XXVIIIb. A Model Landlord

Thank God, summer ended well; everything grew well and was properly harvested. The end of September is approaching: it has been two weeks since threshing began, and the trial threshing turned out to be excellent. The air has freshened; the blows of the flails can be heard, and the smell of burning comes from the threshing barn. The women have already threshed the flax seeds and crushed the flax. The seeds will gradually be taken to the nearest oil mill: there will be plenty of oil and oilcake. Oilcake is good for feeding cows after calving; but even the house serfs eat it willingly. Even the young ladies like to indulge in it from time to time, dipping it in fresh linseed oil. The flax will be distributed for spinning, providing winter evening work for both the maids and the weavers. Meanwhile, all the house serfs are busy in the garden, digging up the last potatoes and cutting cabbage. In the evenings, the sounds of chopping knives striking troughs can be heard from the kitchen; this is the cabbage being chopped; the outer leaves are separated for the serfs’ gray cabbage soup; the thick inner leaves are set aside for the masters' white soup; the firm stalks are brought into the house, and the young ladies willingly eat them. In short, the hard work is done, and it is almost time for merriment.

Pustotelov's heart beats joyfully in his chest: now there are no more surprises to fear. He keeps a watchful eye on the threshing, but the days are getting shorter and shorter, so he has to be at the threshing floor for no more than seven or eight hours a day. And the further we go, the easier it will be. It's time to rest.

— I think I've earned it, — jokes the model landlord, turning to his wife.

— You've earned it, my dear! Look at yourself: you've worn yourself out over the summer.

— And if I've earned it, you can treat me to an extra shot of vodka.

But for Filanida Protasievna, the time for rest has not yet come. She is busier than in the summer, because now, perhaps, the real "stocking up" has begun in earnest. She runs around like a young girl, from the house to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the cellar. She looks everywhere, asks everywhere, afraid that even the smallest crumb will be wasted.

— The other day they were draining the kvass – where did you put the kvass pulp? — she asks the cook.

— I gave it to the birds, ma'am.

— You were told to give it to the poultry keeper. Who did you give it to?

— Forgive me, madam, I poured it into the birds’ trough myself.

— You're lying, you scoundrel, you ate it!

— Have mercy . . . why would I do that?

— I can see in your eyes that you ate it! I'll tell Arseny Potapych how you look after the master's property, and he'll deal with you.

After scolding the cook, she runs to the cattle yard and orders the door opened to the storeroom where chaff and husks are kept, piles of which are brought in daily from the threshing floor.

— There seems to be less husks today than yesterday?

— Have mercy, madam, where else would they go?

— Where can it go? We know, to your relatives in the village, in the hems your dresses . . . Arseny Potapych will deal with you!

From the cattle yard to the kitchen.

— How long are you going to mess around with the cabbage, you lazy bunch? — she shouts at the girls. — It's high time to start spinning, and they — look! — They've gone to the kitchen and are singing songs!

— It's dreary enough without the songs! — retorts old Agafia, who once raised Arseny Potapych and now works as a housekeeper.

— What are you doing, you old hag, being so rude! Arseny Potapych will deal with you.

And so on.

With the onset of October, the first serious frosts begin. The ground is frozen, the grass is covered with frost in the mornings, the water in the ditches is covered with a thin layer of ice; the mud on the roads has frozen so badly that it is impossible to travel in carts and carriages. On the other hand, frozen, snowfree paths¹ have formed excellently: get out, peasant, and walk. If God had sent snow on the frozen ground, it would have been better not to.

Every day it becomes quieter in and around the estate; the household stocking up is already over, only the threshing is still in full swing and will continue up until the very holidays. Storm windows have been installed in the house, and the stoves have been lit. After dinner, until about six o'clock, they sit around chatting in the twilight, and then light candles; the maids have been sitting at their spinning wheels for over a week now and working until dark, and in the morning, as soon as it is light, they are back on their feet. Finally, in mid-October, the first snow falls directly on the frozen ground.

— What a good year it has been! — rejoices Arseny Potapych. — We managed to finish the summer well, and we can hope for the winter crops, they won't rot.

— Wait before you boast; there may still be a thaw.

— No, there won't be any thaws; I've observed that. When autumn is cold and the snow falls before November, — it follows, the track for the sleigh will be readied right away.

During the day, Arseny Potapych leads his usual busy life. Early in the morning, he puts on a sheepskin coat and large boots greased with tallow and sets off for the threshing floor. There’s only half an hour break for lunch, so you don't notice how time flies amid the noise and clatter of flails. But the long evenings lead Pustotelov into melancholy. Unfortunately, he has recently taken to drinking. He has a small decanter of brandy in a cupboard in his room: he paces back and forth, then sneaks up to the cupboard. He keeps sneaking up until he has emptied the decanter.

