He took an axe out of his belt, sat down on the floor and began splitting off a wooden taper.
‘Haven’t you got a woman?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said, brandishing his axe.
‘Died, I suppose?’
‘No … yes … dead,’ he said and turned away.
I said nothing. He raised his head and looked at me.
‘Ran off with a passing tradesman,’ he said with a bitter smile. The girl hung her head. The baby woke and started crying, and the girl went over to the cradle. ‘Here, give him this,’ said Biryuk, thrusting a dirty feeding horn into her hand. ‘Left him, too,’ he went on in an undertone, pointing to the baby. He got up and went over to the door, stood there and turned round.
‘You won’t want to eat any of our bread, I dare say, mister,’ he began. ‘But apart from bread, that’s all I—’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘Just as you like. I’d light the samovar for you, but I’ve no tea … I’ll take a look at your horse.’
He went out and banged the door. I looked about me again. The hut seemed more dismal than ever. The bitter smell of stale smoke was making breathing difficult. The girl never moved from her seat nor raised her eyes; now and then she gave the cradle a push, and timidly pulled the top of her shift up over her shoulder. Her bare feet hung down, motionless.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Ulita,’ she replied, bowing her sad little head even lower.
The forester came back in and seated himself on the bench.
‘The storm’s passing,’ he remarked after a short silence. ‘I’ll see you out of the wood if you want.’
I stood up. Biryuk picked up his gun and checked the pan.
‘What’s that for?’
‘They’re up to no good, in the woods … They’re chopping a tree down at Mare’s Rise,’ he added in response to my look of enquiry.
‘You mean you can hear it from here?’
‘From outside.’
We went out together. The rain had stopped. Heavy masses of storm clouds were still crowding the horizon, with long jagged lightnings flashing now and then, but overhead there were patches of deep-blue night sky, with stars twinkling through the swiftly scudding clouds. Through the darkness I began to make out the outlines of trees, drenched with rain and blowing in the wind. We stood and listened. The forester took off his cap and lowered his head. ‘There … there it is,’ he said suddenly, raising his arm. ‘What a night to choose.’
I could hear nothing but the leaves rustling. Biryuk led my horse out. ‘But if we go like this,’ he reflected, ‘I’ll probably miss him.’
‘I’ll come with you on foot … shall I?’
‘All right,’ he said, and backed my horse under cover again. ‘We’ll catch him in no time, and then I’ll see you out of the wood. Let’s go.’
We set off, Biryuk in front and I following him. God knows how he found the way, but he only stopped occasionally, and that was to listen to the sound of the axe.
‘There it is,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Hear it? Do you?’
‘But where is it?’
Biryuk shrugged. We climbed down into a ravine, the wind eased off for a moment, and now I could clearly hear the measured blows. Biryuk looked at me and shook his head. On we went, through wet ferns and nettles. Then we heard a long, deep crashing sound.
‘It’s down …’ muttered Biryuk.
Meanwhile the sky was growing clearer and clearer; a faint light was showing in the forest. Finally we clambered out of the ravine. ‘Wait here,’ the forester whispered, bending forward and holding his gun above his head. He vanished into the bushes. I listened as hard as I could; over the constant howl of the wind, I thought I could hear faint sounds not far away. An axe cautiously tapping against small branches, a wheel creaking, a horse snorting …
‘Where are you off to? Stop there!’ thundered Biryuk’s iron voice. Another voice gave a pitiful cry, like a trapped hare … A fight was starting. ‘No, you don’t! No, you don’t,’ panted Biryuk, ‘you’re not getting away from me …’
I rushed towards the noise, tripping up at every step; when I reached the battleground, I found the felled tree lying on the ground, and the forester kneeling beside it, holding the thief down and tying his hands behind his back with his belt. I came up to them. Biryuk stood up and raised the thief onto his feet. I saw a peasant covered in sodden rags, with a long unkempt beard; his scruffy little horse, half covered with a stiff cloth, was standing nearby, harnessed to a log cart. The forester wasn’t saying a word; the peasant, too, was standing silently by, shaking his head.
‘Let him go,’ I whispered in Biryuk’s ear. ‘I’ll pay for the tree.’
