A Matchmaking
At the age of sixty-eight old Yemelyan Glukhov became a widower. He buried his wife, presided over the funeral feast, wept, and said, "How am I to get along now? All alone?"
Yes, that's what he said. All old men in his position say the same thing. He was unhappy, bitterly unhappy, but he was not actually thinking of how he would get along now. He was just unhappy and sad, and that was all. He was not looking ahead.
But time went by, a year passed, and the old man really did begin to find the solitude unbearable. Not that he felt miserable. Or maybe he did feel miserable... It was grim to be all alone in the big cottage. He had a son, his youngest (the older boys had been killed in the war). But he lived in town, his son did, and seldom came on a visit-except to collect some potatoes or pickled cabbage, cucumbers or honey for the children (the old man kept six hives), or some home-cured bacon. Such visits irritated rather than comforted the old man. He didn't grudge the bacon, the honey or the cucumbers. No, it wasn't that.
The bitter thing was that his own son was not like a son any more, but just a kind of hanger-on. He gave him the bacon and the cabbage, always chose the best and said nothing, burying the resentment he could not help feeling. Suppose he had told his son how lonely and sick at heart he felt... What could Vanka do about it? They'd just spend the evening, moping together, drink a bottle between them, then off he'd go with his suitcase back to that town of his, to his own family. That was life.
So the old man took it into his head to marry again. Yes, and he had actually spotted a wife for himself.
It was on May 9th. Victory Day. As usual on that day the whole village gathered at the cemetery, in memory of those who had been killed in the war. Someone from the village Soviet stood on a stool with a list and read out the names:
"Grebtsov Nikolai Mitrofanovich, Gulyayev Ilya Vasilyevich, Glukhov Vasily Yemelyanovich, Glukhov Stepan Yemelyanovich, Glukhov Pavel Yemelyanovich..."
Those three were Yemelyan Glukhov's sons. Always, when his sons' names were read out, the old man felt the cruel fingers of grief clutching at his throat and found it hard to breathe... He would stare at the ground without weeping, and yet seeing nothing. He would go on standing there and the man from the Soviet would go on reading out name after name...
People wept quietly at the cemetery. Into the corners of shawls, into their hands, sighing under their breath, as if afraid to disturb and insult the silence that belonged to these solemn minutes. When the old man felt a little relief he would look around. And always he would think the same thing, "How many lives destroyed."
And this time he noticed in the crowd an old woman called Otavina. She was not a native of the village, though she had lived there a long time. Glukhov knew her. None of her family were on the list, but she wept quietly with everyone else and crossed herself. Old Glukhov respected religious folk because they were persecuted and ridiculed, for their patience and grit. For their honesty. He took a closer look at Otavina. She was a hook-nosed old lady, still pretty strong, well able to cope with a vegetable patch, heat the bath-house, make dough and bake bread. The old man couldn't eat "state" bread from the baker's. And then the thought occurred to him that she, too, must be miserable all by herself.
He went home, drank a glass in memory of his sons and started thinking things over. She can sell her little cottage and come to live with me. And she can put the money she gets for the cottage into savings. Let her live here. The house won't feel so empty anyway. At least I'll be able to have a proper steaming in the bath-house and a nice rest after it... There'll be someone to lay the table and tell me my meal's ready. The house will feel as if it's lived in again'
It makes all the difference when there's someone rattling the tongs by the stove and there's smell of dough on the rise. Or at night, when I can't sleep, I'll be able to have a quiet chat... Blow off steam about that team-leader of ours, for instance. She's religious, of course, is Otavina. Still I can choose the right kind of words. They needn't be offensive to God, there's plenty of others. Me, I'm on the way out, to the grave. I've done enough swearing for one life. Aye, it'd be a good thing if she came and lived here. Say what you like, but a house needs a mistress... So thought the old man and actually grew quite excited at the prospect.
