Masha And The Bear Song Bass Boosted
Colby DuLin
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The first story, though only a fragment of a projected novel to be called"A Russian Proprietor," is perfect and complete in itself. One cannot helpfeeling that it is autobiographical; Count Tolsto himself, it will beremembered, having suddenly quitted the University of Kazan, in spite ofthe entreaties of his friends, and retired to his paternal estate ofYasnaya Polyana, near Tula. The aunt whose letter is quoted in the firstchapter must have been Count Tolsto's aunt, mentioned in the secondchapter of "My Confession."
The "Recollections of a Scorer" and "Two Hussars" are both evidentlyreminiscent of Count Tolsto's gambling-days. Both must have been suggestedby some such terrible experience as that told of the count's gambling-debtin the Caucasus.
"Lucerne" and "Albert" are likewise evidently transcripts from the author'sown experience. The strange benefactor in each, and the shadowy PrinceNekhliudof, are all Count Tolsto in phases quite distinct from what he isat present.[vi]
"The Three Deaths," written in 1859, has little of the sombre power of"Ivn Ilyitch." The scalpel which was so remorselessly applied to the soulin the latter is wholly hidden. It is realism pure and simple; and thecontrast between the death of the peasant and of the lady is left toinference, made all the stronger by the unexpected and grandiose finale inthe death of the tree.
In interesting contrast to these characteristic stories is the little gementitled "A Prisoner in the Caucasus," which is found in Vol. IV. of theCount's works under the heading "Tales for Children." The style isperfectly simple and lucid; the pictures of life in the Tatar village amongthe mountains are intensely vivid, painted with strong and masterlytouches; and the reader will not soon forget the little laughing maidenDina, with the rubles jingling in her braided hair. She stands forth as oneof the most fascinating of the author's creations.
"As I have already written you, I found our affairs inindescribable confusion. Wishing to bring order out ofchaos, I made an investigation, and discovered that theprincipal trouble was due to the most[2] wretched miserablecondition of the peasants, and that this trouble could beremedied only by work and patience.
"If you could only see two of my peasants, David and Ivn,and the way that they and their families live, I amconvinced that one glance at these two unfortunates would domore to persuade you than all that I can tell you injustification of my resolve. Is not my obligation sacred andclear, to labor for the welfare of these seven hundred humanbeings for whom I must be responsible to God? Would it notbe a sin to leave them to the mercy of harsh elders andoverseers, so as to carry out plans of enjoyment orambition? And why should I seek in any other sphere theopportunity of being useful, and doing good, when such anoble, brilliant, and paramount duty lies right at hand?
"I feel that I am capable of being a good farmer;[1] and inorder to make myself such an one as I understand the word tomean, I do not need my diploma as B.A., nor the rank whichyou so expect of me. Dear auntie, do not make ambitiousplans for me: accustom yourself to the thought that I amgoing on an absolutely peculiar path, but one that is good,and, I think, will bring me to happiness. I have thought andthought about my future duties, have written out some rulesof conduct, and, if God only gives me health and strength, Ishall succeed in my undertaking.
"Do not show this letter to my brother Vsya: I am afraid ofhis ridicule. He generally dictates to me, and I amaccustomed to give way to him. Whilst Vanya may not approveof my resolve, at least he will understand it."
"Your letter, dear Dmitri, showed nothing else to me thanthat you have a warm heart; and I have never had reason todoubt that. But, my dear, our good tendencies do us moreharm in life than our bad ones. I will not tell you that youare committing a folly, that your behavior annoys me; but Iwill do my best to make one argument have an effect uponyou. Let us reason together, my dear.
"In the first place, I must tell you that we feel sure ofour vocation only when we have once made a mistake in one;secondly, that it is easier to win happiness for ourselvesthan for others; and thirdly, that, in order to be a goodmaster, it is necessary to be a cold and austere man, whichyou will never in this world succeed in being, even thoughyou strive to make believe that you are.
"You consider your arguments irresistible, and go so far asto adopt them as rules for the conduct of life; but at myage, my dear, people don't care for arguments and rules, butonly for experience. Now, experience tells me that yourplans are childish.
