The dark-skinned headman looked quite black and resembled a magician; he turned round to Osip and said sternly, speaking rapidly:
"It all depends on the district magistrate. On the twenty-sixth instant you can state the grounds of your dissatisfaction before the administrative session, verbally or in writing."
Osip did not understand a word, but he was satisfed with that and went home.
Some ten days later the police inspector came again, stayed for an hour and drove away. During those days it had been cold and windy; the river had been frozen for a long time, but still there was no snow, and people were worn to a frazzle because the roads were impass- able. On the eve of a holiday some of the neighbors came in to Osip's to sit and have a chat. They talked in the dark, because it was a sin to work and so they did not light the lamp. There were some scraps of news, all rather unpleasant. In two or three households hens had been taken for the arrears and had been sent to the dis- trict office, and there they had died because no one had fed them; sheep had been taken, and while they were being carted away tied to one another, and shifted into another cart at each village, one of them had died. And now the question was being discussed: who was to blame?
"The Zemstvo," said Osip. 'Who else?"
"Of course, the Zemstvo."
The Zemstvo was blamed for everything—for the ar- rears, the unjust exactions, 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 served as members of the Zemstvo boards, were dissatisf ed with them, and took to berating the Zem- stvos in their factories and taverns.
They talked about how God was not sending the snow; wood had to be hauled for fuel, yet there was no driving or walking over the frozen ruts. In former days, fifteen to twenty years ago, talk had been much more interesting in Zhukovo. In those days every old man looked as though he were guarding some secret; as though he knew something and were waiting for some- thing. They used to talk about a charter with a golden seal, about the division of acreage, about new lands, about treasure troves; they hinted at something. Now the folk of Zhukovo had no secrets at all; their whole life lay bare and clear to all, as though on the palm of your hand, and they could talk of nothing but want, food and fodder, the absence of snow.
There was a lull. Then they recalled the hens again, and the sheep, and began arguing once more as to who was at fault.
"The Zemstvo," said Osip dejectedly. "Who else?"
VIII
The parish church was nearly four miles away at Kosogorovo, and the peasants only attended it when they had to do so, for christenings, weddings, or funer- als; for regular services they went to the church across the river. On holidays in fine weather the girls dressed up in their best and went to Mass in a crowd, and it was a cheering sight to see them walk across the meadow in their red, yellow, and green frocks; when the weather was bad they all stayed home. To confess and to take the communion, they went to the parish church. The priest, making the round of the cabins with the cross at Easter, took fifteen kopecks from each of those who had not managed to take the sacrament during Lent.
The old man did not believe in God, for he had hardly ever given Him a thought; he acknowledged the supernatural, but felt that it could be of concern to women only, and when religion or miracles were dis- cussed in his presence, and a question about these matters was put to him, he would say reluctantly, scratching himself:
"Who can tell!"
Granny did believe, but somehow her faith was hazy; everything was mixed up in her memory, and no sooner did she begin to think of sins, of death, of the salvation of the soul, than want and cares took possession of her mind, and she instantly forgot what she had started to think about. She remembeied no prayers at all, and usually in the evenings, before lying down to sleep, she would stand before the icons and whisper:
"Virgin Mother of Kazan, Virgin Mother of Smolensk, Virgin Mother of the Three Arms. . . ."
Marya and Fyokla crossed themselves regularly, fasted, and took communion every year, but quite igno- rantly. The children were not taught any prayers, noth- ing was told them about God, and no moral precepts were given them; they were merely forbidden to take certain foods on fast days. In other families it was much the same: there were few who believed, few who had any understanding. At the same time all loved the Holy Scripture, loved it tenderly, reverently; but they had no books, there was no one to read the Bible and explain it, and because Olga sometimes read them the Gospels, they respected her, and they all addressed her and Sasha in the deferential second-person plural.
For local holidays and special services Olga often went to neighboring villages and to the county seat, in which there were two monasteries and twenty-seven churches. She was abstracted, and when she went on these pilgrimages she quite forgot her family, and only when she was on her way home would suddenly make the joyful discovery that she had a husband and
daughter, and then she would say, smiling and radiant: "God has blessed me!"
What went on in the village seemed to her revolting and was a source of torment to her. On St. Elijah's Day they drank, at the Assumption they drank, at the Exal- tation of the Cross they drank. The Feast of the Inter- cession was the parish holiday for Zhukovo, and on that occasion the peasants drank for three days on end; they drank up fifty rubles belonging to the communal fund, and on top of that collected money for vodka from each household. On the first day the Chikildeyevs slaughtered a sheep and ate mutton in the morning, at noon, and in the evening; they ate large amounts of it, and the chil- dren got up at night to eat some more. Those three days Kiryak was fearfully drunk; he drank up all his belong- ings, even his cap and boots, and beat Marya so terribly that they had to pour water over her to revive her. Af- terwards they were all ashamed and felt sick.
However, even in Zhukovo, in this "Flunkeyville," once a year there was a genuine religious event. It was in August, when they carried the icon of the Life-Bear- ing Mother of God from village to village throughout the district. The day on which it was expected at Zhu- kovo was windless and the sky was overcast. The girls, in their bright holiday frocks, set off in the morning to meet the icon, and they brought it to the village towards evening, in solemn procession, singing, while the bells pealed in the church across the river. A huge crowd of villagers and strangers blocked the street; there was noise, dust, a crush of people. . . . The old man and Granny and Kiryak all stretched out their hands to the icon, gazed at it greedily and cried, weeping: "Intercede for us! Mother! Intercede!" All seemed suddenly to grasp that there was no void between earth and heaven, that the rich and powerful had not seized everything, that there was still protec- tion from abuse, from bondage, from crushing, unbear- able want, from the terrible vodka.
"Intercede for us! Mother!" sobbed Marya. "Motherl"
But the service ended, the icon was carried away, and everything went on as before; and again the sound of coarse, drunken voices came from the tavern.
Only the well-to-do peasants were afraid of death; the richer they grew the less they believed in God and in the salvation of the soul, and only through fear of their earthly end did they light candles and have Masses said, in order to be on the safe side. The poorer peasants did not fear death. The old man and Granny were told to their faces that they had lived too long, that it was time they were dead, and they did not mind. They did not scruple to tell Fyokla in Nikolay's presence that when Nikolay died her husband Denis would be dis- charged from the army and return home. And Marya, far from dreading death, regretted that it was so long in coming, and was glad when her children died.