“The Zemstvo,” said Osip.  “Who else?”

“Of course it is the Zemstvo.”

The Zemstvo was blamed for everything—­for the arrears, and for the oppressions, and for the failure of the crops, though no one of them knew what was meant by the Zemstvo.  And this dated from the time when well-to-do peasants who had factories, shops, and inns of their own were members of the Zemstvos, were dissatisfied with them, and took to swearing at the Zemstvos in their factories and inns.

They talked of God’s not sending the snow; they had to bring in wood for fuel, and there was no driving nor walking in the frozen ruts.  In old days fifteen to twenty years ago conversation was much more interesting in Zhukovo.  In those days every old man looked as though he were treasuring some secret; as though he knew something and was expecting something.  They used to talk about an edict in golden letters, about the division of lands, about new land, about treasures; they hinted at something.  Now the people of Zhukovo had no mystery at all; their whole life was bare and open in the sight of all, and they could talk of nothing but poverty, food, there being no snow yet....

There was a pause.  Then they thought again of the hens, of the sheep, and began discussing whose fault it was.

“The Zemstvo,” said Osip wearily.  “Who else?”

VIII

The parish church was nearly five miles away at Kosogorovo, and the peasants only attended it when they had to do so for baptisms, weddings, or funerals; they went to the services at the church across the river.  On holidays in fine weather the girls dressed up in their best and went in a crowd together to church, and it was a cheering sight to see them in their red, yellow, and green dresses cross the meadow; in bad weather they all stayed at home.  They went for the sacrament to the parish church.  From each of those who did not manage in Lent to go to confession in readiness for the sacrament the parish priest, going the round of the huts with the cross at Easter, took fifteen kopecks.

The old father did not believe in God, for he hardly ever thought about Him; he recognized the supernatural, but considered it was entirely the women’s concern, and when religion or miracles were discussed before him, or a question were put to him, he would say reluctantly, scratching himself: 

“Who can tell!”

Granny believed, but her faith was somewhat hazy; everything was mixed up in her memory, and she could scarcely begin to think of sins, of death, of the salvation of the soul, before poverty and her daily cares took possession of her mind, and she instantly forgot what she was thinking about.  She did not remember the prayers, and usually in the evenings, before lying down to sleep, she would stand before the ikons and whisper: 

“Holy Mother of Kazan, Holy Mother of Smolensk, Holy Mother of Troerutchitsy...”