The evening service was being celebrated1 at Progonnaya Station. Before the great ikon, painted in glaring colours on a background of gold, stood the crowd of railway servants with their wives and children, and also of the timbermen and sawyers who worked close to the railway line. All stood in silence, fascinated by the glare of the lights and the howling of the snow-storm which was aimlessly disporting2 itself outside, regardless of the fact that it was the Eve of the Annunciation. The old priest from Vedenyapino conducted the service; the sacristan and Matvey Terehov were singing.
Matvey’s face was beaming with delight; he sang stretching out his neck as though he wanted to soar upwards3. He sang tenor4 and chanted the “Praises” too in a tenor voice with honied sweetness and persuasiveness5. When he sang “Archangel Voices” he waved his arms like a conductor, and trying to second the sacristan’s hollow bass6 with his tenor, achieved something extremely complex, and from his face it could be seen that he was experiencing great pleasure.
At last the service was over, and they all quietly dispersed7, and it was dark and empty again, and there followed that hush8 which is only known in stations that stand solitary9 in the open country or in the forest when the wind howls and nothing else is heard and when all the emptiness around, all the dreariness11 of life slowly ebbing12 away is felt.
Matvey lived not far from the station at his cousin’s tavern13. But he did not want to go home. He sat down at the refreshment14 bar and began talking to the waiter in a low voice.
“We had our own choir15 in the tile factory. And I must tell you that though we were only workmen, our singing was first-rate, splendid. We were often invited to the town, and when the Deputy Bishop16, Father Ivan, took the service at Trinity Church, the bishop’s singers sang in the right choir and we in the left. Only they complained in the town that we kept the singing on too long: ‘the factory choir drag it out,’ they used to say. It is true we began St. Andrey’s prayers and the Praises between six and seven, and it was past eleven when we finished, so that it was sometimes after midnight when we got home to the factory. It was good,” sighed Matvey. “Very good it was, indeed, Sergey Nikanoritch! But here in my father’s house it is anything but joyful17. The nearest church is four miles away; with my weak health I can’t get so far; there are no singers there. And there is no peace or quiet in our family; day in day out, there is an uproar18, scolding, uncleanliness; we all eat out of one bowl like peasants; and there are beetles19 in the cabbage soup. . . . God has not given me health, else I would have gone away long ago, Sergey Nikanoritch.”
Matvey Terehov was a middle-aged20 man about forty-five, but he had a look of ill-health; his face was wrinkled and his lank21, scanty22 beard was quite grey, and that made him seem many years older. He spoke23 in a weak voice, circumspectly24, and held his chest when he coughed, while his eyes assumed the uneasy and anxious look one sees in very apprehensive25 people. He never said definitely what was wrong with him, but he was fond of describing at length how once at the factory he had lifted a heavy box and had ruptured26 himself, and how this had led to “the gripes,” and had forced him to give up his work in the tile factory and come back to his native place; but he could not explain what he meant by “the gripes.”
“I must own I am not fond of my cousin,” he went on, pouring himself out some tea. “He is my elder; it is a sin to censure27 him, and I fear the Lord, but I cannot bear it in patience. He is a haughty28, surly, abusive man; he is the torment29 of his relations and workmen, and constantly out of humour. Last Sunday I asked him in an amiable30 way, ‘Brother, let us go to Pahomovo for the Mass!’ but he said ‘I am not going; the priest there is a gambler;’ and he would not come here to-day because, he said, the priest from Vedenyapino smokes and drinks vodka. He doesn’t like the clergy31! He reads Mass himself and the Hours and the Vespers, while his sister acts as sacristan; he says, ‘Let us pray unto the Lord’! and she, in a thin little voice like a turkey-hen, ‘Lord, have mercy upon us! . . .’ It’s a sin, that’s what it is. Every day I say to him, ‘Think what you are doing, brother! Repent32, brother!’ and he takes no notice.”
Sergey Nikanoritch, the waiter, poured out five glasses of tea and carried them on a tray to the waiting-room. He had scarcely gone in when there was a shout:
“Is that the way to serve it, pig’s face? You don’t know how to wait!”
It was the voice of the station-master. There was a timid mutter, then again a harsh and angry shout:
“Get along!”
The waiter came back greatly crestfallen33.
“There was a time when I gave satisfaction to counts and princes,” he said in a low voice; “but now I don’t know how to serve tea. . . . He called me names before the priest and the ladies!”
The waiter, Sergey Nikanoritch, had once had money of his own, and had kept a buffet34 at a first-class station, which was a junction35, in the principal town of a province. There he had worn a swallow-tail coat and a gold chain. But things had gone ill with him; he had squandered36 all his own money over expensive fittings and service; he had been robbed by his staff, and getting gradually into difficulties, had moved to another station less bustling37. Here his wife had left him, taking with her all the silver, and he moved to a third station of a still lower class, where no hot dishes were served. Then to a fourth. Frequently changing his situation and sinking lower and lower, he had at last come to Progonnaya, and here he used to sell nothing but tea and cheap vodka, and for lunch hard-boiled eggs and dry sausages, which smelt38 of tar10, and which he himself sarcastically39 said were only fit for the orchestra. He was bald all over the top of his head, and had prominent blue eyes and thick bushy whiskers, which he often combed out, looking into the little looking-glass. Memories of the past haunted him continually; he could never get used to sausage “only fit for the orchestra,” to the rudeness of the station-master, and to the peasants who used to haggle40 over the prices, and in his opinion it was as unseemly to haggle over prices in a refreshment room as in a chemist’s shop. He was ashamed of his poverty and degradation41, and that shame was now the leading interest of his life.
“Spring is late this year,” said Matvey, listening. “It’s a good job; I don’t like spring. In spring it is very muddy, Sergey Nikanoritch. In books they write: Spring, the birds sing, the sun is setting, but what is there pleasant in that? A bird is a bird, and nothing more. I am fond of good company, of listening to folks, of talking of religion or singing something agreeable in chorus; but as for nightingales and flowers—bless them, I say!”
He began again about the tile factory, about the choir, but Sergey Nikanoritch could not get over his mortification42, and kept shrugging his shoulders and muttering. Matvey said good-bye and went home.
There was no frost, and the snow was already melting on the roofs, though it was still falling in big flakes43; they were whirling rapidly round and round in the air and chasing one another in white clouds along the railway line. And the oak forest on both sides of the line, in the dim light of the moon which was hidden somewhere high up in the clouds, resounded44 with a prolonged sullen45 murmur46. When a violent storm shakes the trees, how terrible they are! Matvey walked along the causeway beside the line, covering his face and his hands, while the wind beat on his back. All at once a little nag47, plastered all over with snow, came into sight; a sledge48 scraped along the bare stones of the causeway, and a peasant, white all over, too, with his head muffled49 up, cracked his whip. Matvey looked round after him, but at once, as though it had been a vision, there was neither sledge nor peasant to be seen, and he hastened his steps, suddenly scared, though he did not know why.
Here was the crossing and the dark little house where the signalman lived. The barrier was raised, and by it perfect mountains had drifted and clouds of snow were whirling round like witches on broomsticks. At that point the line was crossed by an old highroad, which was still called “the track.” On the right, not far from the crossing, by the roadside stood Terehov’s tavern, which had been a posting inn. Here there was always a light twinkling at night.
