How Much Land Does
a Man Need? 
                        – Leo Tolstoy 

 

        I

An elder sister came to visit her younger
sister in the country. The elder was married to a tradesman in town, the
younger to a peasant in the village. As the sisters sat over their tea talking,
the elder began to boast of the advantages of town life: saying how comfortably
they lived there, how well they dressed, what fine clothes her children wore
what good things they ate and drank, and how she went to the theatre,
promenades, and entertainments. 

The younger sister was piqued, and in turn
disparage the life of a tradesman, and stood up for that of a peasant. 

“I would not change my way of life for
yours,” said she. “We may live roughly, but at least we are free from anxiety.
You live in better style than we do but though you often earn more than you
need, you are very likely to lose all you have. You know the proverb, ‘Loss and
gain are brothers twain.’ It often happens that people who are wealthy one day
are begging their bread the next. Our way is safer. Though a peasant’s life is
not a fat one, it is a long one. We shall never grow rich, but we shall always
have enough to eat.” 

The elder sister said sneeringly: 

“Enough? Yes, if you like to share with the
pigs and the calves! What do you know of elegance or manners! However much your
goodman may slave, you will die as you are living — on a dung heap — and your
children the same.” 

“Well, what of that?” replied the younger.
“Of course our work is rough and coarse. But, on the other hand, it is sure;
and we need not bow to anyone. But you, in your towns, are surrounded by
temptations; to-day all may be right, but to-morrow the Evil One may tempt your
husband with cards, wine, or women, and all will go to ruin. Don’t such things
happen often enough?” 

Pahóm, the master of the house, was lying
on the top of the oven, and he listened to the women’s chatter. 

“It is perfectly true,” thought he. “Busy
as we are from childhood tilling mother earth, we peasants have no time to let
any nonsense settle in our heads. Our only trouble is that we haven’t land
enough. If I had plenty of land, I shouldn’t fear the Devil himself!” 

The women finished their tea, chatted a
while about dress, and then cleared away the tea-things and lay down to
sleep. 

But the Devil had been sitting behind the
oven, and had heard all that was said. He was pleased that the peasant’s wife
had led her husband into boasting, and that he had said that if he had plenty
of land he would not fear the Devil himself. 

“All right,” thought the Devil. “We will
have a tussle. I’ll give you land enough; and by means of that land I will get
you into my power.” 

   
     II

Close to the village there lived a lady, a
small landowner, who had an estate of about three hundred acres land. She had
always lived on good terms with the peasants, until she engaged as her steward
an old soldier, who took to burdening the people with fines. However careful
Pahóm tried to be, it happened again and again that now a horse of his got
among the lady’s oats, now a cow strayed into her garden, now his calves found
their way into her meadows — and he always had to pay a fine. 

Pahóm paid up, but grumbled, and, going
home in a temper, was rough with his family. All through that summer, Pahóm had
much trouble because of this steward; and he was even glad when winter came and
the cattle had to be stabled. Though he grudged the fodder when they could no
longer graze on the pasture-land, at least he was free from anxiety about
them. 

In the winter the news got about that the
lady was going to sell her land, and that the keeper of the inn on the high
road was bargaining for it. When the peasants heard this they were very much
alarmed. 

“Well”, thought they, “if the innkeeper
gets the land, he will worry us with fines worse than the lady’s steward. We
all depend on that estate.” 

So the peasants went on behalf of their
Commune and asked the lady not to sell the land to the innkeeper offering her a
better price for it themselves. The lady agreed to let them have it. Then the
peasants tried to arrange for the Commune to buy the whole estate so that it
might be held by them all in common. They met twice to discuss it, but could
not settle the matter; the Evil One sowed discord among them, and they could
not agree. So they decided to buy the land individually, each according to his
means; and the lady agreed to this plan as she had to the other. 

Presently Pahóm heard that a neighbour of
his was buying fifty acres, and that the lady had consented to accept one half
in cash and to wait a year for the other half. Pahóm felt envious.

