But I must ask pardon. I have gone too far in the description of the beautiful country where I was born. Now let us go back and observe the life and unwearied activity of my grandfather.
[3. Fresh Scenes.]
Stepan Mihailovitch had peace at last. Many a time he thanked God from the bottom of his heart, when the move was completed and he found elbow-room on the banks of the Boogoorooslan. His spirits rose, and even his health was better. No petitions, no complaints, no disputes, no disturbance! No tiresome relations, no divided ownership! No thieves to fell his trees, no trespassers to trample down his corn and meadows! He was undisputed master at last in his own house, and beyond it: he might feed sheep, or mow grass, or cut firewood where he pleased without a word from any one.
The peasants too soon became accustomed to the new habitation and soon grew to love it. And that was but natural. Old Bagrovo had wood, but little water; meadow-land was so scarce that it was hard for them to find grazing for one horse and one cow apiece; and, though the natural soil was good, it had been cropped over and over from time immemorial till its fertility was exhausted. The new site gave them wide and fertile fields and meadows, never touched till now by ploughshare or scythe; it gave them a rapid river with good fresh water, and springs in abundance; it gave them a broad pond with fish in it and the river running through it; and it gave them a mill at their very doors, whereas before they had to travel twenty-five versts to have a load of corn ground, and perhaps to wait after all a couple of days till their turn came.
It surprises you perhaps that I called Old Bagrovo waterless; and you may blame my ancestors for choosing such a spot to settle in. But they were not to blame, and things were different in old days. Once on a time Old Bagrovo stood on a pretty stream, the Maina, which took its rise from the Mossy Lakes three versts distant; and also along the whole settlement there stretched a lake, not broad but long and clear, and deep in the middle, with a bottom of white sand; and another streamlet, called The White Spring, issued from this lake. So it was in former times, but it is quite another story now. Tradition tells that the Mossy Lakes were once deep round pools surrounded by trees, with ice-cold water and treacherous banks, and no one ventured near them except in winter, because the banks were said to give way under foot and engulf the bold disturber of the water-spirit's solitary reign. But man is the sworn foe of Nature, and she can never withstand his treacherous warfare against her beauty. Ancient tradition, unsupported by modern instances, ceased to be believed. The people steeped their flax on the banks and drove their herds there to water; and the Mossy Lakes were polluted by degrees, and grew shallow at the edges, and even dried up in places where the wood all round was cut. Then a thick scurf formed on the top; moss grew over it, and the vein-like roots of water-plants bound it together, till it was covered with tussocks and bushes and even fir-trees of some size. One of the pools is now entirely covered; of the other are left two deep water-holes, which even now are formidable for a stranger to approach, because the soil, with all its covering of plants and bushes and trees, rises and falls beneath the foot like a wave at sea. Owing to the dwindling of these lakes, the Maina now issues from the ground some distance below the settlement, and its upper waters have dried up. The lake by the village has become a filthy stinking canal; the sandy bottom is covered to a depth of over seven feet by mud and refuse of all kinds from the peasants' houses; of the White Spring not a trace is left, and the memory of it will soon be forgotten.
When my grandfather had settled down at New Bagrovo, he set to work, with all his natural activity and energy, to grow corn and breed stock. The peasants caught the contagion of his enthusiasm and worked so hard and steadily that they were soon as well set up and provided for as if they had been old inhabitants. After a few years, their stackyards took up thrice as much room as the village-street; and their drove of stout horses, their herds and flocks and pigs, would have done honour to a large and prosperous settlement.
After the success of Stepan Mihailovitch, migration to Ufa or Orenburg became more fashionable every year. Native tribes came streaming from every quarter—Mordvinians, Choovashes, Tatars, and Meshchers, and plenty of Russian settlers too—Crown-tenants from different districts, and landowners, large and small. My grandfather began to have neighbours. His brother-in-law, Ivan Nyeklyoodoff, bought land within twelve versts of Bagrovo, transferred his serfs there, built a wooden church, named his estate Nyeklyoodovo, and came to live there with his family. This afforded no gratification to my grandfather, who had a strong dislike to all his wife's relations—all "Nyeklyoodovdom," as he used to call them. Then a landowner called Bakmétyeff bought land still closer, about ten versts from Bagrovo, on the upper waters of the Sovrusha, which runs to the south-west like the Boogoorooslan. On the other side, twelve versts along the river Nasyagai, another settlement was planted, Polibino, which now belongs to the Karamzin family. The Nasyagai is a larger and finer river than the Boogoorooslan, with more water and more fish in it, and birds still breed there much more freely. On the road to Polibino, and eight versts from Bagrovo, a number of Mordvinians settled in a large village called Noikino, and built a mill on the streamlet of Bokla. Close to the mill, the Bokla runs into the Nasyagai, which rolls its swift strong current straight to the south-west, and is reinforced by the Boogoorooslan not far from the town of that name. Then the Nasyagai unites with the Great Kinel, and loses thenceforth its sounding and significant[13] name.