When Matvey reached home there was a strong smell of incense50 in all the rooms and even in the entry. His cousin Yakov Ivanitch was still reading the evening service. In the prayer-room where this was going on, in the corner opposite the door, there stood a shrine51 of old-fashioned ancestral ikons in gilt52 settings, and both walls to right and to left were decorated with ikons of ancient and modern fashion, in shrines53 and without them. On the table, which was draped to the floor, stood an ikon of the Annunciation, and close by a cyprus-wood cross and the censer; wax candles were burning. Beside the table was a reading desk. As he passed by the prayer-room, Matvey stopped and glanced in at the door. Yakov Ivanitch was reading at the desk at that moment, his sister Aglaia, a tall lean old woman in a dark-blue dress and white kerchief, was praying with him. Yakov Ivanitch’s daughter Dashutka, an ugly freckled54 girl of eighteen, was there, too, barefoot as usual, and wearing the dress in which she had at nightfall taken water to the cattle.
“Glory to Thee Who hast shown us the light!” Yakov Ivanitch boomed out in a chant, bowing low.
Aglaia propped55 her chin on her hand and chanted in a thin, shrill56, drawling voice. And upstairs, above the ceiling, there was the sound of vague voices which seemed menacing or ominous57 of evil. No one had lived on the storey above since a fire there a long time ago. The windows were boarded up, and empty bottles lay about on the floor between the beams. Now the wind was banging and droning, and it seemed as though someone were running and stumbling over the beams.
Half of the lower storey was used as a tavern, while Terehov’s family lived in the other half, so that when drunken visitors were noisy in the tavern every word they said could be heard in the rooms. Matvey lived in a room next to the kitchen, with a big stove, in which, in old days, when this had been a posting inn, bread had been baked every day. Dashutka, who had no room of her own, lived in the same room behind the stove. A cricket chirped58 there always at night and mice ran in and out.
Matvey lighted a candle and began reading a book which he had borrowed from the station policeman. While he was sitting over it the service ended, and they all went to bed. Dashutka lay down, too. She began snoring at once, but soon woke up and said, yawning:
“You shouldn’t burn a candle for nothing, Uncle Matvey.”
“It’s my candle,” answered Matvey; “I bought it with my own money.”
Dashutka turned over a little and fell asleep again. Matvey sat up a good time longer—he was not sleepy—and when he had finished the last page he took a pencil out of a box and wrote on the book:
“I, Matvey Terehov, have read this book, and think it the very best of all the books I have read, for which I express my gratitude59 to the non-commissioned officer of the Police Department of Railways, Kuzma Nikolaev Zhukov, as the possessor of this priceless book.”
He considered it an obligation of politeness to make such inscriptions60 in other people’s books.
II
On Annunciation Day, after the mail train had been sent off, Matvey was sitting in the refreshment bar, talking and drinking tea with lemon in it.
The waiter and Zhukov the policeman were listening to him.
“I was, I must tell you,” Matvey was saying, “inclined to religion from my earliest childhood. I was only twelve years old when I used to read the epistle in church, and my parents were greatly delighted, and every summer I used to go on a pilgrimage with my dear mother. Sometimes other lads would be singing songs and catching62 crayfish, while I would be all the time with my mother. My elders commended me, and, indeed, I was pleased myself that I was of such good behaviour. And when my mother sent me with her blessing63 to the factory, I used between working hours to sing tenor there in our choir, and nothing gave me greater pleasure. I needn’t say, I drank no vodka, I smoked no tobacco, and lived in chastity; but we all know such a mode of life is displeasing64 to the enemy of mankind, and he, the unclean spirit, once tried to ruin me and began to darken my mind, just as now with my cousin. First of all, I took a vow65 to fast every Monday and not to eat meat any day, and as time went on all sorts of fancies came over me. For the first week of Lent down to Saturday the holy fathers have ordained66 a diet of dry food, but it is no sin for the weak or those who work hard even to drink tea, yet not a crumb67 passed into my mouth till the Sunday, and afterwards all through Lent I did not allow myself a drop of oil, and on Wednesdays and Fridays I did not touch a morsel68 at all. It was the same in the lesser69 fasts. Sometimes in St. Peter’s fast our factory lads would have fish soup, while I would sit a little apart from them and suck a dry crust. Different people have different powers, of course, but I can say of myself I did not find fast days hard, and, indeed, the greater the zeal71 the easier it seems. You are only hungry on the first days of the fast, and then you get used to it; it goes on getting easier, and by the end of a week you don’t mind it at all, and there is a numb72 feeling in your legs as though you were not on earth, but in the clouds. And, besides that, I laid all sorts of penances73 on myself; I used to get up in the night and pray, bowing down to the ground, used to drag heavy stones from place to place, used to go out barefoot in the snow, and I even wore chains, too. Only, as time went on, you know, I was confessing one day to the priest and suddenly this reflection occurred to me: why, this priest, I thought, is married, he eats meat and smokes tobacco—how can he confess me, and what power has he to absolve74 my sins if he is more sinful that I? I even scruple75 to eat Lenten oil, while he eats sturgeon, I dare say. I went to another priest, and he, as ill luck would have it, was a fat fleshy man, in a silk cassock; he rustled76 like a lady, and he smelt of tobacco too. I went to fast and confess in the monastery77, and my heart was not at ease even there; I kept fancying the monks79 were not living according to their rules. And after that I could not find a service to my mind: in one place they read the service too fast, in another they sang the wrong prayer, in a third the sacristan stammered80. Sometimes, the Lord forgive me a sinner, I would stand in church and my heart would throb81 with anger. How could one pray, feeling like that? And I fancied that the people in the church did not cross themselves properly, did not listen properly; wherever I looked it seemed to me that they were all drunkards, that they broke the fast, smoked, lived loose lives and played cards. I was the only one who lived according to the commandments. The wily spirit did not slumber82; it got worse as it went on. I gave up singing in the choir and I did not go to church at all; since my notion was that I was a righteous man and that the church did not suit me owing to its imperfections—that is, indeed, like a fallen angel, I was puffed83 up in my pride beyond all belief. After this I began attempting to make a church for myself. I hired from a deaf woman a tiny little room, a long way out of town near the cemetery84, and made a prayer-room like my cousin’s, only I had big church candlesticks, too, and a real censer. In this prayer-room of mine I kept the rules of holy Mount Athos—that is, every day my matins began at midnight without fail, and on the eve of the chief of the twelve great holy days my midnight service lasted ten hours and sometimes even twelve. Monks are allowed by rule to sit during the singing of the Psalter and the reading of the Bible, but I wanted to be better than the monks, and so I used to stand all through. I used to read and sing slowly, with tears and sighing, lifting up my hands, and I used to go straight from prayer to work without sleeping; and, indeed, I was always praying at my work, too. Well, it got all over the town ‘Matvey is a saint; Matvey heals the sick and senseless.’ I never had healed anyone, of course, but we all know wherever any heresy85 or false doctrine86 springs up there’s no keeping the female sex away. They are just like flies on the honey. Old maids and females of all sorts came trailing to me, bowing down to my feet, kissing my hands and crying out I was a saint and all the rest of it, and one even saw a halo round my head. It was too crowded in the prayer-room. I took a bigger room, and then we had a regular tower of Babel. The devil got hold of me completely and screened the light from my eyes with his unclean hoofs87. We all behaved as though we were frantic88. I read, while the old maids and other females sang, and then after standing89 on their legs for twenty-four hours or longer without eating or drinking, suddenly a trembling would come over them as though they were in a fever; after that, one would begin screaming and then another—it was horrible! I, too, would shiver all over like a Jew in a frying-pan, I don’t know myself why, and our legs began to prance90 about. It’s a strange thing, indeed: you don’t want to, but you prance about and waggle your arms; and after that, screaming and shrieking92, we all danced and ran after one another —ran till we dropped; and in that way, in wild frenzy93, I fell into fornication.”
