A. P. Chekhov
Olga went to church, and took Marya with her. As they went down
the path towards the meadow both were in good spirits. Olga
liked the wide view, and Marya felt that in her sister-in-law
she had someone near and akin to her. The sun was rising. Low
down over the meadow floated a drowsy hawk. The river looked
gloomy; there was a haze hovering over it here and there, but on
the further bank a streak of light already stretched across the
hill. The church was gleaming, and in the manor garden the rooks
were cawing furiously.
"The old man is all right," Marya told her, "but Granny is
strict; she is continually nagging. Our own grain lasted till
Carnival. We buy flour now at the tavern. She is angry about it;
she says we eat too much."
"Aye, aye, dearie! Bear it in patience, that is all. It is
written: 'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden.'
Olga spoke sedately, rhythmically, and she walked like a pilgrim
woman, with a rapid, anxious step. Every day she read the
gospel, read it aloud like a deacon; a great deal of it she did
not understand, but the words of the gospel moved her to tears,
and words like "forasmuch as" and "verily" she pronounced with a
sweet flutter at her heart. She believed in God, in the Holy
Mother, in the Saints; she believed one must not offend anyone
in the world -- not simple folks, nor Germans, nor gypsies, nor
Jews -- and woe even to those who have no compassion on the
beasts. She believed this was written in the Holy Scriptures;
and so, when she pronounced phrases from Holy Writ, even though
she did not understand them, her face grew softened,
compassionate, and radiant.
"What part do you come from?" Marya asked her.
"I am from Vladimir. Only I was taken to Moscow long ago, when I
was eight years old."
They reached the river. On the further side a woman was standing
at the water's edge, undressing.
"It's our Fyokla," said Marya, recognizing her. "She has been
over the river to the manor yard. To the stewards. She is a
shameless hussy and foul-mouthed -- fearfully!"
Fyokla, young and vigorous as a girl, with her black eyebrows
and her loose hair, jumped off the bank and began splashing the
water with her feet, and waves ran in all directions from her.
"Shameless -- dreadfully!" repeated Marya.
The river was crossed by a rickety little bridge of logs, and
exactly below it in the clear, limpid water was a shoal of
broad-headed mullets. The dew was glistening on the green bushes
that looked into the water. There was a feeling of warmth; it
was comforting! What a lovely morning! And how lovely life would
have been in this world, in all likelihood, if it were not for
poverty, horrible, hopeless poverty, from which one can find no
refuge! One had only to look round at the village to remember
vividly all that had happened the day before, and the illusion
of happiness which seemed to surround them vanished instantly.
They reached the church. Marya stood at the entrance, and did
not dare to go farther. She did not dare to sit down either.
Though they only began ringing for mass between eight and nine,
she remained standing the whole time.
While the gospel was being read the crowd suddenly parted to
make way for the family from the great house. Two young girls in
white frocks and wide-brimmed hats walked in; with them a
chubby, rosy boy in a sailor suit. Their appearance touched
Olga; she made up her mind from the first glance that they were
refined, well-educated, handsome people. Marya looked at them
from under her brows, sullenly, dejectedly, as though they were
not human beings coming in, but monsters who might crush her if
she did not make way for them.
And every time the deacon boomed out something in his bass voice
she fancied she heard "Ma-arya!" and she shuddered.