 “Look at that,” thought he, “the land
is all being sold, and I shall get none of it.” So he spoke to his wife. 

“Other people are buying,” said he, “and we
must also buy twenty acres or so. Life is becoming impossible. That steward is
simply crushing us with his fines.” 

So they put their heads together and
considered how they could manage to buy it. They had one hundred roubles laid
by. They sold a colt, and one half of their bees; hired out one of their sons
as a labourer, and took his wages in advance; borrowed the rest from a
brother-in-law, and so scraped together half the purchase money. 

Having done this, Pahóm chose out a farm of
forty acres, some of it wooded, and went to the lady to bargain for it. They
came to an agreement, and he shook hands with her upon it, and paid her a
deposit in advance. Then they went to town and signed the deeds; he paying half
the price down, and undertaking to pay the remainder within two years. 

So now Pahóm had land of his own. He
borrowed seed, and sowed it on the land he had bought. The harvest was a good
one, and within a year he had managed to pay off his debts both to the lady and
to his brother-in-law. So he became a landowner, ploughing and sowing his own
land, making hay on his own land, cutting his own trees, and feeding his cattle
on his own pasture. When he went out to plough his fields, or to look at his
growing corn, or at his grass-meadows, his heart would fill with joy. The grass
that grew and the flowers that bloomed there, seemed to him unlike any that
grew elsewhere. Formerly, when he had passed by that land it had appeared the
same as any other land, but now it seemed quite different. 

   
     III

So Pahóm was well-contented, and everything
would have been right if the neighbouring peasants would only not have
trespassed on his corn-fields and meadows. He appealed to them most civilly,
but they still went on: now the Communal herdsmen would let the village cows
stray into his meadows; then horses from the night pasture would get among his
corn. Pahóm turned them out again and again, and forgave their owners, and for
a long time he forbore from prosecuting any one. But at last he lost patience
and complained to the District Court. He knew it was the peasants’ want of
land, and no evil intent on their part, that caused the trouble; but he
thought: 

“I cannot go on overlooking it, or they
will destroy all I have. They must be taught a lesson.” 

So he had them up, gave them one lesson,
and then another, and two or three of the peasants were fined. After a time
Pahóm’s neighbours began to bear him a grudge for this, and would now and then
let their cattle on to his land on purpose. One peasant even got into Pahóm’s
wood at night and cut down five young lime trees for their bark. Pahóm passing
through the wood one day noticed something white. He came nearer, and saw the
stripped trunks lying on the ground, and close by stood the stumps, where the
trees had been. Pahóm was furious. 

“If he had only cut one here and there it
would have been bad enough,” thought Pahóm, “but the rascal has actually cut
down a whole clump. If I could only find out who did this, I would pay him
out.” 

He racked his brains as to who it could be.
Finally he decided: “It must be Simon — no one else could have done it.” So he
went to Simon’s homestead to have a look round, but he found nothing, and only
had an angry scene. However, he now felt more certain than ever that Simon had
done it, and he lodged a complaint. Simon was summoned. The case was tried, and
re-tried, and at the end of it all Simon was acquitted, there being no evidence
against him. Pahóm felt still more aggrieved, and let his anger loose upon the
Elder and the Judges. 

“You let thieves grease your palms,” said
he. “If you were honest folk yourselves, you would not let a thief go
free.” 

So Pahóm quarrelled with the Judges and
with his neighbours. Threats to burn his building began to be uttered. So
though Pahóm had more land, his place in the Commune was much worse than
before. 

About this time a rumour got about that
many people were moving to new parts. 

“There’s no need for me to leave my land,”
thought Pahóm. “But some of the others might leave our village and then there
would be more room for us. I would take over their land myself, and make my
estate a bit bigger. I could then live more at ease. As it is, I am still too
cramped to be comfortable.” 

