In A Mountain Defile
In a mountain defile near a little tributary of the Sunzha, therewas being built a workman's barraque-- a low, long edifice whichreminded one of a large coffin lid.The building was approaching completion, and, meanwhile, a scoreof carpenters were employed in fashioning thin planks into doorsof equal thinness, knocking together benches and tables, andfitting window-frames into the small window-squares.Also, to assist these carpenters in the task of protecting thebarraque from tribesmen's nocturnal raids, the shrill-voicedyoung student of civil engineering who had been set in charge ofthe work had sent to the place, as watchman, an ex-soldier namedPaul Ivanovitch, a man of the Cossack type, and myself.Yet whereas we were out-at-elbows, the carpenters were sleek,respectable, monied, well-clad fellows. Also, there was somethingdour and irritating about them, since, for one thing, they hadfailed to respond to our greeting on our first appearance, andeyed us with nothing but dislike and suspicion. Hence, hurt bytheir chilly attitude, we had withdrawn from their immediateneighbourhood, constructed a causeway of stepping stones to theeastern bank of the rivulet, and taken up our abode beneath thechaotic grey mists which enveloped the mountain side in thatdirection.Also, over the carpenters there was a foreman--a man whose bonyframe, clad in a white shirt and a pair of white trousers, lookedalways as though it were ready-attired for death. Moreover, hewore no cap to conceal the yellow patch of baldness which coveredmost of his head, and, in addition, his nose was squat and grey,his neck and face had over them skin of a porous, pumice-likeconsistency, his eyes were green and dim, and upon his featuresthere was stamped a dead and disagreeable expression. To becandid, however, behind the dark lips lay a set of fine, closeteeth, while the hairs of the grey beard (a beard trimmed afterthe Tartar fashion) were thick and, seemingly, soft.Never did this man put a hand actually to the work; always hekept roaming about with the large, rigid-looking fingers of hishands tucked into his belt, and his fixed and expressionless eyesscanning the barraque, the men, and the work as his lips ventedsome such lines as:Oh God our Father, bound hast ThouA crown of thorns upon my brow!Listen to my humble prayer!Lighten the burden which I bear!"What on earth can be in the man's mind?" once remarked the ex-soldier, with a frowning glance at the singer.As for our duties, my mates and I had nothing to do, and soonbegan to find the time tedious. For his part, the man with theCossack physiognomy scaled the mountain side; whence he could beheard whistling and snapping twigs with his heavy feet, while theex-soldier selected a space between two rocks for a shelter oface-rose boughs, and, stretching himself on his stomach, fell tosmoking strong mountain tobacco in his large meerschaum pipe asdimly, dreamily he contemplated the play of the mountain torrent.Lastly, I myself selected a seat on a rock which overhung thebrook, dipped my feet in the coolness of the water, and proceededto mend my shirt.At intervals, the defile would convey to our ears a dull echo ofsounds so wholly at variance with the locality as muffled hammer-blows, a screeching of saws, a rasping of planes, and a confusedmurmur of human voices.Also, a moist breeze blew constantly from the dark-blue depths ofthe defile, and caused the stiff, upright larches on the knollbehind the barraque to rustle their boughs, and distilled fromthe rank soil the voluptuous scents of ace-rose and pitch-pine,and evoked in the trees' quiet gloom a soft, crooning, somnolentlullaby.About a sazhen [Fathom] below the level of the barraque therecoursed noisily over its bed of stones a rivulet white with foam.Yet though of other sounds in the vicinity there were but few,the general effect was to suggest that everything in theneighbourhood was speaking or singing a tale of such sort as toshame the human species into silence.On our own side of the valley the ground lay bathed in sunshine--lay scorched to the point of seeming to have spread over it atissue-cloth. Old gold in colour, while from every side arose thesweet perfume of dried grasses, and in dark clefts there could beseen sprouting the long, straight spears and fiery, reddish,cone-shaped blossoms of that bold, hardy plant which is known tous as saxifrage--the plant of which the contemplation makes onelong to burst into music, and fills one's whole body withsensuous languor.Laced with palpitating, snow-white foam, the beautiful rivuletpursued its sportive way over tessellated stones which flashedthrough the eddies of the glassy, sunlit, amber-coloured waterwith the silken sheen of a patchwork carpet or costly shawl ofCashmir.Through the mouth of the defile