Sketches from a Hunter's Album (20 page)

Mr Penochkin laughed a great deal at his Bailiff's ruse and remarked to me several times, nodding in the old man's direction. ‘
Quel gaillard, hein?
'

In the meantime it had become quite dark outside. Arkady Pavlych ordered the table cleared and hay brought in. The valet laid out sheets for us and set out pillows; we lay down. Sofron retired to his quarters, having received the orders for the following day. Arkady Pavlych, on the point of going to sleep, persisted in chatting a little about the splendid qualities of the Russian peasant and remarked to me
à propos
of this that since Sofron had taken charge of the Shipilovka peasants there had been not so much as a farthing's-worth of quit-rent arrears… The night-watchman gave a rat-tat on his board; a child, who had evidently not yet succeeded in becoming imbued with the requisite spirit of self-denial, started whimpering somewhere in the hut. We fell asleep.

The next morning we rose fairly early. I had wanted to set off for Ryabovo, but Arkady Pavlych wanted to show me his estate and begged me to stay. For my own part, I was not exactly averse to convincing myself in practice of the splendid qualities of that statesman-like man, Sofron. He appeared. He wore a blue peasant coat tied with a red sash. He was a good deal less talkative than he
had been the previous day, directed keen, steady looks into his master's eyes and gave cogent, business-like answers to questions.

Together with him we set off for the threshing-floor. Sofron's son, the seven-foot-tall elder, to all appearances a man of extreme stupidity, walked along behind us, and we were also joined by the Bailiff's clerk, Fedoseyich, an ex-soldier with enormous whiskers and a most unusual expression on his face which suggested that he had been extraordinarily startled by something a very long time ago and had not yet come to his senses. We looked around the threshing-floor, the barn, the store-houses, the outbuildings, the windmill, the cattle-shed, the vegetable allotments and land planted to hemp: everything was undoubtedly in splendid order and it was only the despondent faces of the peasants that gave me cause to feel slightly puzzled. Apart from practical matters, Sofron also concerned himself with making the place pretty: all the banks of the ditches had been planted with broom, paths had been made between the ricks on the threshing-floor and spread with sand, a weathervane had been fixed to the windmill in the shape of a bear with an open maw and red tongue, a kind of Grecian pediment had been stuck on the brick-built cattle-shed and beneath the pediment was written in white paint: ‘Puilt in Shipilofka vilage in year one thousend aight hunted farty. This Cattle Shet.'

Arkady Pavlych was completely overwhelmed and embarked for my benefit on a dissertation in French about the benefits of the quit-rent system, although he remarked by the way that the system of direct work was more profitable for landowners – but what of it, anyhow! He began giving his Bailiff advice on how to plant potatoes, how to prepare fodder for the cattle and so forth. Sofron listened attentively to his master's words, occasionally making his own comments, but no longer endowing Arkady Pavlych with such grandiose titles as ‘our veritable father' or ‘our benefactor', and insisting all the time that the land, after all, was on the small side and that it would do no harm to buy some more.

‘Buy it, then,' said Arkady Pavlych, ‘in my name, I'm not against that.'

To which Sofron said nothing in return, simply stroked his beard.

‘Now, however, there'd be no harm in riding into the forest,' remarked Mr Penochkin. At once horses were brought for us and we
rode into the forest or ‘reserve', as we are accustomed to call forest areas. In this ‘reserve' we found a terrific abundance of thickets and wild life, for which Arkady Pavlych praised Sofron and patted him on the back. Mr Penochkin upheld Russian notions about forestry and recounted to me on the spot a highly diverting – in his view – instance of how a certain landowner, who was fond of joking, had enlightened his woodsman by pulling out practically half the man's beard as proof of the fact that felling trees does not make a forest grow any thicker… Nevertheless, in other respects, Sofron and Arkady Pavlych did not fight shy of innovations. On returning to the village, the Bailiff took us to see the winnowing machine which he had recently ordered from Moscow. The winnowing machine, it is true, worked well, but if Sofron had known the unpleasantness that awaited both him and his master on this final walk, he would no doubt have stayed at home with us.

