Stárostin smiled slightly, cleared his throat, and stroking his beard with the air of a well-to-do peasant, answered that it all depended on the mistress, and that evidently his sons had deserved well, since the order was for them to be exempt.
Garáska smashed Dútlov’s arguments about the families that had broken up, by the remark that they ought not to have been allowed to break up, as was the rule during the lifetime of the late master; but that no one went raspberry-picking when summer was over, and that one could not now conscript the only man left in a household.
‘Did they break up their households for fun? Why should they now be quite ruined?’ came the voices of the men whose families had separated; and the babblers joined in too.
‘You’d better buy a substitute if you’re not satisfied. You can afford it!’ said Rezún to Dútlov.
Dútlov wrapped his coat round him with a despairing gesture and stepped back behind the others.
‘It seems you’ve counted my money!’ he muttered angrily. ‘We shall see what Egór Mikháylovich will say when he comes from the mistress.’
VI
AT that very moment Egór Mikháylovich came out of the house. One cap after another was lifted, and as the steward approached all the heads – grey, grizzled, red, brown, fair, or bald in front or on top – were uncovered, and the voices were gradually silenced till at last all was quiet. Egór Mikháylovich stepped onto the porch, evidently intending to speak. In his long coat, his hands awkwardly thrust into the front pockets, his town-made cap pulled over his forehead, he stood firmly, with feet apart, in this elevated position, towering above all these heads – mostly old, bearded, and handsome – that were turned towards him. He was now a different man from what he had been when he stood before his mistress. He was majestic.
‘This is the mistress’s decision, men! It is not her pleasure to give up any of the house-serfs, but from among you – whom you yourselves decide on shall go. Three are wanted this time. By rights only two and a half are wanted, but the half will be taken into account next time. It comes to the same thing: if not to-day it would have to be to-morrow.’
‘Of course, that’s quite right!’ some voices said.
‘In my opinion,’ continued Egór Mikháylovich, ‘Kharyúshkin and Váska Mityúkhin must go, that is evidently God’s will.’
‘Yes, that’s quite right!’ said the voices.
‘… The third will have to be one of the Dútlovs, or one out of a two-men family.… What do you say?’
‘Dútlov!’ cried the voices. ‘There are three of them of the right age!’
And again, little by little, the shouting increased, and somehow the question of the strip of kitchen-garden and certain sacks stolen from the mistress’s yard came up again. Egór Mikháylovich had been managing the estate for the last twenty years and was a shrewd and experienced man. He stood and listened for about a quarter of an hour, then he ordered all to be silent, and the three younger Dútlovs to draw lots to see which of them was to go. The lots were prepared, shaken up in a hat, and Khrapkóv drew one out. It was Elijah’s. All became silent.
‘Is it mine? Let me see it!’ said Elijah in a faltering voice.
All remained silent. Egór Mikháylovich ordered that everybody should bring the recruit money – seven kopéks from each household – next day, and saying that all was over, dismissed the meeting. The crowd moved off, the men covered their heads as they turned the corner, and their voices and the sound of their footsteps mingled into a hum. The steward stood on the porch watching the departing crowd, and when the young Dútlovs were round the corner he beckoned old Dútlov, who had stopped of his own accord, and they went into the office.
‘I am sorry for you, old man,’ said Egór Mikháylovich, sitting down in an arm-chair before the table. ‘It was your turn though. Will you buy a recruit to take your nephew’s place, or not?’
The old man, without speaking, gave Egór Mikháylovich a significant look.
‘There’s no getting out of it,’ said Egór Mikháylovich in answer to that look.
‘We’d be glad enough to buy a substitute, Egór Mikháylovich, but we haven’t the means. Two horses went to the knacker’s this summer, and there was my nephew’s wedding.… Evidently it’s our fate … for living honestly. It’s very well for him to talk!’ (He was thinking of Rezún.)
Egór Mikháylovich rubbed his face with his hand and yawned. He was evidently tired of the business and was ready for his tea.
‘Eh, old fellow, don’t be mean!’ said he. ‘Have a hunt under your floor, I dare say you’ll turn up some four hundred old ruble notes, and I’ll get you a substitute – a regular wonder! … The other day a fellow came offering himself.’
‘In the government?’ asked Dútlov, meaning the town.
‘Well, will you buy him?’
‘I’d be glad enough, God is my witness! … but …’
Egór Mikháylovich interrupted him sternly.
‘Well then, listen to me, old man! See that Elijah does himself no mischief,5 and as soon as I send word – whether to-day or to-morrow – he is to be taken to town at once. You will take him and you will be answerable for him, but if anything should happen to him – which God forbid! – I’ll send your eldest son instead! Do you hear?’
‘But could not one be sent from a two-man family?… Egór Mikháylovich, this is not fair!’ he said. Then after a pause he went on, almost with tears: ‘When my brother has died a soldier, now they are taking my son! How have I deserved such a blow?’ and he was ready to fall on his knees.
‘Well, well, go away!’ said Egór Mikháylovich. ‘Nothing can be done. It’s the law. Keep an eye on Elijah: you’ll have to answer for him!’
Dútlov went home, thoughtfully tapping the ruts with his linden stick as he walked.
VII
EARLY next morning a big-boned bay gelding (for some reason called Drum) harnessed to a small cart (the steward himself used to drive in that cart), stood at the porch of the house-serfs’ quarters. Annie, Polikéy’s eldest daughter, barefoot in spite of the falling sleet and the cold wind, and evidently frightened, stood at the horse’s head holding the bridle at arm’s length, and with her other hand held a faded yellowy-green jacket that was thrown over her head, and which served the family as blanket, cloak, hood, carpet, overcoat for Polikéy, and many other things besides. Polikéy’s corner was all in a bustle. The dim light of a rainy morning was just glimmering in at the window, which was broken here and there and mended with paper. Akulína had left her cooking in the oven, and left her children – of whom the younger were still in bed – shivering, because the jacket that served them as blanket had been taken away to serve as a garment and only replaced by the shawl off their mother’s head. Akulína was busy getting her husband ready for his journey. His shirt was clean, but his boots, which as the saying is were ‘begging for porridge’, gave her much trouble. She had taken off her thick worsted stockings (her only pair) and given them to her husband, and had managed to cut out a pair of inner soles from a saddle-cloth (which had been carelessly left about in the stable and had been brought home by Polikéy two days before) in such a way as to stop up the holes in his boots and keep his feet dry. Polikéy sat, feet and all, on the bed, untwisting his girdle so that it should not look like a dirty cord. The cross, lisping little girl, wrapped in the sheepskin (which though it covered her head was trailing round her feet), had been dispatched to ask Nikíta to lend them a cap. The bustle was increased by house-serfs coming in to ask Polikéy to get different things for them in town. One wanted needles, another tea, a third some tobacco, and another some olive oil. The carpenter’s wife – who to conciliate Polikéy had already found time to make her samovar boil and bring him a mug full of liquid which she called tea – wanted some sugar. Though Nikíta refused to lend a cap and they had to mend his own – that is, to push in the protruding bits of wadding and sew them up with a veterinary needle; though at first the boots with the saddle-cloth soles would not go on his feet; though Annie, chilled through, nearly let Drum get out of hand, and Mary in the long sheepskin had to take her place, and then Mary had to take off the sheepskin and Akulína had to hold the horse herself – it all ended by Polikéy successfully getting all the warm family garments on himself, leaving only the jacket and a pair of slippers behind. When ready, he got into the little cart, wrapped the sheepskin round him, shook up the bag of hay at the bottom of the cart, again wrapped himself up, took the reins, wrapped the coat still closer round him as very important people do, and started.