He chose the following Sunday to pay a visit to Olga Sergeyevna Malysheva, also an old woman, but younger than Otavina, and one of the brainier kind. The old man had once been secretly very much in love with this Olga Sergeyevna. In those days he had been no old man but a young fellow, and he had loved a beautiful and headstrong young Olga. He had thought of sending the matchmakers to her family, but the revolution had intervened. A young commissar had appeared in the village one day, quickly turned Olga's head and carried her off somewhere. Aye, he had managed that part of it all right, but then he had disappeared. Got caught up with the general shambles. And Olga Sergeyevna had returned home and ever since then had lived alone. One day, while still a young man, though already married, Glukhov had gone to see Olga Sergeyevna at the village Soviet (she was the secretary there) and opened his heart to her. Olga Sergeyevna grew angry, burst into tears and said that after her gallant commissar she would never in her life let anyone come near her. Glukhov tried to explain that he hadn't had any wrong intentions but that he had simply wanted to say he was in love with her (he'd had a drink or two). What was wrong with that? Olga Sergeyevna became even more offended and again declared that all the men in the world put together weren't fit to hold a candle to her unforgettable commissar. In fact, she frightened all the men in the village so badly with this talk of her commissar that others besides Glukhov were afraid to approach her.
But many years had passed since then. That was all over and forgotten and life had long since set off on a new, bustling course... Another love, not theirs, cried out on earth... Old Glukhov and Olga Sergeyevna Malysheva, now a retired pensioner, had struck up a rather strange friendship. The old man gave her a hand with the outdoor jobs: he would clear the snow for her in winter, chop some firewood, fix her broomhandle for her, patch up the roof, and then they would sit down together and have a chat. Olga Sergeyevna would put a bottle on the table. But even so, Glukhov felt nervous in her presence and praised Soviet power beyond all measure.
"This government we've got now-it's real regular, isn't it! In the old days a man could live to be as old as the hills and no one would have any use for him. But now he gets a pension. Why, I ask you, should they hand me out twenty rubles every month? My own son comes home and gives me a fiver and that's good enough, even if he does forget sometimes. But the government-they're reg'lar, they are-come and get it every month. Aye, it was them commissars, they knew what was what. They laid down their lives, they did, for a bright future and for communism 1 I propose, Olga Sergeyevna, that we stand up for a moment in honour of their memory."
Olga Sergeyevna was not impressed.
"Sit down, man," she would say in a surly tone. "What's the point now?.. That's all over and done with."
Nowadays she seldom recalled her commissar and was more inclined to talk of how certain sensations "came over" her at night.
"It just starts coming over me all of a sudden and I think to myself it's all up with me now, death's knocking at the door for me..."
"Where does it come over you? On the chest?"
"All over. All over me, from head to foot! My number's up this time, I think. And then I go all limp and can't move hand or foot! And I seem to be floating away somewhere. Floating, floating..."
"Aye," Glukhov would say sympathetically. "That's how it is-you might float away altogether one day."
