Peasants

In the Moscow hotel “Slavyansky Bazaar,” Nikolay Chikildeev fell ill. His legs went numb and his gait changed, and one day, walking down the corridor, he tripped and fell along with the tray that held ham with peas. He had to give up his place. He used his own money as well as his wife’s to pay for treatment, but there was nothing left to live on. Without anything to do, boredom set in, and he decided that he must go back home to his village. Home, they say, is where the walls help— and life there is cheaper.

He arrived at his Zhukovo village by evening. As a boy, the home nest had seemed bright, cozy, comfortable—yet now, stepping into the izba, he even felt afraid: it was so dark, cramped, and dirty. His wife, Olga, and their daughter, Sasha, who had come with him, stared in confusion at the large, untidy stove taking up nearly half the hut—darkened with soot and crawling with flies. So many flies! The stove had tilted, the logs in the walls lay crooked, and it seemed the hut would fall apart any moment. In the front corner, by the icons, bottle labels and scraps of newspaper were pasted up—these were instead of pictures. Poverty, poverty! There was no adult at home—everyone was out working. On the stove sat a girl of about eight—fair-haired, unwashed, indifferent; she didn’t even look at the newcomers. Below, a white cat rubbed against the poker.