The Kreutzer Sonata and Other Stories
that we should kill him. If not, let us perish, for it can make no
difference to us now.”
This despairing programme, however, met with considerable opposition
from a peaceably-inclined man named Peter Mikhayeff. “Brethren,” said
he, “you are contemplating a grievous sin. The taking of human life is
a very serious matter. Of course it is easy to end the mortal existence
of a man, but what will become of the souls of those who commit the
deed? If Michael continues to act toward us unjustly God will surely
punish him. But, my friends, we must have patience.”
This pacific utterance only served to intensify the anger of Vasili.
Said he: “Peter is forever repeating the same old story, ‘It is a sin
to kill any one.’ Certainly it is sinful to murder; but we should
consider the kind of man we are dealing with. We all know it is wrong
to kill a good man, but even God would take away the life of such a dog
as he is. It is our duty, if we have any love for mankind, to shoot a
dog that is mad. It is a sin to let him live. If, therefore, we are to
suffer at all, let it be in the interests of the people—and they will
thank us for it. If we remain quiet any longer a flogging will be our
only reward. You are talking nonsense, Mikhayeff. Why don’t you think
of the sin we shall be committing if we work during the Easter
holidays—for you will refuse to work then yourself?”
“Well, then,” replied Peter, “if they shall send me to plough, I will
go. But I shall not be going of my own free will, and God will know
whose sin it is, and shall punish the offender accordingly. Yet we must
not forget him. Brethren, I am not giving you my own views only. The
law of God is not to return evil for evil; indeed, if you try in this
way to stamp out wickedness it will come upon you all the stronger. It
is not difficult for you to kill the man, but his blood will surely
stain your own soul. You may think you have killed a bad man—that you
have gotten rid of evil—but you will soon find out that the seeds of
still greater wickedness have been planted within you. If you yield to
misfortune it will surely come to you.”
As Peter was not without sympathizers among the peasants, the poor
serfs were consequently divided into two groups: the followers of
Vasili and those who held the views of Mikhayeff.
On Easter Sunday no work was done. Toward the evening an elder came to
the peasants from the nobleman’s court and said: “Our superintendent,
Michael Simeonovitch, orders you to go to-morrow to plough the field
for the oats.” Thus the official went through the village and directed
the men to prepare for work the next day—some by the river and others
by the roadway. The poor people were almost overcome with grief, many
of them shedding tears, but none dared to disobey the orders of their
master.
On the morning of Easter Monday, while the church bells were calling
the inhabitants to religious services, and while every one else was
about to enjoy a holiday, the unfortunate serfs started for the field
to plough. Michael arose rather late and took a walk about the farm.
The domestic servants were through with their work and had dressed
themselves for the day, while Michael’s wife and their widowed daughter
(who was visiting them, as was her custom on holidays) had been to
church and returned. A steaming samovar awaited them, and they began to
drink tea with Michael, who, after lighting his pipe, called the elder
to him.
“Well,” said the superintendent, “have you ordered the moujiks to
plough to-day?”
“Yes, sir, I did,” was the reply.
“Have they all gone to the field?”
“Yes, sir; all of them. I directed them myself where to begin.”
“That is all very well. You gave the orders, but are they ploughing? Go
at once and see, and you may tell them that I shall be there after
dinner. I shall expect to find one and a half acres done for every two
ploughs, and the work must be well done; otherwise they shall be
severely punished, notwithstanding the holiday.”
“I hear, sir, and obey.”
The elder started to go, but Michael called him back. After hesitating
for some time, as if he felt very uneasy, he said:
“By the way, listen to what those scoundrels say about me. Doubtless
some of them will curse me, and I want you to report the exact words. I
know what villains they are. They don’t find work at all pleasant. They
would rather lie down all day and do nothing. They would like to eat
and drink and make merry on holidays, but they forget that if the
ploughing is not done it will soon be too late. So you go and listen to
what is said, and tell it to me in detail. Go at once.”
“I hear, sir, and obey.”
Turning his back and mounting his horse, the elder was soon at the
field where the serfs were hard at work.
It happened that Michael’s wife, a very good-hearted woman, overheard
the conversation which her husband had just been holding with the
elder. Approaching him, she said:
“My good friend, Mishinka [diminutive of Michael], I beg of you to
consider the importance and solemnity of this holy-day. Do not sin, for
Christ’s sake. Let the poor moujiks go home.”
Michael laughed, but made no reply to his wife’s humane request.
Finally he said to her:
“You’ve not been whipped for a very long time, and now you have become
bold enough to interfere in affairs that are not your own.”
“Mishinka,” she persisted, “I have had a frightful dream concerning
you. You had better let the moujiks go.”
“Yes,” said he; “I perceive that you have gained so much flesh of late
that you think you would not feel the whip. Lookout!”
Rudely thrusting his hot pipe against her cheek, Michael chased his
wife from the room, after which he ordered his dinner. After eating a
hearty meal consisting of cabbage-soup, roast pig, meat-cake, pastry
with milk, jelly, sweet cakes, and vodka, he called his woman cook to
him and ordered her to be seated and sing songs, Simeonovitch
accompanying her on the guitar.
