The Peasant Marey, from Diary of a Writer, Feb 1876
     Translated by Kenneth Lantz
 
         But reading all these professions de foi is a bore, I think, and so 
     I'll tell you a story; actually, it's not even a story, but only a
     reminiscence of something that happened long ago and that, for 
     some reason, I would very much like to recount here and now, as
     a conclusion to our treatise on the People.  At the time I was only
     nine years old.... But no, I'd best begin with the time I was
     twenty-nine.
         It was the second day of Easter Week.  The air was warm, the      
     sky was blue, the sun was high, warm, and bright, but there was    
     only gloom in my heart.  I was wandering behind the prison bar- 
     racks, examining and counting off the pales in the sturdy prison
     stockade, but I had lost even the desire to count, although such
     was my habit.  It was the second day of "marking the holiday"     
     within the prison compound; the prisoners were not taken out to   
     work; many were drunk; there were shouts of abuse, and quarrels   
     were constantly breaking out in all corners.  Disgraceful, hideous
     songs; card games in little nooks under the bunks; a few convicts,  
     already beaten half to death by sentence of their comrades for their
     particular rowdiness, lay on bunks covered with sheepskin coats   
     until such time as they might come to their senses; knives had 
     already been drawn a few times - all this, in two days of holiday,
     had worn me out to the point of illness.  Indeed, I never could   
     endure the drunken carousals of peasants without being disgusted,  
     and here, in this place, particularly.  During these days even the
     prison staff did not look in; they made no searches, nor did they
     check for alcohol, for they realised that once a year they had to  
     allow even these outcasts to have a spree; otherwise it might be
     even worse.  At last, anger welled up in my heart.  I ran across the
     Pole M-cki, a political prisoner; he gave me a gloomy look, his  
     eyes glittering and his lips trembling: "Je hais ces brigands!" he
     muttered, gritting his teeth, and passed me by.  I returned to the
     barrack despite the fact that a quarter-hour before I had fled
     half-demented when six healthy peasants had thrown themselves
     as one man, on the drunken Tatar Gazin and had begun beating
     him to make him settle down; they beat him senselessly with such
     blows as might have killed a camel; but they knew that it was not
     easy to kill this Hercules and so they didn't hold back.  And now
     when I returned to the barracks I noticed Gazin lying senseless on
     a bunk in the corner showing scarcely any signs of life; he was  
     lying under a sheepskin coat, and everyone passed him by in
     silence: although they firmly hoped he would revive the next morn-
     ing, still, "with a beating like that, God forbid, you could finish
     a man off." I made my way to my bunk opposite a window with
     an iron grating and lay down on my back, my hands behind my
     head, and closed my eyes.  I liked to lie like that: a sleeping man
     was left alone, while at the same time one could daydream and   
     think.  But dreams did not come to me; my heart beat restlessly
     and M-ckis words kept echoing in my ears: "je hais ces brigands!"
     However, why describe my feelings? Even now at night I sometimes  
     dream of that time, and none of my dreams are more agonising.
     Perhaps you will also notice that until today I have scarcely ever
     spoken in print of my prison life; I wrote Notes from the House of
     the Dead fifteen years ago using an invented narrator, a criminal
     who supposedly had murdered his wife. (I might add, by the way, 
     that many people supposed and are even now quite firmly convinced
     that I was sent to hard labour for the murder of my wife.)
     Little by little I lost myself in reverie and imperceptibly sank  
     into memories of the past.  All through my four years in prison I
     continually thought of all my past days, and I think I relived the
     whole of my former life in my memories.  These memories arose
     in my mind of themselves; rarely did I summon them up con-
     sciously.  They would begin from a certain point, some little thing
     that was often barely perceptible, and then bit by bit they would
     grow into a finished picture, some strong and complete impression. 
     I would analyse these impressions, adding new touches to things 
     experienced long ago; and the main thing was that I would refix   
     them, continually refine them, and in this consisted my entire   
     entertainment.  This time, for some reason, I suddenly recalled a 
     moment of no apparent significance from my early childhood when  
     I was only nine years old, a moment that I thought I had completely
     forgotten; but at that time I was particularly fond of memories of
     my very early childhood.  I recalled one August at our home in the
     country: the day was clear and dry, but a bit chilly and windy;
     summer was on the wane, and soon I would have to go back to 
     Moscow to spend the whole winter in boredom over my French
     lessons; and I was so sorry to have to leave the country.  I passed 
     by the granaries, made my way down into the gully, and climbed
     up into the Dell - that was what we called a thick patch of bushes 
     that stretched from the far side of the gully to a grove of trees.
     And so I make my way deeper into the bushes and can hear that  
     some thirty paces away a solitary peasant is plowing in the clearing.
     I know he's plowing up the steep side of a hill and his horse finds
     it heavy going; from time to time I hear his shout, "Gee-up!" I
     know almost all our peasants, but don't recognise the one who's 
     plowing; and what difference does it make, anyway, since I'm quite
     absorbed in my own business.  I also have an occupation: I'm     
     breaking off a switch of walnut to lash frogs; walnut switches are
     so lovely and quite without flaws, so much better than birch ones
     I'm also busy with bugs and beetles, collecting them; some are
     very pretty; I love the small, nimble, red-and-yellow lizards with
     the little black spots as well, but I'm afraid of snakes.  I come 
     across snakes far less often than lizards, however.  There aren't many
     mushrooms here; you have to go into the birch wood for mush-
     rooms, and that's what I have in mind.  I liked nothing better than
     the forest with its mushrooms and wild berries, its insects, and its
     birds, hedgehogs, and squirrels, and with its damp aroma of rotting
     leaves that I loved so.  And even now, as I write this, I can catch
     the fragrance from our stand of birches in the country: these im- 
     pressions stay with you all your life.  Suddenly, amid the deep
     silence, I clearly and distinctly heard a shout: "There's a wolf!"   
