A Woman
"As she sits among her companions she looks like a fragment of copper flung into the midst of some rusty old scrap-iron."
The wind is scudding over the steppe, and beating upon therampart of the Caucasian heights until their backbone seems to bebellying like a huge sail, and the earth to be whirling andwhizzing through unfathomable depths of blue, and leaving behindit a rack of wind-torn clouds which, as their shadows glide overthe surface of the land, seem ever to be striving to keep intouch with the onrush of the gale, and, failing to maintain theeffort, dissolving in tears and despondency.The trees too are bending in the attitude of flight--their boughsare brandishing their foliage as a dog worries a fleece, andlittering the black soil with leaves among which runs a constantquerulous hissing and rustling. Also, storks are uttering theirsnapping cry, sleek rooks cawing, steppe grasshoppers maintainingtheir tireless chirp, sturdy, well-grown husbandmen utteringshouts like words of command, the threshing-floors of therolling steppe diffusing a rain of golden chaff, and eddyingwhirlwinds catching up stray poultry feathers, dried-onionstrips, and leaves yellowed with the heat, to send them dancingagain over the trim square of the little Cossack hamlet.Similarly does the sun keep appearing and disappearing as thoughhe were pursuing the fugitive earth, and ever and anon haltingthrough weariness before his decline into the dark, shadowy vistawhere the snowclad peaks of the western mountains are rearingtheir heads, and fast-reddening clouds are reminding one of thesurface of a ploughed field.At times those clouds part their bulk to reveal in blindingsplendour the silvery saddle of Mount Elburz, and the crystalfangs of other peaks--all, apparently, striving to catch anddetain the scudding vapours. And to such a point does one come torealise the earth's flight through space that one can scarcelydraw one's breath for the tension, the rapture, of the thoughtthat with the rush of that dear and beautiful earth oneself iskeeping pace towards, and ever tending towards, the region where,behind the eternal, snow-clad peaks, there lies a boundless oceanof blue--an ocean beside which there may lie stretched yet otherproud and marvellous lands, a void of azure amid which one maycome to descry far-distant, many-tinted spheres of planets as yetunknown, but sisters, all, to this earth of ours.Meanwhile from the steppe slow, ponderous grey oxen with sharphorns are drawing an endless succession of wagon-loads ofthreshed grain through rich, black, sootlike dust. Patiently thebeasts' round eyes regard the earth, while on the top of eachload there lolls a Cossack who, with face sunburnt to the lastpitch of swarthiness, and eyes reddened with exposure to thewind, and beard matted, seemingly solidified, with dust andsweat, is clad in a shirt drab with grime, and has a shaggyPersian cap thrust to the back of his head. Occasionally, also,he may he seen riding on the pole in front of his team, and beingbuffeted from behind by the wind which inflates his shirt. And assleek and comfortable as the carcasses of the bullocks are theseCossacks' frames in proportion their eyes are sluggishlyintelligent, and in their every movement is the deliberate air ofmen who know precisely what they have to do."Tsob, tsobe!" such fellows shout to their teams. This yearthey are reaping a splendid harvest.Yet though these folk, one and all, look fat and prosperous,their mien is dour, and they speak reluctantly, and through theirteeth. Possibly this is because they are over-weary with toil.However that may be, the full-fed country people of the regionlaugh but little, and seldom sing.In the centre of the hamlet soars the red brick church of theplace--an edifice which, with its five pinnacles, its belfry overits porch, and its yellow plaster window-mouldings, looks like anedifice that has been fashioned of meat, and cemented withgrease. Nay, its very shadow seems so richly heavy as to be theshadow of a fane erected by men endowed with a plethora of thisworld's goods to a god otiose in his grandeur. Ranged around thebuilding in ring fashion, the hamlet's squat white huts standgirdled with belts of plaited wattle, shawled in the gorgeoussilken scarves of gardens, and crowned with a floweredbrocadework of reed-thatched roofs. In fact, they resemble a bevyof buxom babi, [Peasant women] as over and about them wavesilver poplar trees, with quivering, lacelike leaves of acacias,and dark-leaved chestnuts (the leaves of the latter like thepalms of human hands) which rock to and fro as though they wouldfain seize, and detain the driving clouds. Also, from court tocourt scurry Cossack women who, with skirt-tails tucked up toreveal muscular legs bare to the knee, are preparing to arraythemselves for the morrow's festival, and, meanwhile, chatteringto one another, or shouting to plump infants which may be seenbathing in the dust like sparrows, or picking up handfuls ofsand, and tossing them into the air.Sheltered from the wind by the churchyard wall, there may be seenalso, as they sprawl on the dry, faded herbage, a score ofstrollers for work "that is to say, of folk who, a communityapart, consist of "nowhere people," of dreamers who liveconstantly in expectation of some stroke of luck, some kindlysmile from fortune, and of wastrels who, intoxicated with theabundant bounty of the opulent region, have fallen passivevictims to the Russian craze for vagrancy. These folk tramp fromhamlet to hamlet in parties of two or three, and, whilepurporting to seek employment, merely contemplate that employmentlethargically, express astonishment at the plenitude which itproduces, and then decline to put their hands to toil save whendire necessity renders it no longer possible to satisfy hunger'spangs through the expedients of mendicancy and theft. Dull, orcowed, or timid, or furtive of eye, these folk have lost allsense of the difference between that which constitutes honestyand that which does not.The morrow being the Feast of the Assumption, these people have,in the present instance, gathered from every quarter of thecountry, for the reason that they hope to be provided with foodand drink without first being made to earn their entertainment.For the most part they are Russians from the central provinces,vagabonds whose faces are blackened, and heads blanched with theunaccustomed sunshine of the South, but whose bodies are cladmerely in rags tossed and tumbled by the wind. True, the wearersof those rags declare themselves to be peaceful, respectablecitizens whom toil and life's buffetings have exhausted, andcompelled to seek temporary rest and prayer; yet never does acreaking, groaning, ponderous grain wagon, with its Cossackdriver, pass them by without their according the latter a humble,obsequious salute as, with straw in mouth, and omitting, always,to raise his cap, the man glances at them askance and withcontempt, or, more frequently, does not even descry thesetattered, grimy hulks between whom and himself there isabsolutely nothing in common.Lower even, and more noticeably, more pretentiously, than therest does a certain " needy " native of Tula named Konev saluteeach Cossack. A hardbitten muzhik as sunburnt as a stick ofergot, he has a black beard distributed irregularly over a leanface, a fawning smile, and eyes deep-sunken in their sockets.Most of these persons I have met for the first time today; butKonev is an old acquaintance of mine, for he and I have more thanonce encountered one another on the road between Kursk and theprovince of Ter. An "artelni," that is to say, a member of aworkman's union, he cultivates his fellows' good graces for thereason that he is also an arrant coward, and accustomed,everywhere save in his own village (which lies buried among thesands of Alexin), to assert that:"Certainly, this countryside is rich, yet I cannot hit thingsoff with its inhabitants. In my own part of the country folk aremore spiritual, more truly Russian, by far than here--they arefolk with whom the natives of this region are not to be compared,since in the one locality the population has a human soul,whereas in the other locality it is a flint-stone."And with a certain quiet reflectiveness, he loves also to recounta marvellous example of unlooked-for enrichment. He will say toyou:"Maybe you do not believe in the virtue of horseshoes? Yet Itell YOU that once, when a certain peasant of Efremov found ahorseshoe, the next three weeks saw it befall that that peasant'suncle, a tradesman of Efremov, was burnt to death with all hisfamily, and the property devolved to the peasant. Did you everhear of such a thing? What is going to happen CANNOT be foretold,for at any moment fortune may pity a man, and send him awindfall."As Konev says this his