one could reach the valley of theSunzha, whence, since men were ther, building a railway toPetrovsk on the Caspian Sea, there kept issuing and breakingagainst the crags a dull rumble of explosions, of iron raspedagainst stone, of whistles of works locomotives, and of animatedhuman voices.From the barraque the distance to the point where the defiledebouched upon the valley was about a hundred paces, and as oneissued thence one could see, away to the left, the level steppesof the Cis-Caucasus, with a boundary wall of blue hills, toppedby the silver-hewn saddle of Mount Elburz behind it. True, forthe most part the steppes had a dry, yellow, sandy look, withmerely here and there dark patches of gardens or black poplarclumps which rendered the golden glare more glaring still; yetalso there could be discerned on the expanse farm buildingsshaped like lumps of sugar or butter, with, in their vicinity,toylike human beings and diminutive cattle -- the whole shimmeringand melting in a mirage born of the heat. And at the mere sightof those steppes, with their embroidery of silk under the blue ofthe zenith, one's muscles tightened, and one felt inspired with alonging to spring to one's feet, close one's eyes, and walk forever with the soft, mournful song of the waste crooning in one'sears.To the right also of the defile lay the winding valley of theSunzha, with more hills; and above those hills hung the blue sky,and in their flanks were clefts which, full of grey mist, keptemitting a ceaseless din of labour, a sound of dull explosions, asa great puissant force attained release.Yet almost at the same moment would that hurly-burly so mergewith the echo of our defile, so become buried in the defile'sverdure and rock crevices, that once more the place would seem tobe singing only its own gentle, gracious song.And, should one turn to glance up the defile, it could be seen togrow narrower and narrower as it ascended towards the mists, andthe latter to grow thicker and thicker until the whole defile wasswathed in a dark blue pall. Higher yet there could be discernedthe brilliant gleam of blue sky. Higher yet one could distinguishthe ice-capped peak of Kara Dagh, floating and dissolving amidthe ( from here) invisible sunlight. Highest of all again broodedthe serene, steadfast peace of heaven.Also, everything was bathed in a strange tint of bluish grey: towhich circumstance must have been due the fact that always one'ssoul felt filled with restlessness, one's heart stirred todisquietude, and fired as with intoxication, charged withincomprehensible thoughts, and conscious as of a summons to setforth for some unknown destination.******************************The foreman of the carpenters shaded his eyes to gaze in ourdirection; and as he did so, he drawled and rasped out in tediousfashion:"Some shall to the left be sent,And in the pit of Hell lie pent.While others, holding palm in hand,Shall on God's right take up their stand.""DID you hear that?" the ex-soldier growled through clenchedteeth. "'Palm in hand' indeed! Why, the fellow must be aMennonite or a Molokan, though the two, really, are one, andabsolutely indistinguishable, as well as equally foolish. Yes,'palm in hand' indeed!"Similarly could I understand the ex-soldier's indignation, for,like him, I felt that such dreary, monotonous singing wasaltogether out of place in a spot where everything could troll asong so delightful as to lead one to wish to hear nothing more,to hear only the whispering of the forest and the babbling of thestream. And especially out of place did the terms "palm" and"Mennonite" appear.Yet I had no great love for the ex-soldier. Somehow he jarredupon me. Middle-aged, squat, square, and bleached with the sun,he had faded eyes, flattened-out features, and an expression ofrestless moroseness. Never could I make out what he reallywanted, what he was really seeking. For instance, once, afterreviewing the Caucasus from Khassav-Urt to Novorossisk, and fromBatum to Derbent, and, during the review, crossing the mountainrange by three different routes at least, he remarked with adisparaging smile:"I suppose the Lord God made the country.""You do not like it, then? How should I? Good for nothing iswhat I call it."Then, with a further glance at me, and a twist of his sinewyneck, he added:"However, not bad altogether are its forests."A native of Kaluga, he had served in Tashkend, and, in fightingwith the Chechintzes of that region,had been wounded in the headwith a stone. Yet as he told me the story of this incident, hesmiled shamefacedly, and, throughout, kept his glassy eyes fixedupon the ground."Though I am ashamed to confess it," he said, "once a womanchipped a piece out of me. You see, the women of that region areshrieking devils--there is no other word for it; and when wecaptured a