After the old man had buried his wife, he became an even more frequent visitor at Malysheva's. They liked sitting together on the veranda, drinking their tea with honey. He would bring her honey in a birch-bark punnet. "Feeling lonely?" Malysheva would ask.Glukhov didn't know how to answer that one. He was afraid that if he gave the wrong answer she would hold him up to shame. She often did give him to understand that, even if he would soon be seventy, he ought to listen to her a great deal more and keep quiet himself. "Feeling lonely?" "Well..." Glukhov would begin vaguely. "It's a loss of course. After all, we lived fifty years together." "You can live a hundred years together. But was there any sense in it? Elephants live two hundred years, but what's the sense?"Glukhov resented this. "I had three sons killed in the war! And you say such things to me..." "I'm not saying anything," Olga Sergeyevna retorted. "They died for their country." "Of course, I miss her," Glukhov replied more boldly now. "All the things she had to put up with from me' She bore it all. I was a bit of a lad when I was young, you know. Liked to have my fling... She bore it all... Aye, it's a real loss." "Social consciousness..." Malysheva said suddenly, and sighed. "You men, you need a lot of knocking into shape! It'd take another two hundred years to make anything human of you. You, for instance, you lived with her for fifty years... And now? You haven't a word to say about it. There's plenty of weeds on my allotment. They grow and live for years. And next to them are Victoria strawberries. But there's a difference, isn't there?" "What are you so cross about?" Glukhov would ask in bewilderment. "There's a difference, isn't there? I ask you!" "But how can you compare..." "I can and I will! Because there are some people that live and burn like fire, and others just smoulder. Some are full of meaning to the last pore, and others... they just do their job and that's all. Studhorses." "Everyone can't be a commissar!" Glukhov said crossly, stung by the "studhorses". "Lived with her fifty years," Malysheva mimicked. "But was there a single week with any meaning in it?" "There was plenty of meaning all right. More than enough." "That's obvious!" Malysheva pursed her lips till they looked like "a parson's nose". Glukhov sensed that he was annoying her in someway, though he could not for the life of him understand how. But still he continued to go and see the woman. Sometimes they would be on the verge of a quarrel, sometimes it wouldn't go off too sadly and they would part on friendly terms. Anyway it helped to pass the evening. On the Sunday in question Glukhov came to Malysheva without his axe and handsaw. He came to talk to her and be advised. "I want your advice, Sergeyevna. Help me." "What's happened then?" Malysheva was all ears. She liked handing out advice. "D'you know an old woman called Otavina?" "What about her?" "Could you have a word with her and find out if she'd agree to move in with me? She can sell her own cottage, or board it up for the meantime. We'll live together for a bit and see if we can get on with each other, then she can sell it. No need to take a chance. What do you think? I wouldn't have the pluck to talk to her myself, but you'll know what to say. I'll be good to her... After all, we'll feel steadier standing on four feet than on two, though they're not so sprightly as they used to be. What d'you think?" Glukhov had much more to say than usual and he spoke unusually fast-he was embarrassed. "I've been thinking this over and over, and now I've got the answer. It's a rotten life all alone. And I reckon she'll find it easier too. What d'you think?"Malysheva was greatly surprised. She was so surprised that at first she couldn't find anything sensible to say. "Want to get married, huh?" "Well, you could hardly call it marriage... We'll just be living together to make things a bit easier." "In the eyes of the law that's marriage. Why not be honest about it?"Glukhov was taken aback.
"All right, then, I'm getting married. Anything wrong in that?"
Malysheva studied the old man estrangedly, with a kind of concealed hostility.
"Does she consent? Though you say you haven't had time to talk to her."
"She doesn't know anything about it! That's why I'm asking you to talk to her. Talk to her and throw in a bit of persuasion as well. She's a religious soul, you know, she might say it's a sin... But where's the sin in it? Look at it reasonable like. I'm lonely, she's lonely..."
"She's got a daughter in town."
"What of it! I've got a son in town myself. They're a fat lot of good nowadays. But if we was together we could while away the rest of our lives. The first of us to die would have someone to bury him."
"But you've got children!" Malysheva suddenly raised her voice in irritation. "Why make yourselves out a couple of orphans?"
Glukhov made no reply. In his turn he gave Malysheva a sharp, angry look. What was biting her?
"What's wrong, Sergeyevna?" he asked.
"Nothing wrong with me. It's you that's getting married, not me. Yet you ask me what's wrong. I'm quite all right."
"You seem to be angry?"
"Not at all! Me? Angry? The idea! Get married! You want me to talk to Otavina? I'll talk to her." Now it was Malysheva who was flustered and talking twenty to the dozen. "I'll have her round for a chat, it's no trouble to me.
'll find out if she consents. Why should I be angry? It's you people will be laughing at, not me."
"Will they?"
"Will they what?"
"Will they laugh?"
"Did you think they'd be pleased?"
"Don't old folk ever pair up together?"
"They do sometimes. All right, come round tomorrow at dinner time... I'll ask her to drop in earlier, so we can talk it over beforehand. And you come round later. Yes, of course, it happens sometimes. Plenty of old folk do it!
