by Ruskin Bond
My cousin and I tossed and turned in our bed late into the night. When we finally fell asleep, our bad dreams about Ferapont and Sganarel made us restless and we slept fitfully. The nurse, not understanding, tried to comfort us by saying we need not be frightened of the bear, as he was secure in the pit and would be killed the next day. I was even more upset and disturbed at this.
I even asked the nurse if I could pray for Sganarel, but such a question was above the old woman’s religious understanding. She yawned, made the sign of the cross and said she didn’t know about that, that she had never asked her spiritual father such a question, but that the bear was, after all, also one of God’s creatures, who had found shelter on Noah’s Ark.
Christmas day finally arrived and, all dressed up in our Sunday best, we were waiting to take tea with our tutors and governesses. The drawing room was packed with relatives and other guests; including the priest, the deacon and two choir soloists from our church. When uncle entered, the representatives of the church raised their voices with: ‘Jesus Christ was born today.’ Then everyone drank tea, which was followed by a small breakfast and, at two o’clock, we sat down to a festive dinner.
As soon as the meal was over, everybody went quickly to get ready to watch Sganarel’s killing. They had to hurry, for dusk descends swiftly at that time of the year, and it would have been impossible to proceed with the bear-baiting in darkness, when the bear could easily escape from sight.
Everything went according to plan. So we would not miss a thing, we rushed to dress straight from the dinner table. Wrapped in our warm, rabbit-fur coats, and shod in high, furry boots with thick, goat-skin soles, we were taken outside and placed in one of the sledges. By the gates stood a line of luxurious, roomy sledges, padded with colourful carpets and warm rugs, and each harnessed to a team of horses. Two grooms held the reins of uncle’s high-spirited English hunting horse, Monden. At last uncle came out, wearing a fox-skin fur coat and a fur pointed cap. As soon as he had mounted his horse and sat astride his bearskin saddle decorated with snake heads, our long procession started to move. Ten or fifteen minutes later, we reached the chosen scene for the proceedings and, forming a semicircle, came to a halt. All the sledges were turned to face the wide, snow-covered field, which was surrounded by the chain of huntsmen on horseback. The wood formed a border at the far side of the field. Near the trees, behind some bushes, Flegont and Ferapont were hidden in trenches.
No one could see their hiding-places; only a few sharpsighted people pointed to the hardly visible gun rests, supporting the heavy rifles of the marksmen. One of these rifles was to shoot Sganarel…
As the bear’s pit was also out of our sight, we gazed with at the magnificent huntsmen; who all carried very imposing looking rifles of Swedish, German and English makes.
Uncle positioned himself at the head of his company. He held the leads of the most vicious pair of leecher-dogs, and in front of him, upon the ornate saddle, a white scarf had been placed.
The young dogs, for whom the baiting of Sganarel would be a part of their training, were present in great numbers. They lacked discipline and showed their burning impatience and craving for blood. They barked, and whined, jumping up constantly, disturbing the horses and their uniformed riders, who cracked their whips in an effort to make the young, restless hounds behave. Everyone was now impatient for the chase to begin. The dogs, of course, with their highly developed sense of smell, were well aware of the nearness of the beast and longed to pounce upon it.
It was time to bring Sganarel out from the pit and to give him to the bloodthirsty hounds. Uncle waved the white scarf and shouted, ‘Begin!’
Ten riders came forward out of the main group of the huntsmen and galloped across the field. After about two hundred paces they stopped and took hold of a long, wooden plank which, being so far away, we could not see. They were now right by the pit where Sganarel was imprisoned, but this was also out of sight.
The men lifted the plank and pushed one end down into the pit, placing it at such an angle, that the beast would have no difficulty in climbing out.
The top part of the plank was placed against the edge of the pit and we could just see the tip of it sticking out into the air.
All eyes were glued to these preparations, for they were the overture to the real drama to come. Everyone expected that Sganarel would emerge fairly quickly, but he obviously sensed what was to come and remained well out of sight.
The riders tried to force him out by bombarding him with balls and prodding him with sharp, spiked poles; loud cries were heard, but Sganarel did not appear. The sound of blank shots fired into the pit echoed into the air, but even this did not force the animal out into the open. Sganarel growled crossly, but remained firmly where he was. Before long a battered, horse-pulled sledge sped into the field. Normally it was used for manure, but now it contained a load of dry, brittle straw The horse was tall and emaciated, as were all the horses kept to carry heavy loads from the fields. But although he was worn and old and looked half-starved, he raced with his tail high and his mane flying. Maybe his friskiness was caused by the remembered high spirits of his lost youth. I think, however, that his nervous agility was more likely to have been brought on by the sheer terror which had seized him when he sensed the bear’s nearness. He darted across the white surface with such frenzy, that the driver had great difficulty in steering him in a straight line; he pulled the reins tighter and tighter, till the horse’s head was forced right back, and the rough iron bit under his tongue cut his mouth and made it bleed. All the time the whip lashed mercilessly into the frightened animal’s hide.
