Sketches in Peasant Russia: Breadandsaltness

No matter what other things of a flattering nature a nation may find to say about, itself, we may be reasonably sure that it will vaunt its spirit, of hospitality. So general is this proper conceit, so time-honored, that we believe Cain must have found the land of Nod noted for its kindness to the ‘stranger within its gates.’ For this reason we feel our position quite unassailable when we say that the Russians too are particularly keen on this native trait, known to themselves as ‘ breadandsaltness.’

Catchpole was tired. I was tired. And why should n’t we be? Had n’t we been traveling since six o’clock in the evening, in a rigid old wagon without springs — and over a corduroy road in which more than half the logs had sunk out of sight in the bog? How can you think a journey of this kind is comfortable? How can you believe our dispositions were not frayed to a thin fringe? The wonder of it, as I look back, is that he and I could go through four days and nights of it together — days and nights of almost incessant travel — and come through friends.

We had now been on the road already eight hours, and it was nearing two o’clock in the morning.

We were reaching the end of our stage, said Mefódi, where we should change horses before going on with the journey. ‘End of the stage’ at once suggested post-house, and tea, and rest, and perhaps even sleep — four whole hours of it. — before we must be up and on our way once more.

And then, to cast down our rising spirits, had come Mefódi’s announcement that there would n’t be any posthouse.

‘What? No post-house? No rest? No supper? No sleep?’

‘Not necessary!’ Mefódi assured us. ‘You may be very quiet. There is a friend to me in this town, this Verkhóvaya. You will go to him!’

‘But, Mefódusha,’ I cut in, ‘impossible! It’s already two o’clock — ’

‘It is nothing!’ interrupted Mefódi. ‘You will go to him!’

‘Agreeable!’ said I, relapsing into the hay.

My traveling companion rolled a tired eye in my direction. ‘What was the meaning of that little lot?’ he asked.

With a stifled sigh, I retailed in English, for the hundredth time that day, the scrap of conversation we had held.

Some minutes after, Mefódi pulled up his horse before a house in the village, and pounded on the door with the butt of his whip.

‘This,’ he announced, ‘is the house of Makár.’

The door opened at length, and a very tousled, very sleepy head was thrust out.

‘ Zdrávstvui, Makár! ’ said Mefódi; and pointing with the butt of his whip, ‘ My friend Petr Ivanich Weaver. Become acquainted, please!’ And he bowed as graciously as possible, owing to the quiltiness of his costume.

The tousled head bobbed down and back. ‘Very pleasant!’ said its owner, drowsily.

‘My friend’s friend, Captain Catchpole,’ continued Mefódi. ‘Become acquainted, please!’

‘Very pleasant!’ said Makár, bobbing again with the head.

‘The officers will night it with you, Makár Stepánich,’ explained Mefódi.

‘Very pleasant!’ responded Makár, bobbing some more.

We hesitated at being wished on a total stranger in this manner.

‘You ’re sure we won’t be in the way — sure we won’t uncalm you at all?’ I asked.

Makár dug his knuckles into sleepy eyes. ‘Uncalm us?’ he repeated to himself. ‘Uncalm us? — oh, please!’ he replied cordially, and bobbed once again.

The captain poked gingerly with his stick at a filthy remnant of a door-mat, or glanced furtively over the shoulder of Makár’s nightshirt at the disorder within the house. (Night-shirt, did we say? More correctly, under layer of integuments — the upper layers having been laid off at bedtime.)

‘ Be so kind! ’ said Makár, leading the way through a dark hall-way smelling of hay, fish, wet boots, damp clothing, moist plaster, and folks.

‘Damn!’ muttered my companion under his breath, as he stumbled over a padded driver asleep on the floor; and ‘Damn!’ again as he tripped over a second.

'Chort!’ I said, as, carefully avoiding the above two, I stepped squarely on the soft stomach of a third.

Makár noted our annoyance and embarrassment. ‘It is nothing!’ he said.