— Aren’t you going to . . . ? — Filanida Protasievna warns him from time to time.

— I'll never become a drunkard. Vodka is good for me; St John’s wort gets rid of phlegm.

— In my opinion, if you drink one glass, then another, and that'll do it. You'll get used to it, and then it will be difficult to quit.

— Then you wouldn't pour a whole decanter; I would drink as much as you think is right, and that would be it.

— And I'll still give you half a decanter.

— It's boring, my dear! There are no real roads, prices are unknown . . . you calculate and calculate, and melancholy takes over.

— Be patient, find something to do. I'm not bored; I always have something to do.

And indeed, Filaniida Protasievna's work stretches on like an endless thread. Having finished her household preparations, she sets about sewing for the family. Everyone needs new underwear, and for her daughters, at least some calico dresses for everyday wear. She took several new pieces of cloth out of the chest, remembered that she had a whole piece of calico left over from last year, asked her neighbors for patterns, and now sits in the hall, cutting and sewing together with two skilled seamstresses. The older girls, of course, will need better dresses, but it is still impossible to go to the city because of the bad roads, and besides, there is no money yet.

There will be money, there will be. By the end of October, the sleigh track has been cleared, and Arseny Potapych keeps looking at the road leading to the city. Finally, the buyers arrive one after another, but the prices they offer are not very encouraging. Twelve rubles for a quarter² of rye, eight rubles in banknotes for a quarter of oats. For the first time, however, the model landlord decides to sell cheaply, just to plug the holes. He sold fifty quarters of rye and oats, plus some oil and eggs, — and now he has money.

The couple goes to town and makes their first purchases. The husband takes care of what is needed to receive guests; the wife is exclusively concerned with outfits. They visit their acquaintances in town, especially those in the regiment, and remind everyone of the approaching winter. Arseny Potapych checks the prices with real merchants and concludes that, although he sold his goods a little cheaply at first, it was only by a small amount. Finally, a pile of all sorts of things is loaded into the cart, and the couple, cheerful and satisfied, returns home. Thank God! Now they can welcome anyone without embarassment.

Indeed, it is still only the middle of November, and the young ladies have barely had time to have their new dresses sewn before the sleighbells begin to ring on the road to Posledovka. First to arrive are the regiment's officers from the squadron stationed in the villages, followed by the nearest neighbors. The house becomes noisy: the only footman, Ason, is knocked off his feet, despite the help of two boys. From morning onwards, there is a flurry of hospitality: teas, breakfasts, lunches. But don't worry, thank God, there is enough for everyone. In the evening, their inexpensive governess plays the piano, and the young ladies and gentlemen dance. In most cases, the guests stay overnight; the men sleep in the hall and in the living room, sprawling on featherbeds spread out on the floor; the women are distributed among the young ladies' rooms and the mezzanines. Some guests stay for two or three days, with servants and horses, but this is not only not a burden for the hosts, but even gives them pleasure: after all, they, in turn, will have fun at their neighbors' houses for two or three days.

The arrivals do not prevent Arseny Potapych from supervising the threshing. Everyone knows that he is a model landlord and understands that no one but he can supervise the work; but, moreover, the shortest days have arrived, the work takes no more than five or six hours a day, and Pustotelov is completely free by lunchtime. Sometimes, however, he completely relieves himself of supervision; he comes to the threshing barn for an hour or so and says to the men:

— Take care for me, men! Make sure every last grain is safe! — and he goes home, confident that all the grain will be threshed.

But all this is just the beginning. December 13, Arseny Potapych's name day, is approaching. They are preparing very busily for this day, as it has long been established that a whole crowd of guests gathers at the Pustotelovs for the master's name day. Filanida Protasievna quickly visits the neighbors and reminds everyone about the upcoming celebration. Meanwhile, Arseny Potapych sells another batch of grain and goes to town for new purchases.

On December 13, right after a church service, the honoree’s house is buzzing with activity. Guests arrive one after another; there are so many female and male servants that most of them are sent to the kitchen; carriages and horses are also parked in the village, in peasant yards, due to lack of space.

I will not, however, describe the details of the holiday here. Hospitality at that time was the same everywhere and it will therefore be the subject of a separate chapter, in which I intend to depict the general Poshekhonsk revelry.

Winter passes quickly with endless receptions and trips, but the Christmas holidays and Shrovetide are especially fun.