The policeman laughed, but, noticing that no one else was laughing, became serious and said:
“That’s Molokanism. I have heard they are all like that in the Caucasus.”
“But I was not killed by a thunderbolt,” Matvey went on, crossing himself before the ikon and moving his lips. “My dead mother must have been praying for me in the other world. When everyone in the town looked upon me as a saint, and even the ladies and gentlemen of good family used to come to me in secret for consolation94, I happened to go into our landlord, Osip Varlamitch, to ask forgiveness —it was the Day of Forgiveness—and he fastened the door with the hook, and we were left alone face to face. And he began to reprove me, and I must tell you Osip Varlamitch was a man of brains, though without education, and everyone respected and feared him, for he was a man of stern, God-fearing life and worked hard. He had been the mayor of the town, and a warden95 of the church for twenty years maybe, and had done a great deal of good; he had covered all the New Moscow Road with gravel96, had painted the church, and had decorated the columns to look like malachite. Well, he fastened the door, and—‘I have been wanting to get at you for a long time, you rascal97, . . .’ he said. ‘You think you are a saint,’ he said. ‘No you are not a saint, but a backslider from God, a heretic and an evildoer! . . .’ And he went on and on. . . . I can’t tell you how he said it, so eloquently98 and cleverly, as though it were all written down, and so touchingly99. He talked for two hours. His words penetrated100 my soul; my eyes were opened. I listened, listened and —burst into sobs101! ‘Be an ordinary man,’ he said, ‘eat and drink, dress and pray like everyone else. All that is above the ordinary is of the devil. Your chains,’ he said, ‘are of the devil; your fasting is of the devil; your prayer-room is of the devil. It is all pride,’ he said. Next day, on Monday in Holy Week, it pleased God I should fall ill. I ruptured myself and was taken to the hospital. I was terribly worried, and wept bitterly and trembled. I thought there was a straight road before me from the hospital to hell, and I almost died. I was in misery102 on a bed of sickness for six months, and when I was discharged the first thing I did I confessed, and took the sacrament in the regular way and became a man again. Osip Varlamitch saw me off home and exhorted103 me: ‘Remember, Matvey, that anything above the ordinary is of the devil.’ And now I eat and drink like everyone else and pray like everyone else . . . . If it happens now that the priest smells of tobacco or vodka I don’t venture to blame him, because the priest, too, of course, is an ordinary man. But as soon as I am told that in the town or in the village a saint has set up who does not eat for weeks, and makes rules of his own, I know whose work it is. So that is how I carried on in the past, gentlemen. Now, like Osip Varlamitch, I am continually exhorting104 my cousins and reproaching them, but I am a voice crying in the wilderness105. God has not vouchsafed106 me the gift.”
Matvey’s story evidently made no impression whatever. Sergey Nikanoritch said nothing, but began clearing the refreshments107 off the counter, while the policeman began talking of how rich Matvey’s cousin was.
“He must have thirty thousand at least,” he said.
Zhukov the policeman, a sturdy, well-fed, red-haired man with a full face (his cheeks quivered when he walked), usually sat lolling and crossing his legs when not in the presence of his superiors. As he talked he swayed to and fro and whistled carelessly, while his face had a self-satisfied replete108 air, as though he had just had dinner. He was making money, and he always talked of it with the air of a connoisseur109. He undertook jobs as an agent, and when anyone wanted to sell an estate, a horse or a carriage, they applied110 to him.
“Yes, it will be thirty thousand, I dare say,” Sergey Nikanoritch assented111. “Your grandfather had an immense fortune,” he said, addressing Matvey. “Immense it was; all left to your father and your uncle. Your father died as a young man and your uncle got hold of it all, and afterwards, of course, Yakov Ivanitch. While you were going pilgrimages with your mama and singing tenor in the factory, they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet.”
“Fifteen thousand comes to your share,” said the policeman swaying from side to side. “The tavern belongs to you in common, so the capital is in common. Yes. If I were in your place I should have taken it into court long ago. I would have taken it into court for one thing, and while the case was going on I’d have knocked his face to a jelly.”
Yakov Ivanitch was disliked because, when anyone believes differently from others, it upsets even people who are indifferent to religion. The policeman disliked him also because he, too, sold horses and carriages.
“You don’t care about going to law with your cousin because you have plenty of money of your own,” said the waiter to Matvey, looking at him with envy. “It is all very well for anyone who has means, but here I shall die in this position, I suppose. . . .”
Matvey began declaring that he hadn’t any money at all, but Sergey Nikanoritch was not listening. Memories of the past and of the insults which he endured every day came showering upon him. His bald head began to perspire112; he flushed and bElinked.
“A cursed life!” he said with vexation, and he banged the sausage on the floor.
III
The story ran that the tavern had been built in the time of Alexander I, by a widow who had settled here with her son; her name was Avdotya Terehov. The dark roofed-in courtyard and the gates always kept locked excited, especially on moonlight nights, a feeling of depression and unaccountable uneasiness in people who drove by with posting-horses, as though sorcerers or robbers were living in it; and the driver always looked back after he passed, and whipped up his horses. Travellers did not care to put up here, as the people of the house were always unfriendly and charged heavily. The yard was muddy even in summer; huge fat pigs used to lie there in the mud, and the horses in which the Terehovs dealt wandered about untethered, and often it happened that they ran out of the yard and dashed along the road like mad creatures, terrifying the pilgrim women. At that time there was a great deal of traffic on the road; long trains of loaded waggons113 trailed by, and all sorts of adventures happened, such as, for instance, that thirty years ago some waggoners got up a quarrel with a passing merchant and killed him, and a slanting114 cross is standing to this day half a mile from the tavern; posting-chaises with bells and the heavy dormeuses of country gentlemen drove by; and herds115 of horned cattle passed bellowing116 and stirring up clouds of dust.
When the railway came there was at first at this place only a platform, which was called simply a halt; ten years afterwards the present station, Progonnaya, was built. The traffic on the old posting-road almost ceased, and only local landowners and peasants drove along it now, but the working people walked there in crowds in spring and autumn. The posting-inn was transformed into a restaurant; the upper storey was destroyed by fire, the roof had grown yellow with rust70, the roof over the yard had fallen by degrees, but huge fat pigs, pink and revolting, still wallowed in the mud in the yard. As before, the horses sometimes ran away and, lashing117 their tails dashed madly along the road. In the tavern they sold tea, hay oats and flour, as well as vodka and beer, to be drunk on the premises118 and also to be taken away; they sold spirituous liquors warily119, for they had never taken out a licence.
The Terehovs had always been distinguished120 by their piety121, so much so that they had even been given the nickname of the “Godlies.” But perhaps because they lived apart like bears, avoided people and thought out all their ideas for themselves, they were given to dreams and to doubts and to changes of faith and almost each generation had a peculiar122 faith of its own. The grandmother Avdotya, who had built the inn, was an Old Believer; her son and both her grandsons (the fathers of Matvey and Yakov) went to the Orthodox church, entertained the clergy, and worshipped before the new ikons as devoutly123 as they had done before the old. The son in old age refused to eat meat and imposed upon himself the rule of silence, considering all conversation as sin; it was the peculiarity124 of the grandsons that they interpreted the Scripture125 not simply, but sought in it a hidden meaning, declaring that every sacred word must contain a mystery.