village called Akhal-Tiapa a number of them had to becut up, so that they lay about in heaps, and their blood madewalking slippery. Just as our company of the reserve entered thestreet, something caught me on the head. Afterwards, I learnt thata woman on a roof had thrown a stone, and, like the rest, had hadto be put out of the way."Here, knitting his brows, the ex-soldier went on in more seriousvein:"Yet all that folk used to say about those women, about theirhaving beards to shave, turned out to be so much gossip, as Iascertained for myself. I did so by lifting the woman's skirt onthe point of my bayonet, when I perceived that, though she waslean, and smelt like a goat, she was quite as regular as, as--""Things must have been indeed terrible on that expedition!" Iinterposed."I do not know for certain, since, though men who took an actualpart in the expedition's engagements have said that they were so(the Chechintze is a vicious brute, and never gives in), I myselfknow but little of the affair, since I spent my whole time in thereserve, and never once did my company advance to the assault.No, it merely lay about on the sand, and fired at long range. Infact, nothing but sand was to be seen thereabouts; nor did weever succeed in finding out what the fighting was for. True, if apiece of country be good, it is in our interest to take it; butin the present case the country was poor and bare, with never ariver in sight, and a climate so hot that all one thought of wasone's mortal need of a drink. In fact, some of our fellows diedof thirst outright. Moreover, in those parts there grows a sortof millet called dzhugar -- millet which not only has a horribletaste, but proves absolutely delusive, since the more one eats ofit, the less one feels filled."As the ex-soldier told me the tale colourlessly and reluctantly,with frequent pauses between the sentences (as though either hefound it difficult to recall the experience or he were thinkingof something else), he never once looked me straight in the face,but kept his eyes shamefacedly fixed upon the ground.Unwieldily and unhealthily stout, he always conveyed to me theimpression of being charged with a vague discontent, a sort ofcaptious inertia."Absolutely unfit for settlement is this country " he continued ashe glanced around him. "It is fit only to do nothing in. Forthat matter, one doesn't WANT to do anything in it, save to livewith one's eyes bulging like a drunkard's-- for the climate is toohot, and the place smells like a chemist's shop or a hospital."Nevertheless, for the past eight years had he been roaming this"too hot" country, as though fascinated!"Why not return to Riazan?" I suggested."Nothing would there be there for me to do," he replied throughhis teeth, and with an odd division of his words.My first encounter with him had been at the railway station atArmavir, where, purple in the face with excitement, he had beenstamping like a horse, and, with distended eyes, hissing, or,rather, snarling, at a couple of Greeks:"I'll tear the flesh from your bones!"Meanwhile the two lean, withered, ragged, identically similardenizens of Hellas had been baring their sharp white teeth atintervals, and saying apologetically:"What has angered you, sir?"Finally, regardless of the Greeks' words, the ex-soldier had beathis breast like a drum, and shouted in accents of increasedvenom:"Now, where are you living? In Russia, do you say? Then who issupporting you there? Aha-a-a! Russia, it is said, is a goodfoster-mother. I expect you say the same."And, lastly, he had approached a fat, grey-headed, bemedalledgendarme, and complained to him:"Everyone curses us born Russians, yet everyone comes to livewith us--Greeks, Germans, Songs, and the lot. And while they gettheir livelihood here, and cat and drink their fill, theycontinue to curse us. A scandal, is it not?"*************************The third member of our party was a man of about thirty who worea Cossack cap over his left ear, and had a Cossack forelock,rounded features, a large nose, a dark moustache, and a retrousselip. When the volatile young engineering student first broughthim to us and said, "Here is another man for you," the newcomerglanced at me through the lashes of his elusive eyes--then plungedhis hands into the pockets of his Turkish overalls. Just as wewere departing, however, he withdrew one hand from the lefttrouser pocket, passed it slowly over the dark bristles of hisunshaven chin, and asked in musical tones:"Do you come from Russia?""Whence else, I should like to know?" snapped the ex-soldiergruffly.Upon this the newcomer twisted his right-hand moustache thenreplaced his hand in his pocket. Broad-shouldered, sturdy, andwell-built throughout, he walked with the stride of a man who isaccustomed to cover long distances. Yet with him he