dark, pointed eyebrows will go shooting uphis forehead, and his eyes come protruding out of their sockets,as though he himself cannot believe what he has just related.Again, should a Cossack pass him without returning his salute, hewill mutter as he follows the man with his eyes:"An overfed fellow, that--a fellow who can't even look at a humanbeing! The souls of these folk, I tell you, are withered."On the present occasion he has arrived on the scene in companywith two women. One of them, aged about twenty, is gentle-looking, plump, and glassy of eye, with a mouth perpetually half-open, so that the face looks like that of an imbecile, and thoughthe exposed teeth of its lower portion may seem to be set in asmile, you will perceive, should you peer into the motionlesseyes under the overhanging brows, that she has recently beenweeping in the terrified, hysterical fashion of a person of weakintellect.I have come here with that man and other strangers thus I heardher narrate in low, querulous tones as with a stumpy finger sherearranged the faded hair under her yellow and green scarf.A fat-faced youth with high cheek-bones and the small eyes of aMongol here nudged her, and said carelessly:"You mean, rather, that your own man has cast you off. Probablyhe was the only man you ever saw.""Aye," Konev drawled thoughtfully as he felt in his wallet.Nowadays folk need think little of deserting a woman, since inthis year of grace women are no good at all."Upon this the woman frowned--then blinked her eyes timidly, andwould have opened her lips to reply, but that her companioninterrupted her by saying in a brisk, incisive tone:"Do not listen to those rascals!"*****************************The woman's companion, some five or six years her senior, has aface exceptional in the constant change and movement of its greatdark eyes as at one moment they withdraw themselves from thestreet of the Cossack hamlet, to gaze fixedly and gravely towardsthe steppe where it lies scoured with the scudding breeze, and atanother moment fall to scanning the faces of the persons aroundher, and, at another, frown anxiously, or send a smile flittingacross her comely lips as she bends her head, until her featuresare concealed. Next, the head is raised again, for the eyes havetaken on another phase, and become dilated with interest, while asharp furrow is forming between the slender eyebrows, and thefinely moulded lips and trim mouth have compressed themselvestogether, and the thin nostrils of the straight nose are snuffingthe air like those of a horse.In fact, in the woman there is something non-peasant in itsorigin. For instance, let one but watch her sharply clicking feetas, in walking, they peep from under her blue skirt, and onewill perceive that they are not the splayed feet of a villager,but, rather, feet arched of instep, and at one time accustomed tothe wearing of boots. Or, as the woman sits engaged inembroidering a blue bodice with a pattern of white peas, one willperceive that she has long been accustomed to plying the needleso dexterously; swiftly do the small, sunburnt hands fly in andout under the tumbled material, eagerly though the wind maystrive to wrest it from her. Again, as she sits bending over herwork, one will descry through a rent in her bodice a small, firmbosom which might almost have been that of a virgin, were it notfor the fact that a projecting teat proclaims that she is a womanpreparing to suckle an infant. In short, as she sits among hercompanions she looks like a fragment of copper flung into themidst of some rusty old scrap-iron.Most of the people in whose society I wander neither rise togreat heights nor sink to great depths, but are as colourless asdust, and wearisomely insignificant. Hence is it that whenever Ichance upon a person whose soul I can probe and explore forthoughts unfamiliar to me and words not hitherto heard Icongratulate myself, seeing that though it is my desire to seelife grow more fair and exalted, and I yearn to bring about thatend, there constantly reveals itself to me merely a vista ofsharp angles and dark spaces and poor crushed, defrauded people.Yes, never do I seek to project a spark of my own fire into thedarkness of my neighbour's soul but I see that spark disappear,become lost, in a chaos of dumb vacuity.Hence the woman of whom I have just spoken particularly excitesmy fancy, and leads me to attempt divinations of her past, untilI find myself evolving a story which is not only of vastcomplexity, but has got painted into it merely the colours of myown hopes and aspirations. It is a story necessarily illusory,necessarily bound to make life seem even worse than before. Yetit is a grievous thing NEVER to distort actuality, NEVER toenvelop actuality in the wrappings of one's imagination . . . .Closing his eyes, and picking his words with difficulty, a tall,fair peasant drawls in thick, gluelike tones:"'Very well,' I said: and off we set. On the way I said again:'Gubin, though you may not like to be told so, you are no betterthan a thief.'"The o's uttered by this peasant are uniformly round and firm--theyroll forward as a cartwheel trundles along a hot, dusty countryroad.The youth with the high cheek-bones fixes the whites of hisporcine eyes (eyes the pupils of which are as indeterminate asthe eyes of a blind man) upon the woman in the green scarf.Then, having, like a calf, plucked and chewed some stalks of thewithered grass, he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, bends onefist into the crook of the elbow, and says to Konev with a glanceat the well-developed muscle:"Should you care to hit me?""No, you can hit yourself. Hit yourself over the head. Then,perhaps, you'll grow wiser."Stolidly the young fellow looks at Konev, and inquires:"How do you know me to be a fool? ""Because your personality tells me so.""Eh?" cries the young fellow truculently as he raises himselfto a kneeling posture. "How know you what I am?""I have been told what you are by the Governor of yourprovince."The young fellow opens his mouth, and stares at Konev. Then heasks:"To what province do I belong?""If you yourself have forgotten to what province you belong, youhad better try and loosen your wits.""Look here. If I were to hit you, I--"The woman who has been sewing drops her work to shrug one roundedshoulder as though she were cold, and ask conciliatorily:"Well, WHAT province do you belong to?""I? " the young fellow re-echoes as he subsides on to his heels."I belong to Penza. Why do you ask?""Oh never mind why."Presently, with a strangely youthful laugh, the woman adds in amurmur:"I ask because I too belong to that province.""And to which canton?""To that of Penza." In the woman's tone is a touch of pride.The young fellow squats down before her, as before a wood fire,stretches out his hands, and says in an ingratiating voice:"What a fine place is our cantonal town! What churches and shopsand stone houses there are in it! In fact, one shop sells amachine on which you can play anything you like, any sort of atune!""As well as, probably, the fool," comments Konev in anundertone, though the young fellow is too enthralled with thememory of the amenities of his cantonal capital to notice theremark. Next, smacking his lips, and chewing his words, hecontinues in a murmur:"In those stone houses."Here the woman drops her sewing a second time to inquire: "Isthere a convent there?""A convent?"And the young fellow pauses uncouthly to scratch his neck. Onlyafter a while does he answer:"A convent? Well, I do not know, for only once, to tell thetruth, have I been in the town, and that was when some of usfamine folk were set to a job of roadmaking.""Well, well!" gasps Konev, as he rises and takes his departure.The vagabonds, huddled against the churchyard wall, look likelitter driven thither by the steppe wind, and as liable to bewhirled away again whenever the wind shall choose. Three of theparty are sleeping, and the remainder either mending theirclothing, or killing fleas, or lethargically munching breadcollected at the windows of the Cossacks' huts. I find the sightof them weary me as much as does the young fellows fatuousbabble. Also, I find that whenever the elder of the two womenlifts her eyes from her work, and half smiles, the faint half-smile in question vexes me intensely. Consequently, I end bydeparting in Konev's wake.Guarding the entrance of the churchyard, four poplar trees standerect, save when, as the wind harries them, they bow alternatelyto the arid, dusty earth and towards the dim vista of tow-coloured steppe and snowcapped mountain peaks. Yet, oh how thatsteppe, bathed in golden sunshine, draws one to itself and itssmooth desolation of sweet, dry grasses as the parched, fragrantexpanse rustles under the soughing wind!"You ask about that woman, eh? " queries Konev, whom