Rezún the carpenter, a tall dark man, was, on the contrary, a riotous drunkard, very smart in a dispute and in arguing with workmen, tradespeople, peasants, or gentlefolk, at meetings and fairs. Now he was self-possessed and sarcastic, and from his superior height was crushing down the spluttering church Elder with the whole strength of his ringing voice and oratorical talent. The church Elder was exasperated out of his usual sober groove. Besides these, the youngish, round-faced, square-headed, curly-bearded, thick-set Garáska Kopýlov, one of the speakers of the younger generation, followed Rezún and took part in the dispute. He had already gained some weight at village meetings, having distinguished himself by his trenchant speeches. Then there was Theodore Mélnichny, a tall, thin, yellow-faced, round-shouldered man, also young, with a scanty beard and small eyes, always embittered and gloomy, seeing the dark side of everything and often bewildering the meeting by unexpected and abrupt questions and remarks. Both these speakers sided with Rezún. Besides these there were two babblers who now and then joined in: one, called Khrapkóv, with a most good-humoured face and flowing brown beard, who kept repeating the words, ‘Oh, my dearest friend!’ the other, Zhidkóv, a little fellow with a birdlike face who also kept remarking at every opportunity, ‘That’s how it is, brothers mine!’ addressing himself to everybody and speaking fluently but never to the point. Both of these sided first with one and then with the other party, but no one listened to them. There were others like them, but these two, who kept moving through the crowd and shouting louder than anybody and frightening the mistress, were listened to less than anyone else. Intoxicated by the noise and shouting, they gave themselves up entirely to the pleasure of letting their tongues wag. There were many other characters among the members of the commune, stern, respectable, indifferent, or depressed; and there were women standing behind the men with sticks in their hands, but, God willing, I’ll speak of them some other time. The greater part of the crowd, however, consisted of peasants who stood as if they were in church, whispering behind each other’s backs about home affairs, or of when to cut faggots in the wood, or silently awaiting the end of the jabber. There were also rich peasants whose well-being the meeting could not add to nor diminish. Such was Ermíl, with his broad shiny face, whom the peasants called the ‘big-bellied’, because he was rich. Such too was Stárostin, whose face showed a self-satisfied expression of power that seemed to say, ‘You may talk away, but no one will touch me! I have four sons, but not one of them will have to go.’ Now and then these two were attacked by some independent thinker such as Kopýlov and Rezún, but they replied quietly and firmly and with a consciousness of their own inviolability. If Dútlov was like the mother-hen in the game of Hawk and Chickens, his lads did not much resemble the chickens. They did not flutter about and squeak, but stood quietly behind him. His eldest son, Ignát, was already thirty; the second, Vasíli, also was already a married man and moreover not fit for a recruit; the third, his nephew Elijah, who had just got married – a fair, rosy young man in a smart sheepskin coat (he was a post-chaise driver) – stood looking at the crowd, sometimes scratching his head under his hat, as if the whole matter was no concern of his, though it was just on him that the hawks wished to swoop down.
‘If it comes to that, my grandfather was a soldier,’ said one, ‘and so I might refuse to draw lots in just the same way! … There’s no such law, friend. Last recruiting, Mikhéchev was taken though his uncle had not even returned from service then.’
‘Neither your father nor your uncle ever served the Tsar,’ Dútlov was saying at the same time. ‘Why, you don’t even serve the mistress or the commune, but spend all your time in the pub. Your sons have separated from you because it’s impossible to live with you, so you go suggesting other people’s sons for recruits! But I have done police duty for ten years, and served as Elder. Twice I have been burnt out, and no one helped me over it; and now, because things are peaceable and decent in my home, am I to be ruined?… Give me back my brother, then! He has died in service for sure.… Judge honestly according to God’s law, Christian commune, and don’t listen to a drunkard’s drivel.’
And at the same time Geráska was saying to Dútlov:
‘You are making your brother an excuse; but he was not sent by the commune. He was sent by the master because of his evil ways, so he’s no excuse for you.’
Geráska had not finished when the lank yellow-faced Theodore Mélnichny stepped forward and began dismally:
‘Yes, that’s the way! The masters send whom they please, and then the commune has to get the muddle straight. The commune has fixed on your lad, and if you don’t like it, go and ask the lady. Perhaps she will order me, the one man of our family, to leave my children and go! … There’s law for you!’ he said bitterly, and waving his hand he went back to his former place.
Red-haired Román, whose son had been chosen as a recruit, raised his head and muttered: ‘That’s it, that’s it!’ and even sat down on the step in vexation.
But these were not the only ones who were speaking at once. Besides those at the back who were talking about their own affairs, the babblers did not forget to do their part.
‘And so it is, faithful commune,’ said little Zhidkóv, supporting Dútlov. ‘One must judge in a Christian way.… Like Christians I mean, brothers, we must judge.’
‘One must judge according to one’s conscience, my dear friend,’ spoke the good-humoured Khrapkóv, repeating Garáska Kopýlov’s words and pulling Dútlov by his sheepskin coat. ‘It was the master’s will and not the commune’s decision.’
‘That’s right! So it was!’ said others.
‘What drunkard is drivelling there?’ Rezún retorted to Dútlov. ‘Did you stand me any drinks? Or is your son, whom they pick up by the roadside, going to reproach me for drinking?… Friends, we must decide! If you want to spare the Dútlovs, choose not only out of families with two men, but even an only son, and he will have the laugh of us!’
‘A Dútlov will have to go! What’s the good of talking?’
‘Of course the three-men families must be the first to draw lots,’ began different voices.
‘We must first see what the mistress will say. Egór Mikháylovich was saying that they wished to send a house-serf,’ put in a voice.
This remark checked the dispute for a while, but soon it flared up anew and again came to personalities.
Ignát, whom Rezún had accused of being picked up drunk by the roadside, began to make out that Rezún had stolen a saw from some travelling carpenters, and that he had almost beaten his wife to death when he was drunk.
Rezún replied that he beat his wife drunk or sober, and still it was not enough, and this set everybody laughing. But about the saw he became suddenly indignant, stepped closer to Ignát and asked:
‘Who stole? …’
‘You did,’ replied the sturdy Ignát, drawing still closer.
‘Who stole?… Wasn’t it you?’ shouted Rezún.
‘No, it was you,’ said Ignát.
From the saw they went on to the theft of a horse, a sack of oats, some strip of communal kitchen-garden, and to a certain dead body, and the two peasants said such terrible things of one another that if a hundredth part of them had been true they would by law at the very least have deserved exile to Siberia.
In the meantime old Dútlov had chosen another way of defending himself. He did not like his son’s shouting, and tried to stop him, saying: ‘It’s a sin.… Leave off I tell you!’ At the same time he argued that not only those who had three young men at home were three-men families, but also those whose sons had separated from them, and he also pointed to Stárostin.