CHAPTER VI.
Tchichikoff was just awaking, and stretching out his hands and legs like a man preparing for gymnastics, he also began to be aware that he had slept uncommonly well. After lying for about two minutes longer thus outstretched upon his back, he suddenly smacked his fingers in the air, for he at once distinctly remembered, and with a face radiant with satisfaction, that he now possessed nearly four hundred serfs, a stock worth about half a million of silver roubles.
After these satisfactory reflections, he jumped gaily out of bed, and did not even think of looking at his face, for which he had a particular affection, and in which, as it seemed, he thought his chin was the most attractive feature, because he had the habit of passing his hand frequently over it when in the presence of any intimate friend; he did this particularly when he had been shaving in the morning.
“Just look here,” he used to say, whilst stroking it gently with his hand, “behold what a chin I have got—perfectly round and smooth!”
But this time, he examined neither his chin nor his face, but directly, such as he was, he got into his red morocco-leather morning boots, richly embroidered with silk of a variety of colours, for the manufacture of which the ancient Tartar town of Kazan is so justly celebrated; and thanks to his Russian constitution, that heeds no temperature, just as he was, with nothing but his night-shirt on, in the real Scotch fashion, he forgot for a moment his sedate character and middle age, and executed two regular jumps round his room, touching himself, very cleverly indeed, twice with the soles of his feet.
The very next moment, he immediately sat down to attend to his business: as he was thus seated before his dressing-case, he rubbed his hands cheerfully for a moment—just as they would be rubbed by a honest and incorruptible judge when he is about to sit down to a luncheon before pronouncing his judgment in court; after having done this, Tchichikoff produced at once his papers and documents.
He was anxious to settle his affairs in Smolensk as speedily as possible, and leave nothing undone which could be attended to on that very day. He determined upon drawing up the contracts of sale himself; to write down and copy everything with his own hand, so as not to have to pay a copek to any of the government employés. He was perfectly familiar with the particular style and lawful forms of such documents; and he, therefore, with a bold hand wrote down in large characters, one thousand eight hundred and forty such a year, then immediately lower, but in much smaller characters, councillor of state, gentleman, so and so; in fact, all was done and written as it ought to be, and in two hours later his work was accomplished.
When he once more cast a glance over the various documents with the names of the serfs on them, who had at one time been real slaves, working, tilling, drinking, cheating their master, and perhaps also simply honest serfs, it was then that he felt a strange and incomprehensible sensation suddenly overcome him.
Each of the lists possessed, as it were, a distinct character, and through that fact, it seemed again that each serf named upon them assumed also an individual character. The serfs who formerly belonged to the widow-lady, Korobotchka, had nearly all nicknames attached to them. The note of old Pluschkin distinguished itself by its brevity of construction; many of the names were only indicated by the first two letters of the Christian and family name, and then followed two points, or rather blots.
Sobakevitch’s list attracted his special attention by its unusual fullness and minuteness; not one of the various qualifications of any one of his serfs had been omitted; one of them had been noted down as a “clever joiner,” to the name of another the following was appended, “a sharp fellow, eats no tallow.” Particular nota benes were also made who their father, and who their mother had been; only one individual of the name of Phedot was distinguished thus, “father unknown, but was born of a girl in the house, of the name of Capitolina, good principles and no thief.”
All these particulars had a peculiar appearance of reality; it seemed to Tchichikoff himself, as if these poor dead serfs were alive yesterday. He kept looking for a long time at their names, until he felt his heart melting, as it were, to a feeling of pity, and heaving a deep sigh, he exclaimed:
“Good heavens, how many there are of you, to be sure! Poor fellows, I wish you could tell me, what you have been doing during your existence! How have you been battling your way through this world of woe?”