I findleaning against one of the poplar trunks, and embracing it withan arm."Yes. From where does she hail?""From Riazan, she says. Another story of hers is that her nameis Tatiana.""Has she been with you long?""No. In fact, it was only this morning, some thirty versts fromhere, that I overtook her and her companion. However, I have seenher before, at Maikop-on-Laba, during the season of hay harvest,when she had with her an elderly, smoothfaced muzhik who mighthave been a soldier, and certainly was either her lover or anuncle, as well as a bully and a drunkard of the type which,before it has been two days in a place, starts about as manybrawls. At present, however, she is tramping with none but thisfemale companion, for, after that the 'uncle' had drunk away hisvery belly-band and reins, he was clapped in gaol. The Cossack,you know, is an awkward person to deal with."Although Konev speaks without constraint, his eyes are fixed uponthe ground in a manner suggestive of some disturbing thought. Andas the breeze ruffles his dishevelled beard and ragged pea-jacketit ends by robbing his head of his cap-- of the tattered, peaklessclout which, with rents in its lining, so closely resembles atchepchik [Woman's mob-cap], as to communicate to thepicturesque features of its wearer an appearance comicallyfeminine."Ye-es," expectorating, and drawling the words between histeeth, he continues: "She is a remarkable woman, a regular, soto speak, highstepper. Yet it must have been the Devil himselfthat blew this young oaf with the bloated jowl on to the scene.Otherwise I should soon have fixed up matters with her. The curthat he is!""But once you told me that you had a wife already?"Darting at me an angry glance, he turns away with a mutter of:"AM I to carry my wife about with me in my wallet? "Here there comes limping across the square a moustachioedCossack. In one hand he is holding a bunch of keys, and in theother hand a battered Cossack cap, peak in front. Behind him,sobbing and applying his knuckles to his eyes, there is creepinga curly-headed urchin of eight, while the rear is brought up by ashaggy dog whose dejected countenance and lowered tail would seemto show that he too is in disgrace. Each time that the boywhimpers more loudly than usual the Cossack halts, awaits thelad's coming in silence, cuffs him over the head with the peak ofthe cap, and, resuming his way with the gait of a drunken man,leaves the boy and the dog standing where they are--the boylamenting, and the dog wagging its tail as its old black muzzlesniffs the air. Somehow I discern in the dog's mien of holdingitself prepared for anything that may turn up, a certainresemblance to Konev's bearing, save that the dog is older inappearance than is the vagabond."You mentioned my wife, I think?" presently he resumes with asigh. "Yes, I know, but not EVERY malady proves mortal, and Ihave been married nineteen years! "The rest is well-known to me, for all too frequently have I heardit and similar tales. Unfortunately, I cannot now take thetrouble to stop him; so once more I am forced to let hiscomplaints come oozing tediously into my ears."The wench was plump," says Konev, "and panting for love; so wejust got married, and brats began to come tumbling from her likebugs from a bunk."Subsiding a little, the breeze takes, as it were, to whispering."In fact, I could scarcely turn round for them. Even now sevenof them are alive, though originally the stud numbered thirteen.And what was the use of such a gang? For, consider: my wife isforty-two, and I am forty-three. She is elderly, and I am whatyou behold. True, hitherto I have contrived to keep up myspirits; yet poverty is wearing me down, and when, last winter,my old woman went to pieces I set forth (for what else could Ido?) to tour the towns. In fact, folk like you and myself haveonly one job available--the job of licking one's chops, andkeeping one's eyes open. Yet, to tell you the truth, I no soonerperceive myself to be growing superfluous in a place than I spitupon that place, and clear out of it."Never to this sturdy, inveterate rascal does it seem to occur toinsinuate that he has been doing work of any kind, or that he inthe least cares to do any; while at the same time all self-pityis eschewed in his narrative, and he relates his experiences muchas though they are the experiences of another man, and not ofhimself.Presently, as the Cossack and the boy draw level with us, theformer, fingering his moustache, inquires thickly:"Whence are you come?""From Russia.""All such folk come from there."Thereafter, with a gesture of disdain, this man of the abnormallybroad nose, eyes floating in fat, and flaxen head shaped like aflounder's, resumes his way towards the porch of the church. Asfor the boy, he wipes his nose and follows him while the dogsniffs at our legs, yawns, and stretches itself by the churchyardwall."Did you see?" mutters Konev. "Oh yes, I tell you that thefolk here are far less amiable than our own folk in Russia. . .But hark! What is that?"To our ears there have come from behind the corner of thechurchyard wall a woman's scream and the sound of dull blows.Rushing thither, we behold the fair-headed peasant seated on theprostrate form of the young fellow from Penza, and methodically,gruntingly delivering blow after blow upon the young fellow'sears with his ponderous fists, while counting the blows as hedoes so. Vainly, at the same time, the woman from Riazan isprodding the assailant in the back, whilst her female companionis shrieking, and the crowd at large has leapt to its feet, and,collected into a knot, is shouting gleefully, "THAT'S the way!THAT'S the way!""Five!" the fair-headed peasant counts."Why are you doing this?" the prostrate man protests."Six!""Oh dear!" ejaculates Konev, dancing with nervousness. "Ohdear, oh dear!"The smacking, smashing blows fall in regular cadence as, prone onhis face, the young fellow kicks, struggles and puffs up thedust. Meanwhile a tall, dour man in a straw hat is rolling up ashirt-sleeve, and alternately bending and stretching a long arm,whilst a lithe, white-headed young stripling is hopping, sparrow-like, from one onlooker to another, and exclaiming in suppressed,cautious tones:"Stop it, pray stop it, or we shall be arrested for creating adisturbance!"Presently the tall man strides towards the fair-headed peasant,deals him a single blow which knocks him from the back of theyoung fellow, and, turning to the crowd, says with an informingair:"THAT'S how we do it in Tambov!""Brutes! Villains!" screams the woman from Riazan, as she bendsover the young fellow. Her cheeks are livid, and as she wipes theflushed face of the beaten youth with the hem of her gown, herdark eyes are flashing with dry wrath, and her lips quivering sopainfully as to disclose a set of fine, level teeth.Konev, pecking up to her, says with an air of advice:"You had better take him away, and give him some water."Upon this the fair-headed muzhik, rising to his knees, stretchesa fist towards the man from Tambov, and exclaims:"Why should he have gone and bragged of his strength, pray?""Was that a good reason for thrashing him?""And who are you?""Who am I?""Yes, who are YOU?""Never mind. See that I don't give you another swipe!"Upon this the onlookers plunge into a heated debate as to whowas actually the beginner of the disturbance, while the litheyoung fellow continues to wring his hands, and cry imploringly:"DON'T make so much noise about it! Remember that we are in astrange land, and that the folk hereabouts are strict."So queerly do his ears project from his head that he would seemto be able, if he pleased, to fold them right over his eyes.Suddenly from the roseate heavens comes the vibrant note of abell; whereupon, the hubbub ceases and at the same moment a youngCossack with a face studded with freckles, and, in his hands, acudgel, makes his appearance among the crowd."What does all this mean?" he inquires not uncivilly."They have been beating a man," the woman from Riazan replies.As she does so she looks comely in spite of her wrath.The Cossack glances at her--then smiles."And where is the party going to sleep?" he inquires of thecrowd."Here," someone ventures."Then you must not--someone might break into the church. Go,rather, to the Ataman [Cossack headman or mayor], and you willbe billeted among the huts.""It is a matter of no consequence," Konev remarks as he pacesbeside me. "Yet--""They seem to be taking us for robbers," is my interruption."As is everywhere the way," he comments. "It is but one thingmore laid to our charge. Caution decides always that a strangeris a thief."In front of us walks the woman from Riazan, in company with theyoung fellow of the bloated features. He is downcast of mien, andat length mutters something which I cannot catch, but in answerto which she tosses her head, and says in a distinct, maternaltone:"You are too young to associate with such brutes."The bell of the church is slowly beating, and from the huts therekeep coming neat old men and women who make the hitherto desertedstreet assume a brisk appearance, and the squat huts take on awelcoming air.In a resonant, girlish voice there meets our ears:"Ma-am! Ma-amka! Where is the key of the green box? I want myribands!"While in answer to the bell's summons, the oxen low a deep echo.The wind has fallen, but reddish clouds still are gliding overthe hamlet, and the mountain peaks blushing until they seem,thawing, to be sending streams of golden, liquid fire on to thesteppes, where, as though cast in stone, a stork, standing on oneleg, is listening, seemingly, to the rustling of the heat-exhausted herbage.