Someone began bustling about noisily in the lobby. They both gave a start and exchanged glances.
The door opened slowly, and through it with a heavy tread came Rybin.
“There!” he said, raising his head and smiling. “Our Foma comes drawn from afar to wine and to bread, so let grace be said!…”
He was wearing a sheepskin coat covered in tar and bast shoes, there were black mittens sticking out from under his belt, and on his head was a shaggy hat.
“Are you well? They let you out, Pavel? Right. How’re you getting on, Nilovna?” He was smiling broadly, showing his white teeth, his voice sounded softer than before and his face was even more densely overgrown with beard.
The mother was delighted, went up to him and squeezed his big black hand and, inhaling the healthy, strong smell of tar, said:
“Oh my… well, I am glad!…”
Pavel smiled as he scrutinized Rybin.
“What a fine-looking peasant!”
Taking his things off slowly, Rybin said:
“Yes, I’ve turned into a peasant again; you’re gradually becoming a gentleman, while I’m reverting… there!”
Straightening his rough cotton shirt, he went through into the other room, cast an attentive gaze over it and announced:
“You’ve got no extra belongings, that’s clear, but there are more books – right! Well, tell me, how are things?”
He sat down with his feet set wide apart, rested the palms of his hands on his knees and, running his dark eyes over Pavel enquiringly, waited with a genial smile for a reply.
“Things are going briskly!” said Pavel.
“We plough and we scatter, boasting’s not our matter, but when we get the harvest in, we’ll brew us some ale and sleep without fail – right?” Rybin jested.
“How are you getting on, Mikhailo Ivanych?” asked Pavel, sitting down opposite him.
“All right. I’m getting on fine. I’m staying in Yegildeyevo for a bit, have you heard of it, Yegildeyevo? It’s a good village. Two fairs a year, over two thousand inhabitants – an angry lot! They’ve no land of their own, they rent it from the crown, and it’s really poor. I’ve hired myself out as a labourer to a bloodsucker – they’re like flies on a dead body there. We make tar, burn charcoal. I get a quarter of what I did for my work here, but break my back twice as much – there! There are seven of us with him, the bloodsucker. They’re all right – all youngsters, all from round there except for me, and all literate. One lad, Yefim, he’s so enthusiastic it’s awful!”
“And what, do you talk with them?” asked an animated Pavel.
“I’m not silent. I’ve got all the leaflets from here with me – thirty-four of them. But I work with the Bible more, there’s things to be had there, and it’s a solid book, official, printed by the Synod, so you can believe it!”
He winked at Pavel and continued with a grin:
“Only it’s not enough. I’ve come to you for books. There are two of us here – I’ve got this Yefim with me. We’ve been delivering tar, and so, well, we’ve made a detour and dropped in on you! Let me have some books before Yefim arrives – he doesn’t need to know too much…”
The mother looked at Rybin, and it seemed to her that something else had gone from him along with his worker’s jacket. He looked less reliable, and his eyes had a slyer look, not as open as before.
“Mama,” said Pavel, “go and bring some books. The people there know the ones to give you. Tell them it’s for the countryside.”
“Very well!” said the mother. “When the samovar’s ready, I’ll go.”
“And have you got mixed up in this business too, Nilovna?” asked Rybin with a grin. “Right. We’ve got lots of book lovers there. The teacher gives them the taste – they say he’s a good lad, even if he does come from the clergy. There’s a woman who teaches too, about seven versts away. Well, they won’t work with a forbidden book, they’re official folk, they’re afraid. But I’ve a need for a forbidden book, a provocative one, and it’ll be as if it’s theirs… If the district superintendent or the priest sees the book’s a forbidden one, they’ll think it’s the teachers that are sowing it! And I’ll keep my distance till the time’s right.”
And pleased with his wisdom, he bared his teeth cheerfully.
“How about you, then!” the mother thought. “You look like a bear, but act like a fox…”
“What do you think,” asked Pavel, “if the teachers are suspected of distributing forbidden books, will they be put in jail for it?”
“They will – what of it?” asked Rybin.
