Fire in the Steppe

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

  "I broke away from Azya on Tuesday in the afternoon," said she to herself, "I galloped till night; then one night passed on the road; after that a whole day; then again a whole night, and now the third day has begun. A pursuit, even had there been one, must have returned already, and Hreptyoff ought to be near, for I have not spared the horses."

  After a while she added, "It is time; it is time! God pity me!"

  At moments a desire seized her to approach the Dniester, for at the bank it would be easier to learn where she was; but when she remembered that fifty of Azya's men had remained with Pan Gorzenski in Mohiloff, she was afraid. It occurred to her that because she had made such a circuit she might not have passed Mohiloff yet. On the road, in so far as sleep had not closed her eyes, she tried, it is true, to note carefully whether she did not come on a very wide ravine, like that in which Mohiloff was situated; but she did not see such a place. However, the ravine in the interior might be narrow and altogether different from what it was at Mohiloff; might have come to an end or contracted at some furlongs beyond the town; in a word, Basia had not the least idea of where Mohiloff was.

  Only she implored God without ceasing that it might be near, for she felt that she could not endure toil, hunger, sleeplessness, and cold much longer. During three days she had lived on seeds alone, and though she had spared them most carefully, still she had eaten the last kernel that morning, and there was nothing in the bag.

  Now she could only nourish and warm herself with the hope that Hreptyoff was near. In addition to hope, fever was warming her. Basia felt perfectly that she had a fever; for though the air was growing colder, and it was even freezing, her hands and feet were as hot then as they had been cold at the beginning of the journey; thirst too tormented her greatly.

  "If only I do not lose my presence of mind," said she to herself; "if I reach Hreptyoff, even with my last breath, see Michael, and then let the will of God be done."

  Again she had to pass numerous streams or rivers, but these were either shallow or frozen; on some water was flowing, and there was ice underneath, firm and strong. But she dreaded these crossings most of all because the horse, though courageous, feared them evidently. Going into the water or onto the ice he snorted, put forward his ears, sometimes resisted, but when urged went warily, putting foot before foot slowly, and sniffing with distended nostrils. It was well on in the afternoon when Basia, riding through a thick pine-wood, halted before some river larger than others, and above all much wider. According to her supposition this might be the Ladava or the Kalusik. At sight of this her heart beat with gladness. In every case Hreptyoff must be near; had she passed it even, she might consider herself saved, for the country there was more inhabited and the people less to be feared. The river, as far as her eye could reach, had steep banks; only in one place was there a depression, and the water, dammed by ice, had gone over the bank as if poured into a flat and wide vessel. The banks were frozen thoroughly; in the middle a broad streak of water was flowing, but Basia hoped to find the usual ice under it.

  The horse went in, resisting somewhat, as at every crossing, with head inclined, and smelling the snow before him. When she came to running water Basia knelt on the saddle, according to her custom, and held the saddle-bow with both hands. The water plashed under his hoofs. The ice was really firm; his hoof struck it as stone. But evidently the shoes had grown blunt on the long road, which was rocky in places, for the horse began to slip; his feet went apart, as if flying from under him. All at once he fell forward, and his nostrils sank in the water; then he rose, fell on his rump, rose again, but being terrified, began to struggle and strike desperately with his feet. Basia grasped the bridle, and with that a dull crack was heard; both hind legs of the horse sank through the ice as far as the haunches.

  "Jesus, Jesus!" cried Basia.

  The beast, with fore legs still on firm ice, made desperate efforts; but evidently the pieces on which he was resting began to move from under his feet, for he fell deeper, and began to groan hoarsely.

  Basia had still time sufficient and presence of mind to seize the mane of the horse and reach the unbroken ice in front of him. She fell and was wet in the water; but rising and feeling firm ground under foot, she knew that she was saved. She wished to save the horse, and bending forward caught the bridle; and going toward the bank she pulled it with all her might.

  But the horse sank deeper, could not free even his fore legs to grapple the ice, which was still unmoved. The reins were pulled harder every instant; but he sank more and more. He began to groan with a voice almost human, baring his teeth the while; his eyes looked at Basia with indescribable sadness, as if wishing to say to her: "There is no rescue for me; drop the reins ere I drag thee in!"