**************************In the forecourt of the Ataman's hut we are deprived of ourpassports, while two of our number, found to be without suchdocuments, are led away to a night's lodging in a dark storehousein a corner of the premises. Everything is executed quietlyenough, and without the least fuss, purely as a matter ofroutine; yet Konev mutters, as dejectedly he contemplates thedarkening sky:"What a surprising thing, to be sure!""What is?""A passport. Surely a decent, peaceable man ought to be able totravel WITHOUT a passport? So long as he be harmless, let him--""You are not harmless," with angry emphasis the woman fromRiazan interposes.Konev closes his eyes with a smile, and says nothing more.Almost until the vigil service is over are we kept kicking ourheels about that forecourt, like sheep in a slaughter-house. ThenKonev, myself, the two women, and the fat-faced young fellow areled away towards the outskirts of the village, and allotted anempty hut with broken-down walls and a cracked window."No going out will be permitted," says the Cossack who hasconducted us thither. "Else you will be arrested.""Then give us a morsel of bread," Konev says with a stammer."Have you done any work here?" the Cossack inquires."Yes--a little.""For me?""No. It did not so happen.""When it does so happen I will give you some bread."And like a water-butt the fat kindly-looking man goes rolling outof the yard."What else was to be expected?" grumbles Konev with hiseyebrows elevated to the middle of his forehead. "The folkhereabouts are knaves. Ah, well!"As for the women, they withdraw to the darkest corner of the hut,and lie down, while the young fellow disappears after probing thewalls and floor, and returns with an armful of straw which hestrews upon the hard, beaten clay. Then he stretches himselfthereon with hands clasped behind his battered head."See the resourcefulness of that fellow from Penza!" commentsKonev enviously. "Hi, you women! There is, it would seem, somestraw about."To this comes from the women's corner the acid reply:"Then go and fetch some.""For you?""Yes, for us.""Then I must, I suppose."Nevertheless Konev merely remains sitting on the windowsill, anddiscoursing on the subject of certain needy folk who do butdesire to go and say their prayers in church, yet are banded intobarns."Yes, and though you may say that folk, the world over, have asoul in common, I tell you that this is not so--that, on thecontrary, we Russian strangers find it a hard matter here to getlooked upon as respectable."With which he slips out quietly into the street, and disappearsfrom view.The young fellow's sleep is restless--he keeps tossing about, withhis fat arms and legs sprawling over the floor, and grunting, andsnoring. Under him the straw makes a crackling sound, while thetwo women whisper together in the darkness, and the reeds of thedry thatch on the roof rustle (the wind is still drawing anoccasional breath), and ever and anon a twig brushes against anoutside wall. The scene is like a scene in a dream.Out of doors the myriad tongues of the pitch-black, starlessnight seem to be debating something in soft, sad, pitiful toneswhich ever keep growing fainter; until, when the hour of ten hasbeen struck on the watchman's gong, and the metal ceases tovibrate, the world grows quieter still, much as though all livingthings, alarmed by the clang in the night, have concealedthemselves in the invisible earth or the equally invisibleheavens.I seat myself by the window, and watch how the earth keepsexhaling darkness, and the darkness enveloping, drowning thegrey, blurred huts in black, tepid vapour, though the churchremains invisible--evidently something stands interposed betweenit and my viewpoint. And it seems to me that the wind, the seraphof many pinions which has spent three days in harrying the land,must now have whirled the earth into a blackness, a denseness, inwhich, exhausted, and panting, and scarcely moving, it ishelplessly striving to remain within the encompassing, all-pervading obscurity where, helpless and weary in like degree, thewind has sloughed its thousands of wing-feathers--feathers whiteand blue and golden of tint, but also broken, and smeared withdust and blood.And as I think of our petty, grievous human life, as of adrunkard's tune on a sorry musical instrument, or as of abeautiful song spoilt by a witless, voiceless singer, therebegins to wail in my soul an insatiable longing to breathe forthwords of sympathy with all mankind, words of burning love for allthe world, words of appreciation of, for example, the sun'sbeauty as, enfolding the earth in his beams, and caressing andfertilising her, he bears her through the expanses of blue. Yes,I yearn to recite to my fellow-men words which shall raise theirheads. And at length I find myself compounding the followingjejune lines:To our land we all are bornIn happiness to dwell.The sun has bred us to this landIts fairness to excel.In the temple of the sunWe high priests are, divine.Then each of us should claim his life,And cry, " This life is mine!"Meanwhile from the women's corner there comes a soft,intermittent whispering; and as it continues to filter throughthe darkness, I strain my ears until I succeed in catching a fewof the words uttered, and can distinguish at least the voices ofthe whisperers.The woman from Riazan mutters firmly, and with assurance:"Never ought you to show that it hurts you."And with a sniff, in a tone of dubious acquiescence, hercompanion replies:"Ye-es-so long as one can bear it.""Ah, but never mind. PRETEND. That is to say, when he beats you,make light of it, and treat it as a joke.""But what if he beats me very much indeed?""Continue still to make light of it, still to smile at himkindly.""Well, YOU can never have been beaten, for you do not seem toknow what it is like.""Oh, but I have, my dear--I do know what it is like, for myexperience of it has been large. Do not be afraid, however. HEwon't beat you."A dog yelps, pauses a moment to listen, and then barks moreangrily than ever. Upon that other dogs reply, and for a momentor two I am annoyed to find that I cannot overhear the women'sconversation. In time, however, the dogs cease their uproar, forwant of breath, and the suppressed dialogue filters once more tomy ears."Never forget, my dear, that a muzhik's life is a hard one. Yes,for us plain folk life is hard. Hence, one ought to make nothingof things, and let them come easy to one.""Mother of God!""And particularly should a woman so face things; for upon hereverything depends. For one thing, let her take to herself, inplace of her mother, a husband or a sweetheart. Yes, try that,and see. And though, at first, your husband may find fault withyou, he will afterwards take to boasting to other muzhiks that hehas a wife who can do everything, and remain ever as bright andloving as the month of May. Never does she give in; never WOULDshe give in--no, not if you were to cut off her head!""Indeed? ""Yes. And see if that will not come to be your opinion as muchas mine."Again, to my annoyance, the dialogue is interrupted--this time bythe sound of uncertain footsteps in the street without. Thus thenext words of the women's conversation escape me. Then I hear:"Have you ever read 'The Vision of the Mother of God'?""N-no, I have not.""Then you had better ask some older woman than myself to tellyou about it, for it is a good book to become acquainted with.Can you read?""No, I cannot. But tell me, yourself, what the vision was?""Listen, and I will do so."From outside the window Konev's voice softly inquires:"Is that our lot in there? Yes? Thank God, then, for I hadnearly lost my way after stirring up a lot of dogs, and beingforced to use my fists upon them. Here, you! Catch hold!"With which, handing me a large watermelon, he clambers throughthe window with a great clattering and disturbance."I have managed also to gee a good supply of bread," hecontinues. "Perhaps you believe that I stole it? But