“It was you giving out the books, not them! It’s you that ought to go to jail…”
“You’re crazy!” laughed Rybin, slapping a hand on his knee. “Who’ll think of me? A simple peasant doing such a thing, since when does that happen? A book’s a gentleman’s business, it’s for them to answer for it…”
The mother sensed that Pavel did not understand Rybin and saw he had narrowed his eyes, which meant he was getting angry. Gently and cautiously she said:
“Mikhail Ivanovich wants to be doing something, but others to take the punishment for him…”
“That’s it!” said Rybin, stroking his beard. “Till the time’s right.”
“Mama!” cried Pavel drily. “If one of us, Andrei, for example, does something pretending it was me, and I’m put in prison, what will you say to that?”
The mother winced, glanced at her son in bewilderment and said with a negative shake of the head:
“How could you act against a comrade like that?”
“Aha-a!” drawled Rybin. “I’ve got you, Pavel!”
With a mocking wink he turned to the mother:
“This here’s a subtle matter, Mother.”
And once again, edifyingly, to Pavel:
“Your thinking’s green, Brother! In secret work there’s no honour. Consider this: the first thing is, to begin with they’ll imprison the lad in whose home they find the book, not the teachers – that’s one. The second thing is, although the teachers give out a permitted book, the gist of it is the same as in the forbidden one: it’s just the words that are different, and there’s less truth – that’s two. So they want the same as I do, only they’re going along a country road, while I’m on the highway; but before the authorities we’re equally guilty, true? And the third thing, Brother, is that I don’t care about them – a sow’s no match for a goose. Maybe I wouldn’t want to do the same thing to a peasant. But them – one’s a priest’s son, the other’s a landowner’s daughter, and what they need to rouse the people for I don’t know. Their gentlefolk’s ideas are a mystery to me, a peasant. What I do myself, I know, but what they want, that’s unknown to me. For a thousand years people were tidy about being gentlefolk – they fleeced the peasant – then suddenly they’ve woken up and start rubbing the peasant’s eyes. I’m no lover of fairy tales, Brother, and to me that seems like a fairy tale. All gentlefolk are a long way away from me. You’re riding through the fields in winter, up ahead there’s some creature scurrying around, but what is it? A wolf, a fox or simply a dog – I can’t see! It’s a long way away.”
The mother glanced at her son. His face was sad.
But Rybin’s eyes shone with a dark lustre; he looked at Pavel with self-satisfaction and, combing his beard excitedly with his fingers, said:
“I haven’t the time to stand on ceremony. Life looks on sternly; the kennel isn’t the sheepfold, every pack barks in its own way…”
“There are some gentlefolk,” began the mother, remembering familiar faces, “who sacrifice themselves for the people, suffer all their lives in prison…”
“They’re a special case and get a different sort of respect!” said Rybin. “If a peasant grows rich, he wants to be a master, if a master grows poor, he becomes a peasant. Like it or not, pure is the soul if empty’s the purse. Do you remember, Pavel, you explained to me how the way someone lived was the way he thought, and if a worker said yes, then his boss ought to say no, and if the worker said no, then his boss, by his very nature, would be sure to cry yes! And so it is that a peasant and his master have different natures. If the peasant’s well fed, the master’s wakeful in his bed. Of course, every social rank has its sons of bitches, and I don’t agree with defending all of the peasants…”
He rose to his feet, dark and strong. His face grew dim, his beard twitched as though he had inaudibly snapped his teeth together, and in a lowered voice he continued:
“I spent five years loafing around factories and grew unused to the countryside – there! I went back, had a look, and I can see I can’t live like that! Do you understand? I can’t! You live here and you don’t see injury of the same kind. But there, hunger creeps after a man like a shadow and there’s no hope of bread, none! Hunger has gobbled up souls, wiped out human faces, people don’t live, they rot in inescapable need… And all around, like carrion crows, the authorities are keeping watch to see if you might have one morsel too many. If they see one, they’ll tear it away and give you a smack in the mug…”
Rybin looked around and then leant down towards Pavel, resting an arm on the table.
