How Much Land Does a Man Need?

The elder sister had married a merchant in the town; the younger had married a peasant called Pahóm, out in the village. One evening the two sisters were sitting together, and they began to argue about which life was better. The townswoman boasted of the comforts of the town — the fine clothes, the theatres, the rich food. The peasant's wife defended the land. "We may live more roughly," she said, "but we are free of worry. You may earn more, but you may lose it all overnight."

Pahóm was lying on the stove above them, and he listened. "It is true," he thought to himself. "If I had plenty of land, I would not fear the Devil himself." Now the Devil had been sitting behind the stove, and he had heard everything. "Good," thought the Devil. "We shall have a tussle. I will give you land enough — and through that very land I will get you in my power."

Things began to go Pahóm's way. A piece of land came up for sale nearby, and he scraped together the money and bought forty acres. He was overjoyed. He ploughed and sowed on his own land, and his harvests were good. But his neighbours' cattle kept straying into his fields, and quarrels followed, and Pahóm grew bitter. "If I had more land of my own," he kept thinking, "none of this would happen."

Then a passing dealer told him that beyond the Volga the land was richer and far cheaper. Pahóm sold up, moved his family, and took a larger holding. He prospered again — and again it was not enough. He heard that the Bashkirs, far out on the steppe, were selling vast tracts for almost nothing, and he could not rest until he had gone to see for himself.

The Bashkirs welcomed Pahóm with kumiss and tea, and when he explained what he wanted, they laughed and named their price. For one thousand roubles, the chief said, Pahóm could have as much land as he liked.

"As much as I like? But how do you measure it?"

"We measure it by the day. Whatever land you can walk round in a single day is yours — for a thousand roubles. But there is one condition: you must return to the very spot where you started before the sun sets. If you do not return in time, your money is lost and you get nothing."

Pahóm was delighted. He would start at dawn, walk a great circle, mark his turns with a spade, and be back by sunset. "In a day," he thought, "a man can walk round an enormous tract." He could hardly sleep for excitement, and in the night he dreamed — strangely — of lying dead at the feet of the laughing chief.

At sunrise Pahóm set off. The land was so good that he kept going further than he had planned — there was always a better patch just ahead, a hollow worth including, a stretch of black earth he could not bear to leave out. By the time he turned for the second corner the sun was already high. He turned again, too late, and saw how far he still had to go. The circle he had drawn was far too big.

Now he began to be afraid. He threw away his coat, his boots, his flask — everything that weighed him down — and he ran. The sun was sinking. He could see the hillock where he had started, and the Bashkirs waving their caps, and the chief sitting there. His breath tore at his chest. The sun touched the horizon just as he reached the foot of the hill, and with the last of his strength he threw himself forward and touched the cap on the ground with his hands. "Ah, what a fine fellow!" cried the chief. "He has gained much land."

Pahóm's servant ran to lift him up — but Pahóm was dead. The Bashkirs clicked their tongues in pity. The servant picked up the spade, dug a grave, and buried him in it: six feet from his head to his heels, exactly as much land as a man needs.