I
Kornéy Vasílyef was fifty-four when he had last visited his village. There was no grey to be seen in his thick curly hair, and his black beard was only a little grizzly at the cheekbones. His face was smooth and ruddy, the nape of his neck broad and firm, and his whole strong body padded with fat as a result of town life and good fare.
He had finished army service twenty years ago, and had returned to the village with a little money. He first began shopkeeping, and then took to cattle-dealing. He went to Tcherkásy, in the province of Kiev, for his “goods”—that is, cattle—and drove them to Moscow.
In his iron-roofed brick house in the village of Gáyi lived his old mother, his wife and two children (a girl and a boy), and also his orphan nephew—a dumb lad of fifteen—and a labourer.
Kornéy had married twice. His first wife was a weak, sickly woman who died without having any children; and he, a middle-aged widower, had married a strong, handsome girl, the daughter of a poor widow from a neighbouring village. His children were by this second wife.
Kornéy had sold his last lot of cattle so profitably in Moscow that he had about three thousand roubles; and having learnt from a fellow-countryman that near their village a ruined landowner’s forest was for sale at a bargain, he thought he would go in for the timber trade also. He knew the business, for before serving in the army he had been assistant clerk to a timber merchant, and had managed a wood.
At the railway-station nearest to Gáyi, Kornéy met a fellow-villager, “one-eyed Kouzmá.” Kouzmá came from Gáyi with his pair of poor shaggy horses to meet every train, seeking for fares. Kouzmá was poor, and therefore disliked all rich folk, and especially Kornéy, of whom he spoke contemptuously.
Kornéy, in his cloth coat and sheepskin, came out of the station and stood in the porch, portmanteau in hand, a portly figure, puffing and looking about him. It was a calm, grey, slightly frosty morning.
“What, haven’t you got a fare, Daddy Kouzmá?” he asked. “Will you take me?”
“Yes, for a rouble I will.”
“Seventy kopecks is plenty.”
“There, now! He’s stuffed his own paunch, but wants to squeeze thirty kopecks out of a poor man!”
“Well, all right, then … drive up!” said Kornéy.
And, placing his portmanteau and bundle in the small sledge, he sat down, filling the whole of the back seat. Kouzmá remained on the box in front.
“All right, drive on.”
They drove across the ruts near the station and reached the smooth high road.
“Well, and how go things in the village—with you, I mean?” asked Kornéy.
“Why, not up to much.”
“How’s that? … And is my old mother still alive?”
“The old woman’s alive. She was at church t’other day. She’s alive, and so is your missis. … She’s right enough. She’s taken a new labourer.”
And Kouzmá laughed in a queer way, as it seemed to Kornéy.
“A labourer? Why, what’s become of Peter?”
“Peter fell ill. She’s taken Justin from Kámenka—from her own village, you see.”
“Dear me!” said Kornéy.
When Kornéy was courting Martha, there had been some talk among the womenfolk about this Justin.
“Ah, yes, Kornéy Vasílyef!” Kouzmá went on; “the women have got quite out of hand nowadays.”
“No doubt about it,” muttered Kornéy. “But your grey horse has grown old,” he added, wishing to change the subject.
“I am not young myself. He matches his master,” answered Kouzmá, touching up the shaggy, bowlegged gelding with his whip.
Halfway to the village was an inn where Kornéy, having told Kouzmá to stop, went in. Kouzmá led his horses to an empty manger, and stood pulling the harness straight, without looking Kornéy’s way, but expecting to be called in to have a drink.
“Come in, won’t you, Daddy Kouzmá?” said Kornéy, coming out into the porch. “Come in and have a glass.”
“I don’t mind if I do,” answered Kouzmá, pretending not to be in a hurry.
Kornéy ordered a bottle of vodka, and offered some to Kouzmá. Kouzmá, who had eaten nothing since morning, soon got intoxicated; and immediately sidling up to Kornéy, began to repeat in a whisper what was being said in the village—namely, that Kornéy’s wife, Martha, had taken on her former lover as labourer, and was now living with him.
“What’s it to me? … But I’m sorry for you,” said tipsy Kouzmá. “It’s not nice, and people are laughing. One sees she’s not afraid of sinning. ‘But,’ thinks I, ‘just you wait a bit! Presently your man will come back!’ … That’s how it is, brother Kornéy.”
Kornéy listened in silence to Kouzmá’s words, and his thick eyebrows descended lower and lower over his sparkling jet-black eyes.