I'11 talk to her, don't worry. I'll talk to her."
Glukhov left Malysheva in a puzzled frame of mind. He sensed that she had something up her sleeve. She was a funny old bird, no doubt about that. Always annoyed about something. Always wanting to change everybody, make them into different people, teach them how to live, pass judgement on them. The old man even considered whether he ought not to go back and tell her her help wasn't needed; he'd manage quite well by himself. He actually stopped to think it over. But what did it matter anyway? Let her do the talking. He wouldn't do so well on his own. Bad-tempered she might be, but she'd do what she promised.
The next day the two old women-Malysheva and Otavina-met each other and a conversation took place.
Otavina came round to Malysheva's and the first thing she did was look at the front righthand corner of the room, hoping there might be an ikon there; then she sat down meekly on the edge of the velveteen-covered sofa, and said good morning.
"What I asked you round for was this," Malysheva began at once. "D'you know old Glukhov?"
"Yemelyan Yegorich? Of course, I do. Three of his sons were killed..."
"Well, he wants to marry you," Malysheva rapped out.
"D'you consent?"
"Mercy on us! " Otavina crossed herself. "What's come over him?"
"Why not?" Malysheva seemed to be in high spirits all of a sudden. "You're both on your own... Think it over well before you give your answer. He's an old ram like all the rest of 'em, but he'll help you to live out the rest of your days. What d'you think about it? He says you shouldn't sell your house yet. You can just board it up. If you get on together, then you can sell it and put the money in the bank. Well, what d'you think about it?"
"What can I think? All my thoughts have flown out of my head. How can I rush headlong into a marriage like that?" Otavina gave a little laugh that was quite sincere. "Well now! It's enough to send you off your head. A fine bride I'd make!"
"And a fine bridegroom he is. Well, what about it?"
"Wait a bit, Sergeyevna. Let me get my breath first..."
"He'll be here soon for your answer."
"Oh!" Otavina actually rose from the sofa and looked at the door. Then she sat down again. "Well, this is some problem!"
"I can see you've almost consented already."
Otavina suddenly started considering the matter seriously.
"I'll tell you this, Sergeyevna. He's not a bad old fellow. He doesn't drink, doesn't take the name of our Lord in vain, not as I've heard... Only..." She looked at the matchmaker. "Well, it does happen that old folk pair up together sometimes..."
"It does happen."
"But ... suppose he gets troublesome at night?"
Malysheva's jaw dropped.
"What?"
"Well, you know what they are! The first thing I'd like to be sure of is that he won't be up to anything like that. And that he won't swear. Of course, he smokes... Still, they all do, you can't put a rein on that."
"So you consent, do you?" Malysheva exclaimed in astonishment.
"Wait a bit, don't rush me off my feet. As I was saying, I'm going to be making so many conditions. He can't do this, can't do that. The old man will think about it and say, 'Well, what can I do then?' And then all this matchmaking will come to nothing." Otavina gave another quiet little laugh. "Well, I must say I'd never have thought it... Goodness me! I might not be so bad, though? One good friend of mine-she used to live in Bulanikha, where I lived before-the same thing happened to her. An old man comes round wanting to talk about this and that, and then he says, 'Let's live together, Kuzmovna.' And so they did. He died about two years ago, and now she's living in his house. And they got on well together, I know. How long was it?... About five years. He never gave her any cause to complain. People grow wiser in their old age. Not like the ones nowadays. You've only to look around you... Goodness me! You look and it takes your breath away. Of course, it wouldn't be a bad thing for me to finish up in a nice warm house... My little house is nearly falling to bits. I'm right glad the winter's over. I couldn't get the place warm anyhow. All the fuel I'd burn and it was still like living under a sieve."
"Why don't you go and stay with your daughter?"
