‘Well, Vanya,’ began Fedya caressingly, ‘is your sister Anyutka well?’
‘Yes, she is very well,’ replied Vanya with a slight lisp.
‘You ask her, why doesn’t she come to see us?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You tell her to come.’
‘Very well.’
‘Tell her I have a present for her.’
‘And a present for me too?’
‘Yes, you too.’
Vanya sighed.
‘No; I don’t want one. Better give it to her; she is so kind to us at home.’
And Vanya laid his head down again on the ground. Pavel got up and took the empty pot in his hand.
‘Where are you going?’ Fedya asked him.
‘To the river, to get water; I want some water to drink.’
The dogs got up and followed him.
‘Take care you don’t fall into the river!’ Ilyusha cried after him.
‘Why should he fall in?’ said Fedya. ‘He will be careful.’
‘Yes, he will be careful. But all kinds of things happen; he will stoop over, perhaps, to draw the water, and the water - spirit will clutch him by the hand, and drag him to him. Then they will say, “The boy fell into the water.” … Fell in, indeed! … “There, he has crept in among the reeds,” he added, listening.
The reeds certainly ‘shished,’ as they call it among us, as they were parted.
‘But is it true,’ asked Kostya, ‘that crazy Akulina has been mad ever since she fell into the water?’
‘Yes, ever since…. How dreadful she is now! But they say she was a beauty before then. The water - spirit bewitched her. I suppose he did not expect they would get her out so soon. So down there at the bottom he bewitched her.’
(I had met this Akulina more than once. Covered with rags, fearfully thin, with face as black as a coal, blear - eyed and for ever grinning, she would stay whole hours in one place in the road, stamping with her feet, pressing her fleshless hands to her breast, and slowly shifting from one leg to the other, like a wild beast in a cage. She understood nothing that was said to her, and only chuckled spasmodically from time to time.)
‘But they say,’ continued Kostya, ‘that Akulina threw herself into the river because her lover had deceived her.’
‘Yes, that was it.’
‘And do you remember Vasya? added Kostya, mournfully.
‘What Vasya?’ asked Fedya.
‘Why, the one who was drowned,’ replied Kostya,’ in this very river. Ah, what a boy he was! What a boy he was! His mother, Feklista, how she loved him, her Vasya! And she seemed to have a foreboding, Feklista did, that harm would come to him from the water. Sometimes, when Vasya went with us boys in the summer to bathe in the river, she used to be trembling all over. The other women did not mind; they passed by with the pails, and went on, but Feklista put her pail down on the ground, and set to calling him, ‘Come back, come back, my little joy; come back, my darling!’ And no one knows how he was drowned. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was there haymaking; suddenly she hears, as though some one was blowing bubbles through the water, and behold! there was only Vasya’s little cap to be seen swimming on the water. You know since then Feklista has not been right in her mind: she goes and lies down at the place where he was drowned; she lies down, brothers, and sings a song — you remember Vasya was always singing a song like that — so she sings it too, and weeps and weeps, and bitterly rails against God.’
‘Here is Pavlusha coming,’ said Fedya.
Pavel came up to the fire with a full pot in his hand.
‘Boys,’ he began, after a short silence, ‘something bad happened.’
‘Oh, what?’ asked Kostya hurriedly.
‘I heard Vasya’s voice.’
They all seemed to shudder.
‘What do you mean? what do you mean?’ stammered Kostya.
‘I don’t know. Only I went to stoop down to the water; suddenly I hear my name called in Vasya’s voice, as though it came from below water: “Pavlusha, Pavlusha, come here.” I came away. But I fetched the water, though.’
‘Ah, God have mercy upon us!’ said the boys, crossing themselves.
‘It was the water - spirit calling you, Pavel,’ said Fedya; ‘we were just talking of Vasya.’
‘Ah, it’s a bad omen,’ said Ilyusha, deliberately.
