandpa, why little children have to suffer so before dying? When a grown-up man or a woman suffers, their sins are forgiven them. But why should a little child who’s never sinned suffer so? Why?’
‘Who knows!?’ the old man answered.
They drove on in silence, for half an hour.
‘We can’t always know the whys and wherefores,’ the old man said. ‘A bird’s got two wings, not four, just because two’s enough to fly with. In the same way, man isn’t meant to know everything, only half or a quarter. He just knows enough to get him through life.’
‘Grandpa, I’d feel better walking now. My heart’s pounding.’
‘Don’t be sad, just sit where you are.’
The old man yawned, then made the sign of the cross before his mouth.
‘Don’t be sad…’ he repeated, ‘your troubles aren’t so terrible. It’s a long life, and you’ll go through good and bad, all kinds of things.’
He looked around him, then back, and went on, ‘Mother Russia is so great! I’ve travelled all over it and I’ve seen everything, mark my words, dear. There’s good to come, and bad. I’ve gone as a foot-messenger to Siberia, I’ve been on the Amur,5 in the Altay.6 I settled in Siberia, ploughed me own land. Then I pined for Mother Russia and came back to the village where I was born. Came back on foot, we did. I remember, I was on a ferry once,7 not an ounce of flesh on me, all in rags, no shoes on me feet, frozen stiff, sucking away at a crust, when a gent what was crossing on the same ferry – if he’s passed on, then God rest his soul – looks at me with pity in his eyes, and the tears just flowed. Then he says, “Your beard is black – and your life’ll be the same too…” When I got back I didn’t ’ave’ouse nor’ome, as the saying goes. I did’ave a wife but she stayed behind in Siberia and she’s buried there. So I goes and works as a farmhand. And what next? I’ll tell you what – there was good and there was bad times. And now I don’t want to die, me dear, I’d like to hang on for another twenty years. That means I must ’ave’ad more good times than bad! Oh, Mother Russia is so big!’ Once again he looked around as he said this.
‘Grandpa,’ Lipa asked, ‘when someone dies, how long does the soul wander over the earth?’
‘Well, who can say! Let’s ask Vavila, he’s been to school. Teach ’em everything these days.’ The old man shouted, ‘Vavila!’
‘What?’
‘Vavila, when someone dies, how long does the soul wander over the earth?’
Vavila made the horse stop first and then replied, ‘Nine days. When my uncle Kirilla died, his soul lived on in our hut for thirteen days.’
‘But how do you know?’
‘There was a knocking in the stove for thirteen days.’
‘All right. Let’s be on our way now,’ the old man said, clearly not believing one word of it.
Near Kuzmyonki the carts turned off onto the main road, while Lipa went straight on. Already it was getting light. As she went down into the ravine, the huts and church at Ukleyevo were hidden by mist. It was cold and she thought she could hear the same cuckoo calling.
Lipa was home before the cattle had been taken out to graze. Everyone was still sleeping. She sat on the front steps and waited. The first to come out was the old man. One look told him everything and for quite a while he couldn’t say one word but just made a smacking noise with his lips.
‘Oh, Lipa,’ he said, ‘you didn’t look after my grandson…’
They woke Varvara up. She wrung her hands, burst out sobbing and immediately started laying the baby out.
‘And he was the loveliest little boy…’ she muttered again and again. ‘Oh, dear, dear me… Her one and only child and still she couldn’t look after it, the stupid girl!’
Prayers were said in the morning and evening. Next day the child was buried, and after the funeral the guests and clergy ate a great deal and with such enormous appetites it seemed they hadn’t eaten for a long, long time. Lipa served them food at the table and the priest held up his fork with a pickled mushroom on the end of it and told her, ‘Don’t grieve for your child, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’
Only when everyone had left did Lipa fully realize that Nikifor was gone, would never come back and she began to sob. She didn’t know which room to go into to have a good cry, since she felt that after her child’s death there was no longer any place for her in that house, that she was no longer needed, that no one wanted her; and the others felt the same as well.
‘Well, now, what’s all this wailing for?’ Aksinya suddenly shouted, as she appeared in the doorway. For the funeral she had specially put on a new dress and she had powdered her face. ‘Shut up!’
Lipa wanted to stop but she just couldn’t and sobbed even louder.
; ‘Did you hear!’ Aksinya screamed and stamped her feet furiously. ‘Who d’ye think you are, then? Clear off, and don’t ever set foot in this house again, you convict’s bird! Clear off!’
