Sketches from a Hunter's Album (11 page)

‘How does he run his estate?'

‘Always bringing in new rules, he is. His peasants don't like it, but there's no point in listening to them. Alexander Vladimirych's doing the right thing.'

‘How can you say that, Luka Petrovich? I thought you wanted to maintain the old ways.'

‘I'm a different matter. You see, I'm not a member of the gentry
and I'm not a landowner. What's my farm amount to, after all? In any case, I don't know how to do things otherwise. I try to conform to justice and the law – and I say thank God for 'em! The young gentlemen don't like the old ways and I praise them for it. It's time to start using our heads. Only the trouble is the young gents are too clever by half. They treat the peasant like a doll, playing with him, doing this and that to him, breaking him and throwing him away. And your bailiff, who's a peasant, too, or your manager, who's a transplanted German, they get their claws into the peasant as well. If only one of them young gents'd set an example and show how the peasants really should be treated! Where'd it end in that case? Am I literally going to die without seeing any new ways brought in? What a parable, eh? The old's died away but the young hasn't been born!'

I didn't know what to say to Ovsyanikov. He looked round, moved himself closer to me and continued in a low voice:

‘Have you heard about Vasily Nikolaich Lyubozvonov?'

‘No, I haven't.'

‘Then please explain to me what wonders these are. I can't fathom it. His very own peasants have been telling me about it but I can't make head or tail of their talk. He's a young man, you know, and has recently come into his inheritance after the death of his mother. Well, he travelled to his estate. The peasants all gathered to have a glimpse of their master. Vasily Nikolaich went out to meet them. The peasants watched and – what a sight! – the master appeared wearing velveteen pantaloons just like a coachman and he'd put on fancy boots with trimmings and a red peasant shirt and a coachman's caftan.
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He wore his beard long and had such a weird kind of hat on his head and his face was kinda weird – maybe he was drunk, maybe not, but he certainly wasn't in his right mind. “Greetings, lads,” he said. “God be with you!” The peasants all bowed low to him, ‘cept they didn't say anything, being shy, you know. And so he got all shy as well. He tried to make a speech. “I'm a Russian, like,” he said, “and you're Russian. I love all things Russian… Er, I've got a Russian soul, so to speak, and, er, I've got Russian blood…” Then he suddenly gave an order: “Well, my children, sing me a real Russian, real folksy song!” The peasants' knees started fair shaking at that and they felt right idiots. One bold fellow struck up a song, only to sit flat down on the ground at once and hide himself behind
the others… This is what you've got to wonder at, you know: we've had landowners like that, bloody awful gents, mad as hatters, it's true, who've decked themselves out as coachmen and danced and played the guitar and sung and drunk with their own house servants and feasted with their peasants. But this one, this Vasily Nikolaich, is just like a girl, he's all the time reading and writing books or he goes around chanting verses, never talking to anyone, mind, fighting shy of people, strolling by himself in the garden as if he's bored or sad. The former bailiff was terrified at first. Before Vasily Nikolaich's arrival he dashed round all the peasant houses and fawned on 'em, just like a cat who knows he's eaten somebody else's meat. And the peasants raised their expectations and thought: “You're in for it, mate. O-oh, they'll get you to answer for what you done, you'll dance to a new tune, you old skinflint!” But instead it worked out – well, how can I put it? – I don't think the Good Lord himself really knows how it's worked out! Vasily Nikolaich summoned the bailiff to him and said: “You've got to be just in what you do, don't oppress anyone, do you hear?” But since then he's never spoken to him again! He's lived on his estate like a stranger. Well, of course, the bailiff heaved a deep sigh, and the peasants haven't dared approach Vasily Nikolaich because they're frightened to. And what's also worthy of surprise is that their master goes around bowing to them and giving them welcome looks, while they simply get stomach cramps from fright. What sort of wonders are these, eh?… Or maybe I've grown old and stupid and just don't understand things any more…'

I told Ovsyanikov that Mr Lyubozvonov was probably sick.

‘Sick indeed! He's broader than he's tall and his face, God help him, is thick as thick, despite his being young… Still, God knows!' (And Ovsyanikov gave a deep sigh.)

‘Well,' I said, ‘the gentry apart, what'll you tell me about the farmers, Luka Petrovich?'

