Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

do, you might credit me with the wish to do everything in my power to help my serfs, and that I don’t desire their misfortune, and that I would sacrifice all I possess to escape from this sad necessity and to send neither Doútlof nor Polikoúshka.” (I don’t know whether it occurred to the steward that to escape the sad necessity there was no need to sacrifice everything⁠—that, in fact, three hundred roubles would be sufficient; but this thought might easily have occurred to him.)

“I will only say this: that I will not give up Polikoúshka on any account. When, after that affair with the clock, he confessed to me of his own accord, and cried, and gave his word to amend, I talked to him for a long time, and saw that he was touched and sincerely penitent.” (“There! She’s off now!” thought Egór Miháylovitch, and began examining the marmalade she had in a glass of water: was it orange or lemon? “Slightly bitter, I expect,” thought he.) “That is seven months ago now, and he has not once been drunk, and has behaved splendidly. His wife tells me he is a different man. How can you wish me to punish him now that he has reformed? Besides, it would be inhuman to make a soldier of a man who has five children, and he the only man in the family.⁠ ⁠… No, you’d better not say any more about it, Egór!”

And the lady took a sip out of the glass. Egór Miháylovitch watched the motion of her throat as the liquid passed down it, and then replied shortly and dryly:

“Then Doútlof’s decided on.”

The lady clasped her hands together.

“How is it you don’t understand? Do I wish Doútlof ill? Have I anything against him? God is my witness, I am prepared to do anything for them.⁠ ⁠…” (She glanced at a picture in the corner, but recollected that it was not an icon.) “Well, never mind⁠ ⁠… that’s not to the point,” she thought. And again, strange to say, the idea of the three hundred roubles did not occur to her.⁠ ⁠… “Well, what can I do? What do I know about it? It’s impossible for me to know. Well, then, I rely on you⁠—you know my wishes.⁠ ⁠… Act so as to satisfy everybody and according to the law.⁠ ⁠… What’s to be done? They are not the only ones: everybody has times of trouble. Only, Polikoúshka can’t be sent. You must understand that it would be dreadful of me to do such a thing.⁠ ⁠…”

She was roused, and would have continued speaking for a long time had not one of her maidservants entered the room at that moment.

“What is it, Dounyásha?”

“A peasant has come to ask Egór Miháylovitch if the Meeting is to wait for him,” said Dounyásha, and glanced angrily at Egór Miháylovitch. (“Oh, that steward!” she thought; “he’s upset the mistress. Now she’ll not let one get a wink of sleep till two in the morning!”)

“Well then Egór, go and do the best you can.”

“Yes, madam.” He did not say anything more about Doútlof. “And who is to go to the fruit merchant to fetch the money?”

“Has not Peter returned from town?”

“No, madam.”

“Could not Nicholas go?”

“Father is down with backache,” remarked Dounyásha.

“Should I go myself tomorrow, madam?” asked the steward.

“No, Egór; you are wanted here.” The lady pondered. “How much is it?”

“Four hundred and sixty-two silver roubles.”

“Send Polikoúshka,” said the lady, with a determined glance at Egór Miháylovitch’s face.

Egór Miháylovitch stretched his lips into the semblance of a smile, but without unclosing his teeth, and the expression of his face did not change.

“Yes, madam.”

“Send him to me.”

“Yes, madam;” and Egór Miháylovitch went to his office.

II

Polikéy (or Polikoúshka, as he was usually contemptuously called), as a man of little importance, of tarnished reputation, and not a native of the village, had no influence either with the housekeeper, the butler, the steward, or the lady’s-maid. His cubicle was the very worst, though his family consisted of seven persons. The late proprietor had had these cubicles built in the following manner:

In the middle of a brick building, about twenty-three feet square, was placed a large brick baking-oven, partly surrounded by a passage, and the four corners of the building were separated from the “collidor” (as the domestic serfs called it) by wooden stable-partitions. So there was not much room in these cubicles, especially in Polikéy’s, which was nearest to the door. The family bed, with a quilt and pillowcases made of print, the baby’s cradle, and the three-legged table (on which the cooking and washing were done and all sorts of domestic articles placed, and at which Polikéy⁠—who was a farrier⁠—worked), tubs, clothing, some chickens, a calf, and the seven members of the family, filled the whole cubicle, and could not have moved in it had it not been for their quarter of the brick oven (on which both people and things could lie) and for the possibility of going outside into the porch. That was, perhaps, not easy, for it is rather cold in October, and the seven of them only possessed one sheepskin cloak between them; but, on the other hand, the children could keep warm by running about, and the grownups by working, and both the one and the other by climbing onto the top of the oven, where the temperature rose to 120 degrees. It may seem dreadful to live in such conditions, but they did not mind⁠—it was quite possible to live. Akoulína washed and sewed her husband’s and her children’s clothes, spun, wove and bleached her linen, cooked and baked in the common oven, and quarrelled and gossiped with her neighbours. The monthly allowance of meal sufficed not only for the children, but to add to the cow’s food. The firewood was free, and so was food for the cattle, and a little hay from the stables sometimes came their way. They had a strip of kitchen garden. Their cow had calved, and they had