Three days before Christmas, the last sheaves of oats are threshed; the sound of flails on the threshing floor ceases, and Arseny Potapych can consider himself a free Cossack for three whole months. He has put on weight, the tan has disappeared from his face, and even his worried expression has vanished. Not a single gathering at the neighbors' is complete without the Pustotelovs; they are welcome guests everywhere, despite arriving with a whole crowd. But, in addition to their neighbors, they also travel to the city, where the officers have organized a club and hold dance evenings from time to time, for which the young ladies save their best dresses.

The Pustotelovs are also lucky with their daughters. Thanks to their kindness and hospitality, they manage to arrange marriages for their two eldest daughters during the winter. One is betrothed to the regimental doctor, the other to the district clerk Strelbishchev. Both men are poor, but necessity will teach them to earn money. On the other hand, they did not demand a rich dowry. Filanida Protasievna sewed two extra dresses for each bride, added some linens, and they bought half a dozen silver table and tea spoons — that was all. For other daughters, even with rich doweries, God does not provide, but the Pustotelovs took their brides out for just two winters and have already managed to unload them. Two gone, and then gradually the rest. And all because Arseny Potapych knows how to make every penny count, and Filanida Protasievna is a master at coaxing and accomodating.

There was only one problem: the deeper into winter it went, the less they had left to sell. By the beginning of Lent, the Pustotelovs had sold all their grain, keeping only what they needed for seed and their own food, and settled down at home for Shrovetide. They did not even go to the Strunnikovs for the folle journée, on the pretext that the young ladies wished to spend the last days before Lent with their fiancés. But the year still lived up to the expectations of the model landlord; he not only made ends meet, but also managed to set aside a small sum for the upcoming wedding celebrations.

Finally, Lent³ arrives. Arseny Potapych and the whole family fast during the first week, fearing that the impassable roads will prevent them from fulfilling their Christian duty later. The fast is strictly observed; only mushrooms, potatoes, cabbage, radishes, and other simple dishes are served at the table. Only twice, on Annunciation and Palm Sunday, do the masters allow themselves to indulge in fish, but Pustotelov managed to stock up on this delicacy in advance. Back in the fall, with the onset of the first frosts, he asked his neighbor Guslitsyn for permission to fish in his lake, and got a seine from another neighbor. And since he was a jack of all trades, the catch was abundant. They salted and froze over 600 pounds of pike, perch, and ide; They ate it all during Shrovetide and gave some to the kitchen, and the rest will be eaten during Lent.

Holy Week passes quietly. The roads are completely impassable, so on Easter Sunday the family is forced to leave the house before dawn and only with the help of all the serfs manages to get to the parish church for matins. With the roads impassable, the guests have quieted down; the neighbors have locked themselves in their homes and are resting; even the grooms who have come from the city, risk at every step to land in the puddles under the snow.⁴

In the first week after Easter the Pustotelovs celebrate both weddings at once. But there are no receptions or trips for the occasion, firstly because the working season is not far off, and secondly, and mainly, because there is little money.

In the morning, right after church, the wedding ceremony takes place, then an early lunch is served at the parents' house, and after that the newlyweds leave for the city — to their own places.

Two daughters have been disposed of; eight remain.

Neither Arseny Potapych nor Filanida Protasievna have time to miss their daughters. Thank God, they have fulfilled their parental duty and found them husbands — what more do you want? On top of that, the heavy work⁵ has begun, and the men have already gone out to the spring fields with their harrows. As a model landlord, Pustotelov plowed the field back in the fall, and now all that remains is to harrow it. Shortly after St. Nicholas Day, the field will be sown with oats, plowed again, and harrowed.

In short, summer was gradually creeping up, and with it an endless series of days during which Arseny Potapych, following last year's example, would have to solve a painful riddle: would he succeed or fail, would he make ends meet or not?

— Well, Filanida, summer is here again! — he says to his wife, trying to sound cheerful.

But in reality, anxiety has already crept into his heart and will not leave him until autumn.

---

The peasant reform took Pustotelov, like most landowners in our backwoods, by surprise. Despite the bloody denunciations of the 1853–1855 campaign, which was only a great prologue to the great drama of liberation, — nothing warned the dull, complacent people, who had never been able to grasp the inner meaning of the events unfolding before their eyes. The roots of life were too deeply mired in the slime of criminal serfdom to be immediately transplanted to new soil. This slime nourished the past, secured the present and the future. How could one renounce what had served as the regulator of all actions since time immemorial, that constituted the very foundation of existence? How, instead of contentment and security, could one imagine an order that would cut off at the very root a firmly established way of life and destroy all hopes? Naturally, with such unquestioning faith in the infallibility of old foundations, even the obvious had to seem like an apparition that would vanish at the slightest breath.