He flung open the inner door and ushered us into the single room that made their home. A smoky lamp burned dimly on the table. In the corner a disordered bed from which he, and his, had apparently hastily arisen. In a far corner another bed, in which two sturdy youngsters were tucked away.

‘ Plant yourselves, please! Thither! ’ Makár pointed to the usual long bench under the windows, and then disappeared for the moment behind the great masonry stove.

Catchpole planted himself nowhither but continued standing by the doorway. With his bamboo he started poking at the tattered edge of wall-paper around the casing. I had hoped he would n’t disturb this! Many strange things lurk behind tattered wall-paper.

When Makár, now clothed, reappeared from behind the stove, my companion was still busy with his stick.

‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed suddenly, at the bottom of his breath.

‘What?’ I asked, apprehensively.

Seen in the flickering shadow, his features showed extreme disgust.

‘Bugs!’ he snapped in a low tone.

‘And what does he say?’ asked Makár.

‘My friend,’ I explained, ‘positively refuses to believe that anyone could show such hospitality to two strangers, especially at such a time of night! You saw, no doubt, the unbelieving expression, and the strong gesture?’

‘So?’ said Makár complacently.

Mefódi appeared with our hamper and our sleeping-bags, and promptly retired again, taking his place on the floor of the hallway beside the other sleepers. The Makárov wife now appeared from behind the stove, greeted us graciously, and hastened to boil the samovar for tea.

‘You will sup,’ explained Makár, ‘and, after, you will sleep here!’

He bowed low, and with conscious pride indicated the tumbled bed — his best — for his guests.

‘What’s he saying?’ asked my companion ‘He says we will sleep there,’ I interpreted, pointing to the bed.

‘Fancy!’ my companion exclaimed.

‘That is — what did he say?’ asked Makár in his turn.

‘The captain is overcome by the nature of your hospitality,’ I explained.

‘I say!’ my friend interrupted. ‘Are you telling him I ’ll sleep in that bed? ’

‘But Catchpole, we must!’ I replied. ‘Only think! Here we are, perfect strangers! We ’re nothing to this man. And yet out of sheer kindness of heart he and his wife get. up at two A.M. and give us shelter, give us tea — and even climb out and offer us their own bed! Why, common decency demands—’

‘Decency!’ he gasped. ‘If I did sleep there, it would be the most indecent thing I ever did!’

‘But we have got to live on fairly peaceable terms with these people,’ I ventured.

‘Well, damme!’ he replied. ‘Who wants to quarrel with them? Patch it up any way you like — as long as you or I don’t sleep in that bed,’ he added.

How this was to be accomplished, I was not prepared to say. Certainly not by telling them the true cause of our failing enthusiasm! As I tried to think of a means, my eyes roved aimlessly about the room, lighting upon the group of ikons in the ‘beautiful corner.’ And then it was that the inspiration seized me.

I addressed myself to Makár and the Makárov spouse, thanking them in no uncertain terms for their unstinted breadandsaltness. I assured them that not the smallest attention had gone unnoted or unappreciated. And then, as to the bed — I leaned over and whispered a deep secret in the ear of each.

Two pairs of eyes opened wide with wonderment and surprise. Two excited peasants disappeared behind the stove, and there followed a spirited discussion in low tones. Little Pável awaked, and sitting up in bed, took in their conversation, too, his eyes opening wide.

All hours are the same hour. Two A.M, or two P.M. — what does it matter when there is excitement toward ? Quietly Pavel slipped into his boots and was out of the door and off down the village street, apparently on some such errand as another Paul pursued years ago along the dark road to Lexington.

At least, as we sat at supper soon after, friends began dropping in. Slipped in silently and shyly, and took places along the seat under the windows. What Pável had told them we could not say — but there they were.

We opened our hamper, and the captain fished out a couple of tins of beef and a paper of sugar and tucked them quietly into the angle of the mother’s arm as she came with the samovar.