One day Pahóm was sitting at home, when a
peasant, passing through the village, happened to call in. He was allowed to
stay the night, and supper was given him. Pahóm had a talk with this peasant
and asked him where he came from. The stranger answered that he came from
beyond the Volga, where he had been working. One word led to another, and the
man went on to say that many people were settling in those parts. He told how
some people from his village had settled there. They had joined the Commune,
and had had twenty-five acres per man granted them. The land was so good, he
said, that the rye sown on it grew as high as a horse, and so thick that five
cuts of a sickle made a sheaf. One peasant, he said, had brought nothing with
him but his bare hands, and now he had six horses and two cows of his
own. 

Pahóm’s heart kindled with desire. He
thought: 

“Why should I suffer in this narrow hole,
if one can live so well elsewhere? I will sell my land and my homestead here,
and with the money I will start afresh over there and get everything new. In
this crowded place one is always having trouble. But I must first go and find
out all about it myself.” 

Towards summer he got ready and started. He
went down the Volga on a steamer to Samára, then walked another three hundred
miles on foot, and at last reached the place. It was just as the stranger had
said. The peasants had plenty of land: every man had twenty-five acres of
Communal land given him for his use, and anyone who had money could buy,
besides, at two shillings an acre as much good freehold land as he
wanted. 

Having found out all he wished to know,
Pahóm returned home as autumn came on, and began selling off his belongings. He
sold his land at a profit, sold his homestead and all his cattle, and withdrew
from membership of the Commune. He only waited till the spring, and then
started with his family for the new settlement. 

   
     IV

As soon as Pahóm and his family arrived at
their new abode, he applied for admission into the Commune of a large village.
He stood treat to the Elders, and obtained the necessary documents. Five shares
of Communal land were given him for his own and his sons’ use: that is to say
— 125 acres (not all together but in different fields) besides the use of the
Communal pasture. Pahóm put up the buildings he needed, and bought cattle. Of
the Communal land alone he had three times as much as at his former home, and
the land was good corn-land. He was ten times better off than he had been. He
had plenty of arable land and pasturage, and could keep as many head of cattle
as he liked. 

At first, in the bustle of building and
settling down, Pahóm was pleased with it all, but when he got used to it he
began to think that even here he had not enough land. The first year, he sowed
wheat on his share of the Communal land, and had a good crop. He wanted to go
on sowing wheat, but had not enough Communal land for the purpose, and what he
had already used was not available; for in those parts wheat is only sown on
virgin soil or on fallow land. It is sown for one or two years, and then the
land lies fallow till it is again overgrown with prairie grass. There were many
who wanted such land, and there was not enough for all; so that people
quarrelled about it. Those who were better off, wanted it for growing wheat,
and those who were poor, wanted it to let to dealers, so that they might raise
money to pay their taxes. Pahóm wanted to sow more wheat; so he rented land
from a dealer for a year. He sowed much wheat and had a fine crop, but the land
was too far from the village — the wheat had to be carted more than ten miles.
After a time Pahóm noticed that some peasantdealers were living on separate
farms, and were growing wealthy; and he thought: 

“If I were to buy some freehold land, and
have a homestead on it, it would be a different thing altogether. Then it would
all be nice and compact.” 

The question of buying freehold land
recurred to him again and again. 

He went on in the same way for three years:
renting land and sowing wheat. The seasons turned out well and the crops were
good, so that he began to lay money by. He might have gone on living
contentedly, but he grew tired of having to rent other people’s land every
year, and having to scramble for it. Wherever there was good land to be had,
the peasants would rush for it and it was taken up at once, so that unless you
were sharp about it you got none. It happened in the third year that he and a
dealer together rented a piece of pasture land from some peasants; and they had
already ploughed it up, when there was some dispute, and the peasants went to
law about it, and things fell out so that the labour was all lost. “If it were
my own land,” thought Pahóm, “I should be independent, and there would not be
all this unpleasantness.” 