While the superintendent was thus enjoying himself to the fullest
satisfaction in the musical society of his cook the elder returned,
and, making a low bow to his superior, proceeded to give the desired
information concerning the serfs.
“Well,” asked Michael, “did they plough?”
“Yes,” replied the elder; “they have accomplished about half the
field.”
“Is there no fault to be found?”
“Not that I could discover. The work seems to be well done. They are
evidently afraid of you.”
“How is the soil?”
“Very good. It appears to be quite soft.”
“Well,” said Simeonovitch, after a pause, “what did they say about me?
Cursed me, I suppose?”
As the elder hesitated somewhat, Michael commanded him to speak and
tell him the whole truth. “Tell me all,” said he; “I want to know their
exact words. If you tell me the truth I shall reward you; but if you
conceal anything from me you will be punished. See here, Catherine,
pour out a glass of vodka to give him courage!”
After drinking to the health of his superior, the elder said to
himself: “It is not my fault if they do not praise him. I shall tell
him the truth.” Then turning suddenly to the superintendent he said:
“They complain, Michael Simeonovitch! They complain bitterly.”
“But what did they say?” demanded Michael. “Tell me!”
“Well, one thing they said was, ‘He does not believe in God.’”
Michael laughed. “Who said that?” he asked.
“It seemed to be their unanimous opinion. ‘He has been overcome by the
Evil One,’ they said.”
“Very good,” laughed the superintendent; “but tell me what each of them
said. What did Vasili say?”
The elder did not wish to betray his people, but he had a certain
grudge against Vasili, and he said:
“He cursed you more than did any of the others.”
“But what did he say?”
“It is awful to repeat it, sir. Vasili said, ‘He shall die like a dog,
having no chance to repent!’”
“Oh, the villain!” exclaimed Michael. “He would kill me if he were not
afraid. All right, Vasili; we shall have an accounting with you. And
Tishka—he called me a dog, I suppose?”
“Well,” said the elder, “they all spoke of you in anything but
complimentary terms; but it is mean in me to repeat what they said.”
“Mean or not you must tell me, I say!”
“Some of them declared that your back should be broken.”
Simeonovitch appeared to enjoy this immensely, for he laughed outright.
“We shall see whose back will be the first to be broken,” said he. “Was
that Tishka’s opinion? While I did not suppose they would say anything
good about me, I did not expect such curses and threats. And Peter
Mikhayeff—was that fool cursing me too?”
“No; he did not curse you at all. He appeared to be the only silent one
among them. Mikhayeff is a very wise moujik, and he surprises me very
much. At his actions all the other peasants seemed amazed.”
“What did he do?”
“He did something remarkable. He was diligently ploughing, and as I
approached him I heard some one singing very sweetly. Looking between
the ploughshares, I observed a bright object shining.”
“Well, what was it? Hurry up!”
“It was a small, five-kopeck wax candle, burning brightly, and the wind
was unable to blow it out. Peter, wearing a new shirt, sang beautiful
hymns as he ploughed, and no matter how he handled the implement the
candle continued to burn. In my presence he fixed the plough, shaking
it violently, but the bright little object between the colters remained
undisturbed.”
“And what did Mikhayeff say?”
“He said nothing—except when, on seeing me, he gave me the holy-day
salutation, after which he went on his way singing and ploughing as
before. I did not say anything to him, but, on approaching the other
moujiks, I found that they were laughing and making sport of their
silent companion. ‘It is a great sin to plough on Easter Monday,’ they
said. ‘You could not get absolution from your sin if you were to pray
all your life.’”
“And did Mikhayeff make no reply?”
“He stood long enough to say: ‘There should be peace on earth and
good-will to men,’ after which he resumed his ploughing and singing,
the candle burning even more brightly than before.”
Simeonovitch had now ceased to ridicule, and, putting aside his guitar,
his head dropped on his breast and he became lost in thought. Presently
he ordered the elder and cook to depart, after which Michael went
behind a screen and threw himself upon the bed. He was sighing and
moaning, as if in great distress, when his wife came in and spoke
kindly to him. He refused to listen to her, exclaiming:
“He has conquered me, and my end is near!”
“Mishinka,” said the woman, “arise and go to the moujiks in the field.
Let them go home, and everything will be all right. Heretofore you have
run far greater risks without any fear, but now you appear to be very
much alarmed.”
“He has conquered me!” he repeated. “I am lost!”
“What do you mean?” demanded his wife, angrily. “If you will go and do
as I tell you there will be no danger. Come, Mishinka,” she added,
tenderly; “I shall have the saddle-horse brought for you at once.”
When the horse arrived the woman persuaded her husband to mount the
animal, and to fulfil her request concerning the serfs. When he reached
the village a woman opened the gate for him to enter, and as he did so
the inhabitants, seeing the brutal superintendent whom everybody
feared, ran to hide themselves in their houses, gardens, and other
secluded places.
At length Michael reached the other gate, which he found closed also,
and, being unable to open it himself while seated on his horse, he
called loudly for assistance. As no one responded to his shouts he
dismounted and opened the gate, but as he was about to remount, and had
one foot in the stirrup, the horse became frightened at some pigs and