"And where is brother Kiryak?" he asked, when they had greeted each other.
"He works as a watchman for a merchant," answered his father; "he stays there in the woods. He ain't a bad worker, but he's too fond of the drink."
"He's no breadwinner," said the old woman tearfully. "Our men are a poor lot; they bring nothing into the house, but take plenty out. Kiryak drinks, and the old man too knows his way to the tavern—it's no use hid- ing the sin. The wrath of the Queen of Heaven is on us."
On account of the guests they heated the samovar. The tea smelt of fish; the sugar was gray and had been nibbled; cockroaches ran about over the bread and the crockery. It was disgusting to drink the tea, and the conversation was disgusting, too—about nothing but poverty and sickness. And before they had emptied their first cups there came a loud, long-drawn-out, drunken shout from the courtyard: "Ma-aryal"
"Looks like Kiryak's coming," said the old man. 'Talk of the devil—"
Silence fell. And after a little while, the shout sounded again, coarse and long-drawn-out, as though it came from under the ground: "Ma-arya!"
Marya, the elder daughter-in-law, turned pale and huddled against the stove, and it was odd to see the look of terror on the face of this strong, broad-shoul- dered, homely woman. Her daughter, the apathetic- looking little girl who had been sitting on the stove, suddenly broke into loud weeping.
"What are you bawling for, you pest?" Fyokla, a handsome woman, also strong and broad-shouldered, shouted at her. "He won't kill her, no fear!"
From the old man Nikolay learned that Marya was afraid to live in the woods with Kiryak, and that when- ever he was drunk he came for her, raised Cain, and beat her mercilessly.
"Ma-arya!" the shout sounded at the very door.
"Help me, for Christ's sake, good people," stammered Marya, breathing as though she were being plunged into icy water. "Help me, good people—"
All the children in the cabin began crying, and af- fected by their example, Sasha, too, began to cry. A drunken cough was heard, and a tall, black-bearded peasant wearing a winter cap came into the cabin, and because his face could not be seen in the dim light of the little lamp, he looked terrifying. It was Kiryak. Go- ing up to his wife, he swung his arm and punched her in the face; stunned by the blow, she did not utter a sound, but sank down, and her nose instantly began bleeding.
"What a shame! What a shame!" muttered the old man, clambering up onto the stove. "Before guests, too! What a sin!"
The old woman sat silent, hunched, lost in thought; Fyokla rocked the cradle.
Evidently aware of inspiring terror, and pleased by it, Kiryak seized Marya by the arm, dragged her to- ward the door, and growled like a beast in order to seem still more terrible; but at that moment he suddenly caught sight of the guests and halted.
"Oh, they have come . . ." he said, letting go of his wife; "my own brother with his family . . ."
Staggering and opening his blood-shot, drunken eyes wide, he muttered a prayer before the icon and went on:
"My dear brother and his family, come to the paren- tal house—from Moscow, I mean. The ancient capital city of Moscow, I mean, mother of cities— Excuse me."
He sank down on the bench near the samovar and began drinking tea, sipping it loudly from the saucer amid general silence. He drank a dozen cups, then lay down on the bench and began to snore.
They started going to bed. Nikolay, being ill, was to sleep on the stove with the old man; Sasha lay down on the floor, while Olga went into the shed with the other women.
"Now, now, dearie," she said, lying-down on the hay beside Marya; "tears won't help. Bear your cross, that's aU. It says in Scripture: 'Whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.' . . . Now, now, dearie."
Then, speaking under her breath in a singsong, she told them about Moscow, about her life, how she h::.d been a chambermaid in furnished rooms.
"And in Moscow the houses are big, made of stone," she said; "and there are many, many churches, forty times forty, dearie; and in the houses they're all gentry, so goodlooking and so proper!"
Marya said that not only had she never been to Mos- cow, but had not even been in their own district town; she could neither read nor write, and knew no prayers, not even "Our Father." Both she and Fyokla, her sister- in-law, who was sitting a little way off listening, were exceedingly backward and dull-witted. They both dis- liked their husbands; Marya was afraid of Kiryak, and whenever he stayed with her she shook with fear, and al- ways got a headache from the fumes of vodka and tobacco of which he reeked. And in response to the question whether she did not miss her husband, Fyokla replied sourly:
"Deuce take him!"
They talked a while and then grew silent.
It was cool, and a cock was crowing at the top of his voice near the shed, interfering with sleep. When the bluish morning light was already showing through every crack, Fyokla got up quietly and went out, and then they heard her hurry off somewhere, her bare feet thumping as she ran.
II
Olga went to church, and took Marya with her. As they went down the path toward the meadow both were cheerful. Olga liked the open country, and Marya felt that in her sister-in-law she had found someone near and dear to her. The sun was rising. Low over the meadow hovered a drowsy hawk; the river looked dull; wisps of mist were floating here and there, but on the farther shore a streak of light already lay across the hill; the church was shining, and in the garden attached to the manor the rooks were cawing frantically.
"The old man ain't bad," Marya told her, "but Cranny is strict, and is free with her hand. Our own flour lasted till Carnival, and now we buy it at the tavern; so she's cross; she says we eat too much."
"Now, now, dearie! Bear your cross, that's all. It's written: 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden.'"
Olga spoke sedately, in a singsong, and her gait was that of a pilgrim woman, rapid and fidgety. Every day she read the gospel, read it aloud like a deacon; a great deal of it she did not understand, but the sacred phrases moved her to tears, and such words as "behold" and "whosoever" she pronounced with a sweet faintness at her heart. She believed in God, in the Holy Virgin, in the saints; she believed that it was wrong to harm any- one—whether simple folk, or Germans, or gypsies, or Jews—and that misfortune awaited even those who did not pity animals. She believed that this was written in the Scriptures; and so when she pronounced words from Holy Writ, even though she did not understand them, her face softened with emotion, grew compassionate and radiant.
"Where do you come from?" Marya asked her.
"I am from the province of Vladimir. But I was taken to Moscow long ago, when I was eight years old."
They reached the river. On the other side a woman stood at the water's edge, taking off her clothes.
"That's our Fyokla," said Marya, recognizing her. "She's been across the river to the manor yard. She's been with the squire's men. She's a hussy and foul- mouthed—she is that!"
Black-browed Fyokla, her hair undone, still young and with the firm flesh of a girl, jumped off the bank and began thrashing the water with her feet, sen^ng waves in all directions.
"A hussy—she is that!" repeated Marya.
The river was spanned by a rickety little bridge of logs, and below in the clean, clear water shoals of broad- headed chub were swimming. The dew was glistening on the green shrubs that were mirrored in the water. Then the air grew warmer; it was pleasant. What a glorious morning it was! And how glorious life would probably be in this world, were it not for want, horrible, inescapable want, from which you cannot hide any- where! Only to look round at the village was to remem- ber all that had happened the day before, and the speU of the happiness that they thought they felt around them vanished instantly.