Her face lighted with pleasure. Setting down the load to give her hands free play, she started thanking him in voluble Russian.

Now if there is one thing Catchpole dislikes, it is effusiveness. He rummaged about hastily in his meagre Russian vocabulary for a word to stem this flow. Then, pushing out a slender hand deprecatingly, ‘Boomsillavatska!’ he replied, unsuccessfully.

As we two sat at supper, Makár (vice Mefódi, retired) showed off his guests with a proud air of proprietorship. In the shadowy corner by the stove there was much whispering, and some giggling.

‘Not the haughty one, Makár,’ I heard them ask shyly. ‘The other queer one — what for a man is this?'

‘This?’ answered Makár knowingly. ’This is an Amerikánets. One tells from the thick nape of the neck. They drink much cold water, these strange people, and it shows in the back of the neck.’

Selecting isolated spots in the middle of the floor, we unrolled our sleepingbags. Russia was deeply interested.

Catchpole then dropped down in the chair by the lamp, sweeping a distressed glance across the faces of the populace lining the walls of the little room. ’You may tell them, Weaver,’ he said, ‘that the show is over for this evening. Tell them they may go. I’m ready for bed.’

‘Why, I can’t tell them, old man,’ I explained. ‘They ’re not our guests, they ’re Makár’s.’

The captain scowled and sat along in silence. Meanwhile the populace patiently waited. Russia has time, as the German proverb says.

My friend twitched convulsively and gave utterance to dire threats. ‘Tell them,’ he said ‘that if they don’t go I shall take my tunic off just the same!'

I told them. Russia stirred with expectant excitement, and remained fast.

The captain, true to his given word, removed his blouse ceremoniously and deliberately, and sat in the presence of the populace in his shirt-sleeves — the first time in the history of the great Empire.

Still Russia had time. Still Russia waited. Several uneventful moments passed, after which my friend turned to me again. ‘Weaver,’ he said despairingly, ‘would n’t you think they’d take the hint? Would n’t you think they’d go now ?'

I was busy unwinding my puttees, and did n’t answer. But potent is the power of suggestion. Soon he too was unwinding his puttees, attentively watched by many pairs of round eyes.

‘Now perhaps they ’ll go,’ he ventured, hesitantly, straightening up once more.

But I was busy taking off my shoes and did n’t hear him. He looked from me to his pair of boots, from his pair of boots to the many pairs of eyes, and back again at me.

And bending over once more, he too started unlacing his boots. From boots We progressed to shirts. And, undaunted, from shirts to socks. And still Russia sat, undismayed. The captain, nonplussed, slumped back hopelessly in his chair, a long sock dangling limply from his hand. Obviously, the only remaining part, of our ceremony was breeches.

He turned a patient eye on me. ‘Now, Weaver, damme!’ he sighed;

‘ they ’ve got to go, you know!'

‘Yes,’ I echoed doubtfully, ‘they’ve got to go.’

Then it was that my companion had his inspiration. A tell-tale light flashed in his eye for an instant as he sat up and turned his face smilingly toward the row of faces. ‘ Good-night! he said, in his best Russian.

The row of faces looked mystified.

He turned in his chair, and with a deft hand, before anyone could guess his intent, flicked the sock across the top of the lamp chimney. Tfu! Out went the light, and we found ourselves in the blackest of nights.

There was a long wait in the dark; and a loud steady drone, as of a swarm of angry bees.

At length Makár brought a splint and lit the lamp again. As it burned up once more, the eager eyes peered blinkingly through the new-made light. But too late!

The strangers were tucked away in their bags.

‘I say, Peter Weaver,’ droned my companion from the depths of his, after the last of the villagers had filed out,

‘ I don’t like to be always begging translations — no, not half! But I should like to know what you said to the old blighter and his wife, that, started all the row.’

‘Why,’ — I yawned sleepily, — ‘I had to tell them something about that bed business. I told them it was part of our religion to sleep on the floor.'