The three separate piles of straw were set alight and thrown down into the pit from three sides, so that the only part which was not burning, was the small area by the bottom end of the plank. The air exploded with the deafening, furious roar and frenzied cries from.the maddened animal, but still he did not climb to the surface. We heard rumours that Sganarel had been badly burnt, and that he had covered his eyes with his paws and was cowering in a corner, where no one could get at him.
The old nag with the torn mouth galloped away from the pit. Thinking that he had been sent for another load of hay, some of the spectators complained in whispers. Why, they asked, had not the organizers of the chase ordered a larger load of hay in the first place, so that there would have been some to spare? Uncle looked angry and was shouting crossly, but I was unable to hear the words, for there was a great deal of commotion. People were talking loudly, the dogs were snarling and barking even more frantically, and the crack of the whips whistled through the air.
Then, suddenly, the mood changed; the crowds grew quiet again, as the old nag, snorting heavily, was racing back towards the deep hollow. But the sledge was not carrying the expected second load of straw; it was bringing Ferapont, the bear’s friend. My furious uncle had given the order for Ferapont to be lowered into the pit, to lead out his four-legged friend to his execution. Ferapont seemed very agitated, but he acted firmly and without hesitation. He carried out his master’s orders to the letter. Taking a piece of rope which had been used for tying the hay from the sledge, he fastened it securely round a notch in the plank. Then, taking the free end of the rope into his hand, he descended into the pit.
Sganarel’s dreadful cries stopped and changed into muffled grumbling, rather as if he was complaining to his friend about the cruel behaviour of the people. Eventually all was quiet.
‘He is embracing and licking Ferapont!’ shouted somebody, standing by the edge of the pit. Some of the spectators inside their sledges sighed, while others frowned. Many of them suddenly felt sorry for the bear and they no longer found pleasure in the thought of the killing. But such fleeting sentiments were swiftly pushed out of mind by the next unexpected, frightful development.
Ferapont’s curly head emerged from the pit as he climbed upwards along the plank, with the aid of the rope. He was not alone; Sganarel, locked in a fond embrace with his friend, his furry head upon Ferapo
nt’s shoulder, was coming up close behind him. The bear was clearly unhappy and looked a very sorry sight. He looked exhausted and hurt, and we felt this to be caused not so much by his physical suffering, but more by the shock of his morale. The angry gleam of his blood-shot eyes reflected his anger and irritation, and his whole appearance reminded us of King Lear.
His fur was dishevelled, scorched in places and knotted with blades of straw. And, like King Lear, Sganarel too, had his own kind of a crown.
The bear had refused to be parted from his old straw hat, and had been wearing it when he was led into the pit. Perhaps it was just a coincidence or perhaps it was because Sganarel really treasured this gift from his beloved friend; but whatever the reason, he was still clutching the battered straw hat as he came out into the open. As he stood once again upon solid ground, momentarily secure and content in the nearness of his friend, he took the crushed, battered hat from under his arm and put it on his head.
Many of the crowd saw the funny side of this scene and roared with laughter, but others, as they watched the beast, were filled with a sudden surge of compassion. Some of them even turned their backs to the spectacle, no longer wanting to witness the cruel ending. While all this was going on, the leecher-dogs forgot completely the meaning of the word obedience; snarling and growling they jumped up with vicious frenzy. The whips no longer had any effect upon them. As soon as the young hounds and the old experienced leecher-dogs saw Sganarel come out of the pit, they nearly suffocated as they strained at their iron collars. By then Ferapont was speeding in the old sledge back to his hiding-place near the edge of the wood.
Once again Sganarel was left alone. He was jerking his paw with some impatience, for it was caught up in the rope fastened to the plank. He obviously wanted to release his paw from the loop so he could run after his friend, but even the most intelligent bear is still only a bear, and Sganarel, instead of managing to loosen the loop, merely tightened it even further.
When he realized his efforts were getting him nowhere, he tugged at the rope with all his strength to try and break it, but it was exceptionally strong and held fast. The movement had jerked the plank from its original position, and Sganarel looked towards the pit to see what was happening. Just then, two leecher-dogs, released from the pack, pounced upon his back and the sharp teeth of one bit deeply into his flesh. Sganarel had been so preoccupied with the rope, that the hounds had taken him completely by surprise; at first he was more surprised by their audacity, than angry; but a second or two later, when the leecher-dog extracted its teeth so it could sink them even deeper into his flesh, the bear tore the dog from his back and flung it away from him with such force, it slit its stomach. The white snow where the hound landed was marked immediately with a pool of fresh blood. With one sharp blow of his back paw, the bear then crushed the body of the second dog.
