I
HOR
AND KALINITCHAnyone
who has chanced to pass from the Bolhovsky district into the
Zhizdrinsky district, must have been impressed by the striking
difference between the race of people in the province of Orel and
the
population of the province of Kaluga. The peasant of Orel is not
tall, is bent in figure, sullen and suspicious in his looks; he
lives
in wretched little hovels of aspen-wood, labours as a serf in the
fields, and engages in no kind of trading, is miserably fed, and
wears slippers of bast: the rent-paying peasant of Kaluga lives in
roomy cottages of pine-wood; he is tall, bold, and cheerful in his
looks, neat and clean of countenance; he carries on a trade in
butter
and tar, and on holidays he wears boots. The village of the Orel
province (we are speaking now of the eastern part of the province)
is
usually situated in the midst of ploughed fields, near a
water-course
which has been converted into a filthy pool. Except for a few of
the
ever-accommodating willows, and two or three gaunt birch-trees, you
do not see a tree for a mile round; hut is huddled up against hut,
their roofs covered with rotting thatch…. The villages of Kaluga,
on the contrary, are generally surrounded by forest; the huts stand
more freely, are more upright, and have boarded roofs; the gates
fasten closely, the hedge is not broken down nor trailing about;
there are no gaps to invite the visits of the passing pig…. And
things are much better in the Kaluga province for the sportsman. In
the Orel province the last of the woods and copses will have
disappeared five years hence, and there is no trace of moorland
left;
in Kaluga, on the contrary, the moors extend over tens, the forest
over hundreds of miles, and a splendid bird, the grouse, is still
extant there; there are abundance of the friendly larger snipe, and
the loud-clapping partridge cheers and startles the sportsman and
his
dog by its abrupt upward flight.On
a visit to the Zhizdrinsky district in search of sport, I met in
the
fields a petty proprietor of the Kaluga province called Polutikin,
and made his acquaintance. He was an enthusiastic sportsman; it
follows, therefore, that he was an excellent fellow. He was liable,
indeed, to a few weaknesses; he used, for instance, to pay his
addresses to every unmarried heiress in the province, and when he
had
been refused her hand and house, broken-hearted he confided his
sorrows to all his friends and acquaintances, and continued to
shower
offerings of sour peaches and other raw produce from his garden
upon
the young lady's relatives; he was fond of repeating one and the
same
anecdote, which, in spite of Mr. Polutikin's appreciation of its
merits, had certainly never amused anyone; he admired the works of
Akim Nahimov and the novel
Pinna; he
stammered; he called his dog Astronomer; instead of 'however' said
'howsomever'; and had established in his household a French system
of
cookery, the secret of which consisted, according to his cook's
interpretation, in a complete transformation of the natural taste
of
each dish; in this
artiste's hands
meat assumed the flavour of fish, fish of mushrooms, macaroni of
gunpowder; to make up for this, not a single carrot went into the
soup without taking the shape of a rhombus or a trapeze. But, with
the exception of these few and insignificant failings, Mr.
Polutikin
was, as has been said already, an excellent fellow.On
the first day of my acquaintance with Mr. Polutikin, he invited me
to
stay the night at his house.'It
will be five miles farther to my house,' he added; 'it's a long way
to walk; let us first go to Hor's.' (The reader must excuse my
omitting his stammer.)'Who
is Hor?''A
peasant of mine. He is quite close by here.'We
went in that direction. In a well-cultivated clearing in the middle
of the forest rose Hor's solitary homestead. It consisted of
several
pine-wood buildings, enclosed by plank fences; a porch ran along
the
front of the principal building, supported on slender posts. We
went
in. We were met by a young lad of twenty, tall and
good-looking.'Ah,
Fedya! is Hor at home?' Mr. Polutikin asked him.'No.