no. Indeed,why should one steal when one can beg-a game at which I amparticularly an old hand, seeing that always, on any occasion, Ican make up to people? It happened like this. When I went out Isaw a fire glowing in a hut, and folk seated at supper. Andsince, wherever many people are present, one of them at least hasa kind heart, I ate and drank my fill, and then managed to makeoff with provender for you as well. Hi, you women!"There follows no answer."I believe those daughters of whores must be asleep," hecomments. "Hi, women!""What is it?" drily inquires the woman from Riazan."Should you like a taste of water-melon?""I should, thank you."Thereupon, Konev begins to make his way towards the voice."Yes, bread, soft wheaten bread such as you--"Here the, other woman whines in beggar fashion:"And give ME a taste, too.""Oh, yes, I will. But where the devil are you?""And a taste of melon as well?""Yes, certainly. Hullo! Who is this?"From the woman from Riazan comes a cry of pain."Mind how you step, wretch!" she exclaims."All right, but you needn't make so much noise about it. You seehow dark it is, and I--""You ought to have struck a match, then.""I possess but a quarter of a match, for matches are not over-plentiful, and even if I did catch hold of you no great harm canhave been done. For instance, when your husband used to beat youhe must have hurt you far worse than I. By the way, DID he beatyou?""What business is that of yours?""None; only, I am curious to know. Surely a woman like you--""See here. Do not dare to touch me, or I--""Or you what?"There ensues a prolonged altercation amid which I can hearepithets of increasing acerbity and opprobrium being applied;until the woman from Riazan exclaims hoarsely:"Oh, you coward of a man, take that!"Whereupon follows a scrimmage amid which I can distinguishslappings, gross chuckles from Konev, and a muffled cry from theyounger woman of:"Oh, do not so behave, you wretch!"Striking a match, I approach the spot, and pull Konev away. He isin no way abashed, but merely cooled in his ardour as, seated onthe floor at my feet, and panting and expectorating, he saysreprovingly to the woman:"When folk wish merely to have a game with you, you ought not tolet yourself lose your temper. Fie, fie!""Are you hurt?" the woman inquires quietly."What do you suppose? You have cut my lip, but that is the worstdamage.""Then if you come here again I will lay the whole of your faceopen.""Vixen! What bumpkinish stupidity!"Konev turns to myself."And as for you, you go catching at the first thing you find,and have torn my coat.""Then do not insult people.""INSULT people, fool? The idea of anyone insulting a woman likeTHAT!"Whereafter, with a mean chuckle, the fellow goes on to discourseupon the ease with which peasant women err, and upon their loveof deceiving their husbands."The impudent rascal!" comments the woman from Penza sleepily.After a while the young fellow springs to his feet, and grateshis teeth. Then, reseating himself, and clutching at his head, hesays gloomily:"I intend to leave here tomorrow, and go home. I do not careWHAT becomes of me."With which he subsides on to the floor as though exhausted."The blockhead!" is Konev's remark.Amid the darkness a black shape rises. It does so as soundlesslyas a fish in a pond, glides to the door, and disappears."That was she," remarks Konev. "What a strong woman! However, ifyou had not pulled me away, I should have got the better of her.By God I should!""Then follow her, and make another attempt.""No," after a moment's reflection he rejoins. "Out there shemight get hold of a stick, or a brick, or some such thing.However, I'LL get even with her. As a matter of fact, you wastedyour time in stopping me, for she detests me like the verydevil."And he renews his wearisome boastings of his conquests; untilsuddenly, he stops as though he has swallowed his tongue.All becomes quiet; everything seems to have come to a halt, andto be pressing close in sleep to the motionless earth. I too growdrowsy, and have a vision amid which my mind returns to thedonations which I have received that day, and sees them swell andmultiply and increase in weight until I feel their bulk pressingupon me like a tumulus of the steppes. Next, the coppery notes ofa bell jar in my ears, and, struck at random intervals, gofloating away into the darkness.It is the hour of midnight.Soon, scattered drops of rain begin to patter down upon the drythatch of the hut and the dust in the street outside, while acricket continues chirping as though it were hurriedly relatinga tale. Also, I hear filtering forth into the darkness a softlygulped, eager whispering."Think," says one of the voices, " what it must mean to have togo tramping about without work, or only with work for another todo!"The young fellow who has been so soundly thrashed replies in adull voice:"I know nothing of you.""More softly, more softly!" urges the woman."What is it you want?""I want NOTHING. It is merely that I am sorry for you as a manyet young and strong. You see--well, I have not lived with my eyesshut. That is why I say, come with me.""But come whither?""To the coast, where I know there to be beautiful plots of landfor the asking. You yourself can see how good the land hereaboutis. Well, there land better still is to be obtained.""Liar!""More softly, more softly!" again urges the woman. "Moreover,I am not bad-looking, and can manage things well, and do any sortof work. Hence you and I might live quite peacefully and happily,and come, eventually, to have a place of our own. Yes, and Icould bear and rear you a child. Only see how fit I am. Only feelthis breast of mine."The young fellow snorts, and I begin to find the situationoppressive, and to long to let the couple know that I am notasleep. Curiosity, however, prevents me, and I continue listeningto the strange, arresting dialogue."Wait a little," whispers the woman with a gasp. "Do not playwith me, for I am not that sort of woman. Yes, I mean what I say.Let be!"Rudely, roughly the young fellow replies:"Then don't run after me. A woman who runs after a man, andplays the whore with him, is--""Less noise, please--less noise, I beg of you, or we shall beheard, and I shall be put to shame!""Doesn't it put you to shame to be offering yourself to me likethis?"A silence ensues, save that the young fellow goes on snorting andfidgeting, and the raindrops continue to fall with the samereluctance, the same indolence, as ever. Then once more thewoman's voice is heard through the pattering."Perhaps," says the voice, "you have guessed that I am seekinga husband? Yes, I AM seeking one--a good, steady muzhik.""But I am NOT a good, steady muzhik.""Fie, fie!""What?" he sniggers. "A husband for you? The impudence of you!A 'husband'! Go along!""Listen to me. I am tired of tramping.""Then go home."This time there ensues a long pause. Then the woman says verysoftly:"I have neither home nor kindred.""A lie!" ejaculates the young fellow."No, by God it is not a lie! The Mother of God forget me if itis."In these last words I can detect the note of tears. By this timethe situation has become intolerable, for I am yearning to riseand kick the young fellow out of the hut, and then to have a longand earnest talk with his companion. "Oh that I could take herto my arms," I reflect, "and cherish her as I would a poor lostchild!"After a while the sounds of a new struggle between the pair areheard."Don't put me off like that!" growls the young fellow."And don't you make any attempt upon me! I am not the sort ofwoman to be forced."The next moment there arises a cry of pain and astonishment."What was that for? What was that for?" the woman wails.With an answering exclamation I spring to my feet, for myfeelings have become those of a wild beast.At once everything grows quiet again, save that someone, crawlsover the floor and, in leaving the hut, jars the latch of thecrazy, single-hinged portal."It was not my fault," grumbles the young fellow. "It all cameof that stinking woman offering herself to me. Besides, the placeis full of bugs, and I cannot sleep.""Beast!" pants someone in the vicinity."Hold your tongue, bitch!" is the fellow's retort.By now the rain has ceased, and such air as filters through thewindow seems increasedly stifling. Momentarily the hush growsdeeper, until the breast feels filled with a sense of oppression,and the face and eyes as though they were glued over with a web.Even when I step into the yard I find the place to be like acellar on a summer's day, when the very ice has melted in thedark retreat, and the latter's black cavity is charged with hot,viscous humidity.Somewhere near me a woman is gulping out sobs. For a moment ortwo I listen; then I approach her, and come upon her seated in acorner with her head in her hands, and her body rocking