![The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood]](https://fs.ageofbook.com/620252/thumbs/152x264/the-village-translation-from-the-original-russian-text-by-isabel-hapgood.jpg)
The village. [Translation from the original Russian text by Isabel Hapgood] by 1870-1953 Ivan Alekseevich Bunin Page A
Authors: 1870-1953 Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
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"We are pretty folks: we've drunk, and eaten, and paid our score—and off we go,
THE VI LLAGE
home!" And, on encountering Tikhon Hitch, he did not immediately recognize him, but would smile woefully and say: "Is that really you, Tisha?"
And Tikhon Hitch himself had not recognized his own brother when first they met that autumn: "Can that be Kuzma, with whom I roamed for so many years about the fields, the villages, and the bye-lanes?"
("How old you have grown, brother!"
"I have, a bit."
"And how early!"
"That's because I'm a Russian. That happens quickly with us.")
And, great heavens, how everything had changed since the days when they had been roving peddlers! How dreadfully unlike was the present Tikhon Hitch to the half-gipsy huckster Tisha, swarthy as a black-beetle, reckless, and merry!
As he lighted his third cigarette, Tikhon Hitch stared fixedly and questioningly out of the tiny window:
"Can it be like this in other lands?"
No, it could not be the same. Men of his acquaintance had been abroad—there was merchant Rukavish-nikoff, for instance—and they had told him things. And even aside from RukavishnikofT, one could put things together. Take the Germans of the towns, or the Jews: all conduct themselves reasonably, are punctual, all know one another, all are friends —and that not alone in a state of intoxication —and all are mutually helpful: if they are separated, they write letters to one another all their lives long
THE VILLAGE
and exchange portraits of fathers, mothers, acquaintances from family to family; they teach their children, love them, walk with them, talk with them as with equals so that the child has something to remember. But with us, all are enemies of one another, every one envies and slanders every one else, goes to see acquaintances once a year, sits apart, each in his kennel; all bustle about like madmen when any one drops in for a visit, and dash around to put the rooms in order. But what's the truth of the matter? They begrudge the guest a spoonful of preserves! The guest will not drink a second cup of tea without being specially invited. Ugh, you slant-eyed Kirghizi! You yellow-haired Mordvinians! You savages!
Some one's troika-team drove past the windows. Tikhon Hitch scrutinized it attentively. The horses were emaciated but obviously mettlesome. The taran-tas was in good condition. Whose could it be? No one in the immediate neighbourhood owned such a troika. The neighbouring landed proprietors were so indignant that they sat for three days at a stretch without bread, had sold the last scrap of vestments from their holy pictures, had not a farthing wherewith to replace broken glass or mend the roof; instead they stuffed cushions into the window-frames and set bread-troughs and buckets all over the floor when rain came on—and it poured through the ceilings as through a sieve. Then Deniska the cobbler passed. Where was he going? And what was that he had with him? That couldn't be a valise he was carrying? Okh, there's a fool for you, forgive my sin, O Lord!
THE VILLAGE
M
XX
ECHANICALLY Tikhon Hitch threw his greatcoat on over his jacket, thrust his feet into overshoes, and went out on the porch. On emerging he inhaled a deep breath of fresh air in the bluish early winter twilight, then halted once mere and sat down on the bench. Yes, there was another nice family—the Grey Man, Syery, and his son! Tikhon Hitch traversed in thought the road which Deniska had traversed in the mud, with that valise in his hand. He descried Durnovka, his manor, the ravine, the peasant cottages, the descending twilight, the light in his brother's room, the lights among the peasant dwellings. Kuzma was probably sitting and reading. The Bride was standing in the dark, cold ante-room near the faintly-heated stove, warming her hands, her back, waiting until she should be told "Bring the supper!" and, with her dry lips, already grown old and pursed up, was thinking—of what? Perchance of
THE VI LLAGE
home!" And, on encountering Tikhon Hitch, he did not immediately recognize him, but would smile woefully and say: "Is that really you, Tisha?"
And Tikhon Hitch himself had not recognized his own brother when first they met that autumn: "Can that be Kuzma, with whom I roamed for so many years about the fields, the villages, and the bye-lanes?"
("How old you have grown, brother!"
"I have, a bit."
"And how early!"
"That's because I'm a Russian. That happens quickly with us.")
And, great heavens, how everything had changed since the days when they had been roving peddlers! How dreadfully unlike was the present Tikhon Hitch to the half-gipsy huckster Tisha, swarthy as a black-beetle, reckless, and merry!
As he lighted his third cigarette, Tikhon Hitch stared fixedly and questioningly out of the tiny window:
"Can it be like this in other lands?"
No, it could not be the same. Men of his acquaintance had been abroad—there was merchant Rukavish-nikoff, for instance—and they had told him things. And even aside from RukavishnikofT, one could put things together. Take the Germans of the towns, or the Jews: all conduct themselves reasonably, are punctual, all know one another, all are friends —and that not alone in a state of intoxication —and all are mutually helpful: if they are separated, they write letters to one another all their lives long
THE VILLAGE
and exchange portraits of fathers, mothers, acquaintances from family to family; they teach their children, love them, walk with them, talk with them as with equals so that the child has something to remember. But with us, all are enemies of one another, every one envies and slanders every one else, goes to see acquaintances once a year, sits apart, each in his kennel; all bustle about like madmen when any one drops in for a visit, and dash around to put the rooms in order. But what's the truth of the matter? They begrudge the guest a spoonful of preserves! The guest will not drink a second cup of tea without being specially invited. Ugh, you slant-eyed Kirghizi! You yellow-haired Mordvinians! You savages!
Some one's troika-team drove past the windows. Tikhon Hitch scrutinized it attentively. The horses were emaciated but obviously mettlesome. The taran-tas was in good condition. Whose could it be? No one in the immediate neighbourhood owned such a troika. The neighbouring landed proprietors were so indignant that they sat for three days at a stretch without bread, had sold the last scrap of vestments from their holy pictures, had not a farthing wherewith to replace broken glass or mend the roof; instead they stuffed cushions into the window-frames and set bread-troughs and buckets all over the floor when rain came on—and it poured through the ceilings as through a sieve. Then Deniska the cobbler passed. Where was he going? And what was that he had with him? That couldn't be a valise he was carrying? Okh, there's a fool for you, forgive my sin, O Lord!
THE VILLAGE
M
XX
ECHANICALLY Tikhon Hitch threw his greatcoat on over his jacket, thrust his feet into overshoes, and went out on the porch. On emerging he inhaled a deep breath of fresh air in the bluish early winter twilight, then halted once mere and sat down on the bench. Yes, there was another nice family—the Grey Man, Syery, and his son! Tikhon Hitch traversed in thought the road which Deniska had traversed in the mud, with that valise in his hand. He descried Durnovka, his manor, the ravine, the peasant cottages, the descending twilight, the light in his brother's room, the lights among the peasant dwellings. Kuzma was probably sitting and reading. The Bride was standing in the dark, cold ante-room near the faintly-heated stove, warming her hands, her back, waiting until she should be told "Bring the supper!" and, with her dry lips, already grown old and pursed up, was thinking—of what? Perchance of
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