Hor has gone into town,' answered the lad, smiling and showing a
row
of snow-white teeth. 'You would like the little cart brought
out?''Yes,
my boy, the little cart. And bring us some kvas.'We
went into the cottage. Not a single cheap glaring print was pasted
up
on the clean boards of the walls; in the corner, before the heavy,
holy picture in its silver setting, a lamp was burning; the table
of
linden-wood had been lately planed and scrubbed; between the joists
and in the cracks of the window-frames there were no lively
Prussian
beetles running about, nor gloomy cockroaches in hiding. The young
lad soon reappeared with a great white pitcher filled with
excellent
kvas, a huge hunch of wheaten bread, and a dozen salted cucumbers
in
a wooden bowl. He put all these provisions on the table, and then,
leaning with his back against the door, began to gaze with a
smiling
face at us. We had not had time to finish eating our lunch when the
cart was already rattling before the doorstep. We went out. A
curly-headed, rosy-cheeked boy of fifteen was sitting in the cart
as
driver, and with difficulty holding in the well-fed piebald horse.
Round the cart stood six young giants, very like one another, and
Fedya.'All
of these Hor's sons!' said Polutikin.'These
are all Horkies' (i.e.
wild cats), put in Fedya, who had come after us on to the step;
'but
that's not all of them: Potap is in the wood, and Sidor has gone
with
old Hor to the town. Look out, Vasya,' he went on, turning to the
coachman; 'drive like the wind; you are driving the master. Only
mind
what you're about over the ruts, and easy a little; don't tip the
cart over, and upset the master's stomach!'The
other Horkies smiled at Fedya's sally. 'Lift Astronomer in!' Mr.
Polutikin called majestically. Fedya, not without amusement, lifted
the dog, who wore a forced smile, into the air, and laid her at the
bottom of the cart. Vasya let the horse go. We rolled away. 'And
here
is my counting-house,' said Mr. Polutikin suddenly to me, pointing
to
a little low-pitched house. 'Shall we go in?' 'By all means.' 'It
is
no longer used,' he observed, going in; 'still, it is worth looking
at.' The counting-house consisted of two empty rooms. The
caretaker,
a one-eyed old man, ran out of the yard. 'Good day, Minyaitch,'
said
Mr. Polutikin; 'bring us some water.' The one-eyed old man
disappeared, and at once returned with a bottle of water and two
glasses. 'Taste it,' Polutikin said to me; 'it is splendid spring
water.' We drank off a glass each, while the old man bowed low.
'Come, now, I think we can go on,' said my new Friend. 'In that
counting-house I sold the merchant Alliluev four acres of
forest-land
for a good price.' We took our seats in the cart, and in
half-an-hour
we had reached the court of the manor-house.'Tell
me, please,' I asked Polutikin at supper; 'why does Hor live apart
from your other peasants?''Well,
this is why; he is a clever peasant. Twenty-five years ago his
cottage was burnt down; so he came up to my late father and said:
"Allow me, Nikolai Kouzmitch," says he, "to settle in
your forest, on the bog. I will pay you a good rent." "But
what do you want to settle on the bog for?" "Oh, I want to;
only, your honour, Nikolai Kouzmitch, be so good as not to claim
any
labour from me, but fix a rent as you think best." "Fifty
roubles a year!" "Very well." "But I'll have no
arrears, mind!" "Of course, no arrears"; and so he
settled on the bog. Since then they have called him Hor' (i.e.
wild cat).'Well,
and has he grown rich?' I inquired.'Yes,
he has grown rich. Now he pays me a round hundred for rent, and I
shall raise it again, I dare say. I have said to him more than
once,
"Buy your freedom, Hor; come, buy your freedom." … But he
declares, the rogue, that he can't; has no money, he says…. As
though that were likely….'The
next day, directly after our morning tea, we started out hunting
again. As we were driving through the village, Mr. Polutikin
ordered
the coachman to stop at a low-pitched cottage and called loudly,
'Kalinitch!' 'Coming, your honour, coming' sounded a voice from the
yard; 'I am tying on my shoes.' We went on at a walk; outside the
village a man of about forty over-took us. He was tall and thin,
with
a small and erect head. It was Kalinitch. His good-humoured;
swarthy
face, somewhat pitted with small-pox, pleased me from the first
glance. Kalinitch (as I learnt afterwards) went hunting every day
with his master, carried his bag, and sometimes also his gun, noted
where game was to be found, fetched water, built shanties, and
gathered strawberries, and ran behind the droshky; Mr. Polutikin
could not stir a step without him. Kalinitch was a man of the
merriest and gentlest disposition; he was constantly singing to
himself in a low voice, and looking carelessly about him. He spoke
a
little through his nose, with a laughing twinkle in his light blue
eyes, and he had a habit of plucking at his scanty, wedge-shaped
beard with his hand. He walked not rapidly, but with long strides,
leaning lightly on a long thin staff. He addressed me more than
once
during the day, and he waited on me without, obsequiousness, but he
looked after his master as if he were a child. When the unbearable
heat drove us at mid-day to seek shelter, he took us to his
beehouse
in the very heart of the forest. There Kalinitch opened the little
hut for us, which was hung round with bunches of dry scented herbs.
