Master and Man
Someone moved from the window, and a minute or two later there was the
sound of the passage door as it came unstuck, then the latch of the
outside door clicked and a tall white-bearded peasant, with a sheepskin
coat thrown over his white holiday shirt, pushed his way out holding the
door firmly against the wind, followed by a lad in a red shirt and high
leather boots.
‘Is that you, Andreevich?’ asked the old man.
‘Yes, friend, we’ve gone astray,’ said Vasili Andreevich. ‘We wanted to
get to Goryachkin but found ourselves here. We went a second time but
lost our way again.’
‘Just see how you have gone astray!’ said the old man. ‘Petrushka, go
and open the gate!’ he added, turning to the lad in the red shirt.
‘All right,’ said the lad in a cheerful voice, and ran back into the
passage.
‘But we’re not staying the night,’ said Vasili Andreevich.
‘Where will you go in the night? You’d better stay!’
‘I’d be glad to, but I must go on. It’s business, and it can’t be
helped.’
‘Well, warm yourself at least. The samovar is just ready.’
‘Warm myself? Yes, I’ll do that,’ said Vasili Andreevich. ‘It won’t get
darker. The moon will rise and it will be lighter. Let’s go in and warm
ourselves, Nikita.’
‘Well, why not? Let us warm ourselves,’ replied Nikita, who was stiff
with cold and anxious to warm his frozen limbs.
Vasili Andreevich went into the room with the old man, and Nikita drove
through the gate opened for him by Petrushka, by whose advice he backed
the horse under the penthouse. The ground was covered with manure and
the tall bow over the horse’s head caught against the beam. The hens
and the cock had already settled to roost there, and clucked peevishly,
clinging to the beam with their claws. The disturbed sheep shied and
rushed aside trampling the frozen manure with their hooves. The dog
yelped desperately with fright and anger and then burst out barking like
a puppy at the stranger.
Nikita talked to them all, excused himself to the fowls and assured
them that he would not disturb them again, rebuked the sheep for being
frightened without knowing why, and kept soothing the dog, while he tied
up the horse.
‘Now that will be all right,’ he said, knocking the snow off his
clothes. ‘Just hear how he barks!’ he added, turning to the dog. ‘Be
quiet, stupid! Be quiet. You are only troubling yourself for nothing.
We’re not thieves, we’re friends....’
‘And these are, it’s said, the three domestic counsellors,’ remarked the
lad, and with his strong arms he pushed under the pent-roof the sledge
that had remained outside.
‘Why counsellors?’ asked Nikita.
‘That’s what is printed in Paulson. A thief creeps to a house--the dog
barks, that means “Be on your guard!” The cock crows, that means, “Get
up!” The cat licks herself--that means, “A welcome guest is coming. Get
ready to receive him!”’ said the lad with a smile.
Petrushka could read and write and knew Paulson’s primer, his only book,
almost by heart, and he was fond of quoting sayings from it that he
thought suited the occasion, especially when he had had something to
drink, as to-day.
‘That’s so,’ said Nikita.
‘You must be chilled through and through,’ said Petrushka.
‘Yes, I am rather,’ said Nikita, and they went across the yard and the
passage into the house.
IV
The household to which Vasili Andreevich had come was one of the richest
in the village. The family had five allotments, besides renting other
land. They had six horses, three cows, two calves, and some twenty
sheep. There were twenty-two members belonging to the homestead: four
married sons, six grandchildren (one of whom, Petrushka, was married),
two great-grandchildren, three orphans, and four daughters-in-law with
their babies. It was one of the few homesteads that remained still
undivided, but even here the dull internal work of disintegration which
would inevitably lead to separation had already begun, starting as usual
among the women. Two sons were living in Moscow as water-carriers, and
one was in the army. At home now were the old man and his wife, their
second son who managed the homestead, the eldest who had come from
Moscow for the holiday, and all the women and children. Besides these
members of the family there was a visitor, a neighbour who was godfather
to one of the children.
Over the table in the room hung a lamp with a shade, which brightly lit
up the tea-things, a bottle of vodka, and some refreshments, besides
illuminating the brick walls, which in the far corner were hung with
icons on both sides of which were pictures. At the head of the table
sat Vasili Andreevich in a black sheepskin coat, sucking his frozen
moustache and observing the room and the people around him with his
prominent hawk-like eyes. With him sat the old, bald, white-bearded
master of the house in a white homespun shirt, and next him the son
home from Moscow for the holiday--a man with a sturdy back and powerful
shoulders and clad in a thin print shirt--then the second son, also
broad-shouldered, who acted as head of the house, and then a lean
red-haired peasant--the neighbour.
Having had a drink of vodka and something to eat, they were about to
take tea, and the samovar standing on the floor beside the brick oven
was already humming. The children could be seen in the top bunks and on
the top of the oven. A woman sat on a lower bunk with a cradle beside
her. The old housewife, her face covered with wrinkles which wrinkled
even her lips, was waiting on Vasili Andreevich.
As Nikita entered the house she was offering her guest a small tumbler
of thick glass which she had just filled with vodka.
‘Don’t refuse, Vasili Andreevich, you mustn’t! Wish us a merry feast.
Drink it, dear!’ she said.