“Are you going to water your horses?” was all he said, when the bottle was empty. “No? Then let’s get on!”
He paid the landlord, and went out.
It was dusk before he reached home. The first person he met there was this same Justin, about whom he had not been able to help thinking all the way home. Kornéy said, “How do you do?” to this thin, pale-faced, bustling Justin, but then shook his head doubtfully.
“That old hound, Kouzmá, has been lying,” thought he. “But who knows? Anyhow, I’ll find out all about it.”
Kouzmá stood beside the horses, winking towards Justin with his one eye.
“So you are living here?” Kornéy inquired.
“Why not? One must work somewhere,” Justin replied.
“Is our room heated?”
“Why, of course! Martha Matvéyevna is there,” answered Justin.
Kornéy went up the steps of the porch. Hearing his voice, Martha came out into the passage, and, seeing her husband, she flushed, and greeted him hurriedly and with special tenderness.
“Mother and I had almost given up waiting for you,” she said, following him into the room.
“Well, and how have you been getting on without me?”
“We go on in the same old way,” she answered; and snatching up her two-year-old daughter, who was pulling at her skirts and asking for milk, she went with large firm strides back into the passage.
Kornéy’s mother (whose black eyes resembled her son’s) entered the room, dragging her feet in their thick felt boots.
“Glad you’ve come to see us,” said she, nodding her shaking head.
Kornéy told his mother what business had brought him, and remembering Kouzmá, went out to pay him.
Hardly had he opened the door into the passage, when, right in front of him by the door leading into the yard, he saw Martha and Justin. They were standing close together, and she was speaking to him. Seeing Kornéy, Justin scuttled into the yard, and Martha went up to the samovar standing there, and began adjusting the roaring chimney put on to make it draw.
Kornéy passed silently behind her stooping back, and, taking his portmanteau and bundle out of the sledge, asked Kouzmá into the house to drink tea. Before tea, Kornéy gave his family the presents he had brought from Moscow: for his mother, a woollen shawl; for his boy Fédka, a picture-book; for his dumb nephew, a waistcoat; and for his wife, print for a dress.
At the tea-table Kornéy sat sullen and silent, only now and then smiling reluctantly at the dumb lad, who amused everybody by his delight at the new waistcoat. He did not know what to do for joy. He put it away, unfolded it again, put it on, and smilingly kissed his hand, looking gratefully at Kornéy.
After tea and supper, Kornéy went at once to the part of the hut where he slept with Martha and their little daughter. Martha remained in the larger half of the hut to clear away the tea-things. Kornéy sat by himself at the table, leant his head on his hand, and waited. Rising anger towards his wife stirred within him. He took down a counting-frame from a nail in the wall, drew his notebook from his pocket, and to divert his thoughts began making up his accounts. He sat reckoning, looking towards the door, and listening to the voices in the other half of the house.
Several times he heard the door go, and steps in the passage, but not hers. At last he heard her step and a pull at the door, which yielded. She entered, rosy and handsome, with a red kerchief on her head, carrying her little girl in her arms.
“You must be tired out after your journey,” said she, smiling, as if not noticing his sullen looks.
Kornéy glanced at her, and, without replying, again began calculating, though he had nothing more to count.
“It’s getting late,” she said, and, setting down the child, she went behind the partition. He could hear her making the bed and putting her little daughter to sleep.
“People are laughing,” thought Kornéy, recalling Kouzmá’s words. “But just you wait a bit!” And, breathing hard, he rose slowly, put the stump of his pencil into his waistcoat pocket, hung the counting-frame on its nail, and went to the door of the partition. She was standing facing the icons and praying. He stopped and waited. She crossed herself many times, bowed down, and whispered her prayers. It seemed to him that she had already finished all her prayers, and was repeating them over and over again. But at last she bowed down to the ground, got up, whispered a few more words of prayer, and turned towards him.
“Agatha is already asleep,” said she, pointing to the little girl, and smilingly sat down on the creaking bed.
“Has Justin been here long?” said Kornéy, entering.
With a quiet movement she threw one of her heavy plaits over her bosom, and with deft fingers began unplaiting it. She looked straight at him and her eyes laughed.
“Justin? … Oh, I don’t know. Two or three weeks. …”
“You are living with him?” brought out Kornéy.
She let the plait drop from her hands, but immediately caught up her thick hard hair again, and began plaiting it.