Avdotya’s great-grandson Matvey had struggled from early childhood with all sorts of dreams and fancies and had been almost ruined by it; the other great-grandson, Yakov Ivanitch, was orthodox, but after his wife’s death he gave up going to church and prayed at home. Following his example, his sister Aglaia had turned, too; she did not go to church herself, and did not let Dashutka go. Of Aglaia it was told that in her youth she used to attend the Flagellant meetings in Vedenyapino, and that she was still a Flagellant in secret, and that was why she wore a white kerchief.
Yakov Ivanitch was ten years older than Matvey—he was a very handsome tall old man with a big grey beard almost to his waist, and bushy eyebrows126 which gave his face a stern, even ill-natured expression. He wore a long jerkin of good cloth or a black sheepskin coat, and altogether tried to be clean and neat in dress; he wore goloshes even in dry weather. He did not go to church, because, to his thinking, the services were not properly celebrated and because the priests drank wine at unlawful times and smoked tobacco. Every day he read and sang the service at home with Aglaia. At Vedenyapino they left out the “Praises” at early matins, and had no evening service even on great holidays, but he used to read through at home everything that was laid down for every day, without hurrying or leaving out a single line, and even in his spare time read aloud the Lives of the Saints. And in everyday life he adhered strictly127 to the rules of the church; thus, if wine were allowed on some day in Lent “for the sake of the vigil,” then he never failed to drink wine, even if he were not inclined.
He read, sang, burned incense and fasted, not for the sake of receiving blessings128 of some sort from God, but for the sake of good order. Man cannot live without religion, and religion ought to be expressed from year to year and from day to day in a certain order, so that every morning and every evening a man might turn to God with exactly those words and thoughts that were befitting that special day and hour. One must live, and, therefore, also pray as is pleasing to God, and so every day one must read and sing what is pleasing to God—that is, what is laid down in the rule of the church. Thus the first chapter of St. John must only be read on Easter Day, and “It is most meet” must not be sung from Easter to Ascension, and so on. The consciousness of this order and its importance afforded Yakov Ivanitch great gratification during his religious exercises. When he was forced to break this order by some necessity—to drive to town or to the bank, for instance his conscience was uneasy and he felt miserable129.
When his cousin Matvey had returned unexpectedly from the factory and settled in the tavern as though it were his home, he had from the very first day disturbed his settled order. He refused to pray with them, had meals and drank tea at wrong times, got up late, drank milk on Wednesdays and Fridays on the pretext130 of weak health; almost every day he went into the prayer-room while they were at prayers and cried: “Think what you are doing, brother! Repent, brother!” These words threw Yakov into a fury, while Aglaia could not refrain from beginning to scold; or at night Matvey would steal into the prayer-room and say softly: “Cousin, your prayer is not pleasing to God. For it is written, First be reconciled with thy brother and then offer thy gift. You lend money at usury131, you deal in vodka—repent!”
In Matvey’s words Yakov saw nothing but the usual evasions132 of empty-headed and careless people who talk of loving your neighbour, of being reconciled with your brother, and so on, simply to avoid praying, fasting and reading holy books, and who talk contemptuously of profit and interest simply because they don’t like working. Of course, to be poor, save nothing, and put by nothing was a great deal easier than being rich.
But yet he was troubled and could not pray as before. As soon as he went into the prayer-room and opened the book he began to be afraid his cousin would come in and hinder him; and, in fact, Matvey did soon appear and cry in a trembling voice: “Think what you are doing, brother! Repent, brother!” Aglaia stormed and Yakov, too, flew into a passion and shouted: “Go out of my house!” while Matvey answered him: “The house belongs to both of us.”
Yakov would begin singing and reading again, but he could not regain133 his calm, and unconsciously fell to dreaming over his book. Though he regarded his cousin’s words as nonsense, yet for some reason it had of late haunted his memory that it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven, that the year before last he had made a very good bargain over buying a stolen horse, that one day when his wife was alive a drunkard had died of vodka in his tavern. . . .
He slept badly at nights now and woke easily, and he could hear that Matvey, too, was awake, and continually sighing and pining for his tile factory. And while Yakov turned over from one side to another at night he thought of the stolen horse and the drunken man, and what was said in the gospels about the camel.
It looked as though his dreaminess were coming over him again. And as ill-luck would have it, although it was the end of March, every day it kept snowing, and the forest roared as though it were winter, and there was no believing that spring would ever come. The weather disposed one to depression, and to quarrelling and to hatred134 and in the night, when the wind droned over the ceiling, it seemed as though someone were living overhead in the empty storey; little by little the broodings settled like a burden on his mind, his head burned and he could not sleep.
IV
On the morning of the Monday before Good Friday, Matvey heard from his room Dashutka say to Aglaia:
“Uncle Matvey said, the other day, that there is no need to fast.”
Matvey remembered the whole conversation he had had the evening before with Dashutka, and he felt hurt all at once.
“Girl, don’t do wrong!” he said in a moaning voice, like a sick man. “You can’t do without fasting; our Lord Himself fasted forty days. I only explained that fasting does a bad man no good.”
“You should just listen to the factory hands; they can teach you goodness,” Aglaia said sarcastically as she washed the floor (she usually washed the floors on working days and was always angry with everyone when she did it). “We know how they keep the fasts in the factory. You had better ask that uncle of yours—ask him about his ‘Darling,’ how he used to guzzle135 milk on fast days with her, the viper136. He teaches others; he forgets about his viper. But ask him who was it he left his money with—who was it?”
Matvey had carefully concealed137 from everyone, as though it were a foul139 sore, that during that period of his life when old women and unmarried girls had danced and run about with him at their prayers he had formed a connection with a working woman and had had a child by her. When he went home he had given this woman all he had saved at the factory, and had borrowed from his landlord for his journey, and now he had only a few roubles which he spent on tea and candles. The “Darling” had informed him later on that the child was dead, and asked him in a letter what she should do with the money. This letter was brought from the station by the labourer. Aglaia intercepted140 it and read it, and had reproached Matvey with his “Darling” every day since.
“Just fancy, nine hundred roubles,” Aglaia went on. “You gave nine hundred roubles to a viper, no relation, a factory jade141, blast you!” She had flown into a passion by now and was shouting shrilly142: “Can’t you speak? I could tear you to pieces, wretched creature! Nine hundred roubles as though it were a farthing. You might have left it to Dashutka—she is a relation, not a stranger—or else have it sent to Byelev for Marya’s poor orphans143. And your viper did not choke, may she be thrice accursed, the she-devil! May she never look upon the light of day!”
Yakov Ivanitch called to her: it was time to begin the “Hours.” She washed, put on a white kerchief, and by now quiet and meek144, went into the prayer-room to the brother she loved. When she spoke to Matvey or served peasants in the tavern with tea she was a gaunt, keen-eyed, ill-humoured old woman; in the prayer-room her face was serene145 and softened146, she looked younger altogether, she curtsied affectedly147, and even pursed up her lips.