But the most amazing and frightening thing of all was what happened with the plank. When Sganarel hurled the first leecher-dog into the air, the powerful movement pulled the plank right out of the pit. It flew upwards, the rope, to which it was still attached, became taut, and then the long piece of wood started to circle round and round Sganarel, as if he was its axis. The far end of the plank skimmed the snowy ground, knocking down and crushing not just a dog or two, but a full pack of hounds. Some whimpered with pain, their paws jerking in the snow, others turned over and remained motionless and silent.
Either the bear was of such exceptional intelligence that he realized he held the deadliest weapon—or the rope was cutting into his paw and inflicting pain, but he let out a warlike roar, seized the rope even more firmly with his paw and swung it even more ferociously. The powerful weapon swished through the air, knocking down all that stood in its way. If, God forbid, the rope had snapped, the plank would have soared away from its axis, bringing utter destruction to all alive and breathing in its path.
All of us, who were grouped together on the field—the spectators, the huntsmen, the horses and the hounds—were now placed in great danger and we prayed that the rope wrapped around Sganarel’s paw would remain intact. But how would it all end? Most of us were no longer interested. With the exception of the two marksmen hidden by the wood, and a handful of huntsmen, the rest of the crowd turned away from the scene, very much afraid, and ordered their drivers to race with the wind from this dangerous place. They flew back to the house in panic and commotion.
Because of this hasty retreat and the resulting chaos, several slight crashes and falls occurred along the route, causing some laughter and some alarm. Those who fell out of the sledges into the snow were quite sure that they could see the plank whistling over their heads and the outraged beast racing towards them. The guests, who returned to the house, were able to calm down, but to those who remained at the scene of the chase, the horror was not yet at an end.
It was impossible to set other dogs upon Sganarel. It was clear to everybody watching, that as he was so adequately armed, he would be capable of mowing down all the packs of hounds without any damage to himself. So the bear, without interference, continued to swing the plank round and round, turning with it at the same time; and made his way towards the wood, unaware that death was waiting for him there. Ferapont, and the infallible marksman, Flegont, were ready for him in their separate hiding-places.
One accurate shot was all that was needed to end it all. But it seemed that fate was on Sganarel’s side, for it intervened again to save the bear’s life.
Just when Sganarel neared the barriers, behind which the two marksmen were taking aim with just the muzzles of their guns showing, the rope suddenly snapped, and the plank flew sideways like an arrow fired from a bow. The bear lost his balance and fell over in the snow.
The handful of spectators left on the field were in for yet another surprise. The plank, in its flight, knocked down the gun rest and the barrier which was protecting Flegont, then it shot over his head and became embedded in a distant snow-drift. Sganarel also did not waste his time. He rolled over and over in the snow, till he landed behind Ferapont’s barrier.
Recognizing his good friend, he breathed on him with his hot breath and began to lick him all over. Just then there was the sound of a shot from the direction of Flegont’s hideout, but it was Ferapont who fell unconscious to the ground, while the bear ran off into the woods, unhurt.
People rushed over to Ferapont to see how badly he was hurt; the bullet had struck his hand and passed right through it. A few stray hairs from Sganarel’s fur were lodged in the wound.
Flegont’s reputation for excellent marksmanship did not really suffer. The circumstances had forced him to shoot in haste and without using the gun rest. Daylight too had been failing fast and Ferapont and the bear were standing very closely together. In fact under such unfavourable conditions, it was a wonder the shot struck so near to its intended target.
Nevertheless Sganarel had escaped and it was futile to pursue him in the gathering dusk. By the time the following day began, their lord and master, whose word was law, had very different thoughts, from the chase, on his mind.
As the chase had such an unsatisfactory ending, uncle returned home angrier and more ill-humoured then ever. Even before dismounting his horse, he was issuing orders to track the beast down at sunrise and to surround him in such a manner that an escape would be impossible.
A properly conducted hunt would surely have a better result than the afternoon’s fiasco. All of us were wondering and worrying what punishment would be given to the poor wounded Ferapont, and it was the general opinion that a cruel fate would be in store for him. He had, after all, committed a crime by not plunging his hunting knife into the bear’s heart when he had the chance, and by allowing him to escape unhurt from the hideout. The suspicion that during that fateful moment Ferapont had purposely refused to raise his hand against his furry friend and had deliberately sent him off to freedom, was more damning still. It seemed very likely that Ferapont had chosen to be loyal to Sganarel, for their firm friendship was
common knowledge.
We children listened to the discussions of the grown-ups, who had gathered that evening in the spacious drawingroom, where the tall, beautifully decorated and illuminated Christmas tree was the centre of attraction. And, like our elders, we too were worried about Ferapont.
A rumour reached us from the hall, and quickly spread through the whole room, that as yet no decision had been made as to what was to be done with Ferapont.
‘Can this be a good, or a bad omen?’ someone whispered, and this whisper made us even more anxious and miserable.