He made us comfortable on some dry hay, and then put a kind of bag
of
network over his head, took a knife, a little pot, and a
smouldering
stick, and went to the hive to cut us out some honey-comb. We had a
draught of spring water after the warm transparent honey, and then
dropped asleep to the sound of the monotonous humming of the bees
and
the rustling chatter of the leaves. A slight gust of wind awakened
me…. I opened my eyes and saw Kalinitch: he was sitting on the
threshold of the half-opened door, carving a spoon with his knife.
I
gazed a long time admiring his face, as sweet and clear as an
evening
sky. Mr. Polutikin too woke up. We did not get up at once. After
our
long walk and our deep sleep it was pleasant to lie without moving
in
the hay; we felt weary and languid in body, our faces were in a
slight glow of warmth, our eyes were closed in delicious laziness.
At
last we got up, and set off on our wanderings again till evening.
At
supper I began again to talk of Hor and Kalinitch. 'Kalinitch is a
good peasant,' Mr. Polutikin told me; 'he is a willing and useful
peasant; he can't farm his land properly; I am always taking him
away
from it. He goes out hunting every day with me…. You can judge for
yourself how his farming must fare.'I
agreed with him, and we went to bed.The
next day Mr. Polutikin was obliged to go to town about some
business
with his neighbour Pitchukoff. This neighbour Pitchukoff had
ploughed
over some land of Polutikin's, and had flogged a peasant woman of
his
on this same piece of land. I went out hunting alone, and before
evening I turned into Hor's house. On the threshold of the cottage
I
was met by an old man—bald, short, broad-shouldered, and stout—Hor
himself. I looked with curiosity at the man. The cut of his face
recalled Socrates; there was the same high, knobby forehead, the
same
little eyes, the same snub nose. We went into the cottage together.
The same Fedya brought me some milk and black bread. Hor sat down
on
a bench, and, quietly stroking his curly beard, entered into
conversation with me. He seemed to know his own value; he spoke and
moved slowly; from time to time a chuckle came from between his
long
moustaches.We
discussed the sowing, the crops, the peasant's life…. He always
seemed to agree with me; only afterwards I had a sense of
awkwardness
and felt I was talking foolishly…. In this way our conversation was
rather curious. Hor, doubtless through caution, expressed himself
very obscurely at times…. Here is a specimen of our talk."Tell
me, Hor," I said to him, "why don't you buy your freedom
from your master?""And
what would I buy my freedom for? Now I know my master, and I know
my
rent…. We have a good master."'It's
always better to be free,' I remarked. Hor gave me a dubious
look.'Surely,'
he said.'Well,
then, why don't you buy your freedom?' Hor shook his head.'What
would you have me buy it with, your honour?''Oh,
come, now, old man!''If
Hor were thrown among free men,' he continued in an undertone, as
though to himself, 'everyone without a beard would be a better man
than Hor.''Then
shave your beard.''What
is a beard? a beard is grass: one can cut it.''Well,
then?''But
Hor will be a merchant straight away; and merchants have a fine
life,
and they have beards.''Why,
do you do a little trading too?' I asked him.'We
trade a little in a little butter and a little tar…. Would your
honour like the cart put to?''You're
a close man and keep a tight rein on your tongue,' I thought to
myself. 'No,' I said aloud, 'I don't want the cart; I shall want to
be near your homestead to-morrow, and if you will let me, I will
stay
the night in your hay-barn.''You
are very welcome. But will you be comfortable in the barn? I will
tell the women to lay a sheet and put you a pillow…. Hey, girls!'