Biryuk said nothing. He took the horse by the mane in his left hand, and held on to the thief by the belt with his right.
‘Turn around, you scum,’ he said grimly.
‘Take the little axe,’ mumbled the peasant.
‘No point letting that go, that’s true,’ said the forester, picking up the axe. We set off. I followed the other two … The rain was starting to patter down again, and soon it was pouring in sheets. We had trouble getting back to the hut. Biryuk left the confiscated horse in the middle of the yard, led the peasant indoors, loosened the knot on his belt and sat him in a corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the fire, jumped to her feet and stared at us in dumb terror. I sat down on the bench.
‘Look at it pouring down,’ remarked the forester. ‘You’ll have to wait a bit. Would you like to lie down?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I’d have locked him in the storeroom, on account of you, sir,’ he went on, indicating the peasant; ‘but you see, the bolt on the door—’
‘Let him stay here, don’t touch him,’ I interrupted.
The peasant cast me a furtive glance. I silently promised myself to set the poor wretch free, no matter what. He was sitting motionless on the bench; by the light of the lantern I could see his haggard, wrinkled face, his heavy, sandy-coloured eyebrows, restless eyes, skinny limbs … The girl lay down on the floor at his feet and fell asleep again. Biryuk was sitting by the table, resting his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner. The rain rattled on the roof and ran down the windows. None of us spoke.
‘Foma Kuzmich,’ the peasant suddenly spoke up, in a dull, broken voice. ‘Eh, Foma Kuzmich.’
‘What?’
‘Let me go.’
Biryuk didn’t answer.
‘Let me go … We were starving … let me go.’
‘I know you lot,’ the forester answered grimly, ‘you’re all the same, your whole village—one thief after another.’
‘Let me go,’ the peasant repeated. ‘Our bailiff … we’re ruined, that’s what … let me go!’
‘Ruined indeed! … Nobody has to steal.’
‘Let me go, Foma Kuzmich … Don’t destroy me. Your boss, you know him yourself—he’ll eat me alive, that’s what.’
Biryuk turned away. The peasant was shaking as though he had a high fever, tossing his head about and breathing in broken gasps.
‘Let me go,’ he repeated in gloomy desperation. ‘Let me go, in God’s name, let me go! I’ll pay, I really will, honest to God. I swear by God, we’re starving … the children crying, you know what it’s like. Life’s hard for us, it is.’
‘All the same, you shouldn’t go thieving.’
‘The little horse,’ the peasant said, ‘my little horse, at least … the only beast we’ve got … let her go!’
‘I’m telling you—I can’t. I’m under orders myself, I’ll be held responsible. I can’t be soft on you people.’
‘Let me go! We’re starving, Foma Kuzmich, starving, and that’s the truth … Let me go!’
‘I know you!’
‘Let me go, please!’
‘Huh, what’s the good of talking to you? Sit still and shut up, or you know what’ll happen. Can’t you see there’s a gentleman here
?’
The poor wretch hung his head … Biryuk yawned and laid his head on the table. The rain kept on and on. I waited to see what would happen.
Suddenly the peasant stood up. His eyes blazed, the colour came to his cheeks. ‘All right then, eat me, go on, and I hope you choke, go on …’ he began, screwing up his eyes and turning down the corners of his mouth. ‘Go on, then, you cursed murderer—drink a Christian’s blood, go on, drink it …’
The forester turned round.
‘Yes, it’s you I’m talking to, Asiatic scum, bloodsucker, you!’
‘Drunk, are you? Cursing and swearing like that?’ the forester demanded in astonishment. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Drunk, is it? On your money? You cursed murderer, you brute, brute, brute!’
‘Ah you … wait till I get you!’
‘What do I care? It’s all the same—I’m done for! What’ll I do without my horse? Bang me on the head, there’s no difference; die of hunger, or die here and now, it’s all the same. Do for the lot of us, my wife, my children, kill them all … But just you wait, we’ll get you in the end!’
Biryuk rose to his feet.
‘Kill me, kill me,’ the peasant snarled savagely, ‘kill me, go on, here I am, kill me …’ (The girl jumped quickly up from the floor and stared at him.) ‘Kill me, kill me!’
