“In a field a birch tree stood / in a field it curly stood / oi lyuli-lyuli-lyuli-lyuli.” A round dance of young womenfolk and maidens—they dance. “Let us draw closer,” said I to myself while unfolding the found papers of my acquaintance.—But I read the following. I was unable to walk up to the round dance. My ears were blocked with sadness and the joyous voice of plain cheerfulness failed to penetrate my heart. O my friend! Wherever you are, harken and judge.
Twice weekly the entire Russian Empire gets the news that N.N. or B.B. either cannot or does not want to pay what he borrowed or took, or the sum demanded of him. The borrowed sum is gambled away, spent on travel, used up, eaten up, drunk up, … up or given away, lost in fire or water, or through some other set of circumstances either N.N. or B.B. has gone into debt or repossession. Both reasons are printed by newspapers.—As printed: “On this day … at 10 o’clock in the morning, on the remand of the district court or the city magistrate, at a public auction will be sold the real estate, house, located in … quarter, at number … and with it six souls male and female, of the retired captain G; the sale will be held at the said house. All those interested may view in advance.”
A bargain always has many seekers. The day and hour of the sale arrives. The purchasers are gathering. Those who have been condemned to sale stand motionless in the room where it is being conducted. An old man of about seventy-five, leaning on an elm club, craves to guess which pair of hands fate will give him to, who will close his eyes. He was with his master’s father in the Crimean campaign in the time of Field Marshal Münnich;108 at the battle of Frankfurt, he carried his wounded master on his shoulders from the front line. On return home, he was serf tutor to his young master. He saved him in his childhood from drowning, plunging into the river where the other had fallen during his crossing on a ferry and at danger to his own life saved him. In his youth, he bailed his master from the prison to which he had been sentenced because of debts incurred during his time as a junior officer in the guards.—An old woman of eighty years, his wife, was wet nurse to the young master’s mother, was his nanny, and had oversight of the house until the very hour when she was brought to this auction. For the entire period of her service, she never lost anything of her masters’, never coveted anything, never lied, and if she irritated them in any way then it was only perhaps through her truthfulness.—A woman of forty years, a widow, the wet nurse of her young master. Even now she still feels for him a measure of tenderness. Her blood runs in his veins. She is a second mother to him, and he owes his life to her more than to his natural mother. She who conceived him in pleasure gave no thought to his childhood. His wet nurse and nanny raised him. They part from him like a son.—A young woman of eighteen, her daughter and the granddaughter of the old people. Vicious beast, monster, fiend! Look at her, look at her crimson cheeks, tears flowing from her delightful eyes. Is it not you who, when unable to capture her innocence by means of seduction and promises, nor to intimidate with threats and punishment her constancy, finally used deception by marrying her to a collaborator in your vileness and in this guise take the pleasure that she abhorred to share with you? She discovered your deception. Her husband was never allowed to touch her bed again and you, deprived of your toy, used rape. Four villains, the instruments of your will, hold her hands and legs … but we shall not complete this. On her brow is grief, in her eyes despair. She holds the babe, the dolorous fruit of deceit or rape, but the living copy of his adulterous father. After giving birth to him, she forgot the father’s beastliness and her heart began to feel tenderness toward him. She fears that she might fall into the hands of someone similar to the father.—The infant…. Your son, barbarian, your blood. Or do you think that where a church rite has not taken place there is no obligation then? Or do you think that the blessing given on your order by the hired performer of the divine word confirmed their union? Or do you think that a forced marriage in God’s temple can be called a union? The Almighty reviles compulsion, He revels in heartfelt desires. Only they are pure. Oh, between us how many acts of adultery and defilement are committed in the name of the father of joys and the comforter of ills in the presence of witnesses unworthy of their stature.—A lad of twenty-five, her lawful husband, is the companion and confidant of her master. Brutality and vengeance can be seen in his eyes. He repents of his craven acts for his master. A knife is in his pocket; he grabbed hold of it fiercely, his plan not hard to work out…. Your zeal is fruitless. You will be given over to another owner. The hand of your owner, held constantly over the head of his slave, will bend your neck into compliance. Hunger, cold, heat, punishment, everything will be against you. Your mind is alien to noble thoughts. You do not know how to die. You will submit and will be a slave in spirit as much as in station. And if you were to want to resist you would die a slow death in chains. There is no judge to come between you. Your tormentor would not want to punish you personally. He will be your accuser. He will give you over to the municipal justice system.—The justice system!—where the accused scarcely has the power to defend himself.—Let us walk past the other unfortunate people put up for auction.
Scarcely had the terror-inducing hammer emitted its dull sound and unfortunates learned their fate—then tears, sobbing, groaning penetrated the ears of the entire assembly. Even the most callous were moved. Hardened hearts! What is the point of fruitless empathy? O Quakers! if we had your soul, we would have clubbed together, bought these wretches, gifted them freedom.—After living in harmony for many years, these victims of abusive sale will feel the pain of separation. But if the law—or, to put it better, barbaric custom since this is not written—permits such a mockery of humanity, what right do you have to sell this infant? He is illegitimate. The law frees him. Stop, I shall be the denouncer, I shall redeem him. If only I were able to save others with him! O Fortune! why have you stinted so miserably on my portion? I presently yearn to taste your enchanting gaze, for the first time I began to feel a passion for wealth.—My heart was so constrained that I bounded out of the meeting and fled after emptying my purse of my last ten kopecks to the victims. On the staircase I met a foreigner, a friend of mine. “What has happened to you? You are weeping!” “Turn back,” I told him, “do not be a witness to this shameful spectacle. You once cursed the barbaric custom of selling black slaves in the distant settlements of your country; turn back,” I repeated, “do not be a witness to our decline and may you not carry back our shame to your fellow citizens by conversing with them about our mores.” “I cannot believe this,” my friend said to me, “it is impossible that in a place where everyone is permitted to think and worship as they wish such a shameful custom exists.” “Do not be surprised,” I said to him, “the establishment of freedom of religion offends only priests and monks, and even they would sooner wish to acquire for themselves a sheep than a sheep for their Christian flock. But the freedom of rural dwellers will damage what they call the right of ownership. And all those who could champion freedom, all are the great landowners, and it is not from their councils that one should expect freedom, but from the burden of enslavement itself.”
