Chapter Chapter 6 · The Peasant Proprietor Ovsyanikov

THE PEASANT PROPRIETOR OVSYANIKOV

Picture to yourselves, gentle readers, a stout, tall man of seventy,

with a face reminding one somewhat of the face of Kriloff, clear and

intelligent eyes under overhanging brows, dignified in bearing, slow in

speech, and deliberate in movement: there you have Ovsyanikov. He wore

an ample blue overcoat with long sleeves, buttoned all the way up, a

lilac silk-handkerchief round his neck, brightly polished boots with

tassels, and altogether resembled in appearance a well-to-do merchant.

His hands were handsome, soft, and white; he often fumbled with the

buttons of his coat as he talked. With his dignity and his composure,

his good sense and his indolence, his uprightness and his obstinacy,

Ovsyanikov reminded me of the Russian boyars of the times before Peter

the Great.... The national holiday dress would have suited him well. He

was one of the last men left of the old time. All his neighbours had a

great respect for him, and considered it an honour to be acquainted

with him. His fellow peasant-proprietors almost worshipped him, and

took off their hats to him from a distance: they were proud of him.

Generally speaking, in these days, it is difficult to tell a

peasant-proprietor from a peasant; his husbandry is almost worse than

the peasant's; his calves are wretchedly small; his horses are only

half alive; his harness is made of rope. Ovsyanikov was an exception to

the general rule, though he did not pass for a wealthy man. He lived

alone with his wife in a clean and comfortable little house, kept a few

servants, whom he dressed in the Russian style and called his

'workmen.' They were employed also in ploughing his land. He did not

attempt to pass for a nobleman, did not affect to be a landowner;

never, as they say, forgot himself; he did not take a seat at the first

invitation to do so, and he never failed to rise from his seat on the

entrance of a new guest, but with such dignity, with such stately

courtesy, that the guest involuntarily made him a more deferential bow.

Ovsyanikov adhered to the antique usages, not from superstition (he was

naturally rather independent in mind), but from habit. He did not, for

instance, like carriages with springs, because he did not find them

comfortable, and preferred to drive in a racing droshky, or in a pretty

little trap with leather cushions, and he always drove his good bay

himself (he kept none but bay horses). His coachman, a young,

rosy-cheeked fellow, his hair cut round like a basin, in a dark blue

coat with a strap round the waist, sat respectfully beside him.

Ovsyanikov always had a nap after dinner and visited the bath-house on

Saturdays; he read none but religious books and used gravely to fix his

round silver spectacles on his nose when he did so; he got up, and went

to bed early. He shaved his beard, however, and wore his hair in the

German style. He always received visitors cordially and affably, but he

did not bow down to the ground, nor fuss over them and press them to

partake of every kind of dried and salted delicacy. 'Wife!' he would

say deliberately, not getting up from his seat, but only turning his

head a little in her direction, 'bring the gentleman a little of

something to eat.' He regarded it as a sin to sell wheat: it was the

gift of God. In the year '40, at the time of the general famine and

terrible scarcity, he shared all his store with the surrounding

landowners and peasants; the following year they gratefully repaid

their debt to him in kind. The neighbours often had recourse to

Ovsyanikov as arbitrator and mediator between them, and they almost

always acquiesced in his decision, and listened to his advice. Thanks

to his intervention, many had conclusively settled their boundaries....

But after two or three tussles with lady-landowners, he announced that

he declined all mediation between persons of the feminine gender. He

could not bear the flurry and excitement, the chatter of women and the

'fuss.' Once his house had somehow got on fire. A workman ran to him in

headlong haste shrieking, 'Fire, fire!' 'Well, what are you screaming

about?' said Ovsyanikov tranquilly, 'give me my cap and my stick.' He

liked to break in his horses himself. Once a spirited horse he was

training bolted with him down a hillside and over a precipice. 'Come,

there, there, you young colt, you'll kill yourself!' said Ovsyanikov

soothingly to him, and an instant later he flew over the precipice

together with the racing droshky, the boy who was sitting behind, and

the horse. Fortunately, the bottom of the ravine was covered with heaps

of sand. No one was injured; only the horse sprained a leg. 'Well, you

see,' continued Ovsyanikov in a calm voice as he got up from the

ground, 'I told you so.' He had found a wife to match him. Tatyana

Ilyinitchna Ovsyanikov was a tall woman, dignified and taciturn, always

dressed in a cinnamon-coloured silk dress. She had a cold air, though

none complained of her severity, but, on the contrary, many poor

creatures called her their little mother and benefactress. Her regular

features, her large dark eyes, and her delicately cut lips, bore

witness even now to her once celebrated beauty. Ovsyanikov had no

children.

I made his acquaintance, as the reader is already aware, at Radilov's,

and two days later I went to see him. I found him at home. He was

reading the lives of the Saints. A grey cat was purring on his

shoulder. He received me, according to his habit, with stately

cordiality. We fell into conversation.

'But tell me the truth, Luka Petrovitch,' I said to him, among other

things; 'weren't things better of old, in your time?'

'In some ways, certainly, things were better, I should say,' replied

Ovsyanikov; 'we lived more easily; there was a greater abundance of

everything. ... All the same, things are better now, and they will be

better still for your children, please God.'

'I had expected you, Luka Petrovitch, to praise the old times.'

'No, I have no special reason to praise old times. Here, for instance,

though you are a landowner now, and just as much a landowner as your

grandfather was, you have not the same power--and, indeed, you are not

yourself the same kind of man. Even now, some noblemen oppress us; but,

of course, it is impossible to help that altogether. Where there are

mills grinding there will be flour. No; I don't see now what I have

experienced myself in my youth.'

'What, for instance?'

'Well, for instance, I will tell you about your grandfather. He was an

overbearing man; he oppressed us poorer folks. You know,

perhaps--indeed, you surely know your own estates--that bit of land

that runs from Tchepligin to Malinina--you have it under oats now....

Well, you know, it is ours--it is all ours. Your grandfather took it

away from us; he rode by on his horse, pointed to it with his hand, and

said, "It's my property," and took possession of it. My father (God

rest his soul!) was a just man; he was a hot-tempered man, too; he

would not put up with it--indeed, who does like to lose his

property?--and he laid a petition before the court. But he was alone:

the others did not appear--they were afraid. So they reported to your

grandfather that "Piotr Ovsyanikov is making a complaint against you

that you were pleased to take away his land." Your grandfather at once

sent his huntsman Baush with a detachment of men.... Well, they seized

my father, and carried him to your estate. I was a little boy at that

time; I ran after him barefoot. What happened? They brought him to your

house, and flogged him right under your windows. And your grandfather

stands on the balcony and looks on; and your grandmother sits at the

window and looks on too. My father cries out, "Gracious lady, Marya

Vasilyevna, intercede for me! have mercy on me!" But her only answer

was to keep getting up to have a look at him. So they exacted a promise

from my father to give up the land, and bade him be thankful they let

him go alive. So it has remained with you. Go and ask your

peasants--what do they call the land, indeed? It's called "The

Cudgelled Land," because it was gained by the cudgel. So you see from

that, we poor folks can't bewail the old order very much.'

I did not know what answer to make Ovsyanikov, and I had not the

courage to look him in the face.

'We had another neighbour who settled amongst us in those days, Komov,

Stepan Niktopolionitch. He used to worry my father out of his life;

when it wasn't one thing, it was another. He was a drunken fellow, and

fond of treating others; and when he was drunk he would say in French,

"_Say bon_," and "Take away the holy images!" He would go to all the

neighbours to ask them to come to him. His horses stood always in

readiness, and if you wouldn't go he would come after you himself at

once!... And he was such a strange fellow! In his sober times he was

not a liar; but when he was drunk he would begin to relate how he had

three houses in Petersburg--one red, with one chimney; another yellow,

with two chimneys; and a third blue, with no chimneys; and three sons

(though he had never even been married), one in the infantry, another

in the cavalry, and the third was his own master.... And he would say

that in each house lived one of his sons; that admirals visited the

eldest, and generals the second, and the third only Englishmen! Then he

would get up and say, "To the health of my eldest son; he is the most

dutiful!" and he would begin to weep. Woe to anyone who refused to

drink the toast! "I will shoot him!" he would say; "and I won't let him

be buried!" ... Then he would jump up and scream, "Dance, God's people,

for your pleasure and my diversion!" Well, then, you must dance; if you

had to die for it, you must dance. He thoroughly worried his serf-girls

to death. Sometimes all night long till morning they would be singing

in chorus, and the one who made the most noise would have a prize. If

they began to be tired, he would lay his head down in his hands, and

begins moaning: "Ah, poor forsaken orphan that I am! They abandon me,

poor little dove!" And the stable-boys would wake the girls up at once.

He took a liking to my father; what was he to do? He almost drove my

father into his grave, and would actually have driven him into it, but

(thank Heaven!) he died himself; in one of his drunken fits he fell off

the pigeon-house. ... There, that's what our sweet little neighbours

were like!'

'How the times have changed!' I observed.

'Yes, yes,' Ovsyanikov assented. 'And there is this to be said--in the

old days the nobility lived more sumptuously. I'm not speaking of the

real grandees now. I used to see them in Moscow. They say such people

are scarce nowadays.'

'Have you been in Moscow?'

'I used to stay there long, very long ago. I am now in my seventy-third

year; and I went to Moscow when I was sixteen.'

Ovsyanikov sighed.

'Whom did you see there?'

'I saw a great many grandees--and every one saw them; they kept open

house for the wonder and admiration of all! Only no one came up to

Count Alexey Grigoryevitch Orlov-Tchesmensky. I often saw Alexey

Grigoryevitch; my uncle was a steward in his service. The count was

pleased to live in Shabolovka, near the Kaluga Gate. He was a grand

gentleman! Such stateliness, such gracious condescension you can't

imagine! and it's impossible to describe it. His figure alone was worth

something, and his strength, and the look in his eyes! Till you knew

him, you did not dare come near him--you were afraid, overawed indeed;

but directly you came near him he was like sunshine warming you up and

making you quite cheerful. He allowed every man access to him in

person, and he was devoted to every kind of sport. He drove himself in

races and out-stripped every one, and he would never get in front at

the start, so as not to offend his adversary; he would not cut it

short, but would pass him at the finish; and he was so pleasant--he

would soothe his adversary, praising his horse. He kept tumbler-pigeons

of a first-rate kind. He would come out into the court, sit down in an

arm-chair, and order them to let loose the pigeons; and his men would

stand all round on the roofs with guns to keep off the hawks. A large

silver basin of water used to be placed at the count's feet, and he

looked at the pigeons reflected in the water. Beggars and poor people

were fed in hundreds at his expense; and what a lot of money he used to

give away!... When he got angry, it was like a clap of thunder.

Everyone was in a great fright, but there was nothing to weep over;

look round a minute after, and he was all smiles again! When he gave a

banquet he made all Moscow drunk!--and see what a clever man he was!

you know he beat the Turk. He was fond of wrestling too; strong men

used to come from Tula, from Harkoff, from Tamboff, and from everywhere

to him. If he threw any one he would pay him a reward; but if any one

threw him, he perfectly loaded him with presents, and kissed him on the

lips.... And once, during my stay at Moscow, he arranged a hunting

party such as had never been in Russia before; he sent invitations to

all the sportsmen in the whole empire, and fixed a day for it, and gave

them three months' notice. They brought with them dogs and grooms:

well, it was an army of people--a regular army!

'First they had a banquet in the usual way, and then they set off into

the open country. The people flocked there in thousands! And what do

you think?... Your father's dog outran them all.'

'Wasn't that Milovidka?' I inquired.

'Milovidka, Milovidka!... So the count began to ask him, "Give me your

dog," says he; "take what you like for her." "No, count," he said, "I

am not a tradesman; I don't sell anything for filthy lucre; for your

sake I am ready to part with my wife even, but not with Milovidka.... I

would give myself into bondage first." And Alexey Grigoryevitch praised

him for it. "I like you for it," he said. Your grandfather took her

back in the coach with him, and when Milovidka died, he buried her in

the garden with music at the burial--yes, a funeral for a dog--and put

a stone with an inscription on it over the dog.'

'Then Alexey Grigoryevitch did not oppress anyone,' I observed.

'Yes, it is always like that; those who can only just keep themselves

afloat are the ones to drag others under.'

'And what sort of a man was this Baush?' I asked after a short silence.

'Why, how comes it you have heard about Milovidka, and not about Baush?

He was your grandfather's chief huntsman and whipper-in. Your

grandfather was as fond of him as of Milovidka. He was a desperate

fellow, and whatever order your grandfather gave him, he would carry it

out in a minute--he'd have run on to a sword at his bidding.... And

when he hallooed ... it was something like a tally-ho in the forest.

And then he would suddenly turn nasty, get off his horse, and lie down

on the ground ... and directly the dogs ceased to hear his voice, it

was all over! They would give up the hottest scent, and wouldn't go on

for anything. Ay, ay, your grandfather did get angry! "Damn me, if I

don't hang the scoundrel! I'll turn him inside out, the antichrist!

I'll stuff his heels down his gullet, the cut-throat!" And it ended by

his going up to find out what he wanted; why he wouldn't halloo to the

hounds? Usually, on such occasions, Baush asked for some vodka, drank

it up, got on his horse, and began to halloo as lustily as ever again.'

'You seem to be fond of hunting too, Luka Petrovitch?'

'I should have been--certainly, not now; now my time is over--but in my

young days.... But you know it was not an easy matter in my position.

It's not suitable for people like us to go trailing after noblemen.

Certainly you may find in our class some drinking, good-for-nothing

fellow who associates with the gentry--but it's a queer sort of

enjoyment.... He only brings shame on himself. They mount him on a

wretched stumbling nag, keep knocking his hat off on to the ground and

cut at him with a whip, pretending to whip the horse, and he must laugh

at everything, and be a laughing-stock for the others. No, I tell you,

the lower your station, the more reserved must be your behaviour, or

else you disgrace yourself directly.'

'Yes,' continued Ovsyanikov with a sigh, 'there's many a gallon of

water has flowed down to the sea since I have been living in the world;

times are different now. Especially I see a great change in the

nobility. The smaller landowners have all either become officials, or

at any rate do not stop here; as for the larger owners, there's no

making them out. I have had experience of them--the larger

landowners--in cases of settling boundaries. And I must tell you; it

does my heart good to see them: they are courteous and affable. Only

this is what astonishes me; they have studied all the sciences, they

speak so fluently that your heart is melted, but they don't understand

the actual business in hand; they don't even perceive what's their own

interest; some bailiff, a bondservant, drives them just where he

pleases, as though they were in a yoke. There's Korolyov--Alexandr

Vladimirovitch--for instance; you know him, perhaps--isn't he every

inch a nobleman? He is handsome, rich, has studied at the 'versities,

and travelled, I think, abroad; he speaks simply and easily, and shakes

hands with us all. You know him?... Well, listen then. Last week we

assembled at Beryozovka at the summons of the mediator, Nikifor Ilitch.

And the mediator, Nikifor Ilitch, says to us: "Gentlemen, we must

settle the boundaries; it's disgraceful; our district is behind all the

others; we must get to work." Well, so we got to work. There followed

discussions, disputes, as usual; our attorney began to make objections.

But the first to make an uproar was Porfiry Ovtchinnikov.... And what

had the fellow to make an uproar about?... He hasn't an acre of ground;

he is acting as representative of his brother. He bawls: "No, you shall

not impose on me! no, you shan't drive me to that! give the plans here!

give me the surveyor's plans, the Judas's plans here!" "But what is

your claim, then?" "Oh, you think I'm a fool! Indeed! do you suppose I

am going to lay bare my claim to you offhand? No, let me have the plans

here--that's what I want!" And he himself is banging his fist on the

plans all the time. Then he mortally offended Marfa Dmitrievna. She

shrieks out, "How dare you asperse my reputation?" "Your reputation,"

says he; "I shouldn't like my chestnut mare to have your reputation."

They poured him out some Madeira at last, and so quieted him; then

others begin to make a row. Alexandr Vladimirovitch Korolyov, the dear

fellow, sat in a corner sucking the knob of his cane, and only shook

his head. I felt ashamed; I could hardly sit it out. "What must he be

thinking of us?" I said to myself. When, behold! Alexandr

Vladimirovitch has got up, and shows signs of wanting to speak. The

mediator exerts himself, says, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, Alexandr

Vladimirovitch wishes to speak." And I must do them this credit; they

were all silent at once. And so Alexandr Vladimirovitch began and said

"that we seemed to have forgotten what we had come together for; that,

indeed, the fixing of boundaries was indisputably advantageous for

owners of land, but actually what was its object? To make things easier

for the peasant, so that he could work and pay his dues more

conveniently; that now the peasant hardly knows his own land, and often

goes to work five miles away; and one can't expect too much of him."

Then Alexandr Vladimirovitch said "that it was disgraceful in a

landowner not to interest himself in the well-being of his peasants;

that in the end, if you look at it rightly, their interests and our

interests are inseparable; if they are well-off we are well-off, and if

they do badly we do badly, and that, consequently, it was injudicious

and wrong to disagree over trifles" ... and so on--and so on.... There,

how he did speak! He seemed to go right to your heart.... All the

gentry hung their heads; I myself, faith, it nearly brought me to

tears. To tell the truth, you would not find sayings like that in the

old books even.... But what was the end of it? He himself would not

give up four acres of peat marsh, and wasn't willing to sell it. He

said, "I am going to drain that marsh for my people, and set up a

cloth-factory on it, with all the latest improvements. I have already,"

he said, "fixed on that place; I have thought out my plans on the

subject." And if only that had been the truth, it would be all very

well; but the simple fact is, Alexandr Vladimirovitch's neighbour,

Anton Karasikov, had refused to buy over Korolyov's bailiff for a

hundred roubles. And so we separated without having done anything. But

Alexandr Vladimirovitch considers to this day that he is right, and

still talks of the cloth-factory; but he does not start draining the

marsh.'

'And how does he manage in his estate?'

'He is always introducing new ways. The peasants don't speak well of

him--but it's useless to listen to them. Alexandr Vladimirovitch is

doing right.'

'How's that, Luka Petrovitch? I thought you kept to the old ways.'

'I--that's another thing. You see I am not a nobleman or a landowner.

What sort of management is mine?... Besides, I don't know how to do

things differently. I try to act according to justice and the law, and

leave the rest in God's hands! Young gentlemen don't like the old

method; I think they are right.... It's the time to take in ideas. Only

this is the pity of it; the young are too theoretical. They treat the

peasant like a doll; they turn him this way and that way; twist him

about and throw him away. And their bailiff, a serf, or some overseer

from the German natives, gets the peasant under his thumb again. Now,

if any one of the young gentlemen would set us an example, would show

us, "See, this is how you ought to manage!" ... What will be the end of

it? Can it be that I shall die without seeing the new methods?... What

is the proverb?--the old is dead, but the young is not born!'

I did not know what reply to make to Ovsyanikov. He looked round, drew

himself nearer to me, and went on in an undertone:

'Have you heard talk of Vassily Nikolaitch Lubozvonov?'

'No, I haven't.'

'Explain to me, please, what sort of strange creature he is. I can't

make anything of it. His peasants have described him, but I can't make

any sense of their tales. He is a young man, you know; it's not long

since he received his heritage from his mother. Well, he arrived at his

estate. The peasants were all collected to stare at their master.

Vassily Nikolaitch came out to them. The peasants looked at

him--strange to relate! the master wore plush pantaloons like a

coachman, and he had on boots with trimming at the top; he wore a red

shirt and a coachman's long coat too; he had let his beard grow, and

had such a strange hat and such a strange face--could he be drunk? No,

he wasn't drunk, and yet he didn't seem quite right. "Good health to

you, lads!" he says; "God keep you!" The peasants bow to the ground,

but without speaking; they began to feel frightened, you know. And he

too seemed timid. He began to make a speech to them: "I am a Russian,"

he says, "and you are Russians; I like everything Russian.... Russia,"

says he, "is my heart, and my blood too is Russian".... Then he

suddenly gives the order: "Come, lads, sing a Russian national song!"

The peasants' legs shook under them with fright; they were utterly

stupefied. One bold spirit did begin to sing, but he sat down at once

on the ground and hid himself behind the others.... And what is so

surprising is this: we have had landowners like that, dare-devil

gentlemen, regular rakes, of course: they dressed pretty much like

coachmen, and danced themselves and played on the guitar, and sang and

drank with their house-serfs and feasted with the peasants; but this

Vassily Nikolaitch is like a girl; he is always reading books or

writing, or else declaiming poetry aloud--he never addresses any one;

he is shy, walks by himself in his garden; seems either bored or sad.

The old bailiff at first was in a thorough scare; before Vassily

Nikolaitch's arrival he was afraid to go near the peasants' houses; he

bowed to all of them--one could see the cat knew whose butter he had

eaten! And the peasants were full of hope; they thought, 'Fiddlesticks,

my friend!--now they'll make you answer for it, my dear; they'll lead

you a dance now, you robber!' ... But instead of this it has turned

out--how shall I explain it to you?--God Almighty could not account for

how things have turned out! Vassily Nikolaitch summoned him to his

presence and says, blushing himself and breathing quick, you know: "Be

upright in my service; don't oppress any one--do you hear?" And since

that day he has never asked to see him in person again! He lives on his

own property like a stranger. Well, the bailiff's been enjoying

himself, and the peasants don't dare to go to Vassily Nikolaitch; they

are afraid. And do you see what's a matter for wonder again; the master

even bows to them and looks graciously at them; but he seems to turn

their stomachs with fright! 'What do you say to such a strange state of

things, your honour? Either I have grown stupid in my old age, or

something.... I can't understand it.'

I said to Ovsyanikov that Mr. Lubozvonov must certainly be ill.

'Ill, indeed! He's as broad as he's long, and a face like this--God

bless him!--and bearded, though he is so young.... Well, God knows!'

And Ovsyanikov gave a deep sigh.

'Come, putting the nobles aside,' I began, 'what have you to tell me

about the peasant proprietors, Luka Petrovitch?'

'No, you must let me off that,' he said hurriedly. 'Truly.... I could

tell you ... but what's the use!' (with a wave of his hand). 'We had

better have some tea.... We are common peasants and nothing more; but

when we come to think of it, what else could we be?'

He ceased talking. Tea was served. Tatyana Ilyinitchna rose from her

place and sat down rather nearer to us. In the course of the evening

she several times went noiselessly out and as quietly returned. Silence

reigned in the room. Ovsyanikov drank cup after cup with gravity and

deliberation.