he cried, getting up from his place; 'here, girls!… And you, Fedya,
go with them. Women, you know, are foolish folk.'A
quarter of an hour later Fedya conducted me with a lantern to the
barn. I threw myself down on the fragrant hay; my dog curled
himself
up at my feet; Fedya wished me good-night; the door creaked and
slammed to. For rather a long time I could not get to sleep. A cow
came up to the door, and breathed heavily twice; the dog growled at
her with dignity; a pig passed by, grunting pensively; a horse
somewhere near began to munch the hay and snort…. At last I fell
asleep.At
sunrise Fedya awakened me. This brisk, lively young man pleased me;
and, from what I could see, he was old Hor's favourite too. They
used
to banter one another in a very friendly way. The old man came to
meet me. Whether because I had spent the night under his roof, or
for
some other reason, Hor certainly treated me far more cordially than
the day before.'The
samovar is ready,' he told me with a smile; 'let us come and have
tea.'We
took our seats at the table. A robust-looking peasant woman, one of
his daughters-in-law, brought in a jug of milk. All his sons came
one
after another into the cottage.'What
a fine set of fellows you have!' I remarked to the old man.'Yes,'
he said, breaking off a tiny piece of sugar with his teeth; 'me and
my old woman have nothing to complain of, seemingly.''And
do they all live with you?''Yes;
they choose to, themselves, and so they live here.''And
are they all married?''Here's
one not married, the scamp!' he answered, pointing to Fedya, who
was
leaning as before against the door. 'Vaska, he's still too young;
he
can wait.''And
why should I get married?' retorted Fedya; 'I'm very well off as I
am. What do I want a wife for? To squabble with, eh?''Now
then, you … ah, I know you! you wear a silver ring…. You'd always
be after the girls up at the manor house…. "Have done, do, for
shame!"' the old man went on, mimicking the servant girls. 'Ah,
I know you, you white-handed rascal!''But
what's the good of a peasant woman?''A
peasant woman—is a labourer,' said Hor seriously; 'she is the
peasant's servant.''And
what do I want with a labourer?''I
dare say; you'd like to play with the fire and let others burn
their
fingers: we know the sort of chap you are.''Well,
marry me, then. Well, why don't you answer?''There,
that's enough, that's enough, giddy pate! You see we're disturbing
the gentleman. I'll marry you, depend on it…. And you, your honour,
don't be vexed with him; you see, he's only a baby; he's not had
time
to get much sense.'Fedya
shook his head.'Is
Hor at home?' sounded a well-known voice; and Kalinitch came into
the
cottage with a bunch of wild strawberries in his hands, which he
had
gathered for his friend Hor. The old man gave him a warm welcome. I
looked with surprise at Kalinitch. I confess I had not expected
such
a delicate attention on the part of a peasant.That
day I started out to hunt four hours later than usual, and the
following three days I spent at Hor's. My new friends interested
me.
I don't know how I had gained their confidence, but they began to
talk to me without constraint. The two friends were not at all
alike.
Hor was a positive, practical man, with a head for management, a
rationalist; Kalinitch, on the other hand, belonged to the order of
idealists and dreamers, of romantic and enthusiastic spirits. Hor
had
a grasp of actuality—that is to say, he looked ahead, was saving a
little money, kept on good terms with his master and the other
authorities; Kalinitch wore shoes of bast, and lived from hand to
mouth. Hor had reared a large family, who were obedient and united;
Kalinitch had once had a wife, whom he had been afraid of, and he
had
had no children. Hor took a very critical view of Mr. Polutikin;
Kalinitch revered his master. Hor loved Kalinitch, and took
protecting care of him; Kalinitch loved and respected Hor. Hor
spoke
little, chuckled, and thought for himself; Kalinitch expressed
himself with warmth, though he had not the flow of fine language of
a
smart factory hand. But Kalinitch was endowed with powers which
even
Hor recognised; he could charm away haemorrhages, fits, madness,
and
worms; his bees always did well; he had a light hand. Hor asked him
before me to introduce a newly bought horse to his stable, and with
scrupulous gravity Kalinitch carried out the old sceptic's request.