to andfro as though she were doing me obeisance.Yet I feel angry, somehow, and remain standing before her withoutspeaking-- until at length I ask:"Are you mad?""Go away," is, after a pause, her only reply."I heard all that you said to that young fellow.""Oh, did you? Then what business is it of yours? Are you mybrother?"Yet she speaks the words absent-mindedly rather than angrily.Around us the dim, blurred walls are peering in our directionwith sightless eyes, while in the vicinity a bullock is drawingdeep breaths.I seat myself by her side."Should you remain much longer in that position," I remark, "youwill have a headache."There follows no reply."Am I disturbing you? " I continue."Oh no; not at all." And, lowering her hands, she looks at me."Whence do you come?""From Nizhni Novgorod.""Oh, from a long way off!""Do you care for that young fellow?"Not for a moment or two does she answer; and when she does so sheanswers as though the words have been rehearsed."Not particularly. It is that he is a strong young fellow whohas lost his way, and is too much of a fool (as you too must haveseen) to find it again. So I am very sorry for him. A good muzhikought to be well placed."On the bell of the church there strikes the hour of two. Withoutinterrupting herself, the woman crosses her breast at eachstroke."Always," she continues, "I feel sorry when I see a fine youngfellow going to the dogs. If I were able, I would take all suchyoung men, and restore them to the right road.""Then you are not sorry FOR YOURSELF? ""Not for myself? Oh yes, for myself as well.""Then why flaunt yourself before this booby, as you have beendoing?""Because I might reform him. Do you not think so? Ah, you do notknow me."A sigh escapes her."He hit you, I think?" I venture."No, he did not. And in any case you are not to touch him.""Yet you cried out?"Suddenly she leans towards me, and says:"Yes, he did strike me--he struck me on the breast, and wouldhave overpowered me had it not been that I cannot, I will not, dothings heartlessly, like a cat. Oh, the brutes that men can be!"Here the conversation undergoes an interruption through the factthat someone has come out to the hut door, and is whistlingsoftly, as for a dog."There he is!" whispers the woman."Then had I not best send him about his business?""No, no!" she exclaims, catching at my knees. "No need isthere for that, no need is there for that!"Then with a low moan she adds:"Oh Lord, how I pity our folk and their lives! Oh God our Father!"Her shoulders heave, and presently she bursts into tears, with awhisper, between the pitiful sobs, of:"How, on such a night as this, one remembers all that one hasever seen, and the folk that ever one has known! And oh, howwearisome, wearisome it all is! And how I should like to crythroughout the world--But to cry what? I know not--I have nomessage to deliver."That feeling I can understand as well as she, for all too oftenhas it seemed to crush my soul with voiceless longing.Then, as I stroke her bowed head and quivering shoulder, I askher who she is; and presently, on growing a little calmer, shetells me the history of her life.She is, it appears, the daughter of a carpenter and bee-keeper.On her mother's death, this man married a young woman, andallowed her, as stepmother, to persuade him to place thenarrator, Tatiana, in a convent, where she (Tatiana) lived fromthe age of nine till adolescence, and, meanwhile, was taught herletters, and also a certain amount of manual labour; until,later, her father married her off to a friend of his, a well-to-do ex-soldier, who was acting as forester on the convent's estate.As the woman relates this, I feel vexed that I cannot see herface--only a dim, round blur amid which there looms what appearsto be a pair of closed eyes. Also, so complete is the stillness,that she can narrate her story in a barely audible whisper; and Igain the impression that the pair of us are sitting plunged in avoid of darkness where life does not exist, yet where we aredestined to begin life."However, the man was a libertine and a drunkard, and many ariotous night did he spend with his cronies in the porter's lodgeof the convent. Also, he tried to arouse a similar taste inmyself; and though for a time I resisted the tendency, I atlength, on his taking to beating me, yielded. Only for one man,however, had I really a liking; and with him it was, and not withmy husband, that I first learnt the meaning of spousehood. . . .Unfortunately, my lover himself was married; and in time his wifecame to hear of me, and procured my husband's dismissal. Thechief reason was that the lady, a person of great wealth, washerself handsome, albeit stout, and did not care to see her placeassumed by a nobody. Next, my husband died of drink; and as myfather had long been dead, and I found myself alone, I went tosee and consult my stepmother. All that she said, however, was:'Why come to me? Go and think things out for yourself.' And I toothen reflected: 'Yes, why should I have gone to her? ' andrepaired to the convent. Yet even there there seemed to be noplace left for me, and eventually old Mother Taisia, who had oncebeen my governess, said: 'Tatiana, do you return to the world,for there, and only there, will you have a chance of happiness.So to the world I returned --and still am roaming it.""Your quest of happiness is not following an easy road!""It is following the road that it best can."By now the darkness has ceased to keep spread over us, as itwere, the stretched web of a heavy curtain, but has grown thinnerand more transparent with the tension, save that, in places (forinstance, in the window of the hut), it still lies in thick foldsor clots as it peers at us with its sightless eyes.Over the hummock-like roofs of the huts rise the church's steepleand the poplar trees; while hither and thither on the wall of thehut, the cracks and holes in the crumbling plaster have caused thewall to resemble the map of an unknown country.Glancing at the woman's dark eyes, I perceive them to be shiningas pensively, innocently as the eyes of a young maiden."You are indeed a curious woman!" I remark."Perhaps I am," she replies as she moistens her lips with aslender, almost feline tongue."What are you really seeking?""I have considered the matter, and know, at last, my mind. It isthis: I hope some day to fall in with a good muzhik with whom togo in search of land. Probably land of the kind, I mean, is to befound in the neighbourhood of New Athos, [A monastery in theCaucasus, built on the reputed site of a cave tenanted by Simeonthe Canaanite] for I have been there already, and know of alikely spot for the purpose. And there we shall set our place inorder, and lay out a garden and an orchard, and prepare as muchplough land as we may need for our working."Her words are now firmer, more assured."And when we have put everything in order, other folk may joinus; and then, as the oldest settlers in the place, we shall holdthe position of honour. And thus things will continue until a newvillage, really a fine settlement, will have become formed--asettlement of which my husband will be selected the warden untilsuch time as I shall have made of him a barin [Gentleman orsquire] outright. Also, children may one day play in thatgarden, and a summer-house be built there. Ah, how delightfulsuch a life appears!"In fact, she has planned out the future so thoroughly thatalready she can describe the new establishment in as much detailas though she has long been a resident in it."Yes, I yearn indeed for a nice home!" she continues. "Oh thatsuch a home could fall to my lot! But the first requisite, ofcourse, is a muzhik."Her gentle face and eyes peer into the waning night as thoughthey aspire to caress everything upon which they may light.And all the while I am feeling sorry for her--sorry almost totears. To conceal the fact I murmur:"Should I myself suit you?"She gives a faint laugh."No.""Why not?""Because the ideas in your mind are different from mine.""How do you know what my ideas are?"She edges away from me a little,then says drily:"Because I can see them in your eyes. To be plain, I could neverconsent."With a finger tapping upon the mouldy, gnarled old oaken stump onwhich we are sitting, she adds:"The Cossacks, for instance, live comfortably enough; yet I donot like them.""What in them is it that displeases you?""Somehow they repel me. True, much of everything is theirs; yetalso they have ways which alienate me."Unable any longer to conceal from her my pity, I say gently:"Never, I fear, will you discover what you are seeking."She shakes her head protestingly."And never ought a woman to be discouraged," she retorts."Woman's proper round is to wish for a child, and to nurse it,and, when it has been weaned, to get herself ready to haveanother one. That is how woman