So Pahóm began looking out for land which
he could buy; and he came across a peasant who had bought thirteen hundred
acres, but having got into difficulties was willing to sell again cheap. Pahóm
bargained and haggled with him, and at last they settled the price at 1,500
roubles, part in cash and part to be paid later. They had all but clinched the
matter, when a passing dealer happened to stop at Pahóm’s one day to get a feed
for his horses. He drank tea with Pahóm, and they had a talk. The dealer said
that he was just returning from the land of the Bashkírs, far away, where he
had bought thirteen thousand acres of land, all for 1,000 roubles. Pahóm
questioned him further, and the tradesman said: 

“All one need do is to make friends with
the chiefs. I gave away about one hundred roubles, worth of dressing-gowns and
carpets, besides a case of tea, and I gave wine to those who would drink it;
and I got the land for less than twopence an acre[21].” And he showed Pahóm the
title-deeds, saying: 

“The land lies near a river, and the whole
prairie is virgin soil.” 

Pahóm plied him with questions, and the
tradesman said: 

“There is more land there than you could
cover if you walked a year, and it all belongs to the Bashkírs. They are as
simple as sheep, and land can be got almost for nothing.” 

“There now,” thought Pahóm, “with my one
thousand roubles, why should I get only thirteen hundred acres, and saddle
myself with a debt besides. If I take it out there, I can get more than ten
times as much for the money.” 

   
     V 

Pahóm inquired how to get to the place, and
as soon as the tradesman had left him, he prepared to go there himself. He left
his wife to look after the homestead, and started on his journey taking his man
with him. They stopped at a town on their way, and bought a case of tea, some
wine, and other presents, as the tradesman had advised. On and on they went until
they had gone more than three hundred miles, and on the seventh day they came
to a place where the Bashkírs had pitched their tents. It was all just as the
tradesman had said. The people lived on the steppes, by a river, in feltcovered
tents[22]. They neither tilled the ground, nor ate bread. Their cattle and
horses grazed in herds on the steppe. The colts were tethered behind the tents,
and the mares were driven to them twice a day. The mares were milked, and from
the milk kumiss was made. It was the women who prepared kumiss, and they also
made cheese. As far as the men were concerned, drinking kumiss and tea, eating
mutton, and playing on their pipes, was all they cared about. They were all
stout and merry, and all the summer long they never thought of doing any work.
They were quite ignorant, and knew no Russian, but were good-natured
enough. 

As soon as they saw Pahóm, they came out of
their tents and gathered round their visitor. An interpreter was found, and
Pahóm told them he had come about some land. The Bashkírs seemed very glad they
took Pahóm and led him into one of the best tents, where they made him sit on
some down cushions placed on a carpet, while they sat round him. They gave him
tea and kumiss, and had a sheep killed, and gave him mutton to eat. Pahóm took
presents out of his cart and distributed them among the Bashkírs, and divided
amongst them the tea. The Bashkírs were delighted. They talked a great deal
among themselves, and then told the interpreter to translate.

 “They wish to tell you,” said the
interpreter, “that they like you, and that it is our custom to do all we can to
please a guest and to repay him for his gifts. You have given us presents, now
tell us which of the things we possess please you best, that we may present them
to you.” 

“What pleases me best here,” answered Pahóm
“is your land. Our land is crowded, and the soil is exhausted; but you have
plenty of land and it is good land. I never saw the like of it.”

 The interpreter translated. The
Bashkírs talked among themselves for a while. Pahóm could not understand what
they were saying, but saw that they were much amused, and that they shouted and
laughed. Then they were silent and looked at Pahóm while the interpreter said:

 “They wish me to tell you that in
return for your presents they will gladly give you as much land as you want.
You have only to point it out with your hand and it is yours.” 

The Bashkírs talked again for a while and
began to dispute. Pahóm asked what they were disputing about, and the
interpreter told him that some of them thought they ought to ask their Chief
about the land and not act in his absence, while others thought there was no
need to wait for his return.

VI 

While the Bashkírs were disputing, a man in
a large fox-fur cap appeared on the scene. They all became silent and rose to
their feet. The interpreter said, “This is our Chief himself.” 