Kalinitch was in closer contact with nature; Hor with men and
society. Kalinitch had no liking for argument, and believed in
everything blindly; Hor had reached even an ironical point of view
of
life. He had seen and experienced much, and I learnt a good deal
from
him. For instance, from his account I learnt that every year before
mowing-time a small, peculiar-looking cart makes its appearance in
the villages. In this cart sits a man in a long coat, who sells
scythes. He charges one rouble twenty-five copecks—a rouble and a
half in notes—for ready money; four roubles if he gives credit. All
the peasants, of course, take the scythes from him on credit. In
two
or three weeks he reappears and asks for the money. As the peasant
has only just cut his oats, he is able to pay him; he goes with the
merchant to the tavern, and there the debt is settled. Some
landowners conceived the idea of buying the scythes themselves for
ready money and letting the peasants have them on credit for the
same
price; but the peasants seemed dissatisfied, even dejected; they
had
deprived them of the pleasure of tapping the scythe and listening
to
the ring of the metal, turning it over and over in their hands, and
telling the scoundrelly city-trader twenty times over, 'Eh, my
friend, you won't take me in with your scythe!' The same tricks are
played over the sale of sickles, only with this difference, that
the
women have a hand in the business then, and they sometimes drive
the
trader himself to the necessity—for their good, of course—of
beating them. But the women suffer most ill-treatment through the
following circumstances. Contractors for the supply of stuff for
paper factories employ for the purchase of rags a special class of
men, who in some districts are called eagles. Such an 'eagle'
receives two hundred roubles in bank-notes from the merchant, and
starts off in search of his prey. But, unlike the noble bird from
whom he has derived his name, he does not swoop down openly and
boldly upon it; quite the contrary; the 'eagle' has recourse to
deceit and cunning. He leaves his cart somewhere in a thicket near
the village, and goes himself to the back-yards and back-doors,
like
someone casually passing, or simply a tramp. The women scent out
his
proximity and steal out to meet him. The bargain is hurriedly
concluded. For a few copper half-pence a woman gives the 'eagle'
not
only every useless rag she has, but often even her husband's shirt
and her own petticoat. Of late the women have thought it profitable
to steal even from themselves, and to sell hemp in the same way—a
great extension and improvement of the business for the 'eagles'!
To
meet this, however, the peasants have grown more cunning in their
turn, and on the slightest suspicion, on the most distant rumors of
the approach of an 'eagle,' they have prompt and sharp recourse to
corrective and preventive measures. And, after all, wasn't it
disgraceful? To sell the hemp was the men's business—and they
certainly do sell it—not in the town (they would have to drag it
there themselves), but to traders who come for it, who, for want of
scales, reckon forty handfuls to the pood—and you know what a
Russian's hand is and what it can hold, especially when he 'tries
his
best'! As I had had no experience and was not 'country-bred' (as
they
say in Orel) I heard plenty of such descriptions. But Hor was not
always the narrator; he questioned me too about many things. He
learned that I had been in foreign parts, and his curiosity was
aroused…. Kalinitch was not behind him in curiosity; but he was
more attracted by descriptions of nature, of mountains and
waterfalls, extraordinary buildings and great towns; Hor was
interested in questions of government and administration. He went
through everything in order. 'Well, is that with them as it is with
us, or different?… Come, tell us, your honour, how is it?' 'Ah,
Lord, thy will be done!' Kalinitch would exclaim while I told my
story; Hor did not speak, but frowned with his bushy eyebrows, only
observing at times, 'That wouldn't do for us; still, it's a good
thing—it's right.' All his inquiries, I cannot recount, and it is
unnecessary; but from our conversations I carried away one
conviction, which my readers will certainly not anticipate … the
conviction that Peter the Great was pre-eminently a
Russian—Russian,
above all, in his reforms. The Russian is so convinced of his own
strength and powers that he is not afraid of putting himself to
severe strain; he takes little interest in his past, and looks
boldly
forward. What is good he likes, what is sensible he will have, and
where it comes from he does not care. His vigorous sense is fond of
ridiculing the thin theorising of the German; but, in Hor's words,
'The Germans are curious folk,' and he was ready to learn from them
a
little. Thanks to his exceptional position, his practical
independence, Hor told me a great deal which you could not screw
or—as the peasants say—grind with a grindstone, out of any other
man. He did, in fact, understand his position. Talking with Hor, I
for the first time listened to the simple, wise discourse of the
Russian peasant. His acquirements were, in his own opinion, wide
enough; but he could not read, though Kalinitch could. 'That
ne'er-do-weel has school-learning,' observed Hor, 'and his bees
never
die in the winter.' 'But haven't you had your children taught to
read?' Hor was silent a minute. 'Fedya can read.' 'And the others?'