‘No, allow me to refuse on that one,' he declared hurriedly. ‘True, I'd tell you a thing or two – but so what!' (Ovsyanikov gave a wave of the hand.) ‘Let's have some tea. Peasants are peasants, that's the truth, and how could we be otherwise, eh?'

He fell silent. Tea was served. Tatyana Ilyinichna rose from where she'd been sitting and drew closer to us. In the course of the evening
she'd several times gone out noiselessly and returned just as quietly. Silence reigned in the room. Ovsyanikov in a slow and dignified way drank cup after cup.

‘Mitya came to see us today,' Tatyana Ilyinichna remarked quietly.

Ovsyanikov frowned.

‘What did he want?'

‘He came to make his apologies.'

Ovsyanikov shook his head.

‘Well,' he continued, turning to me, ‘tell me, what can you do about relatives? You can't turn your back on ‘em… God's gone and rewarded me too with a nephew of sorts. He's a young fellow with brains, plenty of bounce, no denying it. He was good at learning, but I don't think he'll ever stick at anything. He was on government service and threw it up ‘cos he didn't think he'd get anywhere with it… Well, he's not a gent, is he? And not all gentlemen get made generals rightaway, do they? So now he's got no work… And who knows where he'll get to next, maybe he'll become a government informer! He composes petitions for peasants, writes reports, tells the village constable what to do, gives the surveyors what for, goes round the pubs drinking and passes the time of day with soldiers on discharge, with townee types and porters from the post-stations. How long will it be before disaster strikes? He's already received threats from the police. It's a good thing, though, he's a bit of a joker. He can make ‘em laugh, only to get them into a proper pickle afterwards… Enough of this, though, isn't he sitting in your little room right now?' he added, turning to his wife. ‘I know you, you're much too kind-hearted. You've been protecting him, haven't you?'

Tatyana Ilyinichna bowed her head, smiled and blushed.

‘Well, you see,' Ovsyanikov continued. ‘Oh, you softie, you! Well, tell him to come in – on account of having a dear guest with us, I'll forgive him… Well, tell him, tell him…'

Tatyana Ilyinichna went to the door and called out: ‘Mitya!'

Mitya, a fellow of about twenty-eight, tall, well-built and curly-haired, came into the room and, on seeing me, stopped in the doorway. He wore German-style clothes, but the puffing of the sleeves at the shoulders was of such unnatural size that they served as clear demonstration of the fact that it was not just a tailor but an All-Russian tailor who'd made them.

‘Well, come in, come in,' said the old man, ‘why're you so shy? Thank your aunt that you're forgiven. There you are, my dear sir, I'd like to introduce you,' he went on, pointing at Mitya. ‘My very own nephew but I'll never see eye to eye with him, come the end of the world!' (We bowed to each other.) ‘Well, tell us what you've been up to there? Why're they making complaints against you, eh?'

Mitya clearly didn't want to explain and justify himself in front of me.

‘Later, uncle,' he muttered.

‘No, not later, but right now,' the old man continued. ‘I know you feel awkward in front of a landowner and a gentleman. So much the better, it'll serve you right. Come on, come on, tell us… we'll listen.'

‘I've got nothing to be ashamed of,' Mitya began vivaciously and shook his head. ‘Judge for yourself, uncle. The Reshetilov farmers came to me and said: “Help us, mate.” “What's wrong?” “This is what's wrong: our grain stores are in tip-top shape, couldn't be better, but suddenly along comes an official and says he's got orders to inspect 'em. He looked 'em over and says: ‘They're in a right mess, your stores, they've got serious shortcomings, I'll have to report to higher authority.' ‘What are these shortcomings?' ‘I know what they are,' he says… We got together and decided on the usual sort of bribe to give the official, when up spoke the old man Prokhorych and said, you'll only be whetting his appetite if you do that. What's the point of it? Or haven't we got any come-back at all? We listened to what the old man said and the official got real annoyed and put in a complaint and reported against us. And now they're making us answer for it.” “Well, are your grain stores really in proper shape?” I asked. “As God is our witness, they're in tip-top shape and they contain the legal amount of grain…” “Well,” I said, “you've got nothing to be ashamed of in that case,” and I wrote out a statement for them… And it's still not clear which way the business'll go… But it's understandable you've had people complaining about me in this case because everyone knows which side his bread is buttered.'