"You have always wished to appear original, but youroriginality is nothing else than morbidly developed egotism.And, my dear, choose some better-trodden[4] path. It will leadyou to success; and success, if it is not necessary for youas success, is at least indispensable in giving you thepossibility of doing good which you desire. The poverty of afew serfs is an unavoidable evil, or, rather, an evil whichcannot be remedied by forgetting all your obligations tosociety, to your relatives, and to yourself.
"I believe that you are sincere, when you say that you arefree from ambition; but you are deceiving yourself. Ambitionis a virtue at your age, and with your means it becomes afault and an absurdity when a man is no longer in thecondition to satisfy this passion.
"And you will experience this if you do not change yourintention. Good-by, dear Mitya. It seems to me that I haveall the more love for you on account of your foolish butstill noble and magnanimous plan. Do as you please, but Iforewarn you that I shall not be able to sympathize withyou."
The young man read this letter, considered it long and seriously, andfinally, having decided that his genial aunt might be mistaken, sent in hispetition for dismissal from the university, and took up his residence athis estate.[5]
Sunday was reserved for the reception of petitioners, domestic servants,and peasants, for the visitation of the poor serfs belonging to the estate,and the distribution of assistance with the approval of the Commune, whichmet every Sunday evening, and was obliged to decide who should have help,and what amount should be given.
It was a clear July Sunday when Nekhliudof, having finished his coffee andrun through a chapter of "Maison Rustique," put his note-book and a packetof bank-notes into the pocket of his light overcoat, and started out ofdoors. It was a great country-house with colonnades and terraces where helived, but he occupied only one small room on the ground floor. He made hisway over the neglected, weed-grown paths of the old English garden, towardthe village, which was distributed along both sides of the highway.
Nekhliudof was a tall, slender young man, with long, thick, wavy auburnhair, with a bright gleam in[6] his dark eyes, a clear complexion, and rosylips where the first down of young manhood was now beginning to appear.
The serfs, in variegated groups, were returning from church: old men,maidens, children, mothers with babies in their arms, dressed in theirSunday best, were scattering to their homes; and as they met the brin theybowed low and made room for him to pass.
After Nekhliudof had walked some distance along the street, he stopped, anddrew from his pocket his note-book, on the last page of which, inscribed inhis own boyish hand, were a number of names of his serfs with memoranda. Heread, "Ivn Churis asks for aid;" and then, proceeding still fartheralong the street, entered the gate of the second hut[2] on the right.
Churis's domicile consisted of a half-decayed structure, with mustycorners; the sides were rickety. It was so buried in the ground, that thebanking, made of earth and dung, almost hid the two windows. The one on thefront had a broken sash, and the shutters were half torn away; the otherwas small and low, and was stuffed with flax. A boarded entry with rottingsills and low door, another small building still older and stilllower-studded than the entry, a gate, and a barn were clustered about theprincipal hut.
Near the well stood two old willows, split and broken, with theirwhitish-green foliage. They were witnesses to the fact that some one, sometime, had taken interest in beautifying this place. Under one of them sat afair-haired girl of seven summers, watching another little girl of two, whowas creeping at her feet. The watch-dog gambolling about them, as soon ashe saw the brin, flew headlong under the gate, and there set up aquavering yelp expressive of panic.
After Nekhliudof had asked after her health, and passed through the entryinto the little yard, the old woman, resting her chin in her hand, went tothe door, and, without taking her eyes off the brin, began gently to shakeher head.
There were pent-houses around the yard, under one side of which stood awooden plough, a cart without a[8] wheel, and a pile of emptygood-for-nothing bee-hives thrown one upon another. The roof was indisrepair; and one side had fallen in so that the covering in front rested,not on the supports, but on the manure.
Churis, with the edge and head of an axe, was breaking off the wattles thatstrengthened the roof. Ivn was a peasant, fifty years of age. In stature,he was short. The features of his tanned oval face, framed in a dark auburnbeard and hair where a trace of gray was beginning to appear, were handsomeand expressive. His dark blue eyes gleamed with intelligence and lazygood-nature, from under half-shut lids. His small, regular mouth, sharplydefined under his sandy thin mustache when he smiled, betrayed a calmself-confidence, and a certain bantering indifference toward all aroundhim.
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