should live. She should live aspass spring and summer, autumn and winter."I find it a pleasure to watch the play of the woman'sintellectual features; and though, also, I long to take her in myarms, I feel that my better plan will be to seek once more thequiet, empty steppe, and, bearing in me the recollection of thiswoman, to resume my lonely journey towards the region where thesilver wall of the mountains merges with the sky, and the darkravines gape at the steppe with their chilly jaws. At the moment,however, I cannot so do, for the Cossacks have temporarilydeprived me of my passport."What are you yourself seeking?" she asks suddenly as again sheedges towards me."Simply nothing. My one desire is to observe how folk live.""And are you travelling alone?""I am.""Even as am I. Oh God, how many lonely people there are in theworld!"By this time the cattle are awakening from slumber, and, withtheir soft lowings, reminding one of a pipe which I used to hearplayed by a certain blind old man. Next, four times, withunsteady touch, the drowsy watchman strikes his gong--twicesoftly, once with a vigour that clangs the metal again, and afourth time with a mere tap of the iron hammer against the copperplate."What sort of lives do the majority of folk lead?""Sorry lives.""Yes, that is what I too have found."A pause follows. Then the woman says quietly:"See, dawn is breaking, yet never this night have my eyesclosed. Often I am like that; often I keep thinking and thinkinguntil I seem to be the only human being in the world, and theonly human being destined to re-order it.""Many folk live unworthy lives. They live them amid discord,abasement, and wrongs innumerable, wrongs born of want andstupidity."And as the words leave my lips my mind loses itself inrecollections of all the dark and harrowing and shameful scenesthat I have beheld."Listen," I say. "You may approach a man with nothing but goodin your heart, and be prepared to surrender both your freedom andyour strength; yet still he may fail to understand you aright.And how shall he be blamed for this, seeing that never may hehave been shown what is good?"She lays a hand upon my shoulder, and looks straight into my eyesas she parts her comely lips."True," she rejoins--"But, dear friend, it is also true thatgoodness never bargains."Together she and I seem to be drifting towards a vista which iscoming to look, as it sloughs the shadow of night, ever clearerand clearer. It is a vista of white huts, silvery trees, a redchurch, and dew-bespangled earth. And as the sun rises he revealsto us clustered, transparent clouds which, like thousands ofsnow-white birds, go gliding over our heads."Yes," she whispers again as gently she gives me a nudge. "As onepursues one's lonely way one thinks and thinks--but ofwhat? Dear friend, you have said that no one really cares what isthe matter. Ah, HOW true that is! "Here she springs to her feet, and, pulling me up with her, gluesherself to my breast with a vehemence which causes me momentarilyto push her away. Upon this, bursting into tears, she tendstowards me again, and kisses me with lips so dry as almost to cutme--she kisses me in a way which penetrates to my very soul."You have been oh, so good!" she whispers softly. As she speaks,the earth seems to be sinking under my feet.Then she tears herself away, glances around the courtyard, anddarts to a corner where, under a fence, a clump of herbage issprouting."Go now," she adds in a whisper. "Yes, go."Then, with a confused smile, as, crouching among the herbage asthough it had been a small cave, she rearranges her hair, sheadds:"It has befallen so. Ah, me! May God grant unto me His pardon!"Astonished, feeling that I must be dreaming, I gaze at her withgratitude, for I sense an extraordinary lightness to be presentin my breast, a radiant void through which joyous, intangiblewords and thoughts keep flying as swallows wheel across thefirmament."Amid a great sorrow," she adds, "even a small joy becomes agreat felicity."Yet as I glance at the woman's bosom, whereon moist beads arestanding like dewdrops on the outer earth; as I glance at thatbosom, whereon the sun's rays are finding a roseate reflection,as though the blood were oozing through the skin, my rapture diesaway, and turns to sorrow, heartache, and tears. For in me thereis a presentiment that before the living juice within that bosomshall have borne fruit, it will have become dried up.Presently, in a tone almost of self-excuse, and one wherein thewords sound a little sadly, she continues:"Times there are when something comes pouring into my soul whichmakes my breasts ache with the pain of it. What is there for meto do at such moments save reveal my thoughts to the moon, or, inthe daytime, to a river? Oh God in Heaven! And afterwards I feelas ashamed of myself! . . . Do not look at me like that. Whystare at me with those eyes, eyes so like the eyes of a child?""YOUR face, rather, is like a child's," I remark."What? Is it so stupid?""Something like that."As she fastens up her bodice she continues:"Soon the time will be five o'clock, when the bell will ring forMass. To Mass I must go today, for I have a prayer to offer tothe Mother of God. . . Shall you be leaving here soon?""Yes--as soon, that is to say, as I have received back mypassport.""And for what destination?""For Alatyr. And you?"She straightens her attire, and rises. As she does so I perceivethat her hips are narrower than her shoulders, and thatthroughout she is well-proportioned and symmetrical."I? As yet I do not know. True, I had thought of proceeding toNaltchik, but now, perhaps, I shall not do so, for all my futureis uncertain."Upon that she extends to me a pair of strong, capable arms, andproposes with a blush:"Shall we kiss once more before we part?"She clasps me with the one arm, and with the other makes the signof the cross, adding:"Good-bye, dear friend, and may Christ requite you for all yourwords, for all your sympathy!""Then shall we travel together?"At the words she frees herself, and says firmly, nay, sternly:"Not so. Never would I consent to such a plan. Of course, hadyou been a muzhik--but no. Even then what would have been the useof it, seeing that life is to be measured, not by a single hour,but by years?"And, quietly smiling me a farewell, she moves away towards thehut, whilst I, remaining seated, lose myself in thoughts of her.Will she ever overtake her quest in life? Shall I ever behold heragain?The bell for early Mass begins, though for some time past thehamlet has been astir, and humming in a sedate and non-festivefashion.I enter the hut to fetch my wallet, and find the place empty.Evidently the whole party has left by the gap in the broken-downwall.I repair, next, to the Ataman's office, where I receive back mypassport before setting out to look for my companions in thesquare.In similar fashion to yesterday those "folk from Russia " arelolling alongside the churchyard wall, and also have seated amongthem, leaning his back against a log, the fat-jowled youth fromPenza, with his bruised face looking even larger and uglier thanbefore, for the reason that his eyes are sunken amid purpleprotuberances.Presently there arrives a newcomer in the shape of an old manwith a grey head adorned with a faded velvet skull-cap, a pointedbeard, a lean, withered frame, prominent cheekbones, a red,porous-looking, cunningly hooked nose, and the eyes of a thief.Him a flaxen-haired youth from Orel joins with a similar youth inaccosting."Why are YOU tramping?" inquires the former."And why are YOU? " the old man retorts in nasal tones as,looking at no one, he proceeds to mend the handle of a batteredmetal teapot with a piece of wire."We are travelling in search of work, and therefore living as wehave been commanded to live.""By WHOM commanded?""By God. Have you forgotten?"Carelessly, but succinctly, the old man retorts:"Take heed lest upon you, some day, God vomit all the dust andlitter which you are raising by tramping His earth!""How?" cries one of the youths, a long-eared stripling."Were not Christ and His Apostles also tramps?""Yes, CHRIST," is the old man's meaning reply as he raises hissharp eyes to those of his opponent. "But what are you talkingof, you fools? With whom are you daring to compare yourselves?Take care lest I report you to the Cossacks!"I have listened to many such arguments, and always found themdistasteful, even as I have done discussions regarding the soul.Hence I feel inclined to depart.At this moment, however, Konev makes his appearance. His mien isdejected, and his body perspiring, while his eyes keep blinkingrapidly."Has any one seen Tanka--that woman from Riazan?" he inquires."No? Then the bitch must have bolted during the night. The fact isthat, overnight, someone gave me a drop or two to drink, a meredram, but enough to lay me as fast asleep as a bear in winter-time. And in the meantime, she must have run away with that Penzafellow.""No, HE is here," I remark."Oh, he is, is he? Well, as what has the company registereditself? As a set of ikon-painters, I should think!"Again he begins to look anxiously about him."Where can she have got to? " he queries."To Mass, maybe.""0F course! Well, I am greatly smitten with her. Yes, my word Iam!"Nevertheless, when Mass comes to an end, and, to the sound of amerry peal of bells, the well-dressed local Cossacks file out ofchurch, and distribute themselves in gaudy streams about thehamlet, no Tatiana makes her appearance."Then she IS gone," says Konev ruefully. "But I'll find heryet! I'LL come up with her!"That this will happen I do not feel confident. Nor do I desirethat it should.