‘Now now… come on…’ the old man said fussily, ‘calm down, Aksinya, dear, please… It’s very understandable she’s crying… she’s lost her baby…’
‘Understandable…’ Aksinya said, mimicking him. ‘She can stay the night then, but I want her out by the morning.’ Again she mimicked him and said, ‘Understandable!’, laughed and went off to the shop.
Early next morning Lipa went home to her mother at Torguyevo.
IX
These days the roof and the door of the shop are painted freshly and shine like new. Cheerful-looking geraniums are blossoming in their window-boxes as they used to do, and what happened three years ago at the Tsybukins’ is almost forgotten.
Old Grigory Petrov is still looked upon as the master, but in fact Aksinya is in charge of everything. She does the buying and selling, and nothing is done without her permission. The brickyard is prospering – since bricks are needed for the railway, the price has risen to twenty-four roubles a thousand. Women and girls cart the bricks to the station, load the wagons and get twenty-five copecks for it.
Aksinya has gone into partnership with the Khrymins and the factory now bears the name: KHRYMIN SONS & CO. They have opened a pub near the station and it’s there, not at the factory, that the expensive accordion is played now. Among the regulars are the postmaster, who has also started a business of his own, and the stationmaster. The Khrymin sons gave the deaf husband a gold watch, and he takes it out of his pocket every now and then and holds it to his ear.
There is talk in the village that Aksinya is very powerful now. And one can see this when she drives to the factory in the mornings, looking pretty and happy (she still has that same naïve smile), and starts giving orders. Whether at home, in the village or in the factory, everyone is afraid of her. When she drops in at the post office, the postmaster leaps to his feet and says, ‘Please, do take a seat, Kseniya Abramovna!’
Once, when a rather elderly landowner, who was a bit of a dandy and wore a fine silk coat and high lacquered boots, was selling her a horse, he was so carried away that he sold her the horse at whatever price she wanted. He held her hand for a long time as he gazed into her gay, cunning, naïve eyes and told her, ‘I would do anything to please a woman like you, Kseniya Abramovna. Just tell me when we can meet again, without anyone disturbing us.’
‘Whenever you like!’
Since then the elderly dandy has been driving to the shop almost every day for some beer, which is plain revolting and has the bitter taste of wormwood. But the landowner just shakes his head and drinks it up.
Old Tsybukin doesn’t have anything to do with the business now. He doesn’t handle money any more, as he just can’t distinguish counterfeit coins from good ones, but he never says a word to anyone about this failing of his. He’s become rather forgetful and if no one gives him food, then he doesn’t ask for any – indeed, all the others are used to eating without him and Varvara often says, ‘My old man went to bed yesterday again without a bite to eat.’
And she says this from force of habit, as though she could not care less.
For some odd reason, the old man wears a heavy coat whether it’s winter or summer and he stays indoors only when it’s very hot. Well wrapped up in his fur coat, with the collar up, he strolls round the village, along the road to the station, or else he’ll sit on a bench by the church gates all day long. He’ll just stay there without budging. People greet him as they walk past, but he ignores them, as he dislikes peasants as much as ever. If they ask him a question he’ll give them an intelligent, polite but curt reply. There’s talk in the village that his daughter-in-law has thrown him out of his own house and refuses him food, so that he has to rely on charity. Some of the villagers are glad, others feel sorry for him.
Varvara is even fatter now and she looks paler too. She still does her good deeds and Aksinya keeps out of her way. There’s so much jam that they can’t get through it all before the next crop of berries is ready. It crystallizes and Varvara is almost reduced to tears, not knowing what to do with it. And they have almost forgotten all about Anisim. A letter did come from him once, written in verse, on a large sheet of paper – just like an official appeal and in that same lovely handwriting. Clearly, his friend Samorodov was doing time in the same prison. Beneath the verses there was one line, in ugly writing that was almost impossible to decipher: ‘I’m always ill in this place, it’s terrible, please help me, for the love of Christ.’
One fine autumn day, in the late afternoon, old Tsybukin was sitting near the church gates, his collar turned up so high that only his nose and the peak of his cap were visible. At the other end of the long bench Yelizarov, the carpenter, was sitting next to Yakov, the school caretaker, a toothless old man of seventy, and they were having a chat.