And his eyes rested involuntarily upon the, to us, already familiar name of Peter Savelieff Neuvaschaikorito, who once had been the property of Lady Korobotchka. And again he could not forbear making the observation:
“What a rich name to be sure, he takes a whole line all to himself;” and he then continued, “when among the living, were you a clever fellow in your profession, or simply a clumsy mouzhik; and were did you meet your death-blow? Was it in a dram-shop, or on the high road, or were you surrounded by those dear to you by the ties of nature? Stephen Korobka, joiner, a sober and steady man. Ah! here he is, Stephen Korobka, that is the fellow, who, according to Sobakevitch, would have been a giant in the Imperial Life-Guards! No doubt the poor fellow wandered about in obscurity with a hatchet on his side, and his boots across his shoulders, making his meals at the slender expense of one copek for brown bread, and two for dried fish, whilst, on returning home from his yearly work, he would bring with him a purse stuffed with silver roubles, and perhaps have some bank notes sewn up between the lining of his shirt or boots—where are you now? Have you, anxious for larger profits, been even as far as Moscow, and elevated yourself as high as the spire of Ivan Veliki, and tried to ring the changes on an Easter-night, but unsuccessfully fallen to the ground, whilst some more clever fellow than yourself standing close by would scratch himself behind the ear, and say: ‘poor Stephen, can’t you stand the noise?’ and coolly take your place.
“Maxim Teliatnikoff, shoemaker—shoemaker. Oh, ah, a shoemaker! ‘drunk like a cobbler,’ says our proverb. I know you, know you well, my fine fellow; if you like, I can tell you in a few words your own history; you were brought up to your trade by a native from Germany, who fed you at the same table, and beat your shoulders with the same strap to punish you for your own neglect and carelessness, and kept you at work and strictly in doors; at that time you were really an excellent fellow, but not a cobbler, and your German master thought that he could not praise you enough in the presence of his wife or friends. But when you had finished your apprenticeship, you said to yourself: ‘now I will keep a strap myself, and not have to scrape together, one by one, the copper copeks as my German master used to do.’ Thinking thus, you contrived to pay your yearly impost to your lawful master, and were allowed to remain in town and set up in your profession. You succeeded so far well enough, for you happened to obtain numerous orders by way of encouragement, and you sat down to your work. Some wretched tanner supplied you with rotten leather, three times cheaper, it is true, than you could have bought a good material for; and really for a short time you even succeeded in making double profit upon each pair of boots you sold; but in about two weeks later, the boots of your manufacture were completely worn out, and you were called by your customers all sorts of names. In consequence of this mode of dealing, your shop was soon deserted by them, and by yourself; because you took to drinking and rolling about the streets, whilst in your state of intoxication you would often exclaim: ‘No, really there is no consolation in life! we Russians cannot make a decent living, these foreigners push themselves forward everywhere, they positively take the very bread out of our mouths!’
“What peasant have we here? Elizabeth Vorobei. What a shame! a woman! how has she got among the men? He is a thorough cheat, that fellow Sobakevitch, even here he has tried to take advantage over me!” Tchichikoff was right, it was really a woman. How she had slipped among the men, it was quite impossible to tell, but certainly it was done very cleverly, for the woman might at a first glance have easily been taken for a man. However, he did not take the imposition in good part, and struck the name from the list at once.
“Gregory Dogeschainedogedish! What sort of a man have you been, I wonder? Were you perhaps one of those carriers by profession, driving your gallant troika from town to town, and fair to fair, bidding a long farewell to your family and friends to go and lead a wandering life in the service of some travelling tradesman between Russia and China? Did you surrender your soul to Heaven on the high road, or were you carried to your last resting-place by your village kindred, and your mourning wife and children?
“And you, my fine fellows?” he continued, as he cast a glance over the list of run-away serfs belonging to Pluschkin.
“Although you may be alive, yet where is the advantage of possessing you? you are as worthless as your dead brethren, and Heaven only knows whither your swift feet have borne you? Were you really so ill-used by old Pluschkin that you thought it better to run away, or were you naturally inclined to become vagabonds, and now plunder travellers on the high road and in the forests? Are you perhaps incarcerated in some gloomy prison, awaiting your sentence, or have you become the property of a new master, and are at this moment tilling the land of another lord?
“Jeremy Kariakin, Nikita Volokita, and Antony Volokita his son; these fellows, I presume, were excellent run-aways, if I am to judge by the first and classical syllables of their name. Some one of you, I can have no doubt, has had the misfortune to fall into the hands of what you call in the country the Capitän-Ispravnik, who, as a gentleman strictly looking after passport regulations, has no doubt cross-examined you on the subject, and perhaps in the following terms:
“‘Whose serf are you?’ said he, perhaps, in his imperative voice, whilst interspersing his question with a few strong and fitting terms.
“‘I am the serf of such and such a nobleman,’ you will have answered boldly.
“‘Why are you here?’ demands again the military Capitan.
“‘I have received my due permission to go and search for work in town,’ is again your bold reply.
“‘And where is your passport?’
“‘With my landlord, the citizen Pimenoff.’
“‘Send for Pimenoff immediately. Are you Pimenoff?’
“‘I am Pimenoff.
“‘Did this man give you his passport?’
“‘No, your glory, he has given me no passport of any description.’
“‘How dare you tell me a falsehood?’ says the Capitän-Ispravnik, adding, meanwhile a few strong and suitable terms.
“‘Just so,’ is your bold reply to this observation, ‘I did not give it to him because I returned home late, but I gave it for safe keeping to the bell-ringer, Antip Prochoroff.”
“‘Send for the bell-ringer! Did he give to you his passport?’
“‘No, Sir, I did not receive a passport from him.’
“‘Why, that is another falsehood,’ says the military Capitan, strengthening his affirmation with a few more impressive words. ‘Now, can you tell me where your passport is?’
“‘I am sure I had a passport,’ you said quickly, ‘but it seems I have lost it somewhere on the road.’
“‘And how do you account for the possession of this soldier’s cloak?’ demands again the Capitän-Ispravnik sternly, whilst adding again a few strong and fitting terms, ‘why have you robbed the imperial servant of his garb? and why have you dared to plunder the Pope’s coffer of his coppers?’
“‘I’m innocent,’ you say boldly, ‘I have never yet been convicted of theft.’
“‘And how is it that they have picked you up drunk and incapable, and clad in this cloak?’
“‘I really can’t say; no doubt some one else has put it on me.’
“‘Ah, you are a rogue and a vagabond,’ speaks the Capitän-Ispravnik, shaking his head at you, and putting his hands to his sides. ‘Guards, put the fellow in irons, and lead him away into the darkest dungeon.’
“‘Very well, your glory, I submit myself with pleasure,’ is your polite reply.
“And hereupon you produce your snuff-box, and treat with its contents, and in the most friendly manner, the two invalids who are putting the chains on your legs, asking them coolly how long ago they were discharged from their hard service in the army, and in what battles they have fought. And now you continue to live some time in prison, until due inquiries are made about you, and your case properly and leisurely investigated.
“At last, the following decision arrives: the run-away serf, Nikita Volokita, will be transferred from the prisons of Zarevo-Kokaisk to the prison of Mosaisk, from there a fresh order transfers you again to the prison in Vesegonsk, and thus you continue to be transferred from dungeon to dungeon, and you say to yourself as you inspect your new habitation:
“‘I don’t know, but somehow I like Vesegonsk better than any of the other places; the place is larger and cleaner, and the company here much gayer!’
“Abakum Phiroff! and what are you? where and in what part of the vast Empire could you now be met with? Have you gone down the river Volga and taken a fancy to an agitated life on the swelling waves, and joined some of the gay river men?”—
Saying this, Tchichikoff stopped short and began to muse and reflect. What might he have been thinking about? Did he try to imagine the fate of Abakum Phiroff, or did he plunge into reflections like any other Russian, whatever his age might be, no matter of what rank or fortune, when he reflects upon the broad road of human life?
And in truth where is Phiroff now? He wanders boisterously and gaily along the rich shores of the Volga; he has hired his services to some travelling merchant. Flowers and ribbons ornament his peculiarly shaped hat; he seems now as cheerful and contented as any of his comrades born and bred to that peculiar life; they are just bidding farewell to their wives and sweethearts—tall, active, and healthy women, looking as picturesque as the men, in their wide frocks and flowing tresses mixed with gay ornaments and coloured ribbons; songs with and without choruses, and again interrupted, but a solo or an accompaniment of the national guitar or balalaika is to be heard all along the piers and shores. The bustle and life among the people assembled is now at its height, for they are completing the cargo of their barges, into which they store the last sacks, containing wheat, barley, oats and other grains, which the fertile soil in that part of the country so abundantly produces.
Along the shores are yet hundreds and thousands more sacks filled with various grains, heaped in columns and towering like Egyptian pyramids into the air, and ready to be shipped as soon as the warm rays of the spring can burst the melting ice, and allow this bread-stuff arsenal to drift down the river, barge following barge like a band of swans when proudly floating down the rapid stream.
Such is the occupation of our Russian river-men on the shores of the Volga, where he has hard work, but where he leads a comparatively independent and cheerful life, and where his gay and melodious songs are heard from the source to the efflux of that magnificent river.