The Time of Serfdom

by Eugène-Melchior de Vogüé

Translated by Patricia Worth

Last autumn, we were hunting in the province of Ryazan. All morning we had been pursuing wild ducks on a large pond. It had obviously once been an artificial lake dug to adorn some lordly park. But man’s efforts had long disappeared beneath the easy work of Nature. She had remained mistress of the place and had changed its primitive design as she fancied, eliminating the straight lines with a tangle of reeds, willows and aspens.

At the end of the marsh, a sunny patch between the trees revealed a glimpse of a huge residence in a dale some distance away. It was partly disguised by the remnants of a crenellated wall. This feudal apparition intrigued me greatly; I had never seen anything like it in the Russian countryside, where stone construction is almost unknown.

Landowners are satisfied to enclose their houses with nothing more than a simple fence of wooden stakes, or at most a head-height brick wall. High walls with arrow-slits and crenellations are now found only around a few old monasteries that in the past served as great fortresses against Tartar invasions.

When the hunters gathered for lunch, I asked a companion at the table, a district landowner, if the structure was an old monastery.

“Ah, no,” he said, “we are on the property of the B...s. Do you not know the story of that castle and the man who built it, the notorious Vassili Ivanovitch B.? It’s one of the darkest memories from the time of serfdom.”

Author’s note: This story being rigorously accurate even in the smallest detail, we did not believe we could print a family name well known in Russia.

I vaguely knew of the legends attached to the name of this Vassili B., one of the richest and cruellest landlords in Russia under the reign of the emperor Alexander I. I do not always trust these legends, knowing how much playwrights have taken pleasure in darkening the time of serfdom. The arbitrary power was almost always tempered by the patriarchal morals of the Russian nobles. I expressed my doubts to my companion.

“You’re right,” he replied, “we were not as dark as depicted. The principle was detestable, but the application of it was less harsh than that of the feudal code in many parts of Europe. The great wrong for us, the civilised men of yesterday, was to show such morals to the West, which had broken its feudal habit and had become prudish and easily offended. Its conscience convicted it of old sins; its conscience was relieved at our expense.

“But, having said this in our defence, we must confess a few painful exceptions, and Vassili B. was the most scandalous of these exceptions. In the early years of the century, he treated this district as a conquered land. I could go on and on about the terrible landlord, if I were to recount all the stories that filled my childhood with fear. I heard them from my father, his contemporary and neighbour.

“Vassili B. lived behind that stone rampart, surrounded by a guard of lancers, miscreants who executed the important works ordered by the master. One remarkable account will give you an idea of the level of his summary justice. The peasants of a small village bordering his properties had rebelled against their landlord, who came to B. complaining that he was unable to crush the revolt. ‘Sell me this village, I’ll make them see reason,’ said Vassili Ivanovitch to his friend. The deal was concluded on the spot.

“The next day, B. and his guard visited the village of the mutineers. The lancers surrounded it; they were instructed to let no man or woman pass, or even one head of cattle. ‘Do not let even one chicken get away,’ Vassili had ordered. They brought straw and faggots to every part of the village and set it on fire. Everything went up in flames, down to the last mean dwelling, and not one chicken got away. B. had kept his word, the revolt was repressed once and for all.

“This man loved flowers. In the homes of the poor devils we had become, nothing could give you any idea of the royal luxury of the great lords of former times, at least of those who, like Vassili B., did not know the sum of their fortune. The whole site where we hunt now was then a carefully maintained park. You can see those tall white poplars down there, growing even in the marsh; it’s what’s left of an artificial island, today sunken into the mud and gorse. People had given this corner of the park a meaningful nickname: The Terrible Garden. It was the savage landowner’s place of justice, where a pillory, a gallows and a wheel were permanently installed. Those taken there hardly ever came back, and serfs were sent there for the slightest misdemeanour.

“Again and again the administrative authorities tried to put a stop to this tyranny, but to no avail. Vassili B. had great influence, deep pockets and powerful lawyers in St Petersburg. A conflict between jurisdictions suited him perfectly by always allowing him to gain time. The house you noticed earlier is built on the boundary of the administrative districts of Ryazan and Vladimir. The demarcation line separating the two provinces passes straight through his large drawing room where it is marked by a groove in the parquetry.

When the governor of Ryazan would come to conduct an investigation, B. would receive him politely, then pass to the other side of the groove and decline the authority of this public official, who would no longer have the right to apprehend him. In his turn, the governor of Vladimir would dare to bother Vassili Ivanovitch, who would take a step backwards in the Ryazan drawing room and send the Czar’s delegate away to deal with other cases within his mandate.

“Once, after the scandal of the burnt village, the two governors, determined to put an end to this, arranged to meet at the castle. At the last post-house, the governor of Ryazan encountered a courier, the bearer of an envelope, and abruptly turned back on the pretext of being recalled on urgent business. Scandalmongers later recounted that the envelope contained a hundred thousand roubles.

