Through Russia [85]
the place is full of bugs, and I cannot sleep."
"Beast!" pants someone in the vicinity.
"Hold your tongue, bitch!" is the fellow's retort.
By now the rain has ceased, and such air as filters through the window seems increasedly stifling. Momentarily the hush grows deeper, until the breast feels filled with a sense of oppression, and the face and eyes as though they were glued over with a web. Even when I step into the yard I find the place to be like a cellar on a summer's day, when the very ice has melted in the dark retreat, and the latter's black cavity is charged with hot, viscous humidity.
Somewhere near me a woman is gulping out sobs. For a moment or two I listen; then I approach her, and come upon her seated in a corner with her head in her hands, and her body rocking to and fro as though she were doing me obeisance.
Yet I feel angry, somehow, and remain standing before her without speaking-- until at length I ask:
"Are you mad?"
"Go away," is, after a pause, her only reply.
"I heard all that you said to that young fellow."
"Oh, did you? Then what business is it of yours? Are you my brother?"
Yet she speaks the words absent-mindedly rather than angrily. Around us the dim, blurred walls are peering in our direction with sightless eyes, while in the vicinity a bullock is drawing deep breaths.
I seat myself by her side.
"Should you remain much longer in that position," I remark, "you will have a headache."
There follows no reply.
"Am I disturbing you? " I continue.
"Oh no; not at all." And, lowering her hands, she looks at me. "Whence do you come?"
"From Nizhni Novgorod."
"Oh, from a long way off!"
"Do you care for that young fellow?"
Not for a moment or two does she answer; and when she does so she answers as though the words have been rehearsed.
"Not particularly. It is that he is a strong young fellow who has lost his way, and is too much of a fool (as you too must have seen) to find it again. So I am very sorry for him. A good muzhik ought to be well placed."
On the bell of the church there strikes the hour of two. Without interrupting herself, the woman crosses her breast at each stroke.
"Always," she continues, "I feel sorry when I see a fine young fellow going to the dogs. If I were able, I would take all such young men, and restore them to the right road."
"Then you are not sorry FOR YOURSELF? "
"Not for myself? Oh yes, for myself as well."
"Then why flaunt yourself before this booby, as you have been doing?"
"Because I might reform him. Do you not think so? Ah, you do not know me."
A sigh escapes her.
"He hit you, I think?" I venture.
"No, he did not. And in any case you are not to touch him."
"Yet you cried out?"
Suddenly she leans towards me, and says:
"Yes, he did strike me--he struck me on the breast, and would have overpowered me had it not been that I cannot, I will not, do things heartlessly, like a cat. Oh, the brutes that men can be!"
Here the conversation undergoes an interruption through the fact that someone has come out to the hut door, and is whistling softly, as for a dog.
"There he is!" whispers the woman.
"Then had I not best send him about his business?"
"No, no!" she exclaims, catching at my knees. "No need is there for that, no need is there for that!"
Then with a low moan she adds:
"Oh Lord, how I pity our folk and their lives! Oh God our Father!"
Her shoulders heave, and presently she bursts into tears, with a whisper, between the pitiful sobs, of:
"How, on such a night as this, one remembers all that one has ever seen, and the folk that ever one has known! And oh, how wearisome, wearisome it all is! And how I should like to cry throughout the world--But to cry what? I know not--I have no message to deliver."
That feeling I can understand as well as she, for all too often has it seemed to crush my soul with voiceless longing.
Then, as I stroke her bowed head and quivering shoulder, I ask her who she is; and presently, on growing a little calmer, she tells me the
"Beast!" pants someone in the vicinity.
"Hold your tongue, bitch!" is the fellow's retort.
By now the rain has ceased, and such air as filters through the window seems increasedly stifling. Momentarily the hush grows deeper, until the breast feels filled with a sense of oppression, and the face and eyes as though they were glued over with a web. Even when I step into the yard I find the place to be like a cellar on a summer's day, when the very ice has melted in the dark retreat, and the latter's black cavity is charged with hot, viscous humidity.
Somewhere near me a woman is gulping out sobs. For a moment or two I listen; then I approach her, and come upon her seated in a corner with her head in her hands, and her body rocking to and fro as though she were doing me obeisance.
Yet I feel angry, somehow, and remain standing before her without speaking-- until at length I ask:
"Are you mad?"
"Go away," is, after a pause, her only reply.
"I heard all that you said to that young fellow."
"Oh, did you? Then what business is it of yours? Are you my brother?"
Yet she speaks the words absent-mindedly rather than angrily. Around us the dim, blurred walls are peering in our direction with sightless eyes, while in the vicinity a bullock is drawing deep breaths.
I seat myself by her side.
"Should you remain much longer in that position," I remark, "you will have a headache."
There follows no reply.
"Am I disturbing you? " I continue.
"Oh no; not at all." And, lowering her hands, she looks at me. "Whence do you come?"
"From Nizhni Novgorod."
"Oh, from a long way off!"
"Do you care for that young fellow?"
Not for a moment or two does she answer; and when she does so she answers as though the words have been rehearsed.
"Not particularly. It is that he is a strong young fellow who has lost his way, and is too much of a fool (as you too must have seen) to find it again. So I am very sorry for him. A good muzhik ought to be well placed."
On the bell of the church there strikes the hour of two. Without interrupting herself, the woman crosses her breast at each stroke.
"Always," she continues, "I feel sorry when I see a fine young fellow going to the dogs. If I were able, I would take all such young men, and restore them to the right road."
"Then you are not sorry FOR YOURSELF? "
"Not for myself? Oh yes, for myself as well."
"Then why flaunt yourself before this booby, as you have been doing?"
"Because I might reform him. Do you not think so? Ah, you do not know me."
A sigh escapes her.
"He hit you, I think?" I venture.
"No, he did not. And in any case you are not to touch him."
"Yet you cried out?"
Suddenly she leans towards me, and says:
"Yes, he did strike me--he struck me on the breast, and would have overpowered me had it not been that I cannot, I will not, do things heartlessly, like a cat. Oh, the brutes that men can be!"
Here the conversation undergoes an interruption through the fact that someone has come out to the hut door, and is whistling softly, as for a dog.
"There he is!" whispers the woman.
"Then had I not best send him about his business?"
"No, no!" she exclaims, catching at my knees. "No need is there for that, no need is there for that!"
Then with a low moan she adds:
"Oh Lord, how I pity our folk and their lives! Oh God our Father!"
Her shoulders heave, and presently she bursts into tears, with a whisper, between the pitiful sobs, of:
"How, on such a night as this, one remembers all that one has ever seen, and the folk that ever one has known! And oh, how wearisome, wearisome it all is! And how I should like to cry throughout the world--But to cry what? I know not--I have no message to deliver."
That feeling I can understand as well as she, for all too often has it seemed to crush my soul with voiceless longing.
Then, as I stroke her bowed head and quivering shoulder, I ask her who she is; and presently, on growing a little calmer, she tells me the