'The others can't.' 'And why?' The old man made no answer, and
changed the subject. However, sensible as he was, he had many
prejudices and crotchets. He despised women, for instance, from the
depths of his soul, and in his merry moments he amused himself by
jesting at their expense. His wife was a cross old woman who lay
all
day long on the stove, incessantly grumbling and scolding; her sons
paid no attention to her, but she kept her daughters-in-law in the
fear of God. Very significantly the mother-in-law sings in the
Russian ballad: 'What a son art thou to me! What a head of a
household! Thou dost not beat thy wife; thou dost not beat thy
young
wife….' I once attempted to intercede for the daughters-in-law, and
tried to rouse Hor's sympathy; but he met me with the tranquil
rejoinder, 'Why did I want to trouble about such … trifles; let the
women fight it out. … If anything separates them, it only makes it
worse … and it's not worth dirtying one's hands over.' Sometimes
the spiteful old woman got down from the stove and called the yard
dog out of the hay, crying, 'Here, here, doggie'; and then beat it
on
its thin back with the poker, or she would stand in the porch and
'snarl,' as Hor expressed it, at everyone that passed. She stood in
awe of her husband though, and would return, at his command, to her
place on the stove. It was specially curious to hear Hor and
Kalinitch dispute whenever Mr. Polutikin was touched upon.'There,
Hor, do let him alone,' Kalinitch would say. 'But why doesn't he
order some boots for you?' Hor retorted. 'Eh? boots!… what do I
want with boots? I am a peasant.' 'Well, so am I a peasant, but
look!' And Hor lifted up his leg and showed Kalinitch a boot which
looked as if it had been cut out of a mammoth's hide. 'As if you
were
like one of us!' replied Kalinitch. 'Well, at least he might pay
for
your bast shoes; you go out hunting with him; you must use a pair a
day.' 'He does give me something for bast shoes.' 'Yes, he gave you
two coppers last year.'Kalinitch
turned away in vexation, but Hor went off into a chuckle, during
which his little eyes completely disappeared.Kalinitch
sang rather sweetly and played a little on the balalaëca. Hor was
never weary of listening to him: all at once he would let his head
drop on one side and begin to chime in, in a lugubrious voice. He
was
particularly fond of the song, 'Ah, my fate, my fate!' Fedya never
lost an opportunity of making fun of his father, saying, 'What are
you so mournful about, old man?' But Hor leaned his cheek on his
hand, covered his eyes, and continued to mourn over his fate…. Yet
at other times there could not be a more active man; he was always
busy over something—mending the cart, patching up the fence,
looking after the harness. He did not insist on a very high degree
of
cleanliness, however; and, in answer to some remark of mine, said
once, 'A cottage ought to smell as if it were lived in.''Look,'
I answered, 'how clean it is in Kalinitch's beehouse.''The
bees would not live there else, your honour,' he said with a
sigh.'Tell
me,' he asked me another time, 'have you an estate of your own?'
'Yes.' 'Far from here?' 'A hundred miles.' 'Do you live on your
land,
your honour?' 'Yes.''But
you like your gun best, I dare say?''Yes,
I must confess I do.' 'And you do well, your honour; shoot grouse
to
your heart's content, and change your bailiff pretty often.'On
the fourth day Mr. Polutikin sent for me in the evening. I was
sorry
to part from the old man. I took my seat with Kalinitch in the
trap.
'Well, good-bye, Hor—good luck to you,' I said; 'good-bye,
Fedya.''Good-bye,
your honour, good-bye; don't forget us.' We started; there was the
first red glow of sunset. 'It will be a fine day to-morrow,' I
remarked looking at the clear sky. 'No, it will rain,' Kalinitch
replied; 'the ducks yonder are splashing, and the scent of the
grass
is strong.' We drove into the copse. Kalinitch began singing in an
undertone as he was jolted up and down on the driver's seat, and he
kept gazing and gazing at the sunset.The
next day I left the hospitable roof of Mr. Polutikin.