![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 B
Authors: 1870-1953 Ivan Alekseevich Bunin
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Rodka? Twas a lie, all that about her having poisoned Rodka —a lie! But if she did poison him—
Oh, Lord God! If she did poison him, what must she be feeling? What a heavy tombstone lay upon her strange, reticent soul! And how had that come about upon which she had decided, crazed by hatred o f Rodka and of his brutal beatings—possibly, also, by her outraged feelings toward him, Tikhon Hitch, and
THE VILLAGE
her disgrace, and the fear that Rodka would eventually hear of that disgrace? Okh, and he had been in the habit of beating her! And Tikhon Hitch had played a fine part, too. And God would surely punish him, too.
With his mind's eye he cast a glance from the porch of his Durnovka manor house, at Durnovka—a rebel, also!—at the black cottages scattered over the declivity beyond the ravine, at the threshing floors and bushes in their back yards. Beyond the houses to the left, on the horizon, stood a railway watch-tower. Past it, in the twilight, a train was running, and with it ran a chain of fiery eyes. Then eyes began to shine out from the cottages. It grew darker; one began to feel more comfortable—yet a disagreeable sensation stirred every time one cast a glance at the cottages of the Bride and the Grey Man, which stood almost in the centre of Durnovka, separated only by three houses. There was no light in either of them. And it was that way nearly all winter long! The Grey Man's small children frolicked with joy and wonder when he managed, on some lucky evening, to burn a light in the cottage.
"Yes, 'tis sinful!" said Tikhon Hitch firmly, and rose from his seat. "Yes, 'tis wicked! I must give them at least a little help," he said, as he wended his way towards the station.
The air was frosty, and the odour of the samovar which was wafted from the station was more fragrant than it had been on the preceding day. The lights at the gate were burning more brightly beyond the trees, which had been smartly frost-bitten and were almost bare, tinted by a little scanty foliage.
THE VILLAGE
The sleighbells on the troika pealed more sonorously. A capital team of horses, those three! On the contrary, it was painful to look at the wretched nags of the peasant cabmen, their tiny vehicles mounted on half-crumbling, misshapen wheels, plastered with mud. The door to the railway station was squeaking and dully banging beyond the palisade. Making his way around it, Tikhon Hitch ascended the lofty stone platform, on which a copper samovar of a couple of buckets' capacity was hissing, its grating glowing red like fiery teeth; and immediately came upon the person of whom he was in search—that is, Deniska.
Deniska, his head bowed in thought, was standing on the platform and holding in his right hand a cheap grey valise, lavishly studded with tin nailheads and bound about with a rope. Deniska was wearing an under-jacket, an old and, evidently, a very heavy garment with pendant shoulders and a very low waist-line, a new peaked cap, and dilapidated boots. His figure was badly built; his legs were extremely short in comparison with his body: "I have nothing but a body," he sometimes said of himself, with a laugh. Now, with that low waist-line and those broken boots, his legs looked shorter than ever.
"Denis?" shouted Tikhon Hitch. "What are you doing here?"
Deniska, who was never surprised at anything, raised his dark and languid eyes with their long lashes, looked at him with a melancholy grin, and pulled the cap from his hair. His hair was mouse-coloured and immeasurably thick; his face was earthy in hue and
THE VILLAGE
bore the appearance of having been greased, but his eyes were handsome.
"Good Morning, Tikhon Hitch," he replied, in a sing-song citified tenor voice, and, as usual, rather shyly. "I'm going to—what d'ye call it?—to Tula."
"But why, if you permit me to ask?"
"Maybe some sort of a job will turn up there."
Tikhon Hitch surveyed him. In his hand was the valise; from the pocket of his long-skirted
Oh, Lord God! If she did poison him, what must she be feeling? What a heavy tombstone lay upon her strange, reticent soul! And how had that come about upon which she had decided, crazed by hatred o f Rodka and of his brutal beatings—possibly, also, by her outraged feelings toward him, Tikhon Hitch, and
THE VILLAGE
her disgrace, and the fear that Rodka would eventually hear of that disgrace? Okh, and he had been in the habit of beating her! And Tikhon Hitch had played a fine part, too. And God would surely punish him, too.
With his mind's eye he cast a glance from the porch of his Durnovka manor house, at Durnovka—a rebel, also!—at the black cottages scattered over the declivity beyond the ravine, at the threshing floors and bushes in their back yards. Beyond the houses to the left, on the horizon, stood a railway watch-tower. Past it, in the twilight, a train was running, and with it ran a chain of fiery eyes. Then eyes began to shine out from the cottages. It grew darker; one began to feel more comfortable—yet a disagreeable sensation stirred every time one cast a glance at the cottages of the Bride and the Grey Man, which stood almost in the centre of Durnovka, separated only by three houses. There was no light in either of them. And it was that way nearly all winter long! The Grey Man's small children frolicked with joy and wonder when he managed, on some lucky evening, to burn a light in the cottage.
"Yes, 'tis sinful!" said Tikhon Hitch firmly, and rose from his seat. "Yes, 'tis wicked! I must give them at least a little help," he said, as he wended his way towards the station.
The air was frosty, and the odour of the samovar which was wafted from the station was more fragrant than it had been on the preceding day. The lights at the gate were burning more brightly beyond the trees, which had been smartly frost-bitten and were almost bare, tinted by a little scanty foliage.
THE VILLAGE
The sleighbells on the troika pealed more sonorously. A capital team of horses, those three! On the contrary, it was painful to look at the wretched nags of the peasant cabmen, their tiny vehicles mounted on half-crumbling, misshapen wheels, plastered with mud. The door to the railway station was squeaking and dully banging beyond the palisade. Making his way around it, Tikhon Hitch ascended the lofty stone platform, on which a copper samovar of a couple of buckets' capacity was hissing, its grating glowing red like fiery teeth; and immediately came upon the person of whom he was in search—that is, Deniska.
Deniska, his head bowed in thought, was standing on the platform and holding in his right hand a cheap grey valise, lavishly studded with tin nailheads and bound about with a rope. Deniska was wearing an under-jacket, an old and, evidently, a very heavy garment with pendant shoulders and a very low waist-line, a new peaked cap, and dilapidated boots. His figure was badly built; his legs were extremely short in comparison with his body: "I have nothing but a body," he sometimes said of himself, with a laugh. Now, with that low waist-line and those broken boots, his legs looked shorter than ever.
"Denis?" shouted Tikhon Hitch. "What are you doing here?"
Deniska, who was never surprised at anything, raised his dark and languid eyes with their long lashes, looked at him with a melancholy grin, and pulled the cap from his hair. His hair was mouse-coloured and immeasurably thick; his face was earthy in hue and
THE VILLAGE
bore the appearance of having been greased, but his eyes were handsome.
"Good Morning, Tikhon Hitch," he replied, in a sing-song citified tenor voice, and, as usual, rather shyly. "I'm going to—what d'ye call it?—to Tula."
"But why, if you permit me to ask?"
"Maybe some sort of a job will turn up there."
Tikhon Hitch surveyed him. In his hand was the valise; from the pocket of his long-skirted
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