“I even began to feel sick when I looked at that life once again. I saw I couldn’t take it! I overcame myself, though: ‘No,’ I thought, ‘don’t try it on, soul! I’m going to stay. I won’t be getting you bread, but I’m going to cook up some trouble.’ And I am going to cook it up, Brother! I carry inside me a sense of grievance on behalf of people and against people. It’s stuck, rocking in my heart like a knife.”
His forehead was sweating, and moving slowly towards Pavel, he put his hand on his shoulder. The hand was quivering.
“Give me some help! Give me books, the sort that, when a man’s read them he can find no peace. A hedgehog needs to be put inside people’s skulls, a prickly hedgehog! Tell your townsfolk who write for you they should write for the countryside too! Let them do it for all they’re worth, so the countryside gets a scalding, so the people are prepared to die!”
He raised a hand and, pronouncing each word distinctly, said in a low voice:
“Right death with death – there! That is, die, so that people can be reborn. And let thousands die, so that loads of people all over the earth can be reborn! There. Dying’s easy. If only they’re reborn! If only people rise!”
The mother brought in the samovar, looking askance at Rybin. His words, heavy and powerful, overwhelmed her. And there was something about him that reminded her of her husband: he had bared his teeth and moved his hands in the same way when rolling up his sleeves; in him there had been the same impatient malice, impatient, but mute. This one spoke. And was less frightening.
“It does need to be done!” said Pavel with a toss of his head. “Give us the material and we’ll print a newspaper for you…”
The mother gazed at her son with a smile, shook her head and, putting on her things in silence, left the house.
“Do it! We’ll deliver everything. Write simply, so that the calves could understand!” Rybin was yelling.
The door into the kitchen opened, and somebody came in.
“It’s Yefim!” said Rybin, looking into the kitchen. “Come here, Yefim! This is Yefim, and this man’s name is Pavel, I was telling you about him.”
With his hat in his hands and his grey eyes gazing at him from under his brows, standing before Pavel was a broad-faced lad with light-brown hair, wearing a short sheepskin jacket, well-proportioned and probably strong.
“Good health!” he said in a rather husky voice and, after shaking Pavel’s hand, used both of his own to smooth down his straight hair. He looked around the room, and at once, slowly, as though stealing up on it, he went towards the shelf of books.
“He’s seen!” said Rybin, winking at Pavel. Yefim turned, glanced at him and started examining the books, saying:
“What a lot of reading you’ve got! But probably no time to read. There’s more time for that business in the country…”
“But less desire?” asked Pavel.
“Why? There’s the desire as well!” the lad replied, rubbing his chin. “The people’s brains have started stirring a bit. Geology – what’s that?”
Pavel explained.
“We don’t need that!” the lad replied, putting the book back onto the shelf.
Rybin heaved a noisy sigh and remarked:
“A peasant’s not interested in where the earth came from, but in how it was divided up, how the gentlemen pulled the earth out from under the people’s feet. Whether it’s standing still or spinning, that’s unimportant – hang it up on a string, if you want – as long as it provides food to eat; nail it to the sky, if you want, as long as it feeds people!…”
“The History of Slavery,” Yefim read once more, then asked Pavel: “About us?”
“There’s one about serfdom too!” said Pavel, giving him another book. Yefim took it, turned it in his hands and, setting it aside, said calmly:
“That’s in the past!”
“Do you have a landholding yourself?” Pavel enquired.
“Us? We do! There’s three of us, brothers, and the holding is four desyatins.* Sand – it’s good for cleaning copper, but it’s useless land for corn!…”
After a pause he continued:
“I was liberated from the land – what’s the use of it? It doesn’t feed you, but it ties your hands. I’m in my fourth year as a farm labourer. And in autumn I’ll have to go and be a soldier. Uncle Mikhailo says: ‘Don’t go! Nowadays,’ he says, ‘they send soldiers to beat the people.’ But I think I will go. The troops used to beat the people in Stepan Razin’s time too, and in Pugachov’s.* It’s time it was stopped. What’s your opinion?” he asked, staring at Pavel.