*********************************Five years later I am pacing the courtyard of the MetechskiPrison in Tiflis, and, as I do so, trying to imagine for whatparticular offence I have been incarcerated in that place ofconfinement.Picturesquely grim without, the institution is, inwardly, peopledwith a set of cheerful, but clumsy, humourists. That is to say,it would seem as though, " by order of the authorities," theinmates are presenting a stage spectacle in which they areplaying, willingly and zealously, but with a complete lack ofexperience, imperfectly comprehended roles as prisoners, warders,and gendarmes.For instance, today, when a warder and a gendarme came to mycell to escort me to exercise, and I said to them, " May I beexcused exercise today? I am not very well, and do not feel like,etcetera, etcetera," the gendarme, a tall, handsome man with ared beard, held up to me a warning finger."NO ONE," he said, "has given you permission to feel, or not tofeel, like doing things."To which the warder, a man as dark as a chimney-sweep, with largeblue "whites" to his eyes, added stutteringly:"To no one here has permission been given to feel, or not tofeel, like doing things. You hear that?"So to exercise I went.In this stone-paved yard the air is as hot as in an oven, foroverhead there lours only a small, flat patch of dull, drab-tinted sky, and on three sides of the yard rise high grey walls,with, on the fourth, the entrance-gates, topped by a sort oflook-out post.Over the roof of the building there comes floating the dull roarof the turbulent river Kura, mingled with shouts from thehucksters of the Avlabar Bazaar (the town's Asiatic quarter) andas a cross motif thrown into these sounds, the sighing of thewind and the cooing of doves. In fact, to be here is like beingin a drum which a myriad drumsticks are beating.Through the bars of the double line of windows on the second andthe third stories peer the murky faces and towsled heads of someof the inmates. One of the latter spits his furthest into theyard--evidently with the intention of hitting myself: but all hisefforts prove vain. Another one shouts with a mordant expletive:"Hi, you! Why do you keep tramping up and down like an old hen?Hold up your head!"Meanwhile the inmates continue to intone in concert a strangechant which is as tangled as a skein of wool after serving as aplaything for a kitten's prolonged game of sport. Sadly the chantmeanders, wavers, to a high, wailing note. Then, as it were, itsoars yet higher towards the dull, murky sky, breaks suddenlyinto a snarl, and, growling like a wild beast in terror, diesaway to give place to a refrain which coils, trickles forth frombetween the bars of the windows until it has permeated the free,torrid air.As I listen to that refrain, long familiar to me, it seems tovoice something intelligible, and agitates my soul almost to asense of agony. . . .Presently, while pacing up and down in the shadow of thebuilding, I happen to glance towards the line of windows. Gluedto the framework of one of the iron window-squares, I can discerna blue-eyed face. Overgrown with an untidy sable beard it is, aswell as stamped with a look of perpetually grieved surprise."That must be Konev," I say to myself aloud.Konev it is--Konev of the well-remembered eyes. Even at thismoment they are regarding me with puckered attention.I throw around me a hasty glance. My own warder is dozing on ashady bench near the entrance. Two more warders are engaged inthrowing dice. A fourth is superintending the pumping of water bytwo convicts, and superciliously marking time for their leverwith the formula, "Mashkam, dashkam! Dashkam, mashkam!"I move towards the wall."Is that you, Konev?" is my inquiry."It is," he mutters as he thrusts his head a little furtherthrough the grating. "Yes, Konev I am, but who you are I havenot a notion.""What are you here for?""For a matter of base coin, though, to be truthful, I am hereaccidentally, without genuine cause."The warder rouses himself, and, with his keys jingling like a setof fetters, utters drowsily the command:"Do not stand still. Also, move further from the wall. Toapproach it is forbidden.""But it is so hot in the middle of the yard, sir!""Everywhere it is hot," retorts the man reprovingly, and hishead subsides again. From above comes the whispered query:"Who ARE you?""Well, do you remember Tatiana, the woman from Riazan?""DO I remember her?" Konev's voice has in it a touch of subduedresentment. "DO I remember her? Why, I was tried in courttogether with her!""Together with HER? Was she too sentenced for the passing ofbase coin?""Yes. Why should she not have been? She was merely the victim ofan accident, even as I was."As I resume my walk in the stifling shade I detect that, from thewindows of the basement there is issuing a smell of, in equalparts, rotten leather, mouldy grain, and dampness. To my mindthere recur Tatiana's words: "Amid a great sorrow even a smalljoy becomes a great felicity," and, "I should like to build avillage on some land of my own, and create for myself a new andbetter life."And to my recollection there recur also Tatiana's face andyearning, hungry breast. As I stand thinking of these things,there come dropping on to my head from above the low-spoken,ashen-grey words:"The chief conspirator in the matter was her lover, the son of apriest. He it was who engineered the plot. He has been sentencedto ten years penal servitude.""And she? ""Tatiana Vasilievna? To the same, and I also. I leave for Siberiathe day after tomorrow. The trial was held at Kutair. In RussiaI should have got off with a lighter sentence than here, for thefolk in these parts are, one and all, evil, barbaric scoundrels.""And Tatiana, has she any children?""How could she have while living such a rough life as this? Ofcourse not! Besides, the priest's son is a consumptive.""Indeed sorry for her am I!""So I expect." And in Konev's tone there would seem to be atouch of meaning. "The woman was a fool--of that there can be nodoubt; but also she was comely, as well as a person out of thecommon in her pity for folk.""Was it then that you found her again?""When?""On that Feast of the Assumption?""Oh no. It was only during the following winter that I came upwith her. At the time she was serving as governess to thechildren of an old officer in Batum whose wife had left him."Something snaps behind me--something sounding like the hammer of arevolver. However, it is only the warder closing the lid of hishuge watch before restoring the watch to his pocket, givinghimself a stretch, and yawning to the utmost extent of his jaws."You see, she had money, and, but for her restlessness, mighthave lived a comfortable life enough. As it was, herrestlessness--""Time for exercise is up!" shouts the warder."Who are you?" adds Konev hastily. "Somehow I seem to rememberyour face; but 1 cannot place it."Yet so stung am I with what I have heard that I move away insilence: save that just as I reach the top of the steps I turn tocry:"Goodbye, mate, and give her my greeting.""What are you bawling for? " blusters the warder. . . .The corridor is dim, and filled with an oppressive odour. Thewarder swings his keys with a dry, thin clash, and I, to dull thepain in my heart, strive to imitate him. But the attempt provesfutile; and as the warder opens the door of my cell he saysseverely:"In with you, ten-years man!"Entering, I move towards the window. Between some grey spikes ona wall I can just discern the boisterous current of the Kura,with sakli [warehouses] and houses glued to the opposite bank,and the figures of some workmen on the roof of a tanning shed.Below, with his cap pushed to the back of his head,a sentry is pacingbackwards and forwards.Wearily my mind recalls the many scores of Russian folk whom ithas seen perish to no purpose. And as it does so it feelscrushed, as in a vice, beneath the burden of great and inexorablesorrow with which all life is dowered.
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