had broughtneither wallet nor gripsack, and somehow his supercilious,retrousse upper lip and thickly fringed eyes irritated me, andinclined me to be suspicious of, and even actively to dislike,the man.Suddenly, while we were proceeding along the causeway by the sideof the rivulet, he turned to us, and said, as he nodded towardsthe sportively coursing water:"Look at the matchmaker!"The ex-soldier hoisted his bleached eyebrows, and gazed aroundhim for a moment in bewilderment. Then he whispered:"The fool!"But, for my own part, I considered that what the man had said wasapposite; that the rugged, boisterous little river did indeedresemble some fussy, light-hearted old lady who loved to arrangeaffaires du coeur both for her own private amusement and for thepurpose of enabling other folk to realise the joys of affectionamid which she was living, and of which she would never growweary, and to which she desired to introduce the rest of theworld as speedily as possible.Similarly, when we arrived at the barraque this man with theCossack face glanced at the rivulet, and then at the mountainsand the sky, and, finally, appraised the scene in one pregnant,comprehensive exclamation of " Slavno! " [How splendid!]The ex-soldier, who was engaged in ridding himself of hisknapsack, straightened himself, and asked with his arms setakimbo:"WHAT is it that is so splendid?"For a moment or two the newcomer merely eyed the squat figure ofhis questioner--a figure upon which hung drab shreds as lichenhangs upon a stone. Then he said with a smile:"Cannot you see for yourself? Take that mountain there, and thatcleft in the mountain-- are they not good to look at?"And as he moved away, the ex-soldier gaped after him with arepeated whisper of:"The fool!"To which presently he added in a louder, as well as a mysterious,tone:"I have heard that occasionally they send fever patients hitherfor their health."The same evening saw two sturdy women arrive with supper for thecarpenters; whereupon the clatter of labour ceased, and thereforethe rustling of the forest and the murmuring of the rivuletbecame the more distinct.Next, deliberately, and with many coughs, the ex-soldier set towork to collect some twigs and chips for the purpose of lightinga fire. After which, having arranged a kettle over the flames, hesaid to me suggestively:"You too should collect some firewood, for in these parts thenights are dark and chilly."I set forth in search of chips among the stones which lay aroundthe barraque, and, in so doing, stumbled across the newcomer, whowas lying with his body resting on an elbow, and his head on hishand, as he conned a manuscript spread out before him. As heraised his eyes to gaze vaguely, inquiringly into my face, I sawthat one of his eyes was larger than the other.Evidently he divined that he interested me, for he smiled. Yet sotaken aback by this was I, that I passed on my way withoutspeaking.Meanwhile the carpenters, disposed in two circles around thebarraque (a circle to each woman), partook of a silent supper.Deeper and deeper grew the shadow of night over the defile.Warmer and warmer, denser and denser, grew the air, until thetwilight caused the slopes of the mountains to soften in outline,and the rocks to seem to swell and merge with the bluish-blackness which overhung the bed of the defile, and thesuperimposed heights to form a single apparent whole, and thescene in general to resolve itself into, become united into, onecompact bulk.Quietly then did tints hitherto red extinguish their tremulousglow--softly there flared up, dusted purple in the sunset's sheen,the peak of Kara Dagh. Vice versa, the foam of the rivulet nowblushed to red, and, seemingly, assuaged its vehemence--flowedwith a deeper, a more pensive, note; while similarly the foresthushed its voice, and appeared to stoop towards the water whileemitting ever more powerful, intoxicating odours to mingle withthe resinous, cloyingly sweet perfume of our wood fire.The ex-soldier squatted down before the little blaze, andrearranged some fuel under the kettle."Where is the other man?" said he. "Go and fetch him."I departed for the purpose, and, on my way, heard one of thecarpenters in the neighbourhood of the barraque say in a thick,unctuous, sing-song voice."A great work is it indeed!"Whereafter I heard the two women fall to drawling in low, hungryaccents:"With the flesh I'll conquer pain;The spirit shall my lust restrain;All-supreme the soul shall reign;And carnal vices lure in vain."True, the women pronounced their words distinctly enough; yetalways they prolonged the final "u" sound of the stanza's firstand third lines until, as the melody floated away into thedarkness, and, as it were, sank to earth, it came to resemble thelong-drawn howl of a wolf.In answer to my invitation to come to supper, the