"Not a hope! They're crowded enough as it is... I've tried it. When my grandchildren were little, I stayed with them. It was terrible. It was terrible for everybody. Then the children grew up and started going to school. So they bought me that little cottage-and mighty glad I was. I'd sold my own house in Bulanikha when my daughter married. That was a real solid house, that was. It'll stand for another hundred years. But I'd sold it. I had to. They needed the money to buy a flat, and where else could they get it? He was just demobbed from the army, and my daughter had only just finished technical school. Come on, mother, they say, sell the house. Then we'll buy you another if you don't want to live with us. So I lived with them and brought up the children, but after that-no, I says, buy me a place of my own, no matter how small it is. I can't stand the town, it puts me right out of sorts, it does. So they hummed and hawed for a bit, then found the money. The houses are dearer in Bulanikha and cheaper here, and so this is where I've landed. Of course, it wouldn't be a bad thing for me in my old age ... to live in a nice warm house... Not so bad that."
Old Glukhov knew that there was to be a conversation between the two old women, but he had no idea what course it would take. Just in case, he put on a new jacket, took a bottle of liqueur and a punnet of honey and set out for Malysheva's.
He came in and uttered a respectful greeting, then, looking embarrassed for some reason, placed the bottle and the punnet on the table and fumbled in his pocket for his tobacco pouch.
"Wait a bit with that bottle," Malysheva said. "Don't you be in such a hurry."
The old man's heart sank. He was now quite taken with the idea of living with Otavina, and he had it all thought out. But now what?
"I've listened to what each of you has to say... It's your own personal life, of course, you can pair up together if you like... Some people go stark staring mad in their old age, and even that doesn't matter. But what I want to ask you both is this: Aren't you ashamed? Aren't you?" She hurled the words in their faces, hurled them with inexplicable cruelty, with all the feeling of a heart that was sick with some secret pain. And she went on hurling and hurling, no matter how the would-be betrothed blushed and squirmed in their places, no matter how they suffered.
"How will you be able to face the world afterwards? How? Some people are alone all their lives... I've lived alone all my life, ever since I was twenty-three... And d'you think no one ever proposed to me? Oh yes, they did. D'you think they never came knocking at my window of a night? They did and all. You, Glukhov, didn't you come to me at the village Soviet and say you couldn't live without me? Didn't you? Now then, speak up, man."
Glukhov longed for the earth to open and swallow him up.
"It was only my foolishness-I was drunk," he mumbled.
"I didn't propose to you... I was just talking about the past. Why go into all that?"
"Foolishness! And now he's a clever one-at the age of seventy he thinks he'll get married. Clever! And you, woman, you!.. 'I'll have to think it over ... live in a nice warm house.' Call yourself a godly woman! As bad as him... You point at other people's sinning. But what about yourselves? What example are you setting the young people! Have you thought of that? D'you realise your responsibility to the community?" Malysheva rapped her dry knuckles on the table. "Have you ever considered that? You're self-centred! The people work with all their might, and you plan a wedding ... tempting people to drink and frivolous relations. You shameless pair!"
"What wedding?!" Glukhov blurted out again. Otavina was speechless. "We'd just pair up together quietly. What wedding?"
"Like a real couple of-guttersnipes! Pah! Like animals."
"Screw you!" the old man blew up. And he left the house, slamming the door behind him.
Otavina left the house after him. Indeed, both of them flew out of the door as if they had been scalded. Once outside the gate, they turned away in different directions without so much as a glance at each other, although both ought to have taken the same path for part of the way.
Old Glukhov made a wide detour round the village before returning home. He was spitting and swearing in disgust and couldn't keep still for a moment. In his fury he even thought to himself, "I'll burn the bitch's place down!"
He didn't do anything of the kind, of course. But he promised himself never to go and see her again. And when he met her in the street, he cut her dead.
Otavina went off to town to go to church and atone for her sins in prayer. The old woman was very upset and avoided meeting Malysheva whenever she could.
Malysheva said nothing to anyone about this extraordinary matchmaking. Both Glukhov and Otavina were expecting her to tell the whole village. But no, she never said a word about it.
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