Living Relics; The Singers

Contents: 1. Living Remains 2. The Singers

Living Remains

For a hunter, rain is a true disaster. We suffered such a disaster with Yermolai during a quail hunt in the Belevsky district. At last Yermolai suggested going to the Alekseyevka farmstead, which belonged to my mother—though I had never known about it. At the farmstead there was an old outbuilding—uninhabited and clean—where I spent the night.
The next day I woke up early and went out into an overgrown garden. Not far away I noticed a bee yard, and a narrow path led to it. Approaching the bee yard, I saw a small woven shed beside it, and peered into a half-open door. In the corner I noticed a makeshift platform and a small figure on it.
I was already turning away when a weak, slow, hoarse voice called my name: “Sir! Pyotr Petrovich!”
I drew near and froze. Before me lay a creature with a dried-up head, like bronze. A nose narrow as a knife blade, lips barely visible—only teeth and eyes, and strands of yellow hair slipping out from under a headscarf. Two tiny, dried-up hands were visible from beneath the blanket. The face was not without ugliness—indeed, it was even beautiful—but terrifying in its unusualness.
It turned out this creature once was Lukerya—the first beauty in our yard servants’ quarters, a dancer and singer, whom I—sixteen years old—secretly admired with a longing. Lukerya told me about her trouble. About 6 or 7 years ago, Lukerya was engaged to Vasily Polyakov. One night she went out onto the porch and heard, as if, Vasya’s voice. Half-asleep, she stumbled near the porch steps and fell. From that day Lukerya began to wither and dry up; her legs failed. No doctor could help her. In the end she became completely bony, and they transported her to this farmstead. And Vasily Polyakov sighed, and married someone else.
In summer, Lukerya lies in the shed; in winter they move her into the front room. She said she eats almost nothing, lies there and watches the surrounding world. She trained herself not to think and not to remember—so that time passes faster. She reads prayers she knows, and then lies again with no thoughts. I suggested taking her to a hospital where she would be cared for properly, but Lukerya refused. Used to the dark, I could clearly make out her features and even find traces of her former beauty on that face.
Lukerya complained that she slept little because of pain all over her body, but if she did fall asleep, strange dreams would come to her. One day she dreamed that she was sitting on a main road dressed in the garments of a pilgrim-praying mantis. A crowd of pilgrims passed by her, and among them— a woman who was taller than the rest. The dress on her was not Russian and her face was strict. Lukerya asked who she was, and the woman answered that she was her death. Lukerya began to beg death to take her with it, and death replied that it would come for her after Petrov days. But, as it happened, an entire week would pass and Lukerya would not fall asleep even once. One time a lady of the gentry passed by and left her a little vial of medicine for insomnia—but that vial had long since been drunk. I realized it had been opium and promised to find her such a vial.
I couldn’t help but marvel out loud at her courage and patience. Lukerya objected that many people suffered more than she did. After a pause I asked how old she was. It turned out she was not yet thirty. When I took my leave, I asked if she needed anything. Lukerya asked only that my mother reduce the rent/dues for the local peasants, and nothing for herself.
That very day I learned from the headman of the farmstead that in the village they called Lukerya “Living Remains,” and that she causes no trouble. A few weeks later I found out that Lukerya died right after Petrov days. The whole day before her death she could hear the sound of bells coming from the sky.

The Singers

A small village, Kotlovka, lies on the slope of a bare hill cut through by a deep ravine that runs down the middle of the street. A few steps from the start of the ravine stands a small four-sided thatched cottage—this is the tavern “Pritinny.” It is visited much more eagerly than other establishments, and the reason is Nikolai Ivananych, the host. This extraordinarily stout, gray-haired man with a puffy face and crafty, good-natured little eyes has lived in Kotlovka for more than 20 years. Without being especially courteous or talkative, he has the gift of attracting guests and knows his way around everything that interests a Russian person. He knows everything that happens in the surrounding area, but he never lets anything slip.
Among his neighbors, Nikolai Ivananych enjoys respect and influence. He is married and has children. His wife is a lively, sharp-nosed, quick-eyed townswoman; Nikolai Ivananych relies on her in everything, and the drunken loudmouths are afraid of her. Nikolai Ivananych’s children took after their parents—smart, healthy boys.
It was a hot July day when, tormented by thirst, I approached the Pritinny tavern. Suddenly, at the tavern’s doorway appeared a gray-haired man of tall stature and began calling someone, waving his hands. A short, stout, lame fellow answered him, with a sly expression on his face, nicknamed Morgach. From the conversation between Morgach and his companion Obaldyui, I understood that the tavern had a contest for singers. The best singer in the neighborhood, Yashka the Turk, would show his skill.
In the tavern there was already quite a crowd, including Yashka— a thin, well-built man of about 23, with big gray eyes and light blond curls. Next to him stood a broad-shouldered man of about 40 with shining black hair and a fierce, thoughtful expression on his Tatar face. They called him the Wild Lord (Dikiy Barin). Across from him sat Yashka’s rival—a clerk from Zhizdra, a dense, short man about 30, freckled and curly, with a dull nose, brownish eyes and a thin beard. The Wild Lord directed the whole event.
Before describing the contest, I want to say a few words about those gathered in the tavern. Yevgraf Ivanov—or Obaldyui—was a wandering bachelor who loved to drink. He couldn’t sing or dance, but no binge ever went without him—his presence was tolerated as an inevitable evil. Morgach’s past was unclear; people only knew that he had been a lady’s coachman, became a shop clerk, was freed, and got rich. He is an experienced man with his own mind—not kind, not cruel. His entire family consists of a son who took after him. Yakov, descended from a captive Turkish woman, was an artist at heart, and by profession— a sorter/worker at a paper mill. Nobody knew where the Wild Lord (Perevyosov) came from or how he lived. This gloomy man lived without needing anyone and wielded enormous influence. He did not drink wine, did not associate with women, and passionately loved singing.
First, the clerk began to sing. He sang a dancing song with endless ornaments and transitions, which made the Wild Lord smile and won the enthusiastic approval of the other listeners. Yakov began with excitement. In his voice there were deep passion, youth and strength, sweetness and excitingly carefree, sad grief. The Russian soul rang in it and seized the heart. In full view, tears appeared in everyone’s eyes. The clerk himself admitted defeat.
I left the tavern so as not to spoil the impression, reached the hayloft, and fell asleep a dead sleep. In the evening, when I woke up, the tavern was already celebrating Yashka’s victory. I turned away and started down the hill on which Kotlovka lies.