This is what happened. As we left the outbuilding, we were confronted with the following spectacle. A few steps from the door, beside a muddy pool of water in which three ducks were carelessly splashing about, two peasants were kneeling: one was an old man of about sixty, the other a young fellow of about twenty, both barefoot, in patched shirts made of coarse hemp with rope belts at the waist. The clerk, Fedoseyich, was zealously fussing round them and would probably have succeeded in persuading them to go away, if we had stayed longer in the outbuilding, but on catching sight of us, he straightened up taut as a violin string and froze on the spot. The elder also stood there with wide-open mouth and fists clenched in bewilderment. Arkady Pavlych frowned, bit his lip and approached the petitioners. Both of them bowed silently at his feet.

‘What's up with you? What are you petitioning about?' he asked in a stern voice and slightly through the nose. (The peasants looked at each other and said not a word, simply screwed up their eyes, just as if the sun were blinding them, and began to breathe faster.)

‘Well, what is it?' continued Arkady Pavlych and at once turned to Sofron. ‘From which family?'

‘From the Toboleyev family,' the Bailiff answered slowly.

‘Well, what's it you're after?' Mr Penochkin started asking again. ‘Haven't you got tongues, eh? Can't you tell me what it is?' he added, giving a nod towards the old man. ‘Don't be afraid, you fool.'

The old man stretched out his dark, coal-brown wrinkled neck, crookedly drew apart lips that had grown blue with age and uttered in a husky voice, ‘Help us, lord and master!' and again struck the earth with his forehead. The young peasant also made an obeisance. Arkady Pavlych looked with dignity at the napes of their necks, threw back his head and placed his feet slightly apart.

‘What is it? Who are you complaining about?'

‘Have mercy on us, lord and master! Give us a chance to catch our breath… Completely done in we are!' (The old man spoke with difficulty.)

‘Who's done you in?'

‘Sofron Yakovlich, it is, good master.'

Arkady Pavlych was silent for a moment.

‘What's your name?'

‘Antip, good master.'

‘And who's this?'

‘My boy, good master.'

Arkady Pavlych was again silent for a moment and twitched his whiskers.

‘Well, and how has he done you in?' he asked, looking at the old man over his moustache.

‘Good master, ruined us he has, utterly. Two sons, good master, he's sent off out of turn to be recruits, and now he's taking away my third son… Yesterday, good master, he led away the last little cow from my yard and gave my wife a beating – that's his worship over there what done it.' (He pointed to the elder.)

‘Hmmm!' pronounced Arkady Pavlych.

‘Don't leave us to be completely ruined, bountiful master.'

Mr Penochkin frowned. ‘What does this all mean?' he asked the Bailiff under his breath with a look of dissatisfaction.

‘A drunkard, sir,' the Bailiff answered, using the formal ‘sir' for the first time. ‘Doesn't do any work. It's already the fifth year, sir, that he's behind with his payments.'

‘Sofron Yakovlich's paid the arrears in for me,' continued the old man. ‘It's the fifth year's gone by and he's paid in, and paid in he has so as I'm in bondage to him, good master, that's how it is…'

‘And why did you get into arrears?' Mr Penochkin asked threateningly. (The old man bowed his head). ‘Suppose it's because you like
getting drunk, like roaming about from tavern to tavern?' (The old man was on the point of opening his mouth.) ‘I know your sort,' Arkady Pavlych continued vehemently, ‘all you do is drink and lie on the stove and let good peasants answer for you.'

‘And insolent as well,' the Bailiff inserted into his master's speech.

‘Well, that goes without saying. That's always the way of it – I've noticed that more than once. He'll spend the whole year lazing about and being insolent and now he flops down on his knees at your feet!'

