Fifty-Two Stories

“They married me off to a fool, a red-haired drunkard—me, a wretched orphan—they ruined me…,” Lukerya wailed, wiping her face with her hand, which was all covered with dough. “I wish I’d never set eyes on you!”

Volodka hit her on the ear and left.

III

Elena Ivanovna and her little daughter came to the village on foot. They were taking a walk. It happened to be Sunday, and the women and girls had come outside in their bright dresses. Rodion and Stepanida, who were sitting next to each other on the porch, bowed and smiled to Elena Ivanovna and her girl as if to acquaintances. Ten or more children looked out at them through the windows; their faces expressed perplexity and curiosity, and whispering was heard.

“Kucherov’s woman! It’s Kucherov’s woman!”

“Hello,” Elena Ivanovna said and stopped; after a pause, she asked, “Well, how are you doing?”

“We’re doing all right, God be thanked!” Rodion replied in a quick patter. “We live, as you see.”

“As if this is a life!” Stepanida smirked. “You can see for yourself, lady, dearest, it’s poverty! We’re fourteen in the family, and only two breadwinners. They call us blacksmiths, but when a horse is brought to be shod, there’s no coal, no money to buy it. It’s torment, lady,” she went on, and started laughing. “A-ah, what torment!”

Elena Ivanovna sat down on the porch and, embracing her girl, fell to thinking about something, and the girl, too, judging by her face, had some cheerless thoughts wandering in her head; brooding, she toyed with the pretty lace parasol she took from her mother’s hands.

“Poverty!” said Rodion. “There’s many cares, we work—and there’s no end in sight. Now God isn’t sending rain…We don’t live well, that’s for sure.”

“In this life it’s hard for you,” said Elena Ivanovna, “but in the other world you’ll be happy.”

Rodion did not understand her and only coughed into his fist in response. And Stepanida said:

“Lady, dearest, for a rich man things will be well in the other world, too. A rich man lights candles, offers prayer services, gives alms, but what about a peasant? You’ve got no time to cross yourself, lowest of the low, there’s no way to save yourself. Many sins also come from poverty, out of grief we all quarrel like dogs, never say a decent word, and what doesn’t go on, dearest lady—God forbid! It must be there’s no happiness for us either in the other world or in this one. All happiness goes to the rich.”

She spoke cheerfully; obviously, she had long been used to talking about her hard life. And Rodion also smiled; he was pleased that his old woman was so intelligent and garrulous.

“It only seems that things are easy for the rich,” said Elena Ivanovna. “Every person has his grief. We, my husband and I, aren’t poor, we have means, but are we happy? I’m still young, but I already have four children; they’re sick all the time, and I’m also sick and constantly being treated.”

“And what kind of sickness is it?” asked Rodion.

“A woman’s. I can’t sleep, headaches give me no peace. I’m sitting here, talking, but something’s not right in my head, I’m weak all over, and I agree that the hardest work is better than such a condition. And my soul is also not at peace. I constantly worry about the children and my husband. There’s some sort of grief in every family, and so there is in ours. I’m not from the gentry. My grandfather was a simple peasant, my father went into trade in Moscow and was also a simple man. But my husband’s parents are noble and rich. They didn’t want him to marry me, but he disobeyed, quarreled with them, and they still haven’t forgiven us. This upsets my husband, worries him, keeps him in constant anxiety. He loves his mother, loves her very much. Well, and I’m upset, too. My soul aches.”

Around Rodion’s cottage peasants, men and women, were already standing and listening. Kozov also came and stopped, twitching his long, narrow beard. The Lychkovs, father and son, came.

“And, of course, you can’t be happy and content unless you feel you’re in your own place,” Elena Ivanovna went on. “Each of you has his own strip of land, each of you works and knows why he works; my husband builds bridges—in a word, each of you has his own place. And me? I just walk around. I don’t have my own land, I don’t work, and I feel like a stranger. I’m saying all this so that you won’t judge by external appearances. If somebody wears expensive clothes and is well off, that still doesn’t mean that he’s pleased with his life.”

She got up to leave and took her daughter by the hand.

“I like it here with you very much,” she said and smiled, and by that weak, timid smile one could tell how unwell she really was, how young she was still, and how attractive. She had a pale, lean face with dark eyebrows, and blond hair. And the girl was just like her mother, lean, blond, and slender. They smelled of perfume.