‘Children should see that old people have enough to eat – honour thy father and thy mother,’ Yakov was saying with great annoyance. ‘But as for her, that daughter-in-law, she threw her father-in-law out of’is own’ouse. The old man has nothing to eat or drink – and where can’e go?’Asn’t eaten nothing for three days.’
‘Three days!’ Crutchy exclaimed.
‘Yes, all ’e does is just sit and say nothing. He’s very weak now. Why should we keep quiet about it? She should be sent for trial – they wouldn’t let her off so lightly in court!’
‘Who did they let off lightly in court?’ Crutchy asked, not catching what the other had said.
‘What?’
‘His old girl’s all right, a real worker. In their kind of business you can’t get far without hard work… not without a bit of fiddling, I mean…’
‘Thrown out of his own’ouse,’ Yakov said as irritably as before. ‘You earns money to buy your own’ouse, then you have to clear out. She’s a right one, eh? A real pest!’
Tsybukin listened and didn’t move an inch.
‘What does it matter if it’s your own house or someone else’s, as long as it’s warm and the women don’t start squabbling?’ Crutchy said and burst out laughing. ‘When I was a young lad, I’ad a real soft spot for my Nastasya. Quiet little woman she was. She kept on telling me, “Ilya Makarych, buy a house, buy a house! Buy a house!” When she was dying, she still kept saying, “Ilya Makarych, buy a nice fast droshky, so’s we won’t have to walk.” But all I ever bought her was gingerbread, nothing else.’
‘That deaf husband of ’ers is an idiot,’ Yakov went on, as though he hadn’t been listening. ‘A real clot, like a goose. Expect him to understand anything? You can bash a goose on the’ead with a stick but it won’t understand.’
Crutchy got up to make his way back to the factory. So did Yakov, and they both set off together, still chatting away. When they had gone about fifty paces, old Tsybukin stood up and shuffled off after them, stepping very gingerly, as though walking on slippery ice.
The village had already sunk deep into the dusk and the sun was shining now only on the highest stretch of the road, which twisted down the slope like a snake. Old women and their children were returning from the forest and they carried baskets full of coral milkcap and agaric mushrooms. Women and young girls crowded back from the station where they had been loading bricks onto wagons and their noses and cheeks – just below the eyes – were caked with the red dust. They sang as they came. Lipa walked on in front of everybody and her thin voice broke into overflowing song as she looked up at the sky, and it was as if she were celebrating some victory and rejoicing that the day, thank God, was at an end, and that now she could rest. Her mother, Praskovya, was in the crowd, carrying her little bundle in her hand and – as always – gasping for breath.
‘Good evening, Ilya Makarych!’ Lipa said when she saw Crutchy. ‘Hullo, my poppet!’
‘Good evening, darling Lipa,’ Crutchy joyfully replied. ‘My dear women and girlies, be
nice to the rich carpenter! Oho, my dear little children, my children,’ (he started sobbing), ‘my darlings!’
The women could hear Crutchy and Yakov talking as they walked away. Immediately they had disappeared, old Tsybukin came towards the crowd and everything went quiet. Lipa and Praskovya were lagging a little way behind the others and when the old man caught them up Lipa made a deep curtsey and said, ‘Good evening, Grigory Petrov!’
And the mother curtseyed as well. The old man stopped and looked at them without saying a word. His lips were trembling and his eyes full of tears. Lipa took a piece of buckwheat pie out of her mother’s bundle and handed it to him. He took it and started eating.
Now the sun had completely set and its light was gone even from the high stretch of road. It became dark and cool. Lipa and Praskovya continued on their way and kept crossing themselves for a long time afterwards.
Disturbing the Balance
I
Evening service was in progress at the house of Mikhail Ilich Bondarev, a man of some distinction in the county. Officiating was a young priest, plump and fair-haired, with long curls and a broad nose – rather like a lion. The only singers were the sacristan and parish clerk.
Mikhail Ilich, a very sick man, was sitting motionless in his armchair, pale-faced and with eyes closed, just like a corpse. His wife, Vera Andreyevna, stood by him, her head leaning to one side in the lazy, modest pose of someone indifferent to religion but obliged to stand and make the occasional sign of the cross. Aleksandr Andreich Yanshin, Vera Andreyevna’s brother, and his wife Lenochka, stood behind the armchair, close by. It was Whit Sunday Eve. The trees in the garden softly rustled and a magnificent sunset flamed exuberantly, flooding half the sky.