  There was, in truth, no rescue for him, and Basia had to drop the reins.

  When the horse disappeared beneath the ice she went to the bank, sat down under a bush without leaves, and sobbed like a child.

  Her energy was thoroughly broken for the moment. And besides that, the bitterness and pain which, after meeting with people, had filled her heart, overflowed it now with still greater force. Everything was against her,—uncertain roads, darkness, the elements, men, beasts; the hand of God alone had seemed to watch over her. In that kind, fatherly care she had put all her childlike trust; but now even that hand had failed her. This was a feeling to which Basia had not given such clear expression; but if she had not, she felt it all the more strongly in her heart.

  What remained to her? Complaint and tears! And still she had shown all the valor, all the courage, all the endurance which such a poor, weak creature could show. Now, see, her horse is drowned,—the last hope of rescue, the last plank of salvation, the only thing living that was with her! Without that horse she felt powerless against the unknown expanse which separated her from Hreptyoff, against the pine-woods, ravines, and steppes; not only defenceless against the pursuit of men and beasts, but she felt far more lonely and deserted than before. She wept till tears failed her. Then came exhaustion, weariness, and a feeling of helplessness so great that it was almost equal to rest. Sighing deeply once and a second time, she said to herself,—

  "Against the will of God I am powerless. I will die where I am."

  And she closed her eyes, aforetime so bright and joyous, but now hollow and sunken.

  In its own way, though her body was becoming more helpless every moment, thought was still throbbing in her head like a frightened bird, and her heart was throbbing also. If no one in the world loved her, she would have less regret to die; but all loved her so much.

  And she pictured to herself what would happen when Azya's treason and his flight would become known: how they would search for her; how they would find her at last,—blue, frozen, sleeping the eternal sleep under a bush at the river. And all at once she called out,—

  "Oh, but poor Michael will be in despair! Ei, ei!"

  Then she implored him, saying that it was not her fault.

  "Michael," said she, putting her arms around his neck, mentally, "I did all in my power; but, my dear, it was difficult. The Lord God did not will it."

  And that moment such a heartfelt love for Michael possessed her, such a wish even to die near that dear head, that, summoning every force she had, she rose from the bank and walked on.

  At first it was immensely difficult. Her feet had become unaccustomed to walking during the long ride; she felt as if she were going on stilts. Happily she was not cold; she was even warm enough, for the fever had not left her for a moment.

  Sinking in the forest, she went forward persistently, remembering to keep the sun on her left hand. It had gone, in fact, to the Moldavian side; for it was the second half of the day,—perhaps four o'clock. Basia cared less now for approaching the Dniester, for it seemed to her always that she was beyond Mohiloff.

  "If only I were sure of that; if I knew it!" repeated she, raising her blue, and at the same time inflamed, face to the sky. "If some beast or some tree would speak and say,
'It is a mile to Hreptyoff, two miles,'—I might go there perhaps."

  But the trees were silent; nay more, they seemed to her unfriendly, and obstructed the road with their roots. Basia stumbled frequently against the knots and curls of those roots covered with snow. After a time she was burdened unendurably; she threw the warm mantle from her shoulders and remained in her single coat. Relieving herself in this way, she walked and walked still more hurriedly,—now stumbling, now falling at times in deeper snow. Her fur-lined morocco boots without soles, excellent for riding in a sleigh or on horseback, did not protect her feet well against clumps or stones; besides, soaked through repeatedly at crossings, and kept damp by the warmth of her feet now inflamed from fever, these boots were torn easily in the forest.

  "I will go barefoot to Hreptyoff or to death!" thought Basia.

  And a sad smile lighted her face, for she found comfort in this, that she went so enduringly; and that if she should be frozen on the road, Michael would have nothing to cast at her memory.

  Therefore she talked now continually with her husband, and said once,—

  "Ai, Michael dear! another would not have done so much; for example, Eva."