The sight and smell of vodka, especially now when he was chilled through
and tired out, much disturbed Nikita’s mind. He frowned, and having
shaken the snow off his cap and coat, stopped in front of the icons
as if not seeing anyone, crossed himself three times, and bowed to the
icons. Then, turning to the old master of the house and bowing first
to him, then to all those at table, then to the women who stood by the
oven, and muttering: ‘A merry holiday!’ he began taking off his outer
things without looking at the table.
‘Why, you’re all covered with hoar-frost, old fellow!’ said the eldest
brother, looking at Nikita’s snow-covered face, eyes, and beard.
Nikita took off his coat, shook it again, hung it up beside the oven,
and came up to the table. He too was offered vodka. He went through a
moment of painful hesitation and nearly took up the glass and emptied
the clear fragrant liquid down his throat, but he glanced at Vasili
Andreevich, remembered his oath and the boots that he had sold for
drink, recalled the cooper, remembered his son for whom he had promised
to buy a horse by spring, sighed, and declined it.
‘I don’t drink, thank you kindly,’ he said frowning, and sat down on a
bench near the second window.
‘How’s that?’ asked the eldest brother.
‘I just don’t drink,’ replied Nikita without lifting his eyes but
looking askance at his scanty beard and moustache and getting the
icicles out of them.
‘It’s not good for him,’ said Vasili Andreevich, munching a cracknel
after emptying his glass.
‘Well, then, have some tea,’ said the kindly old hostess. ‘You must
be chilled through, good soul. Why are you women dawdling so with the
samovar?’
‘It is ready,’ said one of the young women, and after flicking with her
apron the top of the samovar which was now boiling over, she carried it
with an effort to the table, raised it, and set it down with a thud.
Meanwhile Vasili Andreevich was telling how he had lost his way, how
they had come back twice to this same village, and how they had gone
astray and had met some drunken peasants. Their hosts were surprised,
explained where and why they had missed their way, said who the tipsy
people they had met were, and told them how they ought to go.
‘A little child could find the way to Molchanovka from here. All you
have to do is to take the right turning from the high road. There’s a
bush you can see just there. But you didn’t even get that far!’ said the
neighbour.
‘You’d better stay the night. The women will make up beds for you,’ said
the old woman persuasively.
‘You could go on in the morning and it would be pleasanter,’ said the
old man, confirming what his wife had said.
‘I can’t, friend. Business!’ said Vasili Andreevich. ‘Lose an hour and
you can’t catch it up in a year,’ he added, remembering the grove and
the dealers who might snatch that deal from him. ‘We shall get there,
shan’t we?’ he said, turning to Nikita.
Nikita did not answer for some time, apparently still intent on thawing
out his beard and moustache.
‘If only we don’t go astray again,’ he replied gloomily. He was gloomy
because he passionately longed for some vodka, and the only thing that
could assuage that longing was tea and he had not yet been offered any.
‘But we have only to reach the turning and then we shan’t go wrong. The
road will be through the forest the whole way,’ said Vasili Andreevich.
‘It’s just as you please, Vasili Andreevich. If we’re to go, let us go,’
said Nikita, taking the glass of tea he was offered.
‘We’ll drink our tea and be off.’
Nikita said nothing but only shook his head, and carefully pouring some
tea into his saucer began warming his hands, the fingers of which were
always swollen with hard work, over the steam. Then, biting off a tiny
bit of sugar, he bowed to his hosts, said, ‘Your health!’ and drew in
the steaming liquid.
‘If somebody would see us as far as the turning,’ said Vasili
Andreevich.
‘Well, we can do that,’ said the eldest son. ‘Petrushka will harness and
go that far with you.’
‘Well, then, put in the horse, lad, and I shall be thankful to you for
it.’
‘Oh, what for, dear man?’ said the kindly old woman. ‘We are heartily
glad to do it.’
‘Petrushka, go and put in the mare,’ said the eldest brother.
‘All right,’ replied Petrushka with a smile, and promptly snatching his
cap down from a nail he ran away to harness.
While the horse was being harnessed the talk returned to the point at
which it had stopped when Vasili Andreevich drove up to the window. The
old man had been complaining to his neighbour, the village elder, about
his third son who had not sent him anything for the holiday though he
had sent a French shawl to his wife.
‘The young people are getting out of hand,’ said the old man.
‘And how they do!’ said the neighbour. ‘There’s no managing them! They
know too much. There’s Demochkin now, who broke his father’s arm. It’s
all from being too clever, it seems.’
Nikita listened, watched their faces, and evidently would have liked to
share in the conversation, but he was too busy drinking his tea and only
nodded his head approvingly. He emptied one tumbler after another and
grew warmer and warmer and more and more comfortable. The talk continued
on the same subject for a long time--the harmfulness of a household
dividing up--and it was clearly not an abstract discussion but concerned
the question of a separation in that house; a separation demanded by the
second son who sat there morosely silent.
It was evidently a sore subject and absorbed them all, but out of
propriety they did not discuss their private affairs before strangers.
At last, however, the old man could not restrain himself, and with tears
in his eyes declared that he would not consent to a break-up of the
family during his lifetime, that his house was prospering, thank God,
but that if they separated they would all have to go begging.
‘Just like the Matveevs,’ said the neighbour. ‘They used to have a
proper house, but now they’ve split up none of them has anything.’