‘Yes, everyone knows that except you,' said the old man under his breath. ‘But what fun and games have you been up to with the Shutolomovsky peasants?'

‘How d'you know about that?'

‘Oh, I know.'

‘I'm in the right there, too. Again judge for yourself. The Shutolomovsky peasants' neighbour, Mr Bespandin, began ploughing up about a dozen acres of their land. It's mine, he said, mine. The Shutolomovsky people are on quit-rent and their landowner's gone abroad, so who've they got to stand up for them, eh? You be judge of that. And the land's theirs without doubt, peasant land, always has been. So they came to me and asked me to write out a petition. And I wrote it. And Mr Bespandin got to know about it and started making threats: “I'll pull that bloody Mitya's shoulder blades out of their sockets,” he said, “and I'll just about tear his head from his shoulders…” Well, let's see if he tears it off. It's still on so far.'

‘Well, don't you start boasting, that won't do your head much good,' said the old man. ‘You're crazy, completely crazy!'

‘Uncle, isn't it just what you've been telling me yourself…'

‘I know it, I know exactly what you're going to say to me,' Ovsyanikov interrupted him. ‘You're going to say: A man must live injustice and should help his neighbour. It's also true that he mustn't spare himself. Well, do you always behave as you should? Don't they sometimes take you into a pub, eh? Give you a drink, fawn on you and say: “Dmitry Alekseich, well, sir, you help us and we'll show you how grateful we are,” and, you know, maybe there's a coin or a banknote slipping into your hand from somewhere, eh? Doesn't that happen? Say it doesn't, eh?'

‘Sure, I'm guilty of that,' answered Mitya, looking down at the floor, ‘but I don't take anything from poor people and I don't do anything to be ashamed of.'

‘You don't take anything now, but when things start going wrong for you, you'll start taking. Nothing to be ashamed of indeed… Oh, you, you think you're taking the sides of the saints! Have you forgotten Borka Perekhodov? Who fussed over him? Who gave him protection, eh?'

‘Perekhodov suffered because of what he did himself, true enough…'

‘Stole government money… Some joke that!'

‘Uncle, you've got to remember his poverty, his family…'

‘His poverty, his family… He was a drunkard, a gambler, that's what!'

‘He started drinking from sorrow,' remarked Mitya, lowering his voice.

‘From sorrow! Well, you should've helped him if your heart's so fond and not sat in pubs with the drunkard. He's got a wonderful line in talk – never seen anything like it!'

‘He's the soul of kindness, he is…'

‘With you they're all the soul of kindness… Was, er,' Ovsyanikov went on, turning to his wife, ‘something sent to him – well, you know where…'

Tatyana Ilyinichna nodded.

‘So where've you been these last few days?' the old man started asking.

‘In town.'

‘I reckon you've been playing billiards and drinking tea and strumming the guitar and rushing round from one government office to another and concocting petitions in back rooms and parading about with merchants' sons? I'm right, aren't I? Go on, tell us!'

‘OK, it was like that,' said Mitya with a smile. ‘Oh, I almost forgot: Funtikov, Anton Parfenych, asked you to come and have dinner on Sunday.'

‘I won't go to that big-bellied bloke. He'll give us good fish and then cover it all with rancid butter. Bless him, anyway!'

‘And I met Fedosya Mikhaylovna.'

‘What Fedosya?'

‘The one belonging to Harpenchenko, the landowner, the one who bought Mikulino at auction. The Fedosya from Mikulino. She lived as a seamstress in Moscow paying quit-rent and paid her quit-rent punctually, 182 roubles and a half each year. And she knew her job, used to get good orders in Moscow. But now Harpenchenko's had her brought back and is keeping her there and not giving her any work. She'd like to buy her freedom and has spoken to her master, only he's not made any decision. Uncle, you know Harpenchenko, don't you? Couldn't you have a word with him? Fedosya'll pay well.'

‘It's not your money, is it? Eh? Well, all right, I'll speak to him. ‘Cept I don't know so much,' went on the old man, looking dissatisfied. ‘God forgive me, but that Harpenchenko's a right skinflint, the way he buys up IOUs, lends at high rates and acquires
estates under the hammer… Who the hell brought him our way? Oh, these outsiders! It'll take a while to get any sense from him, but anyhow, let's see.'