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Peasants by Chekhov
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VII The master arrived -- that was what they called the police
inspector. When he would come and what he was coming for had
been known for the last week. There were only forty households
in Zhukovo, but more than two thousand roubles of arrears of
rates and taxes had accumulated.
The police inspector stopped at the tavern. He drank there two
glasses of tea, and then went on foot to the village elder's
hut, near which a crowd of those who were in debt stood waiting.
The elder, Antip Syedelnikov, was, in spite of his youth -- he
was only a little over thirty -- strict and always on the side
of the authorities, though he himself was poor and did not pay
his taxes regularly. Evidently he enjoyed being elder, and liked
the sense of authority, which he could only display by
strictness. In the village council the peasants were afraid of
him and obeyed him. It would sometimes happen that he would
pounce on a drunken man in the street or near the tavern, tie
his hands behind him, and put him in the lock-up. On one
occasion he even put Granny in the lock-up because she went to
the village council instead of Osip, and began swearing, and he
kept her there for a whole day and night. He had never lived in
a town or read a book, but somewhere or other had picked up
various learned expressions, and loved to make use of them in
conversation, and he was respected for this though he was not
always understood.
When Osip came into the village elder's hut with his tax book,
the police inspector, a lean old man with a long grey beard, in
a grey tunic, was sitting at a table in the passage, writing
something. It was clean in the hut; all the walls were dotted
with pictures cut out of the illustrated papers, and in the most
conspicuous place near the ikon there was a portrait of the
Battenburg who was the Prince of Bulgaria. By the table stood
Antip Syedelnikov with his arms folded.
"There is one hundred and nineteen roubles standing against
him," he said when it came to Osip's turn. "Before Easter he
paid a rouble, and he has not paid a kopeck since."
The police inspector raised his eyes to Osip and asked:
"Why is this, brother?"
"Show Divine mercy, your honour," Osip began, growing agitated.
"Allow me to say last year the gentleman at Lutorydsky said to
me, 'Osip,' he said, 'sell your hay . . . you sell it,' he said.
Well, I had a hundred poods for sale; the women mowed it on the
water-meadow. Well, we struck a bargain all right, willingly. .
. ."
He complained of the elder, and kept turning round to the
peasants as though inviting them to bear witness; his face
flushed red and perspired, and his eyes grew sharp and angry.
"I don't know why you are saying all this," said the police
inspector. "I am asking you . . . I am asking you why you don't
pay your arrears. You don't pay, any of you, and am I to be
responsible for you?"
"I can't do it."
"His words have no sequel, your honour," said the elder. "The
Tchikildyeevs certainly are of a defective class, but if you
will just ask the others, the root of it all is vodka, and they
are a very bad lot. With no sort of understanding."
The police inspector wrote something down, and said to Osip
quietly, in an even tone, as though he were asking him for
water:
"Be off."
Soon he went away; and when he got into his cheap chaise and
cleared his throat, it could be seen from the very expression of
his long thin back that he was no longer thinking of Osip or of
the village elder, nor of the Zhukovo arrears, but was thinking
of his own affairs. Before he had gone three-quarters of a mile
Antip was already carrying off the samovar from the
Tchikildyeevs' cottage, followed by Granny, screaming shrilly
and straining her throat:
"I won't let you have it, I won't let you have it, damn you!"
He walked rapidly with long steps, and she pursued him panting,
almost falling over, a bent, ferocious figure; her kerchief
slipped on to her shoulders, her grey hair with greenish lights
on it was blown about in the wind. She suddenly stopped short,
and like a genuine rebel, fell to beating her breast with her
fists and shouting louder than ever in a sing-song voice, as
though she were sobbing:
"Good Christians and believers in God! Neighbours, they have
ill-treated me! Kind friends, they have oppressed me! Oh, oh!
dear people, take my part."
"Granny, Granny!" said the village elder sternly, "have some
sense in your head!"
It was hopelessly dreary in the Tchikildyeevs' hut without the
samovar; there was something humiliating in this loss,
insulting, as though the honour of the hut had been outraged.
Better if the elder had carried off the table, all the benches,
all the pots -- it would not have seemed so empty. Granny
screamed, Marya cried, and the little girls, looking at her,
cried, too. The old father, feeling guilty, sat in the corner
with bowed head and said nothing. And Nikolay, too, was silent.
Granny loved him and was sorry for him, but now, forgetting her
pity, she fell upon him with abuse, with reproaches, shaking her
fist right in his face. She shouted that it was all his fault;
why had he sent them so little when he boasted in his letters
that he was getting fifty roubles a month at the Slavyansky
Bazaar? Why had he come, and with his family, too? If he died,
where was the money to come from for his funeral . . . ? And it
was pitiful to look at Nikolay, Olga, and Sasha.
The old father cleared his throat, took his cap, and went off to
the village elder. Antip was soldering something by the stove,
puffing out his cheeks; there was a smell of burning. His
children, emaciated and unwashed, no better than the
Tchikildyeevs, were scrambling about the floor; his wife, an
ugly, freckled woman with a prominent stomach, was winding silk.
They were a poor, unlucky family, and Antip was the only one who
looked vigorous and handsome. On a bench there were five
samovars standing in a row. The old man said his prayer to
Battenburg and said:
"Antip, show the Divine mercy. Give me back the samovar, for
Christ's sake!"
"Bring three roubles, then you shall have it.
"I can't do it!"
Antip puffed out his cheeks, the fire roared and hissed, and the
glow was reflected in the samovar. The old man crumpled up his
cap and said after a moment's thought:
"You give it me back."
The swarthy elder looked quite black, and was like a magician;
he turned round to Osip and said sternly and rapidly:
"It all depends on the rural captain. On the twenty-sixth
instant you can state the grounds for your dissatisfaction
before the administrative session, verbally or in writing."
Osip did not understand a word, but he was satisfied with that
and went home.
Ten days later the police inspector came again, stayed an hour
and went away. During those days the weather had changed to cold
and windy; the river had been frozen for some time past, but
still there was no snow, and people found it difficult to get
about. On the eve of a holiday some of the neighbours came in to
Osip's to sit and have a talk. They did not light the lamp, as
it would have been a sin to work, but talked in the darkness.
There were some items of news, all rather unpleasant. In two or
three households hens had been taken for the arrears, and had
been sent to the district police station, and there they had
died because no one had fed them; they had taken sheep, and
while they were being driven away tied to one another, shifted
into another cart at each village, one of them had died. And now
they were discussing the question, who was to blame?
"The Zemstvo," said Osip. "Who else?"
"Of course it is the Zemstvo."
The Zemstvo was blamed for everything -- for the arrears, and
for the oppressions, and for the failure of the crops, though no
one of them knew what was meant by the Zemstvo. And this dated
from the time when well-to-do peasants who had factories, shops,
and inns of their own were members of the Zemstvos, were
dissatisfied with them, and took to swearing at the Zemstvos in
their factories and inns.
They talked of God's not sending the snow; they had to bring in
wood for fuel, and there was no driving nor walking in the
frozen ruts. In old days fifteen to twenty years ago
conversation was much more interesting in Zhukovo. In those days
every old man looked as though he were treasuring some secret;
as though he knew something and was expecting something. They
used to talk about an edict in golden letters, about the
division of lands, about new land, about treasures; they hinted
at something. Now the people of Zhukovo had no mystery at all;
their whole life was bare and open in the sight of all, and they
could talk of nothing but poverty, food, there being no snow
yet. . . .
There was a pause. Then they thought again of the hens, of the
sheep, and began discussing whose fault it was.
"The Zemstvo," said Osip wearily. "Who else?"
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