“What won’t people invent? I … live with Justin!” She pronounced the name “Justin” with a peculiar ringing intonation. “What an idea! Who said so?”
“Tell me, is it true or not?” said Kornéy, clenching his powerful fists in his pockets.
“What’s the use of talking such rubbish? … Shall I help you off with your boots?”
“I am asking you a question …” he insisted.
“Dear me! … What a treasure! Fancy Justin proving a temptation to me!” she said. “Who’s been telling you lies?”
“What were you saying to him in the passage?”
“What was I saying? Why, that the tub wanted a new hoop. … But what are you bothering me for?”
“I command you: tell me the truth! … or I’ll kill you, you dirty slut!”
And he seized her by the plait. She pulled it out of his hand, and her face contracted with pain.
“Beating’s all I’ve ever had from you! What good have I had of you? … A life like mine’s enough to drive one to anything!”
“… To what?” uttered he, approaching her.
“What have you pulled half my plait out for? There … it’s coming out by handfuls! … What are you bothering for? And it’s true! …”
She did not finish. He seized her by the arm, pulled her off the bed, and began beating her head, her sides, and her breast. The more he beat her, the fiercer grew his anger. She screamed, defended herself, and tried to get away; but he would not let her go. The little girl woke up and rushed to her mother.
“Mammy!” she cried.
Kornéy seized the child’s arm, tore her from her mother, and threw her into a corner as though she were a kitten. The child gave a yell, and for some seconds became silent.
“Murderer! … You’ve killed the child!” shouted Martha, and tried to get to her daughter. But he caught her again, and struck her breast so that she fell back and also became silent. But the little girl was again screaming, desperately and unceasingly.
His old mother, without her kerchief, her grey hair all in disorder and her head shaking, tottered into the room, and, without looking either at Kornéy or at Martha, went to her granddaughter, who was weeping desperately, and lifted her up.
Kornéy stood breathing heavily, looking about as if he had just woke up and did not know where he was or who was with him.
Martha raised her head, and groaning, wiped some blood from her face with her sleeve.
“Hateful brute!” said she. “Yes, I am living with Justin, and have lived with him! … There, now, kill me outright! … And Agatha is not your daughter, but his! …” and she quickly covered her face with her elbow, expecting a blow.
But Kornéy seemed not to understand anything, and only sniffed and looked about him.
“See what you’ve done to the girl! You’ve put her arm out,” said his mother, showing him the dislocated, helpless arm of the girl, who did not cease screaming. Kornéy turned away, and silently went out into the passage and into the porch.
Outside it was still frosty and dull. Hoarfrost fell on his burning cheeks and forehead. He sat on the step and ate handfuls of snow, gathering it from the handrail. From indoors came Martha’s groans and the girl’s piteous cries. Then the door into the passage opened, and he heard his mother leave the bedroom with the child and go through the passage into the other half of the house. He rose and returned to the bedroom. The half-turned-down lamp on the table gave a dim light. From behind the partition came Martha’s groans, which grew louder when he entered.
In silence he put on his outdoor things, drew his portmanteau from under the bench, packed it, and tied it up with a cord.
“Why have you killed me? What for? … What have I done to you?” said Martha in a doleful voice.
Kornéy, without replying, lifted his portmanteau and carried it to the door.
“Felon! … Brigand! … Just you wait! Do you think there’s no law for the likes of you?” said she bitterly, and in quite a different voice.
Kornéy, without answering, pushed the door with his foot, and slammed it so violently that the walls shook.
Going into the other part of the house, Kornéy roused the dumb lad and told him to harness the horse. The lad, half awake, looked at his uncle with astonishment, questioningly, and scratched his head with both hands. At last, understanding what was wanted of him, he jumped up, drew on his high felt boots and torn coat, took a lantern, and went to the door.
It was already quite light when Kornéy, in the small sledge, drove out of the gateway with the dumb lad, and went back along the same road he had driven over in the evening with Kouzmá.
He reached the station five minutes before the train started. The dumb lad saw how he bought his ticket, carried his portmanteau, and took his place in the carriage, and how he nodded to him, and the train moved out of sight.
Besides the blows on her face, Martha had two smashed ribs and a broken head. But the strong, healthy young woman recovered within six months, so that no trace of her injuries remained.
The girl, however, was maimed for life. Two bones were broken in her arm, and it remained twisted.
Of Kornéy, from the time he went away nothing more had been heard, and no one knew whether he was alive or dead.