  Of Eva she had thought more than once in that time of flight; more than once had she prayed for Eva. It was clear to her now, seeing that Azya did not love the girl, that her fate, and the fate of all the other prisoners left in Rashkoff, would be dreadful.

  "It is worse for them than for me," repeated she, from moment to moment, and that thought gave fresh strength to her.

  But when one, two, and three hours had passed, this strength decreased at every step. Gradually the sun sank behind the Dniester, and flooding the sky with a ruddy twilight, was quenched; the snow took on a violet reflection. Then that gold and purple abyss of twilight began to grow dark, and became narrower every moment, from a sea covering half the heavens it was changed to a lake, from a lake to a river, from a river to a stream, and finally gleaming as a thread of light stretched on the west, yielded to darkness.

  Night came.

  An hour passed. The pine-wood became black and mysterious; but, unmoved by any breath, it was as silent as if it had collected itself, and were meditating what to do with that poor, wandering creature. But there was nothing good in that torpor and silence; nay, there was insensibility and callousness.

  Basia went on continually, catching the air more quickly with her parched lips; she fell, too, more frequently, because of darkness and her lack of strength.

  She had her head turned upward; but not to look for the directing Great Bear, for she had lost altogether the sense of position. She went so as to go; she went because very clear and sweet visions before death had begun to fly over her.

  For example, the four sides of the wood begin to run together quickly, to join and form a room,—the room at Hreptyoff. Basia is in it; she sees everything clearly. In the chimney a great fire is burning, and on the benches officers are sitting as usual: Pan Zagloba is chaffing Pan Snitko; Pan Motovidlo is sitting in silence looking into the flames, and when something hisses in the fire he says, in his drawling voice, "Oh, soul in purgatory, what needst thou?" Pan Mushalski and Pan Hromyka are playing dice with Michael. Basia comes up to them and says: "Michael, I will sit on the bench and nestle up to you a little, for I am not myself." Michael puts his arm around her. "What is the matter, kitten? But maybe—" And he inclines to her ear and whispers something. But she answers, "Ai, how I am not myself!" What a bright and peaceful room that is, and how beloved is that Michael! But somehow Basia is not herself, so that she is alarmed.

  Basia is not herself to such a degree that the fever has left her suddenly, for the weakness before death has overcome it. The visions disappear; presence of mind returns, and with it memory.

  "I am fleeing before Azya," said Basia to herself; "I am in the forest at night. I cannot go to Hreptyoff. I am dying."

  After the fever, cold seizes her quickly, and goes through her body to the bones. The legs bend under her, and she kneels at last on the snow before a tree.

  Not the least cloud darkens her mind now. She is terribly sorry to lose life, but she knows perfectly that she is dying; and wishing to commend her soul to God, she begins to say, in a broken voice,—

  "In the name of the Father and the Son—"

  Suddenly certain strange, sharp, shrill, squeaking voices interrupt further prayer; they are disagreeable and piercing in the stillness of the night.

  Basia opens her mouth. The question, "What is that?" is dying on her lips. For a moment she places her trembling fingers to her face, as if not wishing to lend belief, and from her mouth a sudden cry is wrested,—

  "O Jesus, O Jesus! Those are the well-sweeps; that is Hreptyoff! O Jesus!"

  Then that being who was dying a little before springs up, and panting, trembling, with eyes full of tears, and with swelling bosom runs through the forest, falls, rises again, repeating,—

  "They are watering the horses! That is Hreptyoff! Those are our well-sweeps! Even to the gate, even to the gate! O Jesus! Hreptyoff—Hreptyoff!"

  But here the forest grows thin, the snow-fields open, and with them the slope, from which a number of glittering eyes are looking on the running Basia.

  But those were not wolves' eyes,—ah, those were Hreptyoff windows looking with sweet, bright, and saving light! That is the "fortalice" there on the eminence, just that eastern side turned to the forest!