Yakov Ivanitch began reading the service softly and dolefully, as he always did in Lent. After he had read a little he stopped to listen to the stillness that reigned148 through the house, and then went on reading again, with a feeling of gratification; he folded his hands in supplication149, rolled his eyes, shook his head, sighed. But all at once there was the sound of voices. The policeman and Sergey Nikanoritch had come to see Matvey. Yakov Ivanitch was embarrassed at reading aloud and singing when there were strangers in the house, and now, hearing voices, he began reading in a whisper and slowly. He could hear in the prayer-room the waiter say:
“The Tatar at Shtchepovo is selling his business for fifteen hundred. He’ll take five hundred down and an I.O.U. for the rest. And so, Matvey Vassilitch, be so kind as to lend me that five hundred roubles. I will pay you two per cent a month.”
“What money have I got?” cried Matvey, amazed. “I have no money!”
“Two per cent a month will be a godsend to you,” the policeman explained. “While lying by, your money is simply eaten by the moth61, and that’s all that you get from it.”
Afterwards the visitors went out and a silence followed. But Yakov Ivanitch had hardly begun reading and singing again when a voice was heard outside the door:
“Brother, let me have a horse to drive to Vedenyapino.”
It was Matvey. And Yakov was troubled again. “Which can you go with?” he asked after a moment’s thought. “The man has gone with the sorrel to take the pig, and I am going with the little stallion to Shuteykino as soon as I have finished.”
“Brother, why is it you can dispose of the horses and not I?” Matvey asked with irritation150.
“Because I am not taking them for pleasure, but for work.”
“Our property is in common, so the horses are in common, too, and you ought to understand that, brother.”
A silence followed. Yakov did not go on praying, but waited for Matvey to go away from the door.
“Brother,” said Matvey, “I am a sick man. I don’t want possession —let them go; you have them, but give me a small share to keep me in my illness. Give it me and I’ll go away.”
Yakov did not speak. He longed to be rid of Matvey, but he could not give him money, since all the money was in the business; besides, there had never been a case of the family dividing in the whole history of the Terehovs. Division means ruin.
Yakov said nothing, but still waited for Matvey to go away, and kept looking at his sister, afraid that she would interfere151, and that there would be a storm of abuse again, as there had been in the morning. When at last Matvey did go Yakov went on reading, but now he had no pleasure in it. There was a heaviness in his head and a darkness before his eyes from continually bowing down to the ground, and he was weary of the sound of his soft dejected voice. When such a depression of spirit came over him at night, he put it down to not being able to sleep; by day it frightened him, and he began to feel as though devils were sitting on his head and shoulders.
Finishing the service after a fashion, dissatisfied and ill-humoured, he set off for Shuteykino. In the previous autumn a gang of navvies had dug a boundary ditch near Progonnaya, and had run up a bill at the tavern for eighteen roubles, and now he had to find their foreman in Shuteykino and get the money from him. The road had been spoilt by the thaw152 and the snowstorm; it was of a dark colour and full of holes, and in parts it had given way altogether. The snow had sunk away at the sides below the road, so that he had to drive, as it were, upon a narrow causeway, and it was very difficult to turn off it when he met anything. The sky had been overcast153 ever since the morning and a damp wind was blowing. . . .
A long train of sledges154 met him; peasant women were carting bricks. Yakov had to turn off the road. His horse sank into the snow up to its belly155; the sledge lurched over to the right, and to avoid falling out he bent156 over to the left, and sat so all the time the sledges moved slowly by him. Through the wind he heard the creaking of the sledge poles and the breathing of the gaunt horses, and the women saying about him, “There’s Godly coming,” while one, gazing with compassion157 at his horse, said quickly:
“It looks as though the snow will be lying till Yegory’s Day! They are worn out with it!”
Yakov sat uncomfortably huddled158 up, screwing up his eyes on account of the wind, while horses and red bricks kept passing before him. And perhaps because he was uncomfortable and his side ached, he felt all at once annoyed, and the business he was going about seemed to him unimportant, and he reflected that he might send the labourer next day to Shuteykino. Again, as in the previous sleepless159 night, he thought of the saying about the camel, and then memories of all sorts crept into his mind; of the peasant who had sold him the stolen horse, of the drunken man, of the peasant women who had brought their samovars to him to pawn160. Of course, every merchant tries to get as much as he can, but Yakov felt depressed161 that he was in trade; he longed to get somewhere far away from this routine, and he felt dreary162 at the thought that he would have to read the evening service that day. The wind blew straight into his face and soughed in his collar; and it seemed as though it were whispering to him all these thoughts, bringing them from the broad white plain . . . . Looking at that plain, familiar to him from childhood, Yakov remembered that he had had just this same trouble and these same thoughts in his young days when dreams and imaginings had come upon him and his faith had wavered.
He felt miserable at being alone in the open country; he turned back and drove slowly after the sledges, and the women laughed and said:
“Godly has turned back.”
At home nothing had been cooked and the samovar was not heated on account of the fast, and this made the day seem very long. Yakov Ivanitch had long ago taken the horse to the stable, dispatched the flour to the station, and twice taken up the Psalms163 to read, and yet the evening was still far off. Aglaia has already washed all the floors, and, having nothing to do, was tidying up her chest, the lid of which was pasted over on the inside with labels off bottles. Matvey, hungry and melancholy164, sat reading, or went up to the Dutch stove and slowly scrutinized165 the tiles which reminded him of the factory. Dashutka was asleep; then, waking up, she went to take water to the cattle. When she was getting water from the well the cord broke and the pail fell in. The labourer began looking for a boathook to get the pail out, and Dashutka, barefooted, with legs as red as a goose’s, followed him about in the muddy snow, repeating: “It’s too far!” She meant to say that the well was too deep for the hook to reach the bottom, but the labourer did not understand her, and evidently she bothered him, so that he suddenly turned around and abused her in unseemly language. Yakov Ivanitch, coming out that moment into the yard, heard Dashutka answer the labourer in a long rapid stream of choice abuse, which she could only have learned from drunken peasants in the tavern.
“What are you saying, shameless girl!” he cried to her, and he was positively166 aghast. “What language!”
And she looked at her father in perplexity, dully, not understanding why she should not use those words. He would have admonished167 her, but she struck him as so savage168 and benighted169; and for the first time he realized that she had no religion. And all this life in the forest, in the snow, with drunken peasants, with coarse oaths, seemed to him as savage and benighted as this girl, and instead of giving her a lecture he only waved his hand and went back into the room.
At that moment the policeman and Sergey Nikanoritch came in again to see Matvey. Yakov Ivanitch thought that these people, too, had no religion, and that that did not trouble them in the least; and human life began to seem to him as strange, senseless and unenlightened as a dog’s. Bareheaded he walked about the yard, then he went out on to the road, clenching170 his fists. Snow was falling in big flakes at the time. His beard was blown about in the wind. He kept shaking his head, as though there were something weighing upon his head and shoulders, as though devils were sitting on them; and it seemed to him that it was not himself walking about, but some wild beast, a huge terrible beast, and that if he were to cry out his voice would be a roar that would sound all over the forest and the plain, and would frighten everyone. . . .
V
When he went back into the house the policeman was no longer there, but the waiter was sitting with Matvey, counting something on the reckoning beads171. He was in the habit of coming often, almost every day, to the tavern; in old days he had come to see Yakov Ivanitch, now he came to see Matvey. He was continually reckoning on the beads, while his face perspired172 and looked strained, or he would ask for money or, stroking his whiskers, would describe how he had once been in a first-class station and used to prepare champagne-punch for officers, and at grand dinners served the sturgeon-soup with his own hands. Nothing in this world interested him but refreshment bars, and he could only talk about things to eat, about wines and the paraphernalia173 of the dinner-table. On one occasion, handing a cup of tea to a young woman who was nursing her baby and wishing to say something agreeable to her, he expressed himself in this way:
“The mother’s breast is the baby’s refreshment bar.”
Reckoning with the beads in Matvey’s room, he asked for money; said he could not go on living at Progonnaya, and several times repeated in a tone of voice that sounded as though he were just going to cry:
“Where am I to go? Where am I to go now? Tell me that, please.”
Then Matvey went into the kitchen and began peeling some boiled potatoes which he had probably put away from the day before. It was quiet, and it seemed to Yakov Ivanitch that the waiter was gone. It was past the time for evening service; he called Aglaia, and, thinking there was no one else in the house sang out aloud without embarrassment174. He sang and read, but was inwardly pronouncing other words, “Lord, forgive me! Lord, save me!” and, one after another, without ceasing, he made low bows to the ground as though he wanted to exhaust himself, and he kept shaking his head, so that Aglaia looked at him with wonder. He was afraid Matvey would come in, and was certain that he would come in, and felt an anger against him which he could overcome neither by prayer nor by continually bowing down to the ground.
Matvey opened the door very softly and went into the prayer-room.
“It’s a sin, such a sin!” he said reproachfully, and heaved a sigh. “Repent! Think what you are doing, brother!”
Yakov Ivanitch, clenching his fists and not looking at him for fear of striking him, went quickly out of the room. Feeling himself a huge terrible wild beast, just as he had done before on the road, he crossed the passage into the grey, dirty room, reeking175 with smoke and fog, in which the peasants usually drank tea, and there he spent a long time walking from one corner to the other, treading heavily, so that the crockery jingled176 on the shelves and the tables shook. It was clear to him now that he was himself dissatisfied with his religion, and could not pray as he used to do. He must repent, he must think things over, reconsider, live and pray in some other way. But how pray? And perhaps all this was a temptation of the devil, and nothing of this was necessary? . . . How was it to be? What was he to do? Who could guide him? What helplessness! He stopped and, clutching at his head, began to think, but Matvey’s being near him prevented him from reflecting calmly. And he went rapidly into the room.
Matvey was sitting in the kitchen before a bowl of potato, eating. Close by, near the stove, Aglaia and Dashutka were sitting facing one another, spinning yarn177. Between the stove and the table at which Matvey was sitting was stretched an ironing-board; on it stood a cold iron.
“Sister,” Matvey asked, “let me have a little oil!”
“Who eats oil on a day like this?” asked Aglaia.
“I am not a monk78, sister, but a layman178. And in my weak health I may take not only oil but milk.”
“Yes, at the factory you may have anything.”
Aglaia took a bottle of Lenten oil from the shelf and banged it angrily down before Matvey, with a malignant179 smile evidently pleased that he was such a sinner.
“But I tell you, you can’t eat oil!” shouted Yakov.
Aglaia and Dashutka started, but Matvey poured the oil into the bowl and went on eating as though he had not heard.
“I tell you, you can’t eat oil!” Yakov shouted still more loudly; he turned red all over, snatched up the bowl, lifted it higher than his head, and dashed it with all his force to the ground, so that it flew into fragments. “Don’t dare to speak!” he cried in a furious voice, though Matvey had not said a word. “Don’t dare!” he repeated, and struck his fist on the table.
Matvey turned pale and got up.
“Brother!” he said, still munching180—“brother, think what you are about!”
“Out of my house this minute!” shouted Yakov; he loathed181 Matvey’s wrinkled face, and his voice, and the crumbs182 on his moustache, and the fact that he was munching. “Out, I tell you!”
“Brother, calm yourself! The pride of hell has confounded you!”
“Hold your tongue!” (Yakov stamped.) “Go away, you devil!”
“If you care to know,” Matvey went on in a loud voice, as he, too, began to get angry, “you are a backslider from God and a heretic. The accursed spirits have hidden the true light from you; your prayer is not acceptable to God. Repent before it is too late! The deathbed of the sinner is terrible! Repent, brother!”
Yakov seized him by the shoulders and dragged him away from the table, while he turned whiter than ever, and frightened and bewildered, began muttering, “What is it? What’s the matter?” and, struggling and making efforts to free himself from Yakov’s hands, he accidentally caught hold of his shirt near the neck and tore the collar; and it seemed to Aglaia that he was trying to beat Yakov. She uttered a shriek91, snatched up the bottle of Lenten oil and with all her force brought it down straight on the skull183 of the cousin she hated. Matvey reeled, and in one instant his face became calm and indifferent. Yakov, breathing heavily, excited, and feeling pleasure at the gurgle the bottle had made, like a living thing, when it had struck the head, kept him from falling and several times (he remembered this very distinctly) motioned Aglaia towards the iron with his finger; and only when the blood began trickling184 through his hands and he heard Dashutka’s loud wail185, and when the ironing-board fell with a crash, and Matvey rolled heavily on it, Yakov left off feeling anger and understood what had happened.
“Let him rot, the factory buck186!” Aglaia brought out with repulsion, still keeping the iron in her hand. The white bloodstained kerchief slipped on to her shoulders and her grey hair fell in disorder187. “He’s got what he deserved!”
Everything was terrible. Dashutka sat on the floor near the stove with the yarn in her hands, sobbing188, and continually bowing down, uttering at each bow a gasping189 sound. But nothing was so terrible to Yakov as the potato in the blood, on which he was afraid of stepping, and there was something else terrible which weighed upon him like a bad dream and seemed the worst danger, though he could not take it in for the first minute. This was the waiter, Sergey Nikanoritch, who was standing in the doorway190 with the reckoning beads in his hands, very pale, looking with horror at what was happening in the kitchen. Only when he turned and went quickly into the passage and from there outside, Yakov grasped who it was and followed him.
Wiping his hands on the snow as he went, he reflected. The idea flashed through his mind that their labourer had gone away long before and had asked leave to stay the night at home in the village; the day before they had killed a pig, and there were huge bloodstains in the snow and on the sledge, and even one side of the top of the well was splattered with blood, so that it could not have seemed suspicious even if the whole of Yakov’s family had been stained with blood. To conceal138 the murder would be agonizing191, but for the policeman, who would whistle and smile ironically, to come from the station, for the peasants to arrive and bind192 Yakov’s and Aglaia’s hands, and take them solemnly to the district courthouse and from there to the town, while everyone on the way would point at them and say mirthfully, “They are taking the Godlies!”—this seemed to Yakov more agonizing than anything, and he longed to lengthen193 out the time somehow, so as to endure this shame not now, but later, in the future.
“I can lend you a thousand roubles, . . .” he said, overtaking Sergey Nikanoritch. “If you tell anyone, it will do no good. . . . There’s no bringing the man back, anyway;” and with difficulty keeping up with the waiter, who did not look round, but tried to walk away faster than ever, he went on: “I can give you fifteen hundred. . . .”
He stopped because he was out of breath, while Sergey Nikanoritch walked on as quickly as ever, probably afraid that he would be killed, too. Only after passing the railway crossing and going half the way from the crossing to the station, he furtively194 looked round and walked more slowly. Lights, red and green, were already gleaming in the station and along the line; the wind had fallen, but flakes of snow were still coming down and the road had turned white again. But just at the station Sergey Nikanoritch stopped, thought a minute, and turned resolutely195 back. It was growing dark.
“Oblige me with the fifteen hundred, Yakov Ivanitch,” he said, trembling all over. “I agree.”
VI
Yakov Ivanitch’s money was in the bank of the town and was invested in second mortgages; he only kept a little at home, Just what was wanted for necessary expenses. Going into the kitchen he felt for the matchbox, and while the sulphur was burning with a blue light he had time to make out the figure of Matvey, which was still lying on the floor near the table, but now it was covered with a white sheet, and nothing could be seen but his boots. A cricket was chirruping. Aglaia and Dashutka were not in the room, they were both sitting behind the counter in the tea-room, spinning yarn in silence. Yakov Ivanitch crossed to his own room with a little lamp in his hand, and pulled from under the bed a little box in which he kept his money. This time there were in it four hundred and twenty one-rouble notes and silver to the amount of thirty-five roubles; the notes had an unpleasant heavy smell. Putting the money together in his cap, Yakov Ivanitch went out into the yard and then out of the gate. He walked, looking from side to side, but there was no sign of the waiter.
“Hi!” cried Yakov.
A dark figure stepped out from the barrier at the railway crossing and came irresolutely196 towards him.
“Why do you keep walking about?” said Yakov with vexation, as he recognized the waiter. “Here you are; there is a little less than five hundred. . . . I’ve no more in the house.”
“Very well; . . . very grateful to you,” muttered Sergey Nikanoritch, taking the money greedily and stuffing it into his pockets. He was trembling all over, and that was perceptible in spite of the darkness. “Don’t worry yourself, Yakov Ivanitch. . . . What should I chatter197 for: I came and went away, that’s all I’ve had to do with it. As the saying is, I know nothing and I can tell nothing . . .” And at once he added with a sigh “Cursed life!”
For a minute they stood in silence, without looking at each other.
“So it all came from a trifle, goodness knows how, . . .” said the waiter, trembling. “I was sitting counting to myself when all at once a noise. . . . I looked through the door, and just on account of Lenten oil you. . . . Where is he now?”
“Lying there in the kitchen.”
“You ought to take him somewhere. . . . Why put it off?”
Yakov accompanied him to the station without a word, then went home again and harnessed the horse to take Matvey to Limarovo. He had decided198 to take him to the forest of Limarovo, and to leave him there on the road, and then he would tell everyone that Matvey had gone off to Vedenyapino and had not come back, and then everyone would think that he had been killed by someone on the road. He knew there was no deceiving anyone by this, but to move, to do something, to be active, was not as agonizing as to sit still and wait. He called Dashutka, and with her carried Matvey out. Aglaia stayed behind to clean up the kitchen.
When Yakov and Dashutka turned back they were detained at the railway crossing by the barrier being let down. A long goods train was passing, dragged by two engines, breathing heavily, and flinging puffs199 of crimson200 fire out of their funnels201.
The foremost engine uttered a piercing whistle at the crossing in sight of the station.
“It’s whistling, . . .” said Dashutka.
The train had passed at last, and the signalman lifted the barrier without haste.
“Is that you, Yakov Ivanitch? I didn’t know you, so you’ll be rich.”
And then when they had reached home they had to go to bed.
Aglaia and Dashutka made themselves a bed in the tea-room and lay down side by side, while Yakov stretched himself on the counter. They neither said their prayers nor lighted the ikon lamp before lying down to sleep. All three lay awake till morning, but did not utter a single word, and it seemed to them that all night someone was walking about in the empty storey overhead.
Two days later a police inspector202 and the examining magistrate203 came from the town and made a search, first in Matvey’s room and then in the whole tavern. They questioned Yakov first of all, and he testified that on the Monday Matvey had gone to Vedenyapino to confess, and that he must have been killed by the sawyers who were working on the line.
And when the examining magistrate had asked him how it had happened that Matvey was found on the road, while his cap had turned up at home—surely he had not gone to Vedenyapino without his cap?— and why they had not found a single drop of blood beside him in the snow on the road, though his head was smashed in and his face and chest were black with blood, Yakov was confused, lost his head and answered:
“I cannot tell.”
And just what Yakov had so feared happened: the policeman came, the district police officer smoked in the prayer-room and Aglaia fell upon him with abuse and was rude to the police inspector; and afterwards when Yakov and Aglaia were led out to the yard, the peasants crowded at the gates and said, “They are taking the Godlies!” and it seemed that they were all glad.
At the inquiry204 the policeman stated positively that Yakov and Aglaia had killed Matvey in order not to share with him, and that Matvey had money of his own, and that if it was not found at the search evidently Yakov and Aglaia had got hold of it. And Dashutka was questioned. She said that Uncle Matvey and Aunt Aglaia quarrelled and almost fought every day over money, and that Uncle Matvey was rich, so much so that he had given someone—“his Darling”—nine hundred roubles.
Dashutka was left alone in the tavern. No one came now to drink tea or vodka, and she divided her time between cleaning up the rooms, drinking mead205 and eating rolls; but a few days later they questioned the signalman at the railway crossing, and he said that late on Monday evening he had seen Yakov and Dashutka driving from Limarovo. Dashutka, too, was arrested, taken to the town and put in prison. It soon became known, from what Aglaia said, that Sergey Nikanoritch had been present at the murder. A search was made in his room, and money was found in an unusual place, in his snowboots under the stove, and the money was all in small change, three hundred one-rouble notes. He swore he had made this money himself, and that he hadn’t been in the tavern for a year, but witnesses testified that he was poor and had been in great want of money of late, and that he used to go every day to the tavern to borrow from Matvey; and the policeman described how on the day of the murder he had himself gone twice to the tavern with the waiter to help him to borrow. It was recalled at this juncture206 that on Monday evening Sergey Nikanoritch had not been there to meet the passenger train, but had gone off somewhere. And he, too, was arrested and taken to the town.
The trial took place eleven months later.
Yakov Ivanitch looked much older and much thinner, and spoke in a low voice like a sick man. He felt weak, pitiful, lower in stature207 that anyone else, and it seemed as though his soul, too, like his body, had grown older and wasted, from the pangs208 of his conscience and from the dreams and imaginings which never left him all the while he was in prison. When it came out that he did not go to church the president of the court asked him:
“Are you a dissenter209?”
“I can’t tell,” he answered.
He had no religion at all now; he knew nothing and understood nothing; and his old belief was hateful to him now, and seemed to him darkness and folly210. Aglaia was not in the least subdued211, and she still went on abusing the dead man, blaming him for all their misfortunes. Sergey Nikanoritch had grown a beard instead of whiskers. At the trial he was red and perspiring212, and was evidently ashamed of his grey prison coat and of sitting on the same bench with humble213 peasants. He defended himself awkwardly, and, trying to prove that he had not been to the tavern for a whole year, got into an altercation214 with every witness, and the spectators laughed at him. Dashutka had grown fat in prison. At the trial she did not understand the questions put to her, and only said that when they killed Uncle Matvey she was dreadfully frightened, but afterwards she did not mind.
All four were found guilty of murder with mercenary motives215. Yakov Ivanitch was sentenced to penal216 servitude for twenty years; Aglaia for thirteen and a half; Sergey Nikanoritch to ten; Dashutka to six.
VII
Late one evening a foreign steamer stopped in the roads of Dué in Sahalin and asked for coal. The captain was asked to wait till morning, but he did not want to wait over an hour, saying that if the weather changed for the worse in the night there would be a risk of his having to go off without coal. In the Gulf217 of Tartary the weather is liable to violent changes in the course of half an hour, and then the shores of Sahalin are dangerous. And already it had turned fresh, and there was a considerable sea running.
A gang of convicts were sent to the mine from the Voevodsky prison, the grimmest and most forbidding of all the prisons in Sahalin. The coal had to be loaded upon barges219, and then they had to be towed by a steam-cutter alongside the steamer which was anchored more than a quarter of a mile from the coast, and then the unloading and reloading had to begin—an exhausting task when the barge218 kept rocking against the steamer and the men could scarcely keep on their legs for sea-sickness. The convicts, only just roused from their sleep, still drowsy220, went along the shore, stumbling in the darkness and clanking their fetters221. On the left, scarcely visible, was a tall, steep, extremely gloomy-looking cliff, while on the right there was a thick impenetrable mist, in which the sea moaned with a prolonged monotonous222 sound, “Ah! . . . ah! . . . ah! . . . ah! . . .” And it was only when the overseer was lighting223 his pipe, casting as he did so a passing ray of light on the escort with a gun and on the coarse faces of two or three of the nearest convicts, or when he went with his lantern close to the water that the white crests224 of the foremost waves could be discerned.
One of this gang was Yakov Ivanitch, nicknamed among the convicts the “Brush,” on account of his long beard. No one had addressed him by his name or his father’s name for a long time now; they called him simply Yashka.
He was here in disgrace, as, three months after coming to Siberia, feeling an intense irresistible225 longing226 for home, he had succumbed227 to temptation and run away; he had soon been caught, had been sentenced to penal servitude for life and given forty lashes228. Then he was punished by flogging twice again for losing his prison clothes, though on each occasion they were stolen from him. The longing for home had begun from the very time he had been brought to Odessa, and the convict train had stopped in the night at Progonnaya; and Yakov, pressing to the window, had tried to see his own home, and could see nothing in the darkness. He had no one with whom to talk of home. His sister Aglaia had been sent right across Siberia, and he did not know where she was now. Dashutka was in Sahalin, but she had been sent to live with some ex-convict in a far away settlement; there was no news of her except that once a settler who had come to the Voevodsky Prison told Yakov that Dashutka had three children. Sergey Nikanoritch was serving as a footman at a government official’s at Dué, but he could not reckon on ever seeing him, as he was ashamed of being acquainted with convicts of the peasant class.
The gang reached the mine, and the men took their places on the quay229. It was said there would not be any loading, as the weather kept getting worse and the steamer was meaning to set off. They could see three lights. One of them was moving: that was the steam-cutter going to the steamer, and it seemed to be coming back to tell them whether the work was to be done or not. Shivering with the autumn cold and the damp sea mist, wrapping himself in his short torn coat, Yakov Ivanitch looked intently without bElinking in the direction in which lay his home. Ever since he had lived in prison together with men banished230 here from all ends of the earth—with Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, Georgians, Chinese, Gypsies, Jews— and ever since he had listened to their talk and watched their sufferings, he had begun to turn again to God, and it seemed to him at last that he had learned the true faith for which all his family, from his grandmother Avdotya down, had so thirsted, which they had sought so long and which they had never found. He knew it all now and understood where God was, and how He was to be served, and the only thing he could not understand was why men’s destinies were so diverse, why this simple faith which other men receive from God for nothing and together with their lives, had cost him such a price that his arms and legs trembled like a drunken man’s from all the horrors and agonies which as far as he could see would go on without a break to the day of his death. He looked with strained eyes into the darkness, and it seemed to him that through the thousand miles of that mist he could see home, could see his native province, his district, Progonnaya, could see the darkness, the savagery231, the heartlessness, and the dull, sullen, animal indifference232 of the men he had left there. His eyes were dimmed with tears; but still he gazed into the distance where the pale lights of the steamer faintly gleamed, and his heart ached with yearning233 for home, and he longed to live, to go back home to tell them there of his new faith and to save from ruin if only one man, and to live without suffering if only for one day.
The cutter arrived, and the overseer announced in a loud voice that there would be no loading.
“Back!” he commanded. “Steady!”
They could hear the hoisting234 of the anchor chain on the steamer. A strong piercing wind was blowing by now; somewhere on the steep cliff overhead the trees were creaking. Most likely a storm was coming.
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1
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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disporting
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的现在分词 ) | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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6
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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12
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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13
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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14
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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15
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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16
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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18
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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19
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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20
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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21
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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22
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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23
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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24
circumspectly
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| adv.慎重地，留心地 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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26
ruptured
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| v.（使）破裂( rupture的过去式和过去分词 )；（使体内组织等）断裂；使（友好关系）破裂；使绝交 | |
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27
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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28
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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29
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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30
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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31
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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32
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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33
crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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34
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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36
squandered
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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38
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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39
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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40
haggle
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| vi.讨价还价，争论不休 | |
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41
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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42
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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43
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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44
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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45
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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46
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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47
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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48
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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49
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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50
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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51
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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52
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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53
shrines
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| 圣地，圣坛，神圣场所( shrine的名词复数 ) | |
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54
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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57
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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58
chirped
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的过去式 ) | |
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59
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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60
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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61
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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62
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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63
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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64
displeasing
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| 不愉快的，令人发火的 | |
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65
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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66
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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67
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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68
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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69
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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70
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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71
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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72
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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73
penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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74
absolve
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| v.赦免，解除（责任等） | |
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75
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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76
rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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78
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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79
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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80
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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82
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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83
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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84
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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85
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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86
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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87
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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89
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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90
prance
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| v.（马）腾跃，(人)神气活现地走 | |
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91
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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92
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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93
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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94
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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95
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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96
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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97
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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98
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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99
touchingly
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| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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100
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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101
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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102
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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103
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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105
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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106
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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107
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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108
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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109
connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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110
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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111
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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113
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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114
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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115
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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116
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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117
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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118
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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119
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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120
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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121
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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122
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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123
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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124
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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125
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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126
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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127
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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128
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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129
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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130
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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131
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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132
evasions
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| 逃避( evasion的名词复数 )； 回避； 遁辞； 借口 | |
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133
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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134
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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135
guzzle
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| v.狂饮，暴食 | |
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136
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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137
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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138
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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139
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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140
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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141
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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142
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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143
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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144
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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145
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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146
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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147
affectedly
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148
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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149
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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150
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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151
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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152
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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153
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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154
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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155
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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156
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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157
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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158
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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159
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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160
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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161
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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162
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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163
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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164
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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165
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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167
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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168
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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169
benighted
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| adj.蒙昧的 | |
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170
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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171
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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172
perspired
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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173
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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174
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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175
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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176
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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177
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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178
layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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179
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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180
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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181
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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182
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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183
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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184
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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185
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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186
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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187
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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188
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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189
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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190
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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191
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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192
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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193
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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194
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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195
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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196
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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197
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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198
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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199
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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200
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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201
funnels
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| 漏斗( funnel的名词复数 )； （轮船，火车等的）烟囱 | |
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202
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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203
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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204
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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205
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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206
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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207
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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208
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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209
dissenter
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| n.反对者 | |
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210
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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211
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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212
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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213
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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214
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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215
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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216
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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217
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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218
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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219
barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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220
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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221
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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222
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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223
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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224
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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225
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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226
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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227
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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228
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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229
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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230
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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231
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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232
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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233
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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234
hoisting
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| 起重，提升 | |
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