newcomer sprangto his feet, folded up his manuscript, stuffed it into one of thepockets of his ragged coat, and said with a smile:"I had just been going to resort to the carpenters, for theywould have given us some bread, I suppose? Long is it since Itasted anything."The same words he repeated on our approaching the ex-soldier;much as though he took a pleasure in their phraseology."You suppose that they would have given us bread?" echoed the ex-soldier as he unfastened his wallet. "Not they! No love is lostbetween them and ourselves.""Whom do you mean by 'ourselves'?""Us here--you and myself--all Russian folk who may happen to be inthese parts. From the way in which those fellows keep singingabout palms, I should judge them to be sectarians of the sortcalled Mennonites.""Or Molokans, rather?" the other man suggested as he seatedhimself in front of the fire."Yes, or Molokans. Molokans or Mennonites-- they're all one. It isa German faith and though such fellows love a Teuton, they do notexactly welcome US."Upon this the man with the Cossack forelock took a slice of breadwhich the ex-soldier cut from a loaf, with an onion and a pinchof salt. Then, as he regarded us with a pair of good-humouredeyes, he said, balancing his food on the palms of his hands:"There is a spot on the Sunzha, near here, where those fellowshave a colony of their own. Yes, I myself have visited it. True,those fellows are hard enough, but at the same time to speakplainly, NO ONE in these parts has any regard for us since onlytoo many of the sort of Russian folk who come here in search ofwork are not overly-desirable.""Where do you yourself come from?" The ex-soldier's tone wassevere."From Kursk, we might say.""From Russia, then?""Yes, I suppose so. But I have no great opinion even of myself."The ex-soldier glanced distrustfully at the newcomer. Then heremarked:"What you say is cant, sheer Jesuitism. It is fellows likeTHOSE, rather, that ought to have a poor opinion of themselves."To this the other made no reply--merely he put a piece of breadinto his mouth. For a moment or two the ex-soldier eyed himfrowningly. Then he continued:"You seem to me to be a native of the Don country? ""Yes, I have lived on the Don as well.""And also served in the army?""No. I was an only son.""Of a miestchanin? " [A member of the small commercial class.]"No, of a merchant.""And your name--?""Is Vasili."The last reply came only after a pause, and reluctantly;wherefore, perceiving that the Kurskan had no particular desireto discuss his own affairs, the ex-soldier said no more on thesubject, but lifted the kettle from the fire.The Molokans also had kindled a blaze behind the corner of thebarraque, and now its glow was licking the yellow boards of thestructure until they seemed almost to be liquescent, to be aboutto dissolve and flow over the ground in a golden stream.Presently, as their fervour increased, the carpenters, invisibleamid the obscurity, fell to singing hymns--the basses intoningmonotonously, " Sing, thou Holy Angel! " and voices of higherpitch responding, coldly and formally."Sing ye!Sing glory unto Christ, thou Angel of Holiness!Sing ye!Our singing will we add unto Thine,Thou Angel of Holiness!"And though the chorus failed altogether to dull the splashing ofthe rivulet and the babbling of the by-cut over a bed of stones,it seemed out of place in this particular spot;it arousedresentment against men who could not think of a lay more atunewith the particular living, breathing objects around us.Gradually darkness enveloped the defile until only over the mouthof the pass, over the spot where, gleaming a brilliant blue, therivulet escaped into a cleft that was overhung with a mist of adeeper shade, was there not yet suspended the curtain of theSouthern night.Presently, the gloom caused one of the rocks in our vicinity toassume the guise of a monk who, kneeling in prayer, had his headadorned with a pointed skull-cap, and his face buried in hishands. Similarly, the stems of the trees stirred in the firelightuntil they developed the semblance of a file of friars entering,for early Mass, the porch of their chapel-of-ease.To my mind there then recurred a certain occasion when, on justsuch a dark and sultry night as this, I had been seated tale-telling under the boundary-wall of a row of monastic cells in theDon country. Suddenly I had heard a window above my head open,and someone exclaim in a kindly, youthful voice:"The Mother of God be blessed for all this goodly world of ours!"And though the window had closed again before I had had time todiscern the speaker, I had known that there was resident in themonastery a friar who had large eyes, and a limp, and just such aface as had Vasili here; wherefore, in all probability it had beenhe who had breathed the benediction upon mankindat