‘Shut up!’ roared the forester, taking two steps forward.
‘Stop! That’ll do, Foma!’ I cried. ‘Let him be! Leave him alone.’
‘I won’t shut up!’ the poor wretch went on. ‘It’s all the same to me if you kill me. You murderer, you animal, you merciless brute … But just you wait, you won’t be strutting round for long! They’ll wring your neck for you, you wait!’
Biryuk grabbed him by the shoulder … I rushed over to protect the poor peasant …
‘Hands off, master!’ the forester shouted at me.
I wasn’t scared by his threat, and had already flung out my arm; but to my utter amazement, he wrenched the belt off the peasant’s elbows in a single jerk, seized him by the scruff of the neck, tugged his cap down over his eyes, pulled open the door and shoved him outside.
‘Go to hell, and take your horse with you!’ he shouted after him. ‘But you watch out, don’t let me ever catch you again!’
He came back into the hut and started rummaging in a corner.
‘Well, Biryuk,’ I eventually said, ‘you’ve surprised me. You’re a good fellow, I see.’
‘Enough of that, sir,’ he interrupted me in vexed tones, ‘and please don’t tell anyone. Anyway, I’d better take you back,’ he added; ‘there’s no point waiting for this rain to stop …’
Outside in the yard we heard the peasant’s cart rumbling away.
‘So he’s gone!’ muttered Biryuk. ‘But next time …!’
Half an hour later he saw me off at the edge of the wood.
* In Orel province, ‘Biryuk’ is the name given to a morose, solitary man. [Author’s note]
THE RATTLING!
‘Got something to tell you,’ said Yermolay, coming into my hut, where I’d finished eating and was lying on my camp bed to rest after a pretty successful but tiring day out shooting grouse. It was the middle of July, during a tremendous heatwave. ‘Got something to tell you—we’re out of shot.’
I jumped up off the bed.
‘Out of shot! How on earth? When we brought something like thirty pounds of it with us from the village! A whole bag of it!’
‘That’s right, and a big bag too. Should have lasted us a couple of weeks. But who knows—the bag might have got a hole in it … Anyway, that’s how it is, there’s no shot … perhaps enough for ten more charges.’
‘So what’ll we do now? We’re just getting to the best spots—we were promised six coveys tomorrow …’
‘Send me off to Tula—it’s not far, just forty-five versts. I’ll ride there and back like the wind and bring back the shot, forty pounds of it if you want.’
‘When’ll you go?’
‘Right now if you like. Why wait? Only there’s one thing—we’ll have to hire horses.’
‘Whatever for? What about our own?’
‘Can’t use our own. The shaft horse has gone lame. Quite badly.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘Just the other day. The driver took him to be shod. And they did a shoddy job of it too. Must have been a clumsy blacksmith. Now the horse can’t even put his hoof down. It’s his front hoof—he’s holding it off the ground, like a dog.’
‘So—have they got the shoe off, at least?’
‘No, they haven’t, but that’s what needs doing. The nail must have gone right into the flesh.’
I sent for the driver. Yermolay turned out to be right: the shaft horse was holding his hoof off the ground. I gave orders at once for the animal to be unshod and stood on damp clay.
‘So will you hire some horses to go to Tula?’ Yermolay persisted.
‘How can we get hold of any horses out here in the sticks?’ I exclaimed peevishly. The village we were staying in was a desolate place in the back of beyond, where all the villagers looked like paupers. We had trouble finding a single decent-sized hut, and even that one had no chimney.
‘We’ll get some,’ replied Yermolay, as impassive as ever. ‘What you said about this village was right enough; but there used to be one peasant living here, a clever man, and rich too, and he had nine horses. Well, he’s dead now, but his eldest son has taken it all on. He’s as thick as they come, but he hasn’t managed to run through all his father’s money yet. We’ll get hold of some horses from him. Say the word and I’ll bring him over here. It seems his brothers are quite smart—though he’s in charge all the same.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Just because. He’s the eldest, so the younger ones have to jump to it and do as he says.’ Yermolay added something juicy and unprintable about younger brothers in general. ‘I’ll get him over here. He’s a bit simple. You’ll have no trouble agreeing terms with him.’
