In a Russian Village.

Evening Post, Volume LXXII, Issue 66, 15 September 1906, Page 10

In a Russian Village.

■■ ♦ In the New York Independent, Ernest Poole, who has lived in Russia, and come in 'contact with tho people, tells tho following story, as he had it from a Russian country physician: — Loud screams — now sharp and long — poured from Maria's hut. I had iust driven into the village — a dozen log huts on either side the muddy, foulsmelling road. A score of men and women stood in a semi-circle round the closed door, listening and talking hard — some eager, some gloomy and tearful. One fat, sick-faced woman stood alone one the other side of tho road, sneering. I ran to the door, stooped and went in. A low, square log room, with dirt floor and black rafters above. A mouldy odour. In tho middle a tall, shatmybearded peasant was soberly, steadily beating young girl, squeezing her against the table with hio knee. The two thin peasants on the bench by the wall only grinned, but from the bed on top of the great square brick stove a wrinkled, white-bearded man looked down, cursing so hard that his head bobbed. 'Here ! Stop !' I cried. The big man kept on. I noticed by his official badge that te was the Starosta (village mayor). Suddenly he saw who. I was — his arm dropped, he turned humbly and spoke in a low voice — cringing : 'What else can I do, my barm? I myself am beaten by the Ouryadnick (county official). Every month ! And now he will beat me worse than ever, and then throw me into the village jail, then out for one day, then in again ! Please— if you don't believe — look.' He pointed to his own huge, face, and even under his bristling yellow beard I could see tho dark blue welts and livid bruises. 'Why does he beat you?' 'Why? For taxes of course! What else could it be ? Heigh ! Quit your howling !' He boxed the young girl's ear. 'ifou've got me into this!' 'What has she done?' 'Oh it's her family — the devils ! They all ran away last night — fifty souls sneaked off and left the village half empty. Don't you see their game? They think they will move every year to a new village just before tho tax lime. Tho father of this girl— he got up the scheme. Off they rushed last night with women and babies and dogs and one pig. And now she — the devil's daughter here — she won't tell which way they went. And if I can't catch them I must be beaten fifty times — once for each peasant. Now, my good barm, please step out -while I get to work again. My arm is so tired it aches, but I must keep on.' He grabbed his whip and raised it. The girl gaye ' a feeble shriek of terror. 'Leave her alone, you pig-devil !' squeaked the white old man from the top of the Btove. 'She stayed to tako care of me. If you beat her any more she'll be too sick to hand up my supper. And I can't get down from here, so I'll starve to death. Leave her alone !' 'Only pay me their taxes,' he cried, 'and I won't touch her.' 'Taxes !' yelled the old man, rising on his e'bow and shaking his blue fist down over the edge of the stove. 'Taxes ! You mad dog ! Do I look as if I had taxes 'up here to give you?' 'Where can we get money for taaces? "Work! work!" bawls tho Zunsky Natchalnik (Czar's representative). "Work on my estate and you will be happy!" But how much does he pay? Ten kopecks (five cents) a day. Lovely work that is ! Bare living costs more. So we just work our own land. 'But when the crop is ready and we load tho wheat into our cart — then "Hands off!" yells the taxman. "This goes as taxes to the Tsar ! "But this year we had not even wheat for this tax devil ! Just an empty hut, aching stomachs, a few cabbages over in that corner, and four big, chunks of bread. And the taxman was coming ! So my son whipped off with fifty others last night. And now these thirsty devils will come and bawl, "Your son is a thief. Ho has run away from taxes. He is a traitor to his Czar !" Now, my good barm, tell me, if they get caught, what punishmont will they get for their crime?' 'Did they go without passports?' 'Of course, they did ! They couldn't ask the police for passports, for these sly police know this old game of running away. It has been done all over Russia ever since my third marriage seventeen years ago. I remember how dozens of villagers always keep running away every fall. Well— so they have no passports.' 'Then tKey will all bo put in prison for illegal travelling.' Trison ! Now devils to corners !' 'What do you mean by that?' 'Devils to corners ! For men are worse than devils ! But look here.' The old man watched me slyly. 'Suppose they could run fast enough to get to Siberia — the south part, where it is warm. They say that there the peasants get land free and pay no taxes, and are never hauled off into tho army.' 'Yes !' cried the girl eagerly. 'We heard all about it in Ivan's letter !' 'What letter?' growled the old man, pinching her arm angrily. 'We never had a letter ! I tell you they never went toward Siberia — they went just the other way. Oh, you she-devil !' He put his face close to hers and made a frightful grimace. 'Look here,' I eried — 'trust me, won't you? Look at my face. I'm honest. I won't tell ! I promise. Now show nw the letter.' Tho old man peered anxiously down, blinking and licking his lips. At last ho crawled back and got a dirty red handkerchief. From this he carefully picked out a yellow, musty, torn bit of paper and handed it down. Tho letter was in an enormous scrawling hand : •'I bow to my father — to my mother, and again I bow to Aunt Maria and to old Ivan — to young Feodosia and to Stepan Petrovitch — and then to my toes ; I _ bow to my Grandmother Feodotchia. I am here in the army in Siberia, and hero- they say you can havo as much land as your soul wishes and not a kopeck to pay — all tho firewood you want — I tell you, you can burn fires day and night — you can eat, too, the Tobol River here with lots of fishes — now if you want to como here just walk from your village till you come to the railroad — walk along tho railroad — never leave it for a minute — you must walk many weeks or perhaps a few months — then you come to the town Nizhni Novgorod, where the big fair is — a river is thoro and you must go along this river to Perm — then turn to your right and keep walking to Katcrinburg, and after that rush for the river Tobol — come quick, for there are no girls here except four fat, ugly ones — wo fellows want to get married, but tho girls are too square and ugly — one of them has only ono good tooth and a bsoken one — so bring all the girls along — girls, if your fathers stop you, rush out of the hut at night and come anyway — now I bow to my father and to my mother — and to my Grandmother Feodotchia. _ I bow to my toes, and I hope she will not forget to send me a little money. —Soldier of tho Tsar, IVAN." I road this letter laboriously aloud. I finished. A deep, musing silence. 'Now,' said the old man, 'please read it again.' (This was done. More meditation.) 'Well,' ho remarked. 'I have not hoard that read for ten nionths.' 'Ten months. When did it come?' 'I will think.' He scratched his old white hend. 'It camo a year ago Lost Easter. My grandson wrote it. He is smart— yos, sir, smart.. No pna also.