‘Well, never mind, don’t bother about it,’ Pavel declared stoutly, and he sat down again; ‘no one can escape his fate.’
The boys were still. It was clear that Pavel’s words had produced a strong impression on them. They began to lie down before the fire as though preparing to go to sleep.
‘What is that?’ asked Kostya, suddenly lifting his head.
Pavel listened.
‘It’s the curlews flying and whistling.’
‘Where are they flying to?’
‘To a land where, they say, there is no winter.’
‘But is there such a land?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it far away?’
‘Far, far away, beyond the warm seas.’
Kostya sighed and shut his eyes.
More than three hours had passed since I first came across the boys. The moon at last had risen; I did not notice it at first; it was such a tiny crescent. This moonless night was as solemn and hushed as it had been at first…. But already many stars, that not long before had been high up in the heavens, were setting over the earth’s dark rim; everything around was perfectly still, as it is only still towards morning; all was sleeping the deep unbroken sleep that comes before daybreak. Already the fragrance in the air was fainter; once more a dew seemed falling…. How short are nights in summer!… The boys’ talk died down when the fires did. The dogs even were dozing; the horses, so far as I could make out, in the hardly - perceptible, faintly shining light of the stars, were asleep with downcast heads…. I fell into a state of weary unconsciousness, which passed into sleep.
A fresh breeze passed over my face. I opened my eyes; the morning was beginning. The dawn had not yet flushed the sky, but already it was growing light in the east. Everything had become visible, though dimly visible, around. The pale grey sky was growing light and cold and bluish; the stars twinkled with a dimmer light, or disappeared; the earth was wet, the leaves covered with dew, and from the distance came sounds of life and voices, and a light morning breeze went fluttering over the earth. My body responded to it with a faint shudder of delight. I got up quickly and went to the boys. They were all sleeping as though they were tired out round the smouldering fire; only Pavel half rose and gazed intently at me.
I nodded to him, and walked homewards beside the misty river. Before I had walked two miles, already all around me, over the wide dew - drenched prairie, and in front from forest to forest, where the hills were growing green again, and behind, over the long dusty road and the sparkling bushes, flushed with the red glow, and the river faintly blue now under the lifting mist, flowed fresh streams of burning light, first pink, then red and golden…. All things began to stir, to awaken, to sing, to flutter, to speak. On all sides thick drops of dew sparkled in glittering diamonds; to welcome me, pure and clear as though bathed in the freshness of morning, came the notes of a bell, and suddenly there rushed by me, driven by the boys I had parted from, the drove of horses, refreshed and rested….
Sad to say, I must add that in that year Pavel met his end. He was not drowned; he was killed by a fall from his horse. Pity! he was a splendid fellow!
IX
KASSYAN OF FAIR SPRINGS
I was returning from hunting in a jolting little trap, and overcome by the stifling heat of a cloudy summer day (it is well known that the heat is often more insupportable on such days than in bright days, especially when there is no wind), I dozed and was shaken about, resigning myself with sullen fortitude to being persecuted by the fine white dust which was incessantly raised from the beaten road by the warped and creaking wheels, when suddenly my attention wa
s aroused by the extraordinary uneasiness and agitated movements of my coachman, who had till that instant been more soundly dozing than I. He began tugging at the reins, moved uneasily on the box, and started shouting to the horses, staring all the while in one direction. I looked round. We were driving through a wide ploughed plain; low hills, also ploughed over, ran in gently sloping, swelling waves over it; the eye took in some five miles of deserted country; in the distance the round - scolloped tree - tops of some small birch - copses were the only objects to break the almost straight line of the horizon. Narrow paths ran over the fields, disappeared into the hollows, and wound round the hillocks. On one of these paths, which happened to run into our road five hundred paces ahead of us, I made out a kind of procession. At this my coachman was looking.
It was a funeral. In front, in a little cart harnessed with one horse, and advancing at a walking pace, came the priest; beside him sat the deacon driving; behind the cart four peasants, bareheaded, carried the coffin, covered with a white cloth; two women followed the coffin. The shrill wailing voice of one of them suddenly reached my ears; I listened; she was intoning a dirge. Very dismal sounded this chanted, monotonous, hopelessly - sorrowful lament among the empty fields. The coachman whipped up the horses; he wanted to get in front of this procession. To meet a corpse on the road is a bad omen. And he did succeed in galloping ahead beyond this path before the funeral had had time to turn out of it into the high - road; but we had hardly got a hundred paces beyond this point, when suddenly our trap jolted violently, heeled on one side, and all but overturned. The coachman pulled up the galloping horses, and spat with a gesture of his hand.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
My coachman got down without speaking or hurrying himself.
‘But what is it?’
‘The axle is broken … it caught fire,’ he replied gloomily, and he suddenly arranged the collar on the off - side horse with such indignation that it was almost pushed over, but it stood its ground, snorted, shook itself, and tranquilly began to scratch its foreleg below the knee with its teeth.
I got out and stood for some time on the road, a prey to a vague and unpleasant feeling of helplessness. The right wheel was almost completely bent in under the trap, and it seemed to turn its centre - piece upwards in dumb despair.
‘What are we to do now?’ I said at last.
‘That’s what’s the cause of it!’ said my coachman, pointing with his whip to the funeral procession, which had just turned into the highroad and was approaching us. ‘I have always noticed that,’ he went on; ‘it’s a true saying — ”Meet a corpse” — yes, indeed.’
And again he began worrying the off - side horse, who, seeing his ill - humour, resolved to remain perfectly quiet, and contented itself with discreetly switching its tail now and then. I walked up and down a little while, and then stopped again before the wheel.
Meanwhile the funeral had come up to us. Quietly turning off the road on to the grass, the mournful procession moved slowly past us. My coachman and I took off our caps, saluted the priest, and exchanged glances with the bearers. They moved with difficulty under their burden, their broad chests standing out under the strain. Of the two women who followed the coffin, one was very old and pale; her set face, terribly distorted as it was by grief, still kept an expression of grave and severe dignity. She walked in silence, from time to time lifting her wasted hand to her thin drawn lips. The other, a young woman of five - and - twenty, had her eyes red and moist and her whole face swollen with weeping; as she passed us she ceased wailing, and hid her face in her sleeve…. But when the funeral had got round us and turned again into the road, her piteous, heart - piercing lament began again. My coachman followed the measured swaying of the coffin with his eyes in silence. Then he turned to me.
‘It’s Martin, the carpenter, they’re burying,’ he said; ‘Martin of
Ryaby.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know by the women. The old one is his mother, and the young one’s his wife.’
‘Has he been ill, then?’
‘Yes … fever. The day before yesterday the overseer sent for the doctor, but they did not find the doctor at home. He was a good carpenter; he drank a bit, but he was a good carpenter. See how upset his good woman is…. But, there; women’s tears don’t cost much, we know. Women’s tears are only water … yes, indeed.’
And he bent down, crept under the side - horse’s trace, and seized the wooden yoke that passes over the horses’ heads with both hands.
‘Any way,’ I observed, ‘what are we going to do?’
My coachman just supported himself with his knees on the shaft - horse’s shoulder, twice gave the back - strap a shake, and straightened the pad; then he crept out of the side - horse’s trace again, and giving it a blow on the nose as he passed, went up to the wheel. He went up to it, and, never taking his eyes off it, slowly took out of the skirts of his coat a box, slowly pulled open its lid by a strap, slowly thrust into it his two fat fingers (which pretty well filled it up), rolled and rolled up some snuff, and creasing up his nose in anticipation, helped himself to it several times in succession, accompanying the snuff - taking every time by a prolonged sneezing. Then, his streaming eyes blinking faintly, he relapsed into profound meditation.
‘Well?’ I said at last.