The future of the children was most frightening. Let us assume that the elderly were at fault: not all of them were exemplary patriarchs — this was almost unanimously acknowledged — but why should the children suffer? Meanwhile, they would bear the full brunt of the consequences of these new and unwarranted fantasies. The old people had already lived their lives, had their share; it was probably time for them to go to the graveyard, but the children . . . Were they responsible for the past? Undoubtedly, when their turn comes to take over the estate, they would treat serfdom more humanely. With their arrival, serfdom will disappear, relationships will become lawful, and the expression “you are our fathers, we are your children” will become true. What more is needed? Here it is: the young Burmakin has taken over the farm, — and he doesn't even have a whip in the factory. He gets by with kindness and a gracious word, — and everything is going well. And gradually the Burmakins will spread everywhere, because the time is coming. It is not good to fight, it is not good to exhaust men and women with the master’s work without rest, but Burmakin does not do this; therefore, it is possible to get along well even under serfdom.

But, besides that, if you believe in these new fantasies, you will have to abandon your faith in the Holy Scriptures. And the Scriptures clearly say: Slaves, obey your masters! Abraham and the other patriarchs had slaves, and they managed to please God. Can it really be permissible, for the sake of empty praise, to break one's faith and trample on the covenants of one's fathers? For what? To rush headlong into a gaping abyss where everything is dark and unknown?

No, no! That cannot happen! There is not enough determination to throw such evil and insane turmoil into the masses without any reason!

That was the opinion of the majority at that time, but Arseny Potapych went further than the others. He was not a stupid man and was even considered clever among his neighbors. But in such decisive moments, clever people are more easily blinded than the most simple-minded. Constant moderation in one's actions and intentions breeds a stubbornness that is difficult to overcome. Therefore, Pustotelov not only did not change his behavior in view of the growing rumors, but simply dismissed them as nonsense. He walked around the fields with a whip, not deviating one iota from his original punishment schedule: five lashes for the first offense, ten for the second, and so on.

And the rumors continued to grow. In September 1856, some neighbors who had traveled to the coronation returned to the village and brought news that all of Moscow was talking only about the upcoming reform.

— I'd hang you all for talking like that, and the Moscow chatterboxes too! — Arseny Potapych responded unceremoniously to the news. — Yap, yap, that's all they know how to do, bark like mongrels! Everyone has to go mad for that to happen! But it hasn't come to that yet.

— You're a fool, brother! Just like Strunnikov! No matter what you say, he always sticks to his guns! — Grigory Alexandrovich Perkhunov tried to convince him.

— Strunnikov may be called stupid, but in my opinion, he's smarter than all of you.

— Think about it. If nothing were being prepared, would the authorities allow such things to be said out loud? Remember, in the old days, people were exiled to places far, far away for such talk, but now every fool opens his mouth: give us freedom, give us freedom! And the authorities just sit there and pat them on the head!

— That's nonsense! They've loosened the reins and are luring us with sweets . . . It's always been like that at first.

— I know it's nonsense, but we need to prepare for this nonsense. It will fall on us like snow on our heads; we'll wake up, and it will be too late!

— Leave me alone! . . I said it will never happen, and it won't! There's no need to prepare.

In short, nothing could break him. Even Filanida Protasievna, who always believed unconditionally that her husband's was right, wavered. But she did not try to dissuade him, because she was afraid that it would only lead to a cooling of the friendly relations that had long united the couple.

At that time, the elderly Pustotelovs lived alone. All their daughters were married off, and their sons had graduated with honors from the military academy, completed their course at the General Staff Academy, and already held good staff positions.

— Now we should be living and enjoying ourselves, — lamented Filanida Protasievna, — but no! God sent us this disaster at the end!

And she wrote to her sons, telling them to thoroughly investigate everything and carefully inform their father.

Indeed, both sons, one after the other, informed their father that the liberation thing was taking an increasingly serious turn and that the rumors circulating in society about this subject had a very real basis. Upon receiving the first letter, Arseny Potapych thought about it and was in a state of great agitation for two days, but in the end, he threw the letter into the stove and replied to his son, telling him never to write to him about trifles.

Finally, the famous rescript to the Governor-General of the Western Region appeared in the newspapers. Colonel Guslitsyn sent Pustotelov a copy of the “Moscow Gazette” in which the rescript was printed, so that there was really no room for any doubt.