Pahóm immediately fetched the best
dressing-gown and five pounds of tea, and offered these to the Chief. The Chief
accepted them, and seated himself in the place of honour. The Bashkírs at once
began telling him something. The Chief listened for a while, then made a sign
with his head for them to be silent, and addressing himself to Pahóm, said in
Russian: 

“Well, let it be so. Choose whatever piece
of land you like; we have plenty of it.” 

“How can I take as much as I like?” thought
Pahóm. “I must get a deed to make it secure, or else they may say, ‘It is
yours,’ and afterwards may take it away again.” 

“Thank you for your kind words,” he said
aloud. “You have much land, and I only want a little. But I should like to be
sure which bit is mine. Could it not be measured and made over to me? Life and
death are in God’s hands. You good people give it to me, but your children
might wish to take it away again.” 

“You are quite right,” said the Chief. “We
will make it over to you.” 

“I heard that a dealer had been here,”
continued Pahóm, “and that you gave him a little land, too, and signed
title-deeds to that effect. I should like to have it done in the same
way.” 

The Chief understood. 

“Yes,” replied he, “that can be done quite
easily. We have a scribe, and we will go to town with you and have the deed
properly sealed.” 

“And what will be the price?” asked
Pahóm. 

“Our price is always the same: one thousand
roubles a day.” Pahóm did not understand.

 “A day? What measure is that? How
many acres would that be?” 

“We do not know how to reckon it out,” said
the Chief. “We sell it by the day. As much as you can go round on your feet in
a day is yours, and the price is one thousand roubles a day.”

 Pahóm was surprised. 

“But in a day you can get round a large
tract of land,” he said. The Chief laughed. 

“It will all be yours!” said he. “But there
is one condition: If you don’t return on the same day to the spot whence you
started, your money is lost.” 

“But how am I to mark the way that I have
gone?” 

“Why, we shall go to any spot you like, and
stay there. You must start from that spot and make your round, taking a spade
with you. Wherever you think necessary, make a mark. At every turning, dig a
hole and pile up the turf; then afterwards we will go round with a plough from
hole to hole. You may make as large a circuit as you please, but before the sun
sets you must return to the place you started from. All the land you cover will
be yours.” 

Pahóm was delighted. It was decided to
start early next morning. They talked a while, and after drinking some more
kumiss and eating some more mutton, they had tea again, and then the night came
on. They gave Pahóm a feather-bed to sleep on, and the Bashkírs dispersed for
the night, promising to assemble the next morning at daybreak and ride out
before sunrise to the appointed spot. 

   
     VII 

Pahóm lay on the feather-bed, but could not
sleep. He kept thinking about the land. 

“What a large tract I will mark off!”
thought he. “I can easily do thirty-five miles in a day. The days are long now,
and within a circuit of thirty-five miles what a lot of land there will be! I
will sell the poorer land, or let it to peasants, but I’ll pick out the best
and farm it. I will buy two ox-teams, and hire two more labourers. About a
hundred and fifty acres shall be plough-land, and I will pasture cattle on the
rest.” 

Pahóm lay awake all night, and dozed off
only just before dawn. Hardly were his eyes closed when he had a dream. He
thought he was lying in that same tent, and heard somebody chuckling outside.
He wondered who it could be, and rose and went out and he saw the Bashkír Chief
sitting in front of the tent holding his sides and rolling about with laughter.
Going nearer to the Chief, Pahóm asked: “What are you laughing at?” But he saw
that it was no longer the Chief, but the dealer who had recently stopped at his
house and had told him about the land. Just as Pahóm was going to ask, “Have
you been here long?” he saw that it was not the dealer, but the peasant who had
come up from the Volga, long ago, to Pahóm’s old home. Then he saw that it was
not the peasant either, but the Devil himself with hoofs and horns sitting
there and chuckling, and before him lay a man barefoot, prostrate on the
ground, with only trousers and a shirt on. And Pahóm dreamt that he looked more
attentively to see what sort of a man it was that was lying there, and he saw
that the man was dead and that it was himself! He awoke horror-struck. 

“What things one does dream,” thought
he. 

