“Listen, friends! You had better make peace with each other. Did you do right, brother Gavrílo, to strike a pregnant woman? Luckily God was merciful to you, but think what crime you might have committed! Is that good? Confess your guilt and beg his pardon! And he will pardon you. Then we shall change the decree.”
The scribe heard that, and said:
“That is impossible, because on the basis of Article 117 there has taken place no reconciliation, but the decree of the court has been handed down, and the decree has to be executed.”
But the judge paid no attention to the scribe.
“Stop currycombing your tongue. The first article, my friend, is to remember God, and God has commanded me to make peace.”
And the judge began once more to talk to the peasants, but he could not persuade them. Gavrílo would not listen to him.
“I am fifty years old less one,” he said, “and I have a married son. I have not been beaten in all my life, and now freckled Iván has brought me to being beaten with rods, and am I to beg his forgiveness? Well, he will — Iván will remember me!”
Gavrílo’s voice trembled again. He could not talk. He turned around and went out.
From the township office to the village was a distance of ten versts, and Iván returned home late. The women had already gone out to meet the cattle. He unhitched his horse, put it away, and entered the hut. The room was empty. The children had not yet returned from the field, and the women were out to meet the cattle. Iván went in, sat down on a bench, and began to think. He recalled how the decision was announced to Gavrílo, and how he grew pale, and turned to the wall.
And his heart was pinched. He thought of how he should feel if he were condemned to be flogged. He felt sorry for Gavrílo. He heard the old man coughing on the oven. The old man turned around, let down his legs, and sat up. He pulled himself with difficulty up to the bench, and coughed and coughed, until he cleared his throat, and leaned against the table, and said:
“Well, have they condemned him?”
Iván said:
“He has been sentenced to twenty strokes with the rods.”
The old man shook his head.
“Iván, you are not doing right. It’s wrong, not wrong to him, but to yourself. Well, will it make you feel easier, if they flog him?”
“He will never do it again,” said Iván.
“Why not? In what way is he doing worse than you?”
“What, he has not harmed me?” exclaimed Iván. “He might have killed the woman; and he even now threatens to set fire to my house. Well, shall I bow to him for it?”
The old man heaved a sigh, and said:
“You, Iván, walk and drive wherever you please in the free world, and I have passed many years on the oven, and so you think that you see everything, while I see nothing. No, my son, you see nothing, — malice has dimmed your eyes. Another man’s sins are in front of you, but your own are behind your back. You say that he has done wrong. If he alone had done wrong, there would be no harm.
Does evil between people arise from one man only? Evil arises between two. You see his badness, but you do not see your own. If he himself were bad, and you good, there would be no evil. Who pulled out his beard? Who blasted the rick which was at halves? Who is dragging him to the courts? And yet you put it always on him. You yourself live badly, that’s why it is bad. Not thus did I live, and no such thing, my dear, did I teach you.
Did I and the old man, his father, live this way? How did we live? In neighbourly fashion. If his flour gave out, and the woman came: ‘Uncle Frol, I need some flour.’— ‘Go, young woman, into the granary, and take as much as you need.’ If he had nobody to send out with the horses,— ‘Go, Iván, and look after his horses!’ And if I was short of anything, I used to go to him. ‘Uncle Gordyéy, I need this and that.’ And how is it now? The other day a soldier was talking about Plévna. Why, your war is worse than what they did at Plévna. Do you call this living? It is a sin! You are a peasant, a head of a house. You will be responsible.
What are you teaching your women and your children? To curse. The other day Taráska, that dirty nose, cursed Aunt Arína, and his mother only laughed at him. Is that good? You will be responsible for it. Think of your soul. Is that right? You say a word to me, and I answer with two; you box my ears, and I box you twice. No, my son, Christ walked over the earth and taught us fools something quite different. If a word is said to you, — keep quiet, and let conscience smite him. That’s what he, my son, has taught us. If they box your ears, you turn the other cheek to them: ‘Here, strike it if I deserve it.’ His own conscience will prick him. He will be pacified and will do as you wish. That’s what he has commanded us to do, and not to crow. Why are you silent? Do I tell you right?”
Iván was silent, and he listened.
The old man coughed again, and with difficulty coughed up the phlegm, and began to speak again:
“Do you think Christ has taught us anything bad? He has taught us for our own good. Think of your earthly life: are you better off, or worse, since that Plévna of yours was started? Figure out how much you have spent on these courts, how much you have spent in travelling and in feeding yourself on the way? See what eagles of sons you have! You ought to live, and live well, and go up, but your property is growing less. Why? For the same reason. From your pride.
You ought to be ploughing with the boys in the field and attend to your sowing, but the fiend carries you to court or to some pettifogger. You do not plough in time and do not sow in time, and mother earth does not bring forth anything. Why did the oats not do well this year? When did you sow them? When you came back from the city. And what did you gain from the court? Only trouble for yourself. Oh, son, stick to your business, and attend to your field and your house, and if any one has offended you, forgive him in godly fashion, and things will go better with you, and you will feel easier at heart.”
Iván kept silence.
“Listen, Iván! Pay attention to me, an old man. Go and hitch the gray horse, and drive straight back to the office: squash there the whole business, and in the morning go to Gavrílo, make peace with him in godly fashion, and invite him to the holiday” (it was before Lady-day), “have the samovár prepared, get a half bottle, and make an end to all sins, so that may never happen again, and command the women and children to live in peace.”
Iván heaved a sigh, and thought: “The old man is speaking the truth,” and his heart melted. The only thing he did not know was how to manage things so as to make peace with his neighbour.
And the old man, as though guessing what he had in mind, began once more:
“Go, Iván, do not put it off! Put out the fire at the start, for when it burns up, you can’t control it.”
The old man wanted to say something else, but did not finish, for the women entered the room and began to prattle like magpies. The news had already reached them about how Gavrílo had been sentenced to be flogged, and how he had threatened to set fire to the house. They had found out everything, and had had time in the pasture to exchange words with the women of Gavrílo’s house. They said that Gavrílo’s daughter-in-law had threatened them with the examining magistrate. The magistrate, they said, was receiving gifts from Gavrílo.
He would now upset the whole case, and the teacher had already written another petition to the Tsar about Iván, and that petition mentioned all the affairs, about the coupling-pin, and about the garden, — and half of the estate would go back to him. Iván listened to their talk, and his heart was chilled again, and he changed his mind about making peace with Gavrílo.
In a farmer’s yard there is always much to do. Iván did not stop to talk with the women, but got up and went out of the house, and walked over to the threshing-floor and the shed. Before he fixed everything and started back again, the sun went down, and the boys returned from the field. They had been ploughing up the field for the winter crop. Iván met them, and asked them about their work and helped them to put up the horses. He laid aside the torn collar and was about to put some poles under the shed, when it grew quite dark. Iván left the poles until the morrow; instead he threw some fodder down to the cattle, opened the gate, let Taráska out with the horses into the street, to go to the night pasture,