“It is time!” the latter replied with a smile. “Only it’s difficult! You need to know what to say to the soldiers and how to say it…”
“If we learn how, we’ll manage!” said Yefim.
“If the authorities catch you at it, they may have you shot!” Pavel concluded, looking at Yefim with curiosity.
“They won’t forgive it!” the lad agreed calmly, and again began examining the books.
“Drink your tea, Yefim – we’ve got to be going soon!” remarked Rybin.
“In a moment!” the lad responded, then again asked: “Revolution – is that rebellion?”
Andrei arrived, red, in a sweat and morose. He shook Yefim by the hand in silence, sat down next to Rybin and, after looking him over, grinned.
“Why’re you looking so unhappy?” Rybin asked, slapping the palm of his hand on Andrei’s knee.
“Oh, nothing,” the Ukrainian replied.
“A worker too?” asked Yefim with a nod towards Andrei.
“A worker!” Andrei replied. “What of it?”
“It’s the first time he’s seen factory hands!” Rybin explained. “He says they’re a special sort of people…”
“In what way?” asked Pavel.
Yefim examined Andrei carefully and said:
“You’ve got sharp bones. A peasant’s rounder in the bone…”
“A peasant stands easier on his feet!” added Rybin. “He can feel the earth beneath him, even if he doesn’t own any of it, he can still feel it – earth! But a factory hand’s like a bird: no homeland, no home, here today, gone tomorrow! Even a woman can’t tie him down to one place, as soon as anything happens – farewell, my dear, and a fork in your side! And he’s off to look for somewhere better. But a peasant wants to make things around him better, right there on the spot. Here’s the mother come back!”
Yefim went up to Pavel and asked:
“Maybe you’d give me some sort of book?”
“Certainly!” Pavel responded willingly.
The lad’s eyes flashed greedily, and quickly he said:
“I’ll return it! Our lads deliver tar near here, so they can bring it.”
Rybin, already dressed to go, with his belt drawn tight, said to Yefim:
“We’re off – it’s time!”
“There, I’m going to be doing some reading!” exclaimed Yefim, indicating the books and smiling broadly.
When they had gone, Pavel exclaimed animatedly, turning to Andrei:
“Did you see those devils?…”
“Ye-es!” the Ukrainian drawled slowly. “Like storm clouds…”
“Mikhailo?” exclaimed the mother. “It’s as if he’d never been at the factory: he’s become a peasant through and through! And what a terrifying one!”
“It’s a shame you weren’t here!” said Pavel to Andrei, who was sitting by the table looking glumly into his glass of tea. “You could have watched the heart at play – you’re always talking about the heart! Rybin really let me have it just now, knocked me over and crushed me!… I couldn’t even argue with him. He has so much mistrust in people, and he values them so little! What Mother says is true – that man has a terrifying power in him!…”
“That I saw!” said the Ukrainian morosely. “The people have been poisoned! When they rise, they’ll overturn the lot, one thing after another! They need bare earth, and they’ll make it bare, they’ll wreck everything!”
He spoke slowly, and it was clear he was thinking about something else. The mother touched him cautiously.
“You should cheer up, Andryusha!”
“Wait, my dear nenko!” the Ukrainian requested quietly and gently.
And suddenly becoming excited, he banged his hand on the table and began speaking:
“Yes, Pavel, the peasant will lay the earth bare for himself, if he gets to his feet! Like after plague, he’ll burn everything, so as to scatter in ash every trace of the injuries done him…”
“And then he’ll stand in our way!” Pavel remarked quietly.
“It’s our business not to allow it! Our business, Pavel, to restrain him! We’re closer to him than anyone else; he’ll trust us, he’ll follow us!”
“Do you know, Rybin suggests we publish a newspaper for the countryside!”
“And we should!”
Pavel grinned and said:
“I’m upset about not arguing with him!”
