Fifty-Two Stories

In the evening the engineer sent five roubles for the damages, and the two horses, the pony, and the bull calf, unfed and unwatered, went back home, hanging their heads like guilty men, as if they were being led out to execution.

Having received five roubles, the Lychkovs, father and son, the headman, and Volodka crossed the river in a boat, and on the other side went to the village of Kryakovo, where there was a pot-house, and reveled there for a long time. Their singing and the young Lychkov’s shouting could be heard. In the village the womenfolk worried and did not sleep all night. Rodion also did not sleep.

“It’s a bad business,” he kept saying, tossing from side to side and sighing. “The master will be angry, he’ll have us up in court…The master’s been offended…ohh, offended, it’s bad.”

One day the peasants, and Rodion in their number, went to their communal forest to do the haymaking, and on the way back they met the engineer. He was wearing a red calico shirt and high boots; behind him followed a pointer, his long tongue hanging out.

“Hello, brothers!” he said.

The peasants stopped and took their hats off.

“I’ve been meaning to talk with you for a long time now, brothers,” he went on. “The thing is this. Every day since early spring your herd has been coming to my garden and woods. Everything gets trampled, the pigs root around in the meadow, muck up the vegetable patch, and all the young trees in the woods have vanished. There’s no dealing with your herdsmen; you ask them something, and they get rude. Damage is done every day, and I do nothing, I don’t fine you, I don’t complain, and meanwhile you penned up my horses and my bull calf and took five roubles from me. Is that good? Do you call it neighborly?” he went on, and his voice was gentle, persuasive, and his look was not severe. “Is this the way decent people behave? A week ago one of you cut down two young oaks in my woods. You dug up the road to Eresnevo, and now I have to make a two-mile detour. Why do you harm me at every step? What wrong have I done you, tell me, for God’s sake? My wife and I try very hard to live in peace and harmony with you; we help the peasants all we can. My wife is a kind, warmhearted woman, she doesn’t refuse to help, it’s her dream to be of use to you and your children. But you repay our good with ill. It’s unfair, brothers. Think about it. I ask you earnestly to think about it. We treat you humanely, you should repay us in kind.”

He turned and left. The peasants stood there for a while, put on their hats, and went on. Rodion, who understood what was said to him not as it was meant, but always in some way of his own, sighed and said:

“We’ve got to pay it back. Pay it back, I say, brothers, in kind…”

They reached the village in silence. Having come home, Rodion said a prayer, took off his boots, and sat down on the bench beside his wife. When he and Stepanida were at home, they always sat next to each other and outside they always walked next to each other, they always ate, drank, and slept together, and the older they grew, the more they loved each other. Their cottage was crowded, hot, there were children everywhere—on the floor, on the windowsills, on the stove¹…Stepanida, though she was getting on in years, still bore children, and now, looking at the heap of children, it was hard to tell which were Rodion’s and which Volodka’s. Volodka’s wife, Lukerya, an unattractive young woman with bulging eyes and a bird-like nose, was kneading dough in a tub; Volodka himself was sitting on the stove, his legs hanging down.

“On the road by Nikita’s buckwheat, you know…the engineer and his dog…,” Rodion began, after resting, scratching his sides and elbows. “You’ve got to pay it back, he says…In kind, he says…In kind or not, but ten kopecks a household it should be. We’ve harmed the master a lot. I feel sorry…”

“We lived without a bridge,” Volodka said, not looking at anyone, “and we have no wish.”

“Go on! It’s a government bridge.”

“We have no wish.”

“Nobody’s asking you. Drop it!”

“ ‘Nobody’s asking’…,” Volodka mimicked. “We’ve got nowhere to go, what do we need a bridge for? When need be, we can cross in a boat.”

Someone outside knocked so hard on the window that the whole cottage seemed to shake.

“Is Volodka there?” came the voice of Lychkov the son. “Volodka, come out, let’s go!”

Volodka jumped off the stove and started looking for his cap.

“Don’t go, Volodya,” Rodion said timidly. “Don’t go with them, sonny. You’re stupid as a little child, and they won’t teach you any good. Don’t go!”

“Don’t go, sonny!” begged Stepanida, and she blinked, getting ready to weep. “They must be calling you to the pot-house.”

“ ‘To the pot-house’…,” Volodya mimicked.

“You’ll come home drunk again, you Herod-dog!” said Lukerya, looking at him spitefully. “Go, go, and I hope you burn up with vodka, you tail-less Satan!”

“Shut up!” cried Volodka.