The latest arrivals were some Mordvinian colonists, a detachment from the larger settlement at Mordovsky Boogoorooslan, nine versts from Bagrovo. This smaller settlement, called Kivatsky, was within two versts of my grandfather, down the river; and he made a wry face at first; for it reminded him of old times in Simbirsk. But the result was quite different. They were good-tempered, quiet people, who respected my grandfather as much as the official in charge of them.
Before many years had passed, Stepan Mihailovitch had gained the deep respect and love too of the whole district. He was a real benefactor to his neighbours, near or far, old or new, and especially to the latter, owing to their ignorance of the place and lack of supplies, and the various difficulties which always befall settlers. Too often people start off on this difficult job without due preparation, without even providing themselves with bread and corn or the means to buy them. My grandfather's full granaries were always open to such people. "Take what you want, and pay me back next harvest, if you can; and if you can't—well, never mind!"—with such words as these he used to distribute with a generous hand corn seed and flour. And more than this: he was so sensible, so considerate towards petitioners, and so inflexibly strict in the keeping of his word, that he soon became quite an oracle in that newly settled corner of the spacious district of Orenburg. Not only did he help his neighbours by his generosity, but he taught them how to behave. To speak the truth was the only key to his favour: a man who had once lied to him and deceived him was ill advised if he came again to Bagrovo: he would be certain to depart with empty hands, and might think himself lucky if he came off with a whole skin. My grandfather settled many family disputes and smothered many lawsuits at their first birth. People travelled from every quarter to seek his advice and hear his decision; and both were punctiliously followed. I have known grandsons and great-grandsons of that generation and heard them speak of Stepan Mihailovitch; and the figure of the strict master but kind benefactor is still unforgotten. I have often heard striking facts told about him by simple people, who shed tears and crossed themselves as they ejaculated a prayer for his soul's rest. It is not surprising that his peasants loved so excellent a master; but he was loved also by his personal servants who had often to endure the terrible storms of his furious rage. Many of his younger servants spent their last days under my roof; and in their old age they liked to talk of their late master—of his strict discipline and passionate temper, and also of his goodness and justice; and they never spoke of him with dry eyes.
Yet this kind, helpful, and even considerate man was subject at times to fearful explosions of anger which utterly defaced the image of humanity in him and made him capable, for the time, of repulsive and ferocious actions. I once saw him in this state when I was a child—it was many years after the time I am writing about—and the fear that I felt has left a lively impression on my mind to this day. I seem to see him before me now. He was angry with one of his daughters; I believe she had told him a lie and persisted in it. It was impossible to recognise his former self. He was trembling all over and supported on each side by a servant; his face was convulsed, and a fierce fire shot from his eyes which were clouded and darkened with fury. "Let me get at her!"—he called out in a strangled voice. (So far, my recollection is clear; and the rest I have often heard others tell.) My grandmother tried to throw herself at his feet, to intercede for the culprit; but in an instant her kerchief and cap flew to a distance, and Stepan Mihailovitch was dragging his wife though she was now old and stout, over the floor by her hair. Meantime, not only the offender, but all her sisters, and even their brother with his young wife and little son,[14] had fled out of doors and sought concealment in the wood that grew round the house. The rest of them spent the whole night there; but the daughter-in-law, fearing that her child would catch cold, went back and passed the night in a servant's cottage. For a long time my grandfather raged at large through the deserted house. At last, when he was weary of dragging his wife about by the hair, and weary of striking his servants, Mazan and Tanaichonok, he dropped upon his bed utterly exhausted and soon fell into a deep sleep which lasted till the following morning.