While Yermolay was on his way to get this ‘simple’ peasant, it occurred to me that I had better go to Tula myself. Firstly because I knew from experience not to rely on Yermolay; once I had sent him to town for some provisions, and he had promised to get everything I wanted in a single day—after which he didn’t come back for a week, drank all my money away, and finally turned up on foot, having set out in a racing droshky. And secondly, I knew a horse dealer in Tula who could sell me a horse to replace my lame shaft horse.
‘That settles it!’ I thought. ‘I’ll go myself; and I can sleep on the way—it’s a comfortable carriage.’
*
‘I’ve brought him!’ cried Yermolay a quarter of an hour later, rushing into the hut. Behind him came a tall, tow-headed peasant wearing a white shirt, dark-blue trousers and bast shoes. He had short-sighted eyes, a sandy-coloured goatee beard, a big bulbous nose and a mouth that hung open. True enough, he looked like a simpleton.
‘Here you are,’ announced Yermolay: ‘He’s got the horses, and he’s agreeable.’
‘That’s to say, I mean, I …’ began the peasant in a hoarse, halting voice, shaking his head with its wispy hair and fingering the band of the cap he held in his hands, ‘I … that’s to say …’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
He looked down and seemed to be deep in thought.
‘My name, you mean?’
‘Yes, what’s your name?’
‘Well, my name—that’ll be Filofey.’
‘Well now, friend Filofey, I’m told you’ve got horses. Bring along a team of three, we’ll harness them up to my carriage—it’s a light one—and you’ll drive me over to Tula. It’s a moonlit night, there’s plenty of light, and the air will be cool. What’s the road like?’
‘The road? The road’s all right. It’ll be twenty versts to the main road, not more. There’s one place that’s … tricky; otherwise it’s all right.’
‘What’s the pl
ace that’s tricky?’
‘There’s a little river to ford.’
‘Why, are you going to Tula yourself?’ enquired Yermolay.
‘Yes.’
‘Well!’ said my faithful retainer, tossing his head. ‘We-e-ell!’ he repeated, spat and left the room.
Evidently the drive to Tula no longer held any attraction for him. It had turned into a dull and pointless chore.
‘Do you know the road well?’ I asked Filofey.
‘’Course I do! Only I, begging your pardon, mister, I can’t go … all of a sudden, like …’
It turned out that when Yermolay was negotiating with Filofey, he had told him that he’d definitely be paid … and left it at that! And Filofey, though Yermolay described him as an idiot, wasn’t satisfied. He demanded fifty roubles in banknotes from me—a huge sum. I offered him ten, a low one. And we started haggling; Filofey dug his heels in at first, but then began to come down, very slowly. When Yermolay looked into the room for a moment, he assured me that ‘that idiot’ (‘Ain’t he fond of that word!’ Filofey remarked under his breath) ‘that idiot has no idea of the value of money’. He reminded me in passing that some twenty years ago, my mother had set up a posting inn at a perfect spot where two high roads crossed, and the business had failed dismally because the old house serf who was put in charge had no idea of the value of money. He thought that the more coins there were, the better, so he would pay out a silver quarter rouble in change for half a dozen coppers, though cursing furiously all the while.
‘Huh, Filofey—you’re a right Filofey!’ Yermolay exclaimed at last, and went out, angrily slamming the door.
Filofey did not answer, seeming to accept that being called Filofey really wasn’t very clever of him and that it was quite fair to hold it against him, though it was really the priest’s fault—obviously the man hadn’t been properly paid for the baptism.
We finally agreed on twenty roubles. He set off to get the horses, and an hour later returned with no fewer than five for me to choose from. They were decent horses, though their manes and tails were tangled and their bellies swollen and stretched tight as drums. Filofey was accompanied by two brothers, who looked nothing like him. Small, dark-eyed, with sharp noses, they really did look like ‘smart lads’. They talked a lot and very fast—‘yacking away’, as Filofey put it—but they deferred to their elder brother.
Love and Youth Page 11