My coachman thrust his box carefully into his pocket, brought his hat forward on to his brows without the aid of his hand by a movement of his head, and gloomily got up on the box.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked him, somewhat bewildered.
‘Pray be seated,’ he replied calmly, picking up the reins.
‘But how can we go on?’
‘We will go on now.’
‘But the axle.’
‘Pray be seated.’
‘But the axle is broken.’
‘It is broken; but we will get to the settlement … at a walking pace, of course. Over here, beyond the copse, on the right, is a settlement; they call it Yudino.’
‘And do you think we can get there?’
My coachman did not vouchsafe me a reply.
‘I had better walk,’ I said.
‘As you like….’ And he nourished his whip. The horses started.
We did succeed in getting to the settlement, though the right front wheel was almost off, and turned in a very strange way. On one hillock it almost flew off, but my coachman shouted in a voice of exasperation, and we descended it in safety.
Yudino settlement consisted of six little low - pitched huts, the walls of which had already begun to warp out of the perpendicular, though they had certainly not been long built; the back - yards of some of the huts were not even fenced in with a hedge. As we drove into this settlement we did not meet a single living soul; there were no hens even to be seen in the street, and no dogs, but one black crop - tailed cur, which at our approach leaped hurriedly out of a perfectly dry and empty trough, to which it must have been driven by thirst, and at once, without barking, rushed headlong under a gate. I went up to the first hut, opened the door into the outer room, and called for the master of the house. No one answered me. I called once more; the hungry mewing of a cat sounded behind the other door. I pushed it open with my foot; a thin cat ran up and down near me, her green eyes glittering in the dark. I put my head into the room and looked round; it was empty, dark, and smoky. I returned to the yard, and there was no one there either…. A calf lowed behind the paling; a lame grey goose waddled a little away. I passed on to the second hut. Not a soul in the second hut either. I went into the yard….
In the very middle of the yard, in the glaring sunlight, there lay, with his face on the ground and a cloak thrown over his head, a boy, as it seemed to me. In a thatched shed a few paces from him a thin little nag with broken harness was standing near a wretched little cart. The sunshine falling in streaks through the narrow cracks in the dilapidated roof, striped his shaggy, reddish - brown coat in small bands of light. Above, in the high bird -
house, starlings were chattering and looking down inquisitively from their airy home. I went up to the sleeping figure and began to awaken him.
He lifted his head, saw me, and at once jumped up on to his feet….
‘What? what do you want? what is it?’ he muttered, half asleep.
I did not answer him at once; I was so much impressed by his appearance.
Picture to yourself a little creature of fifty years old, with a little round wrinkled face, a sharp nose, little, scarcely visible, brown eyes, and thick curly black hair, which stood out on his tiny head like the cap on the top of a mushroom. His whole person was excessively thin and weakly, and it is absolutely impossible to translate into words the extraordinary strangeness of his expression.
‘What do you want?’ he asked me again. I explained to him what was the matter; he listened, slowly blinking, without taking his eyes off me.
‘So cannot we get a new axle?’ I said finally; ‘I will gladly pay for it.’
‘But who are you? Hunters, eh?’ he asked, scanning me from head to foot.
‘Hunters.’
‘You shoot the fowls of heaven, I suppose?… the wild things of the woods?… And is it not a sin to kill God’s birds, to shed the innocent blood?’
The strange old man spoke in a very drawling tone. The sound of his voice also astonished me. There was none of the weakness of age to be heard in it; it was marvellously sweet, young and almost feminine in its softness.
‘I have no axle,’ he added after a brief silence. ‘That thing will not suit you.’ He pointed to his cart. ‘You have, I expect, a large trap.’
‘But can I get one in the village?’
‘Not much of a village here!… No one has an axle here…. And there is no one at home either; they are all at work. You must go on,’ he announced suddenly; and he lay down again on the ground.
I had not at all expected this conclusion.
‘Listen, old man,’ I said, touching him on the shoulder; ‘do me a kindness, help me.’
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 205