     I screamed, and, beside myself with terror, crying at the top of   
     my voice, I ran out into the field, straight at the plowing peasant.
        It was our peasant Marey.  I don't know if there is such a name,
     but everyone called him Marey.  He was a man of about fifty, heavy-
     set, rather tall, with heavy streaks of grey in his bushy, dark-brown
     beard.  I knew him but had scarcely ever had occasion to speak to 
     him before.  He even stopped his little filly when he heard my cry,
     and when I rushed up to him and seized his plow with one hand 
     and his sleeve with the other, he saw how terrified I was.
        "It's a wolf!" I cried, completely out of breath.
        Instinctively he jerked his head to look around, for an instant
     almost believing me.
         "Where's the wolf?"
         "I heard a shout.... Someone just shouted, 'Wolf'" . . I
     babbled.
         "What do you mean, lad?  There's no wolf; you're just hearing",  
     reassuring me.  But I was all a-tremble and clung to his coat sleeve,
     more tightly; I suppose I was very pale as well.  He looked at me
     with an uneasy smile, evidently concerned and alarmed for me.
         "Why you took a real fright, you did!" he said, wagging his    
     head.  "Never mind, now, my dear.  What a fine lad you are!"
          He stretched out his hand and suddenly stroked my cheek.
         "Never mind, now, there's nothing to be afraid of.  Christ be  
     with you.  Cross yourself, lad." But I couldn't cross myself; the
     corners of my mouth were trembling, and I think this particularly 
     struck him.  He quietly stretched out a thick, earth-soiled finger 
     with a black nail and gently touched it to my trembling lips. 
         "Now, now," he smiled at me with a broad, almost maternal
     smile.  "Lord, what a dreadful fuss.  Dear, dear, dear!"
         At last I realised that there was no wolf and that I must have   
     imagined hearing the cry of "Wolf." Still, it had been such a clear
     and distinct shout; two or three times before, however, I had imag-
     ined such cries (not only about wolves), and I was aware of that.
     (Later, when childhood passed, these hallucinations did as well.)
         "Well, I'll be off now," I said, making it seem like a question
     and looking at him shyly.
         "Off with you, then, and I'll keep an eye on you as you go.  
     Can't let the wolf get you!" he added, still giving me a maternal
     smile.  "Well, Christ be with you, off you go." He made the sign   
     of the cross over me, and crossed himself I set off, looking over
     my shoulder almost every ten steps.  Marey continued to stand with
     his little filly, looking after me and nodding every time I looked 
     around.  I confess I felt a little ashamed at taking such a fright.
     But I went on, still with a good deal of fear of the wolf, until I
     had gone up the slope of the gully to the first threshing barn; and
     here the fear vanished entirely, and suddenly our dog Volchok came
     dashing out to meet me.  With Volchok I felt totally reassured and
     I turned toward Marey for the last time; I could no longer make
     out his face clearly, but I felt that he was still smiling kindly at
     me and nodding.  I waved to him, and he returned my wave and
     urged on his little filly.
         "Gee-up," came his distant shout once more, and his little filly
     once more started drawing the wooden plow.
         
 
         This memory came to me all at once - I don't know why - but
     with amazing clarity of detail.  Suddenly I roused myself and sat
     on the bunk; I recall that a quiet smile of reminiscence still played
     on my face.  I kept on recollecting for yet another minute.
     I remembered that when I had come home from Marey I told
     no one about my "adventure." And what kind of adventure was
     it anyway?  I forgot about Marey very quickly as well.  On the rare
     occasions when I met him later, I never struck up a conversation   
     with him, either about the wolf or anything else, and now, suddenly,
     twenty years later, in Siberia, I remembered that encounter so
     vividly, right down to the last detail.  That means it had settled
     unnoticed in my heart, all by itself with no will of mine, and had
     suddenly come back to me at a time when it was needed; I recalled   
     the tender, maternal smile of a poor serf, the way he crossed me
     and shook his head: "Well you did take a fright now, didn't you,
     lad!" And I especially remember his thick finger, soiled with dirt, 
     that he touched quietly and with shy tenderness to my trembling
     lips.  Of course, anyone would try to reassure a child, but here in
     this solitary encounter something quite different had happened,
     and had I been his very own son he could not have looked at me
     with a glance that radiated more pure love, and who had prompted 
     him to do that?  He was our own serf, and I was his master's little  
     boy; no one would learn of his kindness to me and reward him
     for it.  Was he, maybe, especially fond of small children?  There
     are such people.  Our encounter was solitary, in an open field, and
     only God, perhaps, looking down saw what deep and enlightened
     human feeling and what delicate, almost feminine tenderness could  
     fill the heart of a coarse, bestially ignorant Russian serf who at  
     the time did not expect or even dream of his freedom.  Now tell
     me, is this not what Konstantin Aksakov had in mind when he
     spoke of the advanced level of development of our Russian People? 
         And so when I climbed down from my bunk and looked around,      
     I remember I suddenly felt I could regard these unfortunates in 
     an entirely different way and that suddenly, through some sort of
     miracle, the former hatred and anger in my heart had vanished.  I   
     went off, peering intently into the faces of those I met.  This dis-
     graced peasant, with shaven head and brands on his cheek, drunk
     and roaring out his hoarse, drunken song - why he might also be  
     that very same Marey; I cannot peer into his heart, after all.  That
     same evening I met M-cki once again.  The unfortunate man!  He   
     had no recollections of any Mareys and no other view of these
     people but "Je hais ces brigands!" No, the Poles had to bear more
     than we did in those days!