large, for the reason that moments there are when all humanityseems to be one's own body, and in oneself there seems to beatthe heart of all humanity. . . .Vasili consumed his food deliberately as, breaking off morselsfrom his slice, and neatly parting his moustache, he placed themorsels in his mouth with a curious stirring of two globuleswhich underlay the skin near the ears.The ex-soldier, however, merely nibbled at his food--he ate butlittle, and that lazily. Then he extracted a pipe from his breastpocket, filled it with tobacco, lit it with a faggot taken fromthe fire, and said as he set himself to listen to the singing ofthe Molokans:"They are filled full, and have started bleating. Always folklike them seek to be on the right side of the Almighty.""Does that hurt you in any way?" Vasili asked with a smile."No, but I do not respect them--they are less saints thanhumbugs, than prevaricators whose first word is God, and secondword rouble.""How do you know that?" cried Vasili amusedly. "And even iftheir first word IS God, and their second word rouble, we hadbest not be too hard upon them, since if they chose to be hardupon US, where should WE be? Yes, we have only to open our mouthsto speak a word or two for ourselves, and we should find everyfist at our teeth."" Quite so," the ex-soldier agreed as, taking up a square ofscantling, he examined it attentively."Whom DO you respect?" Vasili continued after a pause."I respect," the ex-soldier said with some emphasis, "only theRussian people, the true Russian people, the folk who labour onland whereon labour is hard. Yet who are the folk whom you findHERE? In this part of the world the business of living is an easyone. Much of every sort of natural produce is to be had, and thesoil is generous and light--you need but to scratch it for it tobear, and for yourself to reap. Yes, it is indulgent to a fault.Rather, it is like a maiden. Do but touch her, and a child willarrive.""Agreed," was Vasili's remark as he drank tea from a tin mug."Yet to this very part of the world is it that I should like totransport every soul in Russia.""And why?""Because here they could earn a living.""Then is not that possible in Russia? ""Well, why are you yourself here?""Because I am a man lacking ties.""And why are you lacking ties?""Because it has been so ordered--it is, so to speak, my lot.""Then had you not better consider WHY it is your lot?"The ex-soldier took his pipe from his mouth, let fall the handwhich held it, and smoothed his plain features in silentamazement. Then he exclaimed in uncouth, querulous tones:"Had I not better consider WHY it is my lot, and so forth? Why,damn it, the causes are many. For one thing, if one hasneighbours who neither live nor see things as oneself does, butare uncongenial, what does one do? One just leaves them, andclears out--more especially if one be neither a priest nor amagistrate. Yet YOU say that I had better consider why this is mylot. Do you think that YOU are the only man able to considerthings, possessed of a brain? "And in an access of fury the speaker replaced his pipe, and satfrowning in silence. Vasili eyed his interlocutor's features asthe firelight played red upon them, and, finally, said in anundertone:"Yes, it is always so. We fail to get on with our neighbours,yet lack a charter of our own, so, having no roots to hold us,just fall to wandering, troubling other folk, and earningdislike!""The dislike of whom?" gruffly queried the ex-soldier."The dislike of everyone, as you yourself have said!"In answer the ex-soldier merely emitted a cloud of smoke whichcompletely concealed his form. Yet Vasili's voice had in it anagreeable note, and was flexible and ingratiating, whileenunciating its words roundly and distinctly.A mountain owl, one of those splendid brown creatures which havethe crafty physiognomy of a cat, and the sharp grey ears of amouse, made the forest echo with its obtrusive cry. A bird ofthis species I once encountered among the defile's crags, and asthe creature sailed over my head it startled me with the glassyeyes which, as round as buttons, seemed to be lit from withinwith menacing fire. Indeed, for a moment or two I stood half-stupefied with terror, for I could not conceive what the creaturewas."Whence did you get that splendid pipe?" next asked Vasili ashe rolled himself a cigarette. "Surely it is a pipe of oldGerman make?""You need not fear that I stole it," the ex-soldier responded ashe removed it from his lips and regarded it proudly. "It wasgiven me by a woman."To which, with a whimsical wink, he added a sigh."Tell me how it happened," said Vasili softly. Then he flung uphis arms, and stretched himself with a despondent cry of:"Ah, these nights here! Never again may God send me such badones! Try to sleep as one may, one never succeeds. Far