in this -village could read except him, and he was so far away that he could not come here and read his letter to me. So there it lay. But I am an old man, and my head is full of everything, so I' watched it, and the more I looked the better I knew this fine writing was tho same as my grandson's writing used to be.' ' "Ho ! ho !" I said. "This is from my boy." But I was too sly to show it to the priest or tho police. They are both too close to our God, and might make us trouble. So I waited. 'Well, just before Christmas there came to hero the man who buys the linen that our women spin. Even in the next village he heard about my letter. 'So he came and said, "I will read it for ten pounds of raw linen." ' "Go out of the door," I said, "while I talk with my woman." At last my third wife and I decided we could give him the linen if we ate no soup but only black bread and water for a week. "Ho ! ho !" laughed thoso ugly little brats — my grandchildren. "How funny they will look, for they have no teeth to chew the bread. ~VVe must make the old horn chew it for them." But my oldest son thrashed the brats, and then I felt better. ' "Con-/ in and read," I said. In he camo and read all this. That was ten months sigo, and the funny thing is that you come now and read it exactly the way he did — the same words — only he stopped four times to spit and once he got coughing.' At this point the other peasants began coming in — big boned, dull, with white anaemic faces and heavy eyes. In vain I tried to warn them against following their outlaw friends. 'We might as well die there as here,' cried one short man with a red, stubby beard and hollow cheeks. 'Yes, 1 said tho sick-faced woman, who had stood sneering in the street. 'Our babies die hero anyway. I tell you I have lost both my last ones. One got dead before she was born. I tell you she was a beauty — she ' 'We have no wood !' cried one oJd woman. 'Not enough to make a whiphandle with. That's why the babies freeze and cough and die ! ' 'But why not send some one ahead, 1 I suggested, 'to look for the best place?' 'Good !' cried several voices. 'Oh, no — we won't !' cried the old grandfather, still on top of the stove. 'We did that once long ago — just before my third marriage. And he stayed away with the money we gave him to buy land with. One fine night his wife and children disappeared, so we know he took them, and all of them are rich and happy with our village money — the fat, chuckling devils ! 'But little money tho crowd took last night! ,They had no carts and no blankots-^oniy the coats on their backs, and a big chunk of black bread for each. They wil? starve to death. They will never get to my boy Ivan. I wonder if he is married. Perhaps he has a baby and ' I 'Oh, shut up' cried the sicK-faced woman. 'Let's sticK to our own things ! I hate all babies anyhow !' Now we heard loud voices outside. 'What's up?' 'The Ouryadnick (police officer) is beating the Starosta !' 'Fine !' laughed the old man on the stove. 'Big devils beat little devils ! Funny ! Very funny ! Fine !' In rushed the Starosta and seized my arm. 'Barin — barm ! Don't let him take me off from my wife and my brats ! They will starve ! Tell him I did my best to find out ! You saw how hard I beat the girl ! Tell him how hard I beat her !' But the Ouryadnick — resplendent in gray coat and brass buttons — seized the Starosta and led him off. 'Now devils to corners !' the old man chuckled. One year later I came back. I went to tne old man's hut and found him still up on the stove. But now the rest of tho hut was crowded with five men and women and seven children of all sizes down to crawling babies. 'Yes,' he said, 'they all came back, and "all they brought was holes in their clothes. Four had rolled up their eyes and were buried in tho big forest. The others built huts of branches and piled snow ovor and tried to live. They had plenty of wood to burn, but nothing to eat. They ate the pig right away and then all the dogs — even the old one whose teeth were gone. So they came home last Easter. 'But now this place is ten times worse. I have never felt so bad as this — never since my second wife ran away with young Samson the miller. 'So now they think they will sneak off again and find some place where land is rich and given away. Then they will send for mo. They will take me to. my boy Ivan — the smart one. And after that I will eat all I want — soft food and soup, so my gums will stop bleeding. This is what I always think about." He turned, crawled back painfully along the top of tne stove— grunting; In a moment he crept back with a scrap of paper — faded, crumpled, dirty. He handed it down. As he leaned over I was shocked to see how emaciated he was. His breath camo in short, hot gasps, his thin blue hand shook violently, ho nearly lost his balance, and when I pushed him back I felt his old body just a frame of bones. His faded eyes betrayed unmistakably the intense pains from that stomach that 'jumped up and dowm' But now his eyes gleamed expectantly. 'Now, barm, will you road for me again my letter from my boy Ivan — the smart one?'