‘Good master, Arkady Pavlych,' the old man started saying desperately, ‘be merciful, help me – how am I insolent? As I speak now before the Lord God I'm being made helpless by it all, I am. He's taken a dislike to me, Sofron Yakovlich has, and why he's done so only the Lord can judge! He's ruining me utterly, good master… Here's my last son – and now he's to go, too…' (Teardrops glittered in the old man's yellow and wrinkled eyes.) ‘Be merciful, my lord and master, help me…'

‘Aye, and it's not only us…' the young peasant was on the point of beginning.

Arkady Pavlych suddenly flared up:

‘And who's asking you, eh? Nobody's asking you, so you be quiet… What is this? Be quiet, I'm telling you! Be quiet! Oh, my God, this is quite simply rebellion. No, my friend, I don't advise you to try being rebellious on my property… on my property…' (Arkady Pavlych took a step forward and then, no doubt, remembered my presence, turned away and placed his hands in his pockets.) ‘
Je vous demande bien pardon, mon cher
,' he said with a forced smile, lowering his voice meaningfully. ‘
C'est le mauvais côté de la médaille
… Well, all right, all right,' he continued without looking at the peasants, ‘I'll issue an order… all right, be off with you.' (The peasants did not rise.) ‘Well, didn't I say to you… all right. Be off with you, I'll issue an order, I'm telling you that.'

Arkady Pavlych turned his back on them. ‘No end of unpleasantness,' he uttered through his teeth and made for home with big strides. Sofron followed in his wake. The clerk's eyes almost popped out of his head, just as if he was preparing himself for a very high jump. The elder drove the ducks out of the pool. The petitioners remained for a short while where they were, looked at each other and then plodded off without looking back.

Two hours later I was already in Ryabovo, and together with Anpadist, a peasant acquaintance of mine, I was preparing to go hunting. Right up to my very departure Penochkin had been huffy towards Sofron. I struck up a conversation with Anpadist about the Shipilovka peasants and Mr Penochkin, and I asked whether he knew the Bailiff in that village.

‘Sofron Yakovlich, you mean? Sure!'

‘What sort of man is he?'

‘He's a dog, not a man. You won't find another dog like him this side of Kursk.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘It's like this. Shipilovka's no more'n registered in the name of-what's he called? – that Penkin. He doesn't really own it. It's Sofron who owns it.'

‘Do you really mean that?'

‘He owns it like it's his own property. The peasants all around are owing him money. They work for him like they were in bondage to him. One he'll send off with a string of carts, another he'll send off somewhere else… bled them white he has.'

‘It seems they haven't got much land?'

‘Not much? He rents 216 acres just from the Khlynov peasants and 324 from our peasants – that's a good five hundred acres for you. And he isn't only trading in land: he does trade in horses, too, and cattle, and tar, and butter, and hemp, and this and that… Clever, awful clever, he is, and rich, too, the varmint! What's bad about him is – he's always knocking someone about. A wild beast, not a man. I tell you he's a dog, a cur, a real cur if ever there was one.'

‘Then why don't they complain against him?'

‘Phew! The master doesn't need to bother! There aren't any arrears, so what's it got to do with him? And just you try it,' he added after a short pause, ‘try complaining. No, he'll get you… yes, you just try it. No, he'll just get you, just like that he will…'

I remembered about Antip and told him what I had seen.

‘Well,' declared Anpadist, ‘he'll eat him up now, eat him good and proper, he will. The elder'll start beating him up now. What bad luck he's had, the poor wretch, when you think of it! And what's he going through it for?… It was just that at a meeting he got cross with him, with the Bailiff, couldn't stand any more, you know…
Mighty big matter, that! So he began pecking at him, at Antip. Now he'll eat him right up. He's just that kind of a cur, a dog – the Lord forgive me for my sins – that he knows who to get his teeth into. The old men what are richer and with bigger families, them he doesn't touch, the bald-headed devil – but in this case he's lost his control! After all, he sent off Antip's sons out of turn to become recruits, the unpardonable rogue, the cur – the Lord forgive me for my sins!'

We went off hunting.