Hadji Murád, Leo Tolstoy [romantic books to read txt] 📗

trak, tapatam⁠ ⁠… trak⁠ ⁠… came down the old man’s heavy flail after the three others.

“Why, you’ve got a nape like a goodly gentleman!⁠ ⁠… Look here, my trousers have hardly anything to hang on!” said the old man, omitting his stroke and only swinging his flail in the air, so as not to get out of time.

They had finished the row, and the women began removing the straw with rakes.

“Peter was a fool to go in your stead. They’d have knocked the nonsense out of you in the army; and he was worth five of such as you at home!”

“That’s enough, father,” said the daughter-in-law, as she threw aside the binders that had come off the sheaves.

“Yes, feed the six of you, and get no work out of a single one! Peter used to work for two. He was not like⁠ ⁠…”

Along the trodden path from the house came the old man’s wife, the frozen snow creaking under the new bark shoes she wore over her tightly wound woolen leg-bands. The men were shovelling the unwinnowed grain into heaps, the woman and the girl sweeping up what remained.

“The Elder has been, and orders everybody to go and work for the master, carting bricks,” said the old woman. “I’ve got breakfast ready.⁠ ⁠… Come along, won’t you?”

“All right.⁠ ⁠… Harness the roan and go,” said the old man to Akím, “and you’d better look out that you don’t get me into trouble, as you did the other day!⁠ ⁠… I can’t help regretting Peter!”

“When he was at home you used to scold him,” retorted Akím. “Now he’s away you keep nagging at me.”

“That shows you deserve it,” said his mother in the same angry tones. “You’ll never be Peter’s equal.”

“Oh, all right,” said the son.

“ ‘All right,’ indeed! You’ve drunk the meal, and now you say ‘all right!’ ”

“Let bygones be bygones!” said the daughter-in-law.

The disagreements between father and son had begun long ago⁠—almost from the time Peter went as a soldier. Even then the old man felt that he had parted with an eagle for a cuckoo. It is true that it was right⁠—as the old man understood it⁠—for a childless man to go in place of a family man. Akím had four children, and Peter had none; but Peter was a worker like his father, skilful, observant, strong, enduring, and above all, industrious. He was always at work. If he happened to pass by where people were working he lent a helping hand, as his father would have done, and took a turn or two with the scythe, or loaded a cart, or felled a tree, or chopped some wood. The old man regretted his going away, but there was no help for it. Conscription in those days was like death. A soldier was a severed branch; and to think about him at home was to tear one’s heart uselessly. Only occasionally, to prick his elder son, did the father mention him, as he had done that day. But his mother often thought of her younger son, and for a long time⁠—more than a year now⁠—she had been asking her husband to send Peter a little money, but the old man had made no reply.

The Kúrenkovs were a well-to-do family, and the old man had some savings hidden away; but he would on no account have consented to touch what he had laid by. Now, however, his old woman, having heard him mention their younger son, made up her mind to ask him again to send him at least a ruble after selling the oats. This she did. As soon as the young people had gone to work for the proprietor, and the old folks were left alone together, she persuaded him to send Peter a ruble out of the oats-money.

So when ninety-six bushels of the winnowed oats had been packed onto three sledges, lined with sacking carefully pinned together at the top with wooden skewers, she gave her husband a letter written at her dictation by the church clerk; and the old man promised when he got to town to enclose a ruble, and send it off to the right address.

The old man, dressed in a new sheepskin with homespun cloak over it, his legs wrapped round with warm white woollen leg-bands, took the letter, placed it in his wallet, said a prayer, got into the front sledge, and drove to town. His grandson drove in the last sledge. When he reached town the old man asked the innkeeper to read the letter to him, and listened to it attentively and approvingly.

In her letter Peter’s mother first sent him her blessing, then greetings from everybody, and the news of his godfather’s death; and at the end she added that Aksínya (Peter’s wife) had not wished to stay with them, but had gone into service, where they heard she was living honestly and well. Then came a reference to that present of a ruble; and finally, in her own words, what the old woman, with tears in her eyes and yielding to her sorrow, had dictated and the church clerk had taken down exactly, word for word:

“One thing more, my darling child, my sweet dove, my own Peterkin! I have wept my eyes out lamenting for thee, thou light of my eyes. To whom has thou left me?⁠ ⁠…” At this point the old woman had sobbed and wept, and said: “That will do!” So the words stood in the letter; but it was not fated that Peter should receive the news of his wife’s having left home, nor the present of the ruble, nor his mother’s last words. The letter with the money in it came back with the announcement that Peter had been killed in the war, “defending his Tsar, his Fatherland, and the Orthodox Faith.” That is how the army clerk expressed it.

The old woman, when this news reached her, wept for as long as she could spare time, and then set to work again. The very next Sunday she went to church, and had