“From all the stories my father told me about Vassili B., one scene in particular remained etched in my childhood imagination. I felt as though I had been present, so often had I heard the story told by this truthful man who had been an eyewitness. Vassili Ivanovitch was already old when he was taken with an illness which brought him down in a few days.

“One morning, the death knell in the estate church let the serfs know that their master had died. You can believe that, for them, this knell rang out like the most joyful Te Deum. From all the neighbouring villages, the peasants ran after the priest to go and verify the happy news with their own eyes. They invaded the castle and found the frightful landlord lying in the great room, more frightful than ever, with the power of death on his face. He was laid out on the table, all alone among the candles. His kin, called to come from St Petersburg, had not yet arrived. His lancers had stolen away into some retreat, fearing reprisals from the people. The priest closed the eyes, recited the Office and departed, leaving his verger, according to custom, to chant prayers over the body until the following day.

“But the peasants did not leave with their pastor, for they could not stop looking at their dead enemy. Left alone, they were masters of the castle. At first, they listened silently to the litanies of the verger in a corner of the room mumbling the words of divine vengeance. Soon they grew bold in their joy, and their noisy remarks drowned out the voice of the psalmist.

“A young rogue offered to go and look for some brandy; he brought in some jugs and they started drinking and getting drunk. My father and a few other neighbours tried to stop this sacrilegious orgy, but the peasants could no longer control themselves. They were dancing round the corpse, holding hands, singing, shouting, heaping curses and threats on the deceased. The angriest peasants pulled his moustache and ripped out handfuls of his hair.

“The young man who had gone to get the vodka emptied the glass of holy water, filled it with liquor, and forced it between the teeth of the dead man, shouting: ‘Drink to the health of your poor little slaves, you son of a bitch!’ Suddenly the glass fell from his hands and broke on the ground. The man jumped back, pale with terror.

“The eyes, just closed by the priest, had re-opened and were passing over the assembly in a demonic glare filled with things seen in hell. In an instant, the crowd turned silent and still. Each man stood petrified on the spot where the gaze had struck him; most fell to their knees.

“Nothing could be heard except the droning voice of the verger who was still praying, bent over his psalter. He read: ‘I will rise, I will afflict those who insult me, I will reduce them to dust...’ As he reached the end of this verse, the landlord sat up slowly on his table. After the eyes, the lips opened. To the ruined peasants, it seemed that the voice, too, was rising from hell to emerge anew from those lips.

“Yet it was the master’s usual voice. It gave orders: ‘Eustap, you who assaulted me, come here; and you Pacome, who touched my head; and you, Misha, who pulled my moustache...’ — he named each one who had laid a hand on him, recalling the exact misdeed — ‘tomorrow you will be hanged. The others will be flogged. Hey! My men! Get some ropes, tie them up!’

“The old major-domo went to get the lancers. In his absence, not one man thought of moving, resisting or fleeing. When they arrived, the master was standing over the kneeling crowd. He pointed to those who had to be tied up. Then, taking a rouble from the valet’s pocket, he threw it at the verger with a warning: ‘You, hurry up and get out of here, you idiot, and if you ever come back here to perform your duty before I order it myself, you’ll be whipped like the others.’ The next day, the guilty ones were swinging on the gallows in The Terrible Garden.

“B. later told my father that, during this attack of catalepsy, he had not had even one second of mental failure. He had recognised each voice, noted each incident, up to the moment when the paralysis ended, either through the effects of a violent bout of anger or through the action of the strong liquor they poured down his throat.

“But when the local doctor tried to explain to a few peasants how their landlord had come out of his lethargy, it was a waste of his time, as you can imagine. For all the people of Ryazan, Vassili Ivanovitch had come back from hell so he could hang a few more serfs. From that day, the poor people lost all hope of deliverance. They had seen proof that their master was playing with God’s power, as he had played with the Czar’s. Many remained convinced that this master was none other than the immortal Satan.

“B. lived and inflicted punishment for many long years afterwards. His villagers dared not even whisper against him. When he died in earnest, no one wanted to believe it, and his successors were for a long time amazed by the exemplary docility of their serfs. These simple souls were always expecting the return of Vassili the reprobate. Today, still, the old peasants cross themselves when they walk along the marshes. The young ones, the strong-spirited, admit that Vassili Ivanovitch did end up dying: but they add that his body began to rot in his grave only on 19th February, 1861, the day of the emancipation. Essentially, they are right in their own way; it’s since that day that the breed of men like Vassili B. has been forever dead in Russia.

“And now, the sun is setting. Let’s go and stir up the flight of young wild ducks that just descended behind The Terrible Garden.”