There is also the smell of vodka, which bottled curse is standing6 in tumblers all down the long table. The news has spread in Osterno that vodka is to be had for the asking at the kabak, where there is a meeting. Needless to say, the meeting is a large one. Foolishness and thirst are often found in the same head—a cranium which, by the way, is exceptionally liable to be turned by knowledge or drink.
If the drink at the kabak of Osterno was dangerous, the knowledge was no less so.
“I tell you, little fathers,” an orator7 was shouting, “that the day of the capitalist has gone. The rich men—the princes, the nobles, the great merchants, the monopolists, the tchinovniks—tremble. They know that the poor man is awakening8 at last from his long lethargy. What have we done in Germany? What have we done in America? What have we done in England and France?”
Whereupon he banged an unwashed fist upon the table with such emphasis that more than one of the audience clutched his glass of vodka in alarm, lest a drop of the precious liquor should be wasted.
No one seemed to know what had been done in Germany, in America, in England, or in France. The people’s orator is a man of many questions and much fist-banging. The moujiks of Osterno gazed at him beneath their shaggy brows. Half of them did not understand him. They were as yet uneducated to a comprehension of the street orator’s periods. A few of the more intelligent waited for him to answer his own questions, which he failed to do. A vague and ominous9 question carries as much weight with some people as a statement, and has the signal advantage of being less incriminating.
The speaker—a neckless, broad-shouldered ruffian of the type known in England as “unemployed”—looked round with triumphant10 head well thrown back. From his attitude it was obvious that he had been the salvation11 of the countries named, and had now come to Russia to do the same for her. He spoke12 with the throaty accent of the Pole. It was quite evident that his speech was a written one—probably a printed harangue13 issued to him and his compeers for circulation throughout the country. He delivered many of the longer words with a certain unctuous14 roll of the tongue, and an emphasis indicating the fact that he did not know their meaning.
“From afar,” he went on, “we have long been watching you. We have noted15 your difficulties and your hardships, your sickness, your starvation. These men of Tver,’ we have said, ‘are brave and true and steadfast16. We will tell them of liberty.’ So I have come to you, and I am glad to see you. Alexander Alexandrovitch, pass the bottle down the table. You see, little fathers, I have not come begging for your money. No; keep your kopecks in your pocket. We do not want your money. We are no tchinovniks. We prove it by giving you vodka to keep your throats wet and your ears open. Fill up your glasses—fill up your glasses!”
The orator scratched his head reflectively. There was a certain business-like mouthing of his periods, showing that he had learnt all this by heart. He did not press all his points home in the manner of one speaking from his own brain.
“I see before me,” he went on, without an overplus of sequence, “men worthy18 to take their place among the rulers of the world—eh—er—rulers of the world, little fathers.”
He paused and drank half a tumbler of vodka. His last statement was so obviously inapplicable—what he actually did see was so very far removed from what he said he saw—that he decided19 to relinquish20 the point.
“I drink,” he cried, “to Liberty and Equality!”
“And now,” continued the orator, “let us get to business. I think we understand each other?”
He looked round with an engaging smile upon faces brutal23 enough to suit his purpose, but quite devoid24 of intelligence. There was not much understanding there.
“The poor man has one only way of making himself felt—force. We have worked for generations, we have toiled25 in silence, and we have gathered strength. The time has now come for us to put forth26 our strength. The time has gone by for merely asking for what we want. We asked, and they heard us not. We will now go and take!”
A few who had heard this speech or something like it before shouted their applause at this moment. Before the noise had subsided28 the door opened, and two or three men pushed their way into the already overcrowded room.
“Come in, come in!” cried the orator; “the more the better. You are all welcome. All we require, then, little fathers, is organization. There are nine hundred souls in Osterno; are you going to bow down before one man? All men are equal—moujik and barin, krestyanin and prince. Why do you not go up to the castle that frowns down upon the village, and tell the man there that you are starving, that he must feed you, that you are not going to work from dawn till eve while he sits on his velvet29 couch and smokes his gold-tipped cigarettes. Why do you not go and tell him that you are not going to starve and die while he eats caviare and peaches from gold plates and dishes?”
A resounding30 bang of the fist finished this fine oration31, and again the questions were unanswered.
“They are all the same, these aristocrats,” the man thundered on. “Your prince is as the others, I make no doubt. Indeed, I know; for I have been told by our good friend Abramitch here. A clever man our friend Abramitch, and when you get your liberty—when you get your Mir—you must keep him in mind. Your prince, then—this Howard Alexis—treats you like the dirt beneath his feet. Is it not so? He will not listen to your cry of hunger. He will not give you a few crumbs32 of food from his gold dishes. He will not give you a few kopecks of the millions of rubles that he possesses. And where did he get those rubles? Ah! where did he get them—eh? Tell me that!”
Again the interrogative unwashed fist. As the orator’s wild and frenzied33 eye travelled round the room it lighted on a form near the door—a man standing a head and shoulders above any one in the room, a man enveloped34 in an old brown coat, with a woollen shawl round his throat, hiding half his face.
“Who is that?” cried the orator, with an unsteady, pointing finger. “He is no moujik. Is that a tchinovnik, little fathers? Has he come here to our meeting to spy upon us?”
“You may ask them who I am,” replied the giant. “They know; they will tell you. It is not the first time that I tell them they are fools. I tell them again now. They are fools and worse to listen to such windbags35 as you.”
