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

“From Izlegóshcha, Gerásimovich’s wife⁠—used to be Fadyéev’s⁠—I suppose you know her?” said Tíkhonovna. “I myself am from Izlegóshcha.”

“Of course! They say your husband has been put into jail.”

Tíkhonovna made no reply; she only sighed and with a strong motion threw her wallet and fur coat over her shoulder.

The deacon’s wife asked whether the old lady was at home and, hearing that she was, asked him to announce them to her. Then she asked about her son, who was an official and, thanks to the prince’s influence, was serving in St. Petersburg. The janitor could not give her any information about him and directed them over a walk, which crossed the yard, to the servants’ house. The old women went into the house, which was full of people⁠—women, children, both old and young⁠—all of them manorial servants, and prayed turning to the front corner. The deacon’s wife was at once recognized by the laundress and the old lady’s maid, and she was at once surrounded and overwhelmed with questions: they took off her wallet, placed her at the table, and offered her something to eat. In the meantime Tíkhonovna, having made the sign of the cross to the images and saluted everybody, was standing at the door, waiting to be invited in. At the very door, in front of the first window, sat an old man, making boots.

“Sit down, granny! Don’t stand up. Sit down here, and take off your wallet,” he said.

“There is not enough room to turn around as it is. Take her to the ‘black’ room,” said a woman.

“This comes straight from Madame Chalmé,” said a young lackey, pointing to the iris design on Tíkhonovna’s peasant coat, “and the pretty stockings and shoes.”

He pointed to her leg-rags and bast shoes, which were new, as she had specially put them on for Moscow.

“Parásha, you ought to have such.”

“If you are to go to the ‘black’ room, all right; I will take you there.” And the old man stuck in his awl and got up; but, on seeing a little girl, he called her to take the old woman to the black room.

Tíkhonovna not only paid no attention to what was being said in her presence and of her, but did not even look or listen. From the time that she entered the house, she was permeated with the feeling of the necessity of working for God and with the other feeling, which had entered her soul, she did not know when, of the necessity of handing the petition. Leaving the clean servant room, she walked over to the deacon’s wife and, bowing, said to her:

“Mother Paramónovna, for Christ’s sake do not forget about my affair! See whether you can’t find a man.”

“What does that woman need?”

“She has suffered insult, and people have advised her to hand a petition to the Tsar.”

“Take her straight to the Tsar!” said the jesting lackey.

“Oh, you fool, you rough fool,” said the old shoemaker. “I will teach you a lesson with this last, then you will know how to grin at old people.”

The lackey began to scold, but the old man, paying no attention to him, took Tíkhonovna to the black room.

Tíkhonovna was glad that she was sent out of the baking-room, and was taken to the black, the coachmen’s room. In the baking-room everything looked clean, and the people were all clean, and Tíkhonovna did not feel at ease there. The black coachmen’s room was more like the inside of a peasant house, and Tíkhonovna was more at home there. The black hut was a dark pine building, twenty by twenty feet, with a large oven, bed places, and hanging-beds, and a newly paved, dirt-covered floor. When Tíkhonovna entered the room, there were there the cook, a white, ruddy-faced, fat, manorial woman, with the sleeves of her chintz dress rolled up, who with difficulty was moving a pot in the oven with an oven-fork; then a young, small coachman, who was learning to play the balalaika; an old man with an unshaven, soft white beard, who was sitting on a bed place with his bare feet and, holding a skein of silk between his lips, was sewing on some fine, good material, and a shaggy-haired, swarthy young man, in a shirt and blue trousers, with a coarse face, who, chewing bread, was sitting on a bench at the oven and leaning his head on both his arms, which were steadied against his knees.

Barefoot Nástka with sparkling eyes ran into the room with her lithe, bare feet, in front of the old woman, jerking open the door, which stuck fast from the steam within, and squeaking in her thin voice:

“Aunty Marína, Simónych sends this old woman, and says that she should be fed. She is from our parts: she has been with Paramónovna to worship the saints. Paramónovna is having tea.⁠—Vlásevna has sent for her⁠—”

The garrulous little girl would have gone on talking for quite awhile yet; the words just poured forth from her and, apparently, it gave her pleasure to hear her own voice. But Marína, who was in a perspiration, and who had not yet succeeded in pushing away the pot with the beet soup, which had caught in the hearth, shouted angrily at her:

“Stop your babbling! What old woman am I to feed now? I have enough to do to feed our own people. Shoot you!” she shouted to the pot, which came very near falling down, as she removed it from the spot where it was caught.

But when she was satisfied in regard to the pot, she looked around and, seeing trim Tíkhonovna with her wallet and correct peasant attire, making the sign of the cross and bowing low toward the front corner, felt ashamed of her words and, as though regaining her consciousness after the cares which had worn her out, she put her hand to her breast, where beneath the collarbone buttons clasped her dress, and examined it to see whether it was buttoned, and then put her hands