— You see! — Filanida Protasievna dared to remark to her husband on this occasion.

— What do I see? I see stupidity! — he snapped back, just like Strunnikov. — It's well known, these Poles! They rebel, — and this is what they get for it . . .

The rescript, one might say, even egged him on. Convinced that rumors of the impending decree were already beginning to spread among the people, he summoned the district police officer and berated him for his lax supervision, then went to the city and called the police chief a fool and such a feminine name that the latter hesitated for a moment, wondering whether to take offense.

— I'll take matters into my own hands and keep an eye on all of you! — he threatened. — And the first mongrel I come across, whether he's mine or someone else's, — I'll drag him to the stable for a beating. Tell me, for heaven's sake, they're spreading nonsense all over the district, and our guardians are sitting around twiddling their thumbs and whistling!

And indeed, he began to watch and listen. In the village, fear had not yet disappeared, and the peasants remained silent, but they were already talking loudly among themselves. And then one day he lured one of the “yappers” and whipped him. Of course, he got away with it — the neighbor who owned the “yapper” even thanked him — but everyone had begun to laugh at him quietly.

— Look at yourself, what you've become! — Perkhunov reproached him. — Just like an old woman! Only old women don't believe that nowadays. You were always so clever, and suddenly you've started doing somersaults! Even Strunnikov laughs at you!”

Finally, he came up with a decisive measure. He called for the parish priest and asked him to give a sermon in church the next Sunday about how this would never happen. But the priest was not of the resourceful type, had never composed sermons, and was at a complete loss. Then he offered his own services. And indeed, without wasting a minute, he set to work, and in two hours the sermon was ready. In it, he explained that Abraham had slaves, and so did Isaac, and Jacob, and Job had even more slaves than sheep. In short, he proved everything so clearly that even a small child could not fail to understand.

The very next Sunday the church was packed with people. Not only the local parishioners came to listen, but also people from far away. And then, at the appointed time, before the end of the service, the priest approached the lectern set up on the raised area before the iconostasis and proclaimed in a soft voice:

— Gentlemen, peasants! Please come closer! Come closer!

The crowd stirred. The peasants listened attentively and, apparently, understood; but, — alas, — they understood exactly the opposite of what Arseny Potapych had expected.

After this, Strunnikov went to the provincial capital for a general meeting of leaders and returned from there. Further doubts became impossible . . .

The Pustotelovs shut themselves up in Posledovka and did not go anywhere, nor did they receive anyone. Soon Arseny Potapych and his household fell into disrepair; rumors spread that he had begun drinking in earnest.

— There he is, the model landlord! — the neighbors said of him. — We were all model landlords as long as our peasants worked for free, but now, go ahead, try to manage it yourself!

---

In 1865, I had the opportunity to visit our backwoods. On one of the minor church holidays, I went to a service in the very parish to which the Pustotelovs belonged. The church was completely empty. Apart from the clergy and the elder, I noticed only two worshippers standing on a small platform covered with darkened and threadbare red cloth. They were the elderly Pustotelovs.

After the service I approached them and was surprised by the change that had come over Arseny Potapych in just two or three years. His right leg was almost completely paralyzed, so that Filanida Protasievna was forced to support him constantly by the elbow; his tongue was slurred, his eyes were cloudy, and his hearing was dulled. Even though the day had just begun, he already smelled of vodka.

— Arseny Potapych! Filanida Protasievna! Finally, chance has brought us together! — I greeted my acquaintances.

Filaniada Protasievna, seeing me, silently pointed to her husband and began to cry, but he apparently did not recognize me. Staring motionless ahead with cloudy eyes, he seemed to be looking at some ghost that was minute by minute oppressing his thoughts.

— Arsyusha! An old friend is talking to you! — his wife shouted in his ear.

He slowly turned his head toward me and, in a barely audible whisper, mumbled:

— I'm dying . . .

1. Чернотроп (hunter’s jargon): The autumn cold before the snow falls, as well as the road, the path, not yet covered with snow.

2. Quarter (of grain): Old Russian measure of the volume of bulk solids (about 210 liters).

3. “Чистый понедельник”: For Orthodox Slavs, it is the first day of Great Lent and its first week; the focus of purification rituals associated with the transition from the carnival season of rich food and revelry to the restrictions of Lent, both dietary and behavioral.

4. “Зажоре“: Snowmelt water in potholes and ruts on the road.

5. “Страда”: Intense summer work in the fields (during mowing, harvesting, and grain gathering), as well as the time of year when such work is done.