His eyes were red with anger and with vodka; his voice was unsteady. His outstretched hand shook.
“It is the Moscow doctor,” said a man beside him—“the Moscow doctor.”
“Then I say he is no doctor!” shouted the orator. “He is a spy—a Government spy, a tchinovnik! He has heard all we have said. He has seen you all. Brothers, that man must not leave this room alive. If he does, you are lost men!”
Some few of the more violent spirits rose and pressed tumultuously toward the door. The agitator shouted and screamed, urging them on, taking good care to remain in the safe background himself. Every man in the room rose to his feet. They were full of vodka and fury and ignorance. Spirit and tall talk, taken on an empty stomach, are dangerous stimulants37.
Paul stood with his back to the door and never moved.
“Sit down, fools!” he cried. “Sit down! Listen to me. You dare not touch me; you know that.”
It seemed that he was right, for they stopped with staring, stupid eyes and idle hands.
“Will you listen to me, whom you have known for years, or to this talker from the town? Choose now. I am tired of you. I have been patient with you for years. You are sheep; are you fools also, to be dazzled by the words of an idle talker who promises all and gives nothing?”
There was a sullen38 silence. Paul had lost his power over them, and he knew it. He was quite cool and watchful39. He knew that he was in danger. These men were wild and ignorant. They were mad with drink and the brave words of the agitator.
“Choose now!” he shouted, feeling for the handle of the door behind his back.
They made no sign, but watched the faces of their leaders.
“If I go now,” said Paul, “I never come again!”
He opened the door. The men whom he had nursed and clothed and fed, whose lives he had saved again and again, stood sullen and silent.
Paul passed slowly out and closed the door behind him. Without it was dark and still. There would be a moon presently, and in the meantime it was preparing to freeze harder than ever.
Paul walked slowly up the village street, while two men emerged separately from the darkness of by-lanes and followed him. He did not heed40 them. He was not aware that the thermometer stood somewhere below zero. He did not even trouble to draw on his fur gloves.
He felt like a man whose own dogs have turned against him. The place that these peasants had occupied in his heart had been precisely41 that vacancy42 which is filled by dogs and horses in the hearts of many men. There was in his feeling for them that knowledge of a complete dependence43 by which young children draw and hold a mother’s love.
Paul Howard Alexis was not a man to analyze44 his thoughts. Your strong man is usually ignorant of the existence of his own feelings. He is never conscious of them. Paul walked slowly through the village of Osterno, and realized, in his uncompromising honesty, that of the nine hundred men who lived therein there were not three upon whom he could rely. He had upheld his peasants for years against the cynic truths of Karl Steinmetz. He had resolutely45 refused to admit even to himself that they were as devoid of gratitude46 as they were of wisdom. And this was the end of all!
One of the men following him hurried on and caught him up.
“Excellency,” he gasped47, breathless with his haste, “you must not come here alone any longer. I am afraid of them—I have no control.”
Paul paused, and suited his pace to the shorter legs of his companion.
“Starosta!” he said. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Excellency. I saw you go into the kabak, so I waited outside and watched. I did not dare to go inside. They will not allow me there. They are afraid that I should give information.”
“How long have these meetings been going on?”
“The last three nights, Excellency, in Osterno; but it is the same all over the estate.”
“Only on the estate?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“I do not understand, Excellency,” said the starosta anxiously. “It is not the Nihilists.”
“No; it is not the Nihilists.”
“And they do not want money, Excellency; that seems strange.”
“Very!” admitted Paul ironically.
“And they give vodka.”
This seemed to be the chief stumbling-block in the starosta’s road to a solution of the mystery.
“Find out for me,” said Paul, after a pause, “who this man is, where he comes from, and how much he is paid to open his mouth. We will pay him more to shut it. Find out as much as you can, and let me know to-morrow.”
“I will try, Excellency; but I have little hope of succeeding. They distrust me. They send the children to my shop for what they want, and the little ones have evidently been told not to chatter49. The moujiks avoid me when they meet me. What can I do?”
“You can show them that you are not afraid of them,” answered Paul. “That goes a long way with the moujik.”
They walked on together through the lane of cottages, where furtive50 forms lurked51 in door-ways and behind curtains. And Paul had only one word of advice to give, upon which he harped52 continually: “Be thou very courageous53—be thou very courageous.” Nothing new, for so it was written in the oldest book of all. The starosta was a timorous54 man, needing such strong support as his master gave him from time to time.
At the great gates of the park they paused, and Paul gave the mayor of Osterno a few last words of advice. While they were standing there the other man who had been following joined them.
“Is that you, Steinmetz?” asked Paul, his hand thrust with suspicious speed into his jacket pocket.
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Watching you,” answered Karl Steinmetz, in his mild way. “It is no longer safe for either of us to go about alone. It was mere27 foolery your going to that kabak.”
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1
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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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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7
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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8
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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12
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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13
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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14
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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15
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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17
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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18
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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25
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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27
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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28
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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29
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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30
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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32
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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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
windbags
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| n.风囊，饶舌之人( windbag的名词复数 ) | |
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36
agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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stimulants
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| n.兴奋剂( stimulant的名词复数 )；含兴奋剂的饮料；刺激物；激励物 | |
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38
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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39
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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40
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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41
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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42
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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43
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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44
analyze
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| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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45
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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46
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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47
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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48
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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49
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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50
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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51
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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52
harped
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| vi.弹竖琴（harp的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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54
timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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