  There was still a distance to go, but Basia did not know when she passed it. The soldiers standing at the gate on the village side did not know her in the darkness; but they admitted her, thinking her a boy sent on some message, and returning to the commandant. She rushed in with her last breath, ran across the square near the wells where the dragoons, returning just before from a reconnoissance, had watered their horses for the night, and stood at the door of the main building. The little knight and Zagloba were sitting just then astride a bench before the fire, and drinking krupnik.[27] They were talking of Basia, thinking that she was down there somewhere, managing in Rashkoff. Both were sad, for it was terribly dreary without her, and every day they were discussing about her return.

  "God ward off sudden thaws and rains. Should they come. He alone knows when she would return," said Zagloba, gloomily.

  "The winter will hold out yet," said the little knight; "and in eight or ten days I shall be looking toward Mohiloff for her every hour."

  "I wish she had not gone. There is nothing for me here without her in Hreptyoff."

  "But why did you advise the journey?"

  "Don't invent, Michael! That took place with your head."

  "If only she comes back in health."

  Here the little knight sighed, and added,—

  "In health, and as soon as possible."

  With that the door squeaked, and a small, pitiful, torn creature, covered with snow, began to pipe plaintively at the threshold:—

  "Michael, Michael!"

  The little knight sprang up, but he was so astonished at the first moment that he stopped where he stood, as if turned to stone; he opened his arms, began to blink, and stood still.

  "Michael!—Azya betrayed—he wanted to carry me away; but I fled, and—save—rescue!"

  When she had said this, she tottered and fell as if dead, on the floor; Pan Michael sprang forward, raised her in his arms as if she had been a feather, and cried shrilly,—

  "Merciful Christ!"

  But her poor head hung without life on his shoulder. Thinking that he held only a corpse in his arms, he began to cry with a ghastly voice,—

  "Basia is dead!—dead! Rescue!"

  CHAPTER XLII.

  News of Basia's arrival flew like a thunderbolt through Hreptyoff; but no one except the little knight, Pan Zagloba, and the serving-women saw her that evening, or the following evenings. After that swoon on the threshold she recovered presence of mind sufficiently to tell in a few words at least what had happened, and how it had happened; but suddenly a new fit of fainti
ng set in, and an hour later, though they used all means to revive her, though they warmed her, gave her wine, tried to give her food, she did not know even her husband, and there was no doubt that for her a long and grievous illness was beginning.

  Meanwhile excitement rose in all Hreptyoff. The soldiers, learning that "the lady" had come home half alive, rushed out to the square like a swarm of bees; all the officers assembled, and whispering in low voices were waiting impatiently for news from the bedroom where Basia was lying. For a long time, however, it was impossible to learn anything. It is true that at times waiting-women hurried past, one to the kitchen for hot water, another to the dispensary for plasters, ointments, and herbs; but they let no one detain them. Uncertainty was weighing like lead on all hearts. Increasing crowds, even from the village, collected on the square; inquiries passed from mouth to mouth; men described Azya's treason, and said that "the lady" had saved herself by flight, had fled a whole week without food or sleep. At these tidings the breasts of all swelled with rage. At last a wonderful and terrible frenzy seized the assembly of soldiers; but they repressed it through fear of injuring the sick woman by an outburst.

  At last, after long waiting, Pan Zagloba went out to the officers, his eyes red, and the remnant of the hair on his head standing up; they sprang to him in a crowd, and covered him at once with anxious questions in low tones.

  "Is she alive; is she alive?"

  "She is alive," said the old man; "but God knows whether she will live an hour."

  Here the voice stuck in his throat; his lower lip quivered. Seizing his head with both hands, he dropped heavily on the bench, and suppressed sobbing heaved his breast.

  At sight of this, Pan Mushalski caught in his embrace Pan Nyenashinyets, though he cared not much for him ordinarily, and began to moan quietly; Pan Nyenashinyets seconded him at once. Pan Motovidlo stared as if he were trying to swallow something, but could not; Pan Snitko fell to unbuttoning his coat with quivering fingers; Pan Hromyka raised his hands, and walked through the room. The soldiers, seeing through the windows these signs of despair, and judging that the lady had died already, began an outcry and lamentation. Hearing this, Zagloba fell into a sudden fury, and shot out like a stone from a sling to the square.