Rubbing his head, the Ukrainian remarked calmly:
“You will yet! You play your pipe, and anyone whose feet aren’t rooted in the ground will dance to your music! What Rybin said was true – we don’t feel the earth beneath us, and nor should we, and that’s why it’s been given to us to shake it up. We’ll shake it once, and people will be falling off; we’ll shake it again, and there’ll be more!”
Smiling, the mother said:
“Everything’s so simple for you, Andryusha!”
“Well, yes!” said the Ukrainian. “Simple! Like life!”
A few minutes later, he said:
“I’m going out into the fields to walk for a bit…”
“After the bathhouse? There’s a wind – it’ll blow right through you!” the mother warned.
“That’s just what I need it to do!” he replied.
“Watch out, or you’ll catch a cold!” said Pavel affectionately. “Better if you go to bed.”
“No, I’m going out!”
And after putting his things on, he left in silence…
“He’s having a hard time!” the mother remarked with a sigh.
“You know what?” Pavel said to her. “It’s a good thing you’ve been doing, starting to talk to him like a son after that business!”
Glancing at him in surprise, she replied:
“I didn’t even notice it had happened! He’s become so dear to me, I don’t even know how to put it!”
“You have a good heart, Mother!” said Pavel quietly.
“If I could only help you, help all of you, in some way or other! If only I could manage to do that!…”
“Don’t worry, you will!…”
She laughed quietly, saying:
“But I don’t know how to stop worrying!”
“All right, Mama! We’ll say no more!” said Pavel. “But you should know that I’m deeply, deeply grateful to you.”
She went off into the kitchen so as not to embarrass him with her tears.
The Ukrainian returned late in the evening, tired, and went to bed straight away, saying:
“I think I’ve run about ten versts…”
“Has it helped?” asked Pavel.
“Don’t disturb me – I’m going to sleep!”
And he fell silent, as though dead.
After a certain time, Vesovshchikov arrived, ragged, dirty and discontented as always.
“Have you heard who killed Isaika?” he asked Pavel, pacing clumsily around the room.
“No!” Pavel responded tersely.
“There’s someone about that wasn’t too squeamish! I was forever meaning to crush him myself. That’s the work for me, it’s what suits me best!”
“Stop saying such things, Nikolai!” Pavel said to him amicably.
“What’s this, indeed!” the mother joined in affectionately. “A soft heart, but there he is growling. Why do you do it?”
It was nice for her to see Nikolai at that moment, and even his pockmarked face seemed more attractive.
“I’m not suited to anything but that sort of work!” said Nikolai, shrugging his shoulders. “I think and think about where my place is. There is no place for me! I ought to talk to people, but I don’t know how! I see it all, I feel everyone’s injuries, but I can’t express it! A mute soul!”
He went up to Pavel and, bowing his head and picking at the table with a finger, said in a way somehow childlike, in a way unlike him, plaintively:
“Give me some kind of difficult job, brothers! I can’t live senselessly like this! You’re all at work, and I can see the work’s growing, but I’m standing aside! I deliver logs and planks. How can anyone live to do that? Give me a difficult job!”
Pavel took him by the arm and drew him closer:
“We will!…”
But from behind the bed curtain came the voice of the Ukrainian:
“Nikolai, I’ll teach you to how to set up letters and you can be our typesetter, all right?”
Nikolai went over towards him, saying:
“If you do that, I’ll give you my knife as a present…”
“To hell with your knife!” the Ukrainian cried, and then suddenly burst out laughing.
“It’s a good knife!” Nikolai insisted. Pavel burst out laughing too.
Then Vesovshchikov stopped in the middle of the room and asked:
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Yes, we are!” the Ukrainian replied, jumping out of bed. “How about this – let’s go out into the fields for a walk. It’s a good, moonlit night. Shall we?”
“Very well!” said Pavel.
“I’ll come too!” declared Nikolai. “I like it when you laugh, Ukrainian…”
“And I like it when you offer presents!” the Ukrainian replied with a grin.
As he was putting his things on in the kitchen, the mother said to him querulously:
“Dress up warm…”
And when all three of them had left, after looking at them through the window, she glanced at the icons and quietly said:
“Lord, help them!…”