easier,indeed, is it to sleep during the daytime, provided that one canfind a shady spot. During such nights I go almost mad withthinking, and my heart swells and murmurs."The ex-soldier, who had listened with mouth agape and eyebrowsraised even higher than usual, responded to this:"It is the same with me. If one could only--What did you say?"This last was addressed to myself, who had been about to remark,"The same with me also," but on seeing the pair exchanging astrange glance (as though involuntarily they had surprised oneanother), had left the words unspoken. My companions then setthemselves to a mutually eager questioning with respect to theirrespective identities, past experiences, places of origin, anddestinations, even as though they had been two kinsmen who,meeting unexpectedly, had discovered for the first time theirbond of relationship.Meanwhile the black, fringed boughs of the pine trees hungstretched over the flames of the Molokans' fire as though theywould catch some of the fire's glow and warmth, or seize italtogether, and put it out. And when, at times, their red tonguesprojected beyond the corner of the barraque, they made thebuilding look as though it had caught alight, and extended theirglow even to the rivulet. Constantly the night was growing denserand more stifling; constantly it seemed to embrace the body moreand more caressingly, until one bathed in it as in an ocean.Also, much as a wave removes dirt from the skin, so the softlyvocal darkness seemed to refresh and cleanse the soul. For it ison such nights as that that the soul dons its finest raiment, andtrembles like a bride at the expectation of something glorious."You say that she had a squint?" presently I heard Vasilicontinue in an undertone, and the ex-soldier slowly reply:"Yes, she had one from childhood upwards--she had one from theday when a fall from a cart caused her to injure her eyes. Yet,if she had not always gone about with one of her eyes shaded, youwould never have guessed the fact. Also, she was so neat andpractical! And her kindness--well, it was kindness asinexhaustible as the water of that rivulet there; it was kindnessof the sort that wished well to all the world, and to allanimals, and to every beggar, and even to myself! So at lastthere gripped my heart the thought, 'Why should I not try asoldier's luck? She is the master's favourite--true; yet none theless the attempt shall be made by me.' However, this way or that,always the reply was 'No'; always she put out at me an elbow, andcut me short."Vasili, lying prone upon his back, twitched his moustache, andchewed a stalk of grass. His eyes were fully open, and for thesecond time I perceived that one of them was larger than theother. The ex-soldier, seated near Vasili's shoulder, stirred thefire with a bit of charred stick, and sent sparks of gold flyingto join the midges which were gliding to and fro over the blaze.Ever and anon night-moths subsided into the flames with a plop,crackled, and became changed into lumps of black. For my ownpart, I constructed a couch on a pile of pine boughs, and therelay down. And as I listened to the ex-soldier's familiar story, Irecalled persons whom I had on one and another occasionremembered, and speeches which on one and another occasion hadmade an impression upon me."But at last," the ex-soldier continued, "I took heart ofgrace, and caught her in a barn. Pressing her into a corner, Isaid: 'Now let it be yes or no. Of, course it shall be as youwish, but remember that I am a soldier with a small stock ofpatience.' Upon that she began to struggle and exclaim: 'What doyou want? What do you want?' until, bursting into tears like agirl, she said through her sobs: 'Do not touch me. I am not thesort of woman for you. Besides, I love another--not our master,but another, a workman, a former lodger of ours. Before hedeparted he said to me: "Wait for me until I have found you anice home, and returned to fetch you"; and though it isseventeen years since I heard speech or whisper of him, and maybehe has since forgotten me, or fallen in love with someone else,or come to grief, or been murdered, you, who are a map, willunderstand that I must bide a little while longer.' True, thisoffended me (for in what respect was I any worse than the otherman?); yet also I felt sorry for her, and grieved that I shouldhave wronged her by thinking her frivolous, when all the timethere had been THIS at her heart. I drew back, therefore--I couldnot lay a finger upon her, though she was in my power. And atlast I said: 'Good-bye! I am going away.' 'Go,' she replied.'Yes, go for the love of Christ!' . . . Wherefore, on thefollowing evening I settled accounts with our master, and at dawnof a Sunday morning packed my wallet, took with me this pipe, anddeparted. 'Yes, take the pipe, Paