Chương Chương 11 · 第7章（5）

"One of the officials, a red-faced old man in a faded uniform, with

three buttons hanging loose, a pair of lead spectacles which pinched

a crimson knob doing duty for a nose, unrolled a paper, and stooping,

began to read in the Moldavian tongue. From time to time he glanced

haughtily at the handcuffed Kirdjali, to whom apparently the document

referred. Kirdjali listened attentively. The official finished his

reading, folded the paper, and called out sternly to the people,

ordering them to make way for the _karutsa_ to drive up. Then Kirdjali,

turning towards him, said a few words in Moldavian; his voice trembled,

his countenance changed, he burst into tears, and fell at the feet of

the police officer, with a clanking of his chains. The police officer,

in alarm, started back; the soldiers were going to raise Kirdjali, but

he got up of his own accord, gathered up his chains, and stepping into

the _harutsa_, cried _egaida!'_

"The gens d'armes got in by his side, the Moldavian cracked his whip,

and the _karutsa_ rolled away.

"What was Kirdjali saying to you? inquired a young official of the

police officer.

"He asked me," replied the officer, smiling, "to take care of his

wife and child, who live a short distance from Kilia, in a Bulgarian

village; he is afraid they might suffer through him. The rabble are so

ignorant!'"

The young official's story affected me greatly. I was sorry for poor

Kirdjali. For a long while I knew nothing of his fate. Many years

afterwards I met the young official. We began talking of old times.

"How about your friend Kirdjali?" I asked. "Do you know what became of

him?"

"Of course I do," he replied, and he told me the following.

After being brought to Jassy, Kirdjali was taken before the Pasha,

who condemned him to be impaled. The execution was postponed till

some feast day. Meanwhile he was put in confinement. The prisoner was

guarded by seven Turks--common people, and at the bottom of their

hearts brigands like himself. They respected him and listened with

the eagerness of true orientals to his wonderful stories. Between the

guards and their prisoner a close friendship sprang up. On one occasion

Kirdjali said to them:

"Brothers! My hour is near. No one can escape his doom. I shall soon

part from you, and I should like to leave you something in remembrance

of me." The Turks opened their ears.

"Brothers;" added Kirdjali, "three years back, when I was engaged in

brigandage with the late Mihailaki, we buried in the Steppes, not far

from Jassy, a kettle with some coins in it. Seemingly, neither he nor

I will ever possess that treasure. So be it; take it to yourselves and

divide it amicably."

The Turks nearly went crazy. They began considering how they could find

the spot so vaguely indicated. They thought and thought, and at last

decided that Kirdjali must himself show them.

Night set in. The Turks took off the fetters that weighed upon the

prisoner's feet, hound his hands with a rope, and taking him with them,

started for the Steppes. Kirdjali led them, going in a straight line

from one mound to another. They walked about for some time. At last

Kirdjali stopped close to a broad stone, measured a dozen steps to the

south, stamped, and said, "Here."

The Turks arranged themselves for work. Four took out their daggers and

began digging the earth, while three remained on guard. Kirdjali sat

down on the stone, and looked on.

"Well, now, shall you be long?" he inquired; "have you found it?"

"Not yet," replied the Turks, and they worked away till the

perspiration rolled like hail from them.

Kirdjali grew impatient.

"What people!" he exclaimed; "they can't even dig decently. Why, I

should have found it in two minutes. Children! Untie my hands, and give

me a dagger."

The Turks reflected, and began to consult with one another.

"Why not?" they concluded. "We will release his hands, and give him a

dagger. What can it matter? He is only one, while we are seven."

And the Turks unbound his bands and gave him a dagger.

At last Kirdjali was free and armed. What must have been his

sensations. He began digging rapidly, the guard assisting. Suddenly he

thrust his dagger into one of them, leaving the blade sticking in the

man's breast; he snatched from his girdle a couple of pistols.

The remaining six, seeing Kirdjali armed with two pistols, ran away.

Kirdjali is now carrying on his brigandage near Jassy. Not long ago

he wrote to the Hospodar, demanding from him five thousand louis, and

threatening, in the event of the money not being paid, to set fire to

Jassy, and to reach the Hospodar himself. The five thousand louis were

forwarded to him.

A fine fellow Kirdjali!

THE HISTORY OF THE VILLAGE OF GOROHINA.

Of all professions that of a man of letters ha

Story 8. THE HISTORY OF THE VILLAGE OF GOROHINA

My parents, respectable but humble folk, had been brought up in the old

fashion. They never read anything; and beyond an alphabet (bought for

me), an almanack, and the latest letter-writer, they had no books in

the house.

The letter-writer had long provided me with entertainment. I knew it by

heart, yet daily found in it fresh beauties; and next to General N----,

to whom my father had been _aide-de-camp,_ Kurganoff, its author, was,

in my estimation, one of the greatest men. I questioned everyone about

him; but unhappily no one could gratify my curiosity. Nobody knew him

personally. To all my questioning the reply was that Kurganoff was the

author of the latest letter-writer, but that I knew already. He was

wrapped in darkness and mystery like some ancient demi-god. At times

I doubted even his existence. His name was perhaps an invention, the

legend about him an empty myth awaiting the investigation of some

new Niebuhr. Nevertheless he dogged my imagination. I tried to give

some form to this very personage, and finally decided that he must be

like the land-judge, Koriuchkin, a little old man with a red nose and

glittering eyes.

In 1812 I was taken to Moscow and placed at a boarding school belonging

to Karl Ivanovitch Meyer. There I stayed only some three months,

because the school broke up in anticipation of the enemy's coming. I

returned to the country.

* * * * *

This epoch of my life was to me so important that I shall dilate upon

it, apologizing beforehand if I trespass upon the good nature of the

reader.

It was a dull autumn day. On reaching the station whence I must turn

off to Gorohina (that was the name of our village) I engaged horses,

and drove off by the country road. Though naturally calm, so impatient

was I to revisit the scenes where I had passed the best years of my

life, that I kept urging the driver to quicken speed with alternate

promises of vodka and threats of chastisement. How much easier it was

to belabour him than to unloose my purse. I own I struck him twice or

thrice, a thing I had never done in my life before. I don't know why,

but I had a great liking for drivers as a class.

The driver urged his troika to a quicker pace, but to me it seemed that

public-driver-like he coaxed the horses and waved his whip but at the

same time tightened the reins. At last I caught sight of Gorohina wood,

and in ten minutes more we drove into the courtyard of the manor house.

My heart beat violently. I looked round with unwonted emotion. For

eight years I had not seen Gorohina. The little birches which I had

seen planted near the palings had now grown into tall branching trees.

The courtyard, once adorned with three regular flower beds divided by

broad gravel paths, was now an unmown meadow, the grazing land of a red

cow.

My britchka stopped at the front door. My servant went to open it, but

it was fastened; yet the shutters were open, and the house seemed to be

inhabited. A woman emerging from a servant's hut asked what I wanted.

Hearing the master had arrived, she ran back into the hut, and soon

I had all the inhabitants of the courtyard around me. I was deeply

touched to see the known and unknown faces, and I greeted each with a

friendly kiss.

The boys my playmates had grown to men. The girls who used to squat

upon the floor and run with such alacrity on errands were married

women. The men wept. To the women I said unceremoniously:

"How you have aged." And they answered sadly:

"And you, little father, how plain you have grown."

They led me towards the back entrance; I was met by my old

wet-nurse, by whom I was welcomed back with sobs and tears, like the

much-suffering Ulysses. They hastened to heat the bath. The cook, who

in his long holiday had grown a beard, offered to cook my dinner or

supper, for it was growing dark. The rooms hitherto occupied by my

nurse and my late mother's maids were at once got ready for me. Thus I

found myself in the humble home of my parents, and fell asleep in that

room where three-and-twenty years before I had been born.

Some three weeks passed in business of various kinds. I was engaged

with land judges, presidents, and every imaginable official of the

province. Finally I got possession of my inheritance. I was contented:

but soon the dulness of inaction began to torment me. I was not

yet acquainted with my kind and venerable neighbour N---- Domestic

occupations were altogether strange to me. The conversation of my

nurse, whom I promoted to the rank of housekeeper, consisted of fifteen

family anecdotes. I found them very interesting, but as she always

related them in the same way she soon became for me another Niebuhr

letter-writer, in which I knew precisely on what page every particular

line occurred. That worthy book I found in the storeroom among a

quantity of rubbish sadly dilapidated. I brought it out into the light

and began to read it; but Kurganoff had lost his charm. I read him

through once more and never after opened him again.

In this extremity it struck me:

"Why not write myself?" The reader has been already told that I was

educated on copper money. Besides, to become an author seemed so

difficult, so unattainable, that the idea of writing quite frightened

me at first. Dare I hope ever to be numbered amongst writers, when my

ardent wish even to meet one had not yet been gratified? This reminds

me of something which I shall tell to show my unbounded enthusiasm for

my native literature.

In 1820, while yet an ensign, I chanced to be on government business at

Petersburg. I stayed a week; and although I had not one acquaintance

in he place, I passed the time very pleasantly. I went daily to the

theatre, modestly to the fourth row in the gallery. I learnt the

names of all the actors and fell passionately in love with B----. She

had played one Sunday with great artistic feeling as Eulalie in _Hass

und Reue_ (in English _The Stranger._) In the morning, on my way from

headquarters, I would call at a small confectioner's, drink a cup of

chocolate, and read a literary journal. One day, while thus deep in an

article "by Goodintention, some one in a pea-green greatcoat suddenly

approached and gently withdrew the _Hamburg Gazette_ from under my

newspaper. I was so occupied that I did not look up. The stranger

ordered a steak and sat down facing me. I went on reading without

noticing him.

Meanwhile he finished his luncheon, scolded the waiter for some

carelessness, drank half a bottle of wine, and left. Two young men were

also lunching.

"Do you know who that was?" inquired one of them.

"That was Goodintention ... the writer."

"The writer!" I exclaimed involuntarily, and leaving the article unread

and the cup of chocolate undrunk, I hastily paid my reckoning, and

without waiting for the change rushed into the street. Looking round I

descried in the distance the pea-green coat and dashed along the Nevsky

Prospect almost at a run. When I had gone several steps I felt myself

stopped by some one, and looking back I found I had been noticed by an

officer of the guards. I; ought not to have knocked against him on the

pavement, but rather to have stopped and saluted. After this reprimand

I was more careful. Unluckily I met an officer every moment, and every

moment I had to stop, while the author got farther and farther away.

Never before had my soldier's overcoat proved so irksome, never had

epaulettes appeared so enviable. At last near the Annitchkin Bridge I

came up with the pea-green greatcoat.

"May I inquire," I said, saluting, "are you Mr. Goodintention, whose

excellent article I have had the pleasure of reading in the _Zealous

Enlightener?_"

"Not at all," he replied. "I am not a writer but a lawyer. But I know

Goodintention very well. A quarter of an hour ago I passed him at the

Police Bridge." In this way my respect for Russian letters cost me

80 kopecks of change, an official reprimand, and a narrow escape of

arrest, and all in vain.

In spite of all the protest of my reason, the audacious thought of

becoming a writer kept recurring. At last, unable longer to resist it,

I made a thick copy book and resolved to fill it somehow. All kinds

of poems (humble prose did not yet enter into my reckoning) were in

turn considered and approved. I decided to write an epic furnished on

Russian history. I was not long in finding a hero. I chose Rurik, and I

set to work.

I had acquired a certain aptitude for rhymes, by copying those in

manuscript which used to circulate among our officers, such as the

criticism on the Moscow Boulevards, the Presnensky Ponds, and the

Dangerous Neighbour. In spite of that my poem progressed slowly,

and at the third verse I dropped it. I concluded that the epic was

not my style, and began _Rurik_, _a Tragedy._ The tragedy halted. I

turned it into a ballad, but the ballad hardly seemed to do. At last

I had a happy thought. I began and succeeded in finishing an ode to a

portrait of Rurik. Despite the inauspicious character of such a title,

particularly for a young bard's first work, I yet felt that I had not

been born a poet, and after this first attempt desisted. These essays

in authorship gave me so great a taste for writing that I could now no

longer abstain from paper and ink. I could descend to prose. But at

first I wished to avoid the preliminary construction of a plot and the

connection of parts. I resolved to write detached thoughts without any

connection or order, just as they struck me. Unfortunately the thoughts

would not come, and in the course of two whole days the only thought

that struck me was the following:

He who disobeys reason and yields to the inclination of his passions

often goes wrong and ends by repenting when it is too late.

This though no doubt true enough was not original.

Abandoning aphorism I took to tales; but being too unpractised in

arranging incidents I selected such remarkable occurrences as I had

heard of at various times and tried to ornament the truth by a lively

style and the flowers of my own imagination. Composing these tales

little by little, I formed my style and learnt to express myself

correctly, pleasantly, and freely. My stock was soon exhausted, and I

again began to seek a subject.

To abandon these childish anecdotes of doubtful authenticity, and

narrate real and great events instead, was an idea by which I had long

been haunted.

To be the judge, the observer, and the prophet of ages and of peoples

seemed to me a most attainable object of ambition to a writer. What

history could I write--I with my pitiable education? Where was I not

forestalled by highly cultivated and conscientious men? What history

had they left unexhausted. Should I write a universal history? But was

there not already the immortal work of Abbé Millot. A national history

of Russia, what could I say after Tatishtcheff Bolitin and Golikoff?

And was it for me to burrow amongst records and to penetrate the

occult meaning of a dead language--for me who could never master the

Slavonian alphabet? Why not try a history on a smaller scale?--for

instance, the history of our town! But even here how very numerous

and insuperable seemed the obstacles--a journey to the town, a visit

to the governor and the bishop, permission to examine the archives,

the monastery, the cellars, and so on. The history of our town would

have been easier; but it could interest neither the philosopher nor

the artist, and afford but little opening for eloquence. The only

noteworthy record in its annals relates to a terrible fire ten years

ago which burnt the bazaar and the courts of justice. An accident

settled my doubts. A woman hanging linen in a loft found an old

basket full of shavings, dust, and books. The whole household knew my

passion for reading. My housekeeper while I sat over my paper gnawing

my pen and meditating on the experience of country prophets entered

triumphantly dragging a basket into my room, and bringing joyfully

"books! books!"

Books! I repeated in delight as I rushed to the basket. Actually a pile

of them with covers of green and of blue paper. It was a collection of

old almanacks. My ardour was cooled by the discovery, still they were

books, and I generously rewarded her pains with half a silver ruble.

When she had gone I began to examine my almanacks; I soon became

absorbed. They formed a complete series from 1744 to 1799 including

exactly 55 years. The blue sheets of paper usually bound in the

almanacks were covered with old-fashioned handwriting. Skimming these

lines I noticed with surprise that besides remarks on the weather

and accounts they contained scraps of historical information about

the village of Gorohina. Among these valuable documents I began my

researches, and soon found that they presented a full history of my

native place for nearly a century, in chronological order, besides an

exhaustive store of economical, statistical, meteorological, and other

learned information. Thenceforth the study of these documents took up

my time, for I perceived that from them a stately, instructive, and

interesting history could be made. As I became sufficiently acquainted

with these valuable notes, I began to search for new sources of

information about the village of Gorohina, and I soon became astonished

at the wealth of material. After devoting six months to a preliminary

study of them, I at last began the long wished for work; and by God's

grace completed the same on the 3rd of November, 1827. To-day, like a

fellow-historian, whose name I do not recollect, having finished my

hard task, I lay down my pen and sadly walk into my garden to meditate

upon my performance. It seems even to me that now the history of

Gorohina is finished I am no longer wanted in the world. My task is

ended; and it is time for me to die.

* * * * *

I add a list of the sources whence I drew the history of Gorohina.

I. A collection of ancient almanacks in fifty fifty--five parts. Of

these the first twenty are covered with an old-fashioned writing;

much abbreviated. The manuscript is that of my grandfather; Andrei

Stepanovitch Belkin; and is remarkably clear and concise. For example:

4th of May. Snow.

Trishka for his impertinence beaten. 6th. The red cow died. Senka for

drunkenness beaten. 8th. A fine day. 9th. Rain and snow. Trishka for

drunkenness beaten.... and so on without comment. 11th. The weather

fine, first snow; hunted three hares. The remaining thirty-five parts

were in various hands mostly commercial with or without abbreviations,

usually profuse; disjointed; and incorrectly written. Here and there a

feminine handwriting appeared. In these years occurred my grandfather's

notes about his wife Bupraxic Aleksevna; others written by her and

others by the steward Grobovitsky.

II. The notes of the Gorohina church clerk. This curious manuscript

was discovered by me at the house of my priest; who has married the

daughter of the writer. The first earlier sheets had been torn out and

used by the priests children for making kites. One of these had fallen

in the middle of my yard. I picked it up? and was about to restore it

to the children when I noticed that it was written on. From the first

lines I saw that the kite was made out of some one's journal. Luckily I

was in time to save the rest. These journals, which I got for a measure

of oats, are remarkable for depth of thought and dignity of expression.

III. Oral legends. I despised no source of information, but I am

specially indebted for much of this to Agrafena Tryphonovna, the mother

of Avdei the starosta and reputed mistress of the steward Grobovitsky.

IV. Registry reports with remarks by the former _starosta_ on the

morality and condition of the peasants.

"31st October, 1830. Fabulous Times. The Starosta Tryphon."

The foundation of Gorohina and the history of its original inhabitants

are lost in obscurity. Dark legend tells how that Gorohina was once a

large and wealthy village, that all its inhabitants were rich, that

the obrok (the land proprietor's tithes) was collected once a year and

carted off in loads no one knew to whom. At that time everything was

bought cheap and sold dear. There were no stewards, and the elders

dealt fairly by all. The inhabitants worked little and lived merrily.

The shepherds as they watched their flocks wore boots. We must not be

deceived by this charming picture. The notion of a golden age is common

to all nations, and only proves that as people are never contented with

the present, and derive from experience small hope for the future,

they adorn the irrevocable past with all the hues of fancy. What is

certain, however, is that the village of Gorohina from ancient times

has belonged to the distinguished race of Belkins. But these ancestors

of mine had many other estates, and paid but little attention to this

remote village. Gorohina paid small tithe and was managed by elders

elected by the people in common council.

At that early period the inheritance of the Belkins was broken up, and

fell in value. The impoverished grandchildren of the rich grandsire,

unable to give up their luxurious habits, required from an estate now

only producing one tenth of its former revenue the full income of

former times. Threats followed threats. The starosta read them out in

common council. The elders declaimed, the commune agitated, and the

masters, instead of the double tithes, received tiresome excuses and

humble complaints written on dirty paper and sealed with a _polushka_

(less than a farthing).

A sombre cloud hung over Gorohina; but no one heeded it. In the last

year of Tryphon's power, the last of the starostas chosen by the

people, the day of the church festival, when the whole population

either crowded noisily round the house of entertainment (the

public-house) or wandered through the streets embracing one another

or loudly singing the songs of Arhip the Bald, there drove into the

courtyard a covered hired _britchka_ drawn by a couple of half-dead

screws, with a ragged Jew upon the box. From the britchka a head in a

cap looked out and seemed to peer curiously at the merry-making crowd.

The inhabitants greeted the carriage with laughter and rude jokes.

With the flaps of their coats turned up the madmen mocked the Jewish

driver, shouting in doggrell rhyme, "Jew, Jew, eat a pig's ear." But

how great was their astonishment (wrote the clerk) when the carriage

stopped in the middle of the village and the occupant jumped out, and

in an authoritative voice called for the starosta Tryphon. This officer

was in the house of pleasure, whence two elders led him forth holding

him under the arms. The stranger looked at him sternly, handed him a

letter, and told him to read it at once. The starostas of Gorohina

were in the habit of never reading anything themselves. The rural

clerk Avdei was sent for. He was found asleep under a hedge and was

brought before the stranger. But either from the sudden fright or from

a sad fore-boding, the words distinctly written in the letter appeared

to him in a mist, and he could not read them. The stranger sent the

starosta Tryphon and the rural clerk Avdei with terrible curses to

bed, postponing the reading of the letter till the morrow and entered

the office hut, whither the Jew carried his small trunk. The people

of Gorohina looked in amazement at this unusual incident, but the

carriage, the stranger, and the Jew were quickly forgotten. They ended

their day with noise and merriment, and Gorohina went to sleep without

presentiments of the future.

At sunrise the inhabitants were awakened with knockings at the windows

and a call to a meeting of the commune. The citizens one after the

other appeared in the courtyard round the office hut, which served as

a council ground. Their eyes were dim and red, their faces swollen;

yawning and scratching their heads, they stared at the man with the

cap, in an old blue caftan, standing pompously on the steps of the

office hut, while they tried to recollect his features, which they

seemed to have seen some time or another.

The starosta and his clerk Avdei stood by his side, bareheaded, with

the same expression of dejection and sorrow.

"Are all here?" inquired the stranger.

"Are all here?" repeated the starosta.

"The whole hundred," replied the citizens, when, the starosta informed

them that he had received a letter from the master, and, directed the

clerk to read it aloud to the commune. Avdei stepped forward and read

as follows:

N.B. This alarming document, which he kept carefully shut up in the

icon-case, together with other memorandum of his authority over the

people of Gorohina, I copied at the house of Tryphon, our starosta.

"TRYPHON IVANOFF,

"The bearer of this letter, my agent.... is going to my patrimony,

the village of Gorohina, to assume the management of it. Directly he

arrives assemble the peasants and make known to them their master's

wishes; namely, that they are to obey my agent as they would myself,

and attend to his orders without demur; otherwise he is empowered to

treat them with great severity. I have been forced to take this step

by their shameless disobedience and your, Tryphon Ivanoff, roguish

indulgence.

"(Signed) NIKOLAI _N...._

Then the agent, with his legs extended like an X and his arms akimbo

like a phitab, addressed to them the following pithy speech: "See that

you are not too troublesome, or I will certainly beat the folly out

of your heads quicker than the fumes of yesterday's drink." There

were no longer any fumes left in the head of any man of Gorohina. All

were dumbfounded, hung their noses, and dispersed in fear to their own

houses. The agent seized the reins of government, called for the list

of peasants, divided them into rich and poor, and began to carry into

effect his political system, which deserves particular description. It

was founded upon the following maxims: That the richer a peasant, the

more fractious he grows, and the poorer, the quieter.

Consequently, like a good Christian, I cared most for the peace of the

estate.

First, the deficits were distributed among the rich peasants, and were

exacted from them with the greatest severity. Second, the defaulting

or idle hands were forthwith set to plough, and if their labour proved

insufficient according to his standard, he assigned them as workmen

to the other peasants, who paid him for this a voluntary tax. The men

given as bondsmen, on the other hand, possessed the right of redeeming

themselves by paying, besides their deficit, a double annual tithe. All

the communal obligations were thrown upon the rich peasants. But the

recruiting arrangements were the masterpiece of the avaricious ruler,

for by turns all the rich peasants bought themselves off, till at last

the choice fell upon either the blackguard or the ruined one.

Communal assemblies were abolished. The tithes were collected in small

sums and all the year round. The peasants, it seems, did not pay very

much more than before, but they could not earn or save enough to pay.

In three years Gorohina was quite pauperised. Gorohina quieted down;

the bazaar was empty, the songs of Arhip the Bald were unsung, one

half the men were ploughing in the fields, the other half serving

them as bond labourers. The children went begging, and the day of the

church fête became, according to the historian, not a day of joy and

exultation, but an annual mourning and commemoration of sorrow.

FROM A GOROHINA ANNALIST.

The accursed steward put Anton Timofeieff into irons, but the old man

Timofei bought his son's freedom for one hundred rubles. The steward

then put the irons on Petrusha Gremeieff, who likewise was ransomed

by his father for sixty-eight rubles. The accursed one then wanted to

handcuff Lech Tarassoff, but he escaped into the woods, to the regret

of the steward, who vented his rage in words; but sent to town in place

of Lech Tarassoff Vanka the drunkard, and gave him for a soldier as a

substitute.

PETER THE GREAT'S NEGRO.