Looking round he saw through the open door
that the dawn was breaking. 

“It’s time to wake them up,” thought he.
“We ought to be starting.” 

He got up, roused his man (who was sleeping
in his cart), bade him harness; and went to call the Bashkírs. 

“It’s time to go to the steppe to measure
the land,” he said. 

The Bashkírs rose and assembled, and the
Chief came too. Then they began drinking kumiss again, and offered Pahóm some
tea, but he would not wait. 

“If we are to go, let us go. It is high
time,” said he. 

   
     VIII 

The Bashkírs got ready and they all
started: some mounted on horses, and some in carts. Pahóm drove in his own
small cart with his servant, and took a spade with him. When they reached the
steppe, the morning red was beginning to kindle. They ascended a hillock
(called by the Bashkírs a shikhan) and dismounting from their carts and their
horses, gathered in one spot. The Chief came up to Pahóm and stretching out his
arm towards the plain: 

“See,” said he, “all this, as far as your
eye can reach, is ours. You may have any part of it you like.” 

Pahóm’s eyes glistened: it was all virgin
soil, as flat as the palm of your hand, as black as the seed of a poppy, and in
the hollows different kinds of grasses grew breast high. 

The Chief took off his fox-fur cap, placed
it on the ground and said: 

“This will be the mark. Start from here,
and return here again. All the land you go round shall be yours.” 

Pahóm took out his money and put it on the
cap. Then he took off his outer coat, remaining in his sleeveless under-coat.
He unfastened his girdle and tied it tight below his stomach, put a little bag
of bread into the breast of his coat, and tying a flask of water to his girdle,
he drew up the tops of his boots, took the spade from his man, and stood ready
to start. He considered for some moments which way he had better go — it was
tempting everywhere. 

“No matter,” he concluded, “I will go
towards the rising sun.” 

He turned his face to the east, stretched
himself and waited for the sun to appear above the rim. 

“I must lose no time,” he thought, “and it
is easier walking while it is still cool.” 

The sun’s rays had hardly flashed above the
horizon, before Pahóm, carrying the spade over his shoulder went down into the
steppe. 

Pahóm started walking neither slowly nor
quickly. After having gone a thousand yards he stopped, dug a hole, and placed
pieces of turf one on another to make it more visible. Then he went on; and now
that he had walked off his stiffness he quickened his pace. After a while he
dug another hole. 

Pahóm looked back. The hillock could be
distinctly seen in the sunlight, with the people on it, and the glittering
tyres of the cart-wheels. At a rough guess Pahóm concluded that he had walked
three miles. It was growing warmer; he took off his under-coat, flung it across
his shoulder, and went on again. It had grown quite warm now; he looked at the
sun, it was time to think of breakfast. 

“The first shift is done, but there are
four in a day, and it is too soon yet to turn. But I will just take off my
boots,” said he to himself. 

He sat down, took off his boots, stuck them
into his girdle, and went on. It was easy walking now. 

“I will go on for another three miles,”
thought he, “and then turn to the left. This spot is so fine, that it would be
a pity to lose it. The further one goes, the better the land seems.” 

He went straight on for a while, and when
he looked round, the hillock was scarcely visible and the people on it looked
like black ants, and he could just see something glistening there in the
sun. 

“Ah,” thought Pahóm, “I have gone far
enough in this direction, it is time to turn. Besides I am in a regular sweat,
and very thirsty.” 

He stopped, dug a large hole, and heaped up
pieces of turf. Next he untied his flask, had a drink, and then turned sharply
to the left. He went on and on; the grass was high, and it was very hot. 

Pahóm began to grow tired: he looked at the
sun and saw that it was noon. 

“Well,” he thought, “I must have a
rest.” 

He sat down, and ate some bread and drank
some water; but he did not lie down, thinking that if he did he might fall
asleep. After sitting a little while, he went on again. At first he walked
easily: the food had strengthened him; but it had become terribly hot, and he
felt sleepy; still he went on, thinking: “An hour to suffer, a lifetime to
live.” 