'Mitya has been to see us to-day,' said Tatyana Ilyinitchna in a low

voice.

Ovsyanikov frowned.

'What does he want?'

'He came to ask forgiveness.'

Ovsyanikov shook his head.

'Come, tell me,' he went on, turning to me, 'what is one to do with

relations? And to abandon them altogether is impossible.... Here God

has bestowed on me a nephew. He's a fellow with brains--a smart

fellow--I don't dispute that; he has had a good education, but I don't

expect much good to come of him. He went into a government office;

threw up his position--didn't get on fast enough, if you please....

Does he suppose he's a noble? And even noblemen don't come to be

generals all at once. So now he is living without an occupation.... And

that, even, would not be such a great matter--except that he has taken

to litigation! He gets up petitions for the peasants, writes memorials;

he instructs the village delegates, drags the surveyors over the coals,

frequents drinking houses, is seen in taverns with city tradesmen and

inn-keepers. He's bound to come to ruin before long. The constables and

police-captains have threatened him more than once already. But he

luckily knows how to turn it off--he makes them laugh; but they will

boil his kettle for him some day.... But, there, isn't he sitting in

your little room?' he added, turning to his wife; 'I know you, you see;

you're so soft-hearted--you will always take his part.'

Tatyana Ilyinitchna dropped her eyes, smiled, and blushed.

'Well, I see it is so,' continued Ovsyanikov. 'Fie! you spoil the boy!

Well, tell him to come in.... So be it, then; for the sake of our good

guest I will forgive the silly fellow.... Come, tell him, tell him.'

Tatyana Ilyinitchna went to the door, and cried 'Mitya!'

Mitya, a young man of twenty-eight, tall, well-made, and curly-headed,

came into the room, and seeing me, stopped short in the doorway. His

costume was in the German style, but the unnatural size of the puffs on

his shoulders was enough alone to prove convincingly that the tailor

who had cut it was a Russian of the Russians.

'Well, come in, come in,' began the old man; 'why are you bashful? You

must thank your aunt--you're forgiven.... Here, your honour, I commend

him to you,' he continued, pointing to Mitya; 'he's my own nephew, but

I don't get on with him at all. The end of the world is coming!' (We

bowed to one another.) 'Well, tell me what is this you have got mixed

up in? What is the complaint they are making against you? Explain it to

us.'

Mitya obviously did not care to explain matters and justify himself

before me.

'Later on, uncle,' he muttered.

'No, not later--now,' pursued the old man.... 'You are ashamed, I see,

before this gentleman; all the better--it's only what you deserve.

Speak, speak; we are listening.'

'I have nothing to be ashamed of,' began Mitya spiritedly, with a toss

of his head. 'Be so good as to judge for yourself, uncle. Some peasant

proprietors of Reshetilovo came to me, and said, "Defend us, brother."

"What is the matter?"' "This is it: our grain stores were in perfect

order--in fact, they could not be better; all at once a government

inspector came to us with orders to inspect the granaries. He inspected

them, and said, 'Your granaries are in disorder--serious neglect; it's

my duty to report it to the authorities.' 'But what does the neglect

consist in?' 'That's my business,' he says.... We met together, and

decided to tip the official in the usual way; but old Prohoritch

prevented us. He said, 'No; that's only giving him a taste for more.

Come; after all, haven't we the courts of justice?' We obeyed the old

man, and the official got in a rage, and made a complaint, and wrote a

report. So now we are called up to answer to his charges." "But are

your granaries actually in order?" I asked. "God knows they are in

order; and the legal quantity of corn is in them." "Well, then," say I,

"you have nothing to fear"; and I drew up a document for them.... And

it is not yet known in whose favour it is decided.... And as to the

complaints they have made to you about me over that affair--it's very

easy to understand that--every man's shirt is nearest to his own skin.

'Everyone's, indeed--but not yours seemingly,' said the old man in an

undertone. 'But what plots have you been hatching with the

Shutolomovsky peasants?'

'How do you know anything of it?'

'Never mind; I do know of it.'

'And there, too, I am right--judge for yourself again. A neighbouring

landowner, Bezpandin, has ploughed over four acres of the Shutolomovsky

peasants' land. "The land's mine," he says. The Shutolomovsky people

are on the rent-system; their landowner has gone abroad--who is to

stand up for them? Tell me yourself? But the land is theirs beyond

dispute; they've been bound to it for ages and ages. So they came to

me, and said, "Write us a petition." So I wrote one. And Bezpandin

heard of it, and began to threaten me. "I'll break every bone in that

Mitya's body, and knock his head off his shoulders...." We shall see

how he will knock it off; it's still on, so far.'

'Come, don't boast; it's in a bad way, your head,' said the old man.

'You are a mad fellow altogether!'

'Why, uncle, what did you tell me yourself?'

'I know, I know what you will say,' Ovsyanikov interrupted him; 'of

course a man ought to live uprightly, and he is bound to succour his

neighbour. Sometimes one must not spare oneself.... But do you always

behave in that way? Don't they take you to the tavern, eh? Don't they

treat you; bow to you, eh? "Dmitri Alexyitch," they say, "help us, and

we will prove our gratitude to you." And they slip a silver rouble or

note into your hand. Eh? doesn't that happen? Tell me, doesn't that

happen?'

'I am certainly to blame in that,' answered Mitya, rather confused;

'but I take nothing from the poor, and I don't act against my

conscience.'

'You don't take from them now; but when you are badly off yourself,

then you will. You don't act against your conscience--fie on you! Of

course, they are all saints whom you defend!... Have you forgotten

Borka Perohodov? Who was it looked after him? Who took him under his

protection--eh?'

'Perohodov suffered through his own fault, certainly.'

'He appropriated the public moneys.... That was all!'

'But, consider, uncle: his poverty, his family.'

'Poverty, poverty.... He's a drunkard, a quarrelsome fellow; that's

what it is!'

'He took to drink through trouble,' said Mitya, dropping his voice.

'Through trouble, indeed! Well, you might have helped him, if your

heart was so warm to him, but there was no need for you to sit in

taverns with the drunken fellow yourself. Though he did speak so finely

... a prodigy, to be sure!'

'He was a very good fellow.'

'Every one is good with you.... But did you send him?' ... pursued

Ovsyanikov, turning to his wife; 'come; you know?'

Tatyana Ilyinitchna nodded.

'Where have you been lately?' the old man began again.

'I have been in the town.'

'You have been doing nothing but playing billiards, I wager, and

drinking tea, and running to and fro about the government offices,

drawing up petitions in little back rooms, flaunting about with

merchants' sons? That's it, of course?... Tell us!'

'Perhaps that is about it,' said Mitya with a smile.... 'Ah! I had

almost forgotten--Funtikov, Anton Parfenitch asks you to dine with him

next Sunday.'

'I shan't go to see that old tub. He gives you costly fish and puts

rancid butter on it. God bless him!'

'And I met Fedosya Mihalovna.'

'What Fedosya is that?'

'She belongs to Garpentchenko, the landowner, who bought Mikulino by

auction. Fedosya is from Mikulino. She lived in Moscow as a

dress-maker, paying her service in money, and she paid her

service-money accurately--a hundred and eighty two-roubles and a half a

year.... And she knows her business; she got good orders in Moscow. But

now Garpentchenko has written for her back, and he retains her here,

but does not provide any duties for her. She would be prepared to buy

her freedom, and has spoken to the master, but he will not give any

decisive answer. You, uncle, are acquainted with Garpentchenko ... so

couldn't you just say a word to him?... And Fedosya would give a good

price for her freedom.'

'Not with your money I hope? Hey? Well, well, all right; I will speak

to him, I will speak to him. But I don't know,' continued the old man

with a troubled face; 'this Garpentchenko, God forgive him! is a shark;

he buys up debts, lends money at interest, purchases estates at

auctions.... And who brought him into our parts? Ugh, I can't bear

these new-comers! One won't get an answer out of him very quickly....

However, we shall see.'

'Try to manage it, uncle.'

'Very well, I will see to it. Only you take care; take care of

yourself! There, there, don't defend yourself.... God bless you! God

bless you!... Only take care for the future, or else, Mitya, upon my

word, it will go ill with you.... Upon my word, you will come to

grief.... I can't always screen you ... and I myself am not a man of

influence. There, go now, and God be with you!'

Mitya went away. Tatyana Ilyinitchna went out after him.

'Give him some tea, you soft-hearted creature,' cried Ovsyanikov after

her. 'He's not a stupid fellow,' he continued, 'and he's a good heart,

but I feel afraid for him.... But pardon me for having so long kept you

occupied with such details.'

The door from the hall opened. A short grizzled little man came in, in

a velvet coat.

'Ah, Frantz Ivanitch!' cried Ovsyanikov, 'good day to you. Is God

merciful to you?'

Allow me, gentle reader, to introduce to you this gentleman.

Frantz Ivanitch Lejeune, my neighbour, and a landowner of Orel, had

arrived at the respectable position of a Russian nobleman in a not

quite ordinary way. He was born in Orleans of French parents, and had

gone with Napoleon, on the invasion of Russia, in the capacity of a

drummer. At first all went smoothly, and our Frenchman arrived in

Moscow with his head held high. But on the return journey poor Monsieur

Lejeune, half-frozen and without his drum, fell into the hands of some

peasants of Smolensk. The peasants shut him up for the night in an

empty cloth factory, and the next morning brought him to an ice-hole

near the dyke, and began to beg the drummer '_de la Grrrrande Armée_'

to oblige them; in other words, to swim under the ice. Monsieur Lejeune

could not agree to their proposition, and in his turn began to try to

persuade the Smolensk peasants, in the dialect of France, to let him go

to Orleans. 'There, messieurs,' he said, '_my mother is living, une

tendre mère_' But the peasants, doubtless through their ignorance of

the geographical position of Orleans, continued to offer him a journey

under water along the course of the meandering river Gniloterka, and

had already begun to encourage him with slight blows on the vertebrae

of the neck and back, when suddenly, to the indescribable delight of

Lejeune, the sound of bells was heard, and there came along the dyke a

huge sledge with a striped rug over its excessively high dickey,

harnessed with three roan horses. In the sledge sat a stout and

red-faced landowner in a wolfskin pelisse.

'What is it you are doing there?' he asked the peasants.

'We are drowning a Frenchman, your honour.'

'Ah!' replied the landowner indifferently, and he turned away.

'Monsieur! Monsieur!' shrieked the poor fellow.

'Ah, ah!' observed the wolfskin pelisse reproachfully, 'you came with

twenty nations into Russia, burnt Moscow, tore down, you damned

heathen! the cross from Ivan the Great, and now--mossoo, mossoo,

indeed! now you turn tail! You are paying the penalty of your sins!...

Go on, Filka!'

The horses were starting.

'Stop, though!' added the landowner. 'Eh? you mossoo, do you know

anything of music?'

'_Sauvez-moi, sauvez-moi, mon bon monsieur!_' repeated Lejeune.

'There, see what a wretched people they are! Not one of them knows

Russian! Muzeek, muzeek, savey muzeek voo? savey? Well, speak, do!

Compreny? savey muzeek voo? on the piano, savey zhooey?'

Lejeune comprehended at last what the landowner meant, and persistently

nodded his head.

'_Oui, monsieur, oui, oui, je suis musicien; je joue tous les

instruments possibles! Oui, monsieur.... Sauvez-moi, monsieur!_'

'Well, thank your lucky star!' replied the landowner. 'Lads, let him

go: here's a twenty-copeck piece for vodka.'

'Thank you, your honour, thank you. Take him, your honour.'

They sat Lejeune in the sledge. He was gasping with delight, weeping,

shivering, bowing, thanking the landowner, the coachman, the peasants.

He had nothing on but a green jacket with pink ribbons, and it was

freezing very hard. The landowner looked at his blue and benumbed

shoulders in silence, wrapped the unlucky fellow in his own pelisse,

and took him home. The household ran out. They soon thawed the

Frenchman, fed him, and clothed him. The landowner conducted him to his

daughters.

'Here, children!' he said to them, 'a teacher is found for you. You

were always entreating me to have you taught music and the French

jargon; here you have a Frenchman, and he plays on the piano.... Come,

mossoo,' he went on, pointing to a wretched little instrument he had

bought five years before of a Jew, whose special line was eau de

Cologne, 'give us an example of your art; zhooey!'

Lejeune, with a sinking heart, sat down on the music-stool; he had

never touched a piano in his life.

'Zhooey, zhooey!' repeated the landowner.

In desperation, the unhappy man beat on the keys as though on a drum,

and played at hazard. 'I quite expected,' he used to tell afterwards,

'that my deliverer would seize me by the collar, and throw me out of

the house.' But, to the utmost amazement of the unwilling improvisor,

the landowner, after waiting a little, patted him good-humouredly on

the shoulder.

'Good, good,' he said; 'I see your attainments; go now, and rest

yourself.'

Within a fortnight Lejeune had gone from this landowner's to stay with

another, a rich and cultivated man. He gained his friendship by his

bright and gentle disposition, was married to a ward of his, went into

a government office, rose to the nobility, married his daughter to

Lobizanyev, a landowner of Orel, and a retired dragoon and poet, and

settled himself on an estate in Orel.

It was this same Lejeune, or rather, as he is called now, Frantz

Ivanitch, who, when I was there, came in to see Ovsyanikov, with whom

he was on friendly terms....

But perhaps the reader is already weary of sitting with me at the

Ovsyanikovs', and so I will become eloquently silent.