He went a long way in this direction also,
and was about to turn to the left again, when he perceived a damp hollow: “It
would be a pity to leave that out,” he thought. “Flax would do well there.” So
he went on past the hollow, and dug a hole on the other side of it before he
turned the corner. Pahóm looked towards the hillock. The heat made the air
hazy: it seemed to be quivering, and through the haze the people on the hillock
could scarcely be seen. 

“Ah!” thought Pahóm, “I have made the sides
too long; I must make this one shorter.” And he went along the third side
stepping faster. He looked at the sun: it was nearly half way to the horizon,
and he had not yet done two miles of the third side of the square. He was still
ten miles from the goal. 

“No,” he thought, “though it will make my
land lop-sided, I must hurry back in a straight line now. I might go too far,
and as it is I have a great deal of land.” 

So Pahóm hurriedly dug a hole, and turned
straight towards the hillock. 

IX 

Pahóm went straight towards the hillock,
but he now walked with difficulty. He was done up with the heat, his bare feet
were cut and bruised, and his legs began to fail. He longed to rest, but it was
impossible if he meant to get back before sunset. The sun waits for no man, and
it was sinking lower and lower. 

“Oh dear,” he thought, “if only I have not
blundered trying for too much! What if I am too late?” 

He looked towards the hillock and at the
sun. He was still far from his goal, and the sun was already near the rim.
Pahóm walked on and on; it was very hard walking, but he went quicker and
quicker. He pressed on, but was still far from the place. He began running,
threw away his coat, his boots, his flask, and his cap, and kept only the spade
which he used as a support. 

“What shall I do,” he thought again, “I
have grasped too much, and ruined the whole affair. I can’t get there before
the sun sets.” 

And this fear made him still more
breathless. Pahóm went on running, his soaking shirt and trousers stuck to him,
and his mouth was parched. His breast was working like a blacksmith’s bellows,
his heart was beating like a hammer, and his legs were giving way as if they
did not belong to him. Pahóm was seized with terror lest he should die of the
strain. 

Though afraid of death, he could not stop.
“After having run all that way they will call me a fool if I stop now,” thought
he. And he ran on and on, and drew near and heard the Bashkírs yelling and
shouting to him, and their cries inflamed his heart still more. He gathered his
last strength and ran on. 

The sun was close to the rim, and cloaked
in mist looked large, and red as blood. Now, yes now, it was about to set! The
sun was quite low, but he was also quite near his aim. Pahóm could already see
the people on the hillock waving their arms to hurry him up. He could see the
fox-fur cap on the ground, and the money on it, and the Chief sitting on the
ground holding his sides. And Pahóm remembered his dream. 

“There is plenty of land,” thought he, “but
will God let me live on it? I have lost my life, I have lost my life! I shall
never reach that spot!” 

Pahóm looked at the sun, which had reached
the earth: one side of it had already disappeared. With all his remaining
strength he rushed on, bending his body forward so that his legs could hardly
follow fast enough to keep him from falling. Just as he reached the hillock it
suddenly grew dark. He looked up — the sun had already set! He gave a cry:
“All my labour has been in vain,” thought he, and was about to stop, but he
heard the Bashkírs still shouting, and remembered that though to him, from
below, the sun seemed to have set, they on the hillock could still see it. He
took a long breath and ran up the hillock. It was still light there. He reached
the top and saw the cap. Before it sat the Chief laughing and holding his
sides. Again Pahóm remembered his dream, and he uttered a cry: his legs gave
way beneath him, he fell forward and reached the cap with his hands. 

“Ah, that’s a fine fellow!” exclaimed the
Chief. “He has gained much land!” 

Pahóm’s servant came running up and tried
to raise him, but he saw that blood was flogging from his mouth. Pahóm was
dead! 

The Bashkírs clicked their tongues to show
their pity. 

His servant picked up the spade and dug a
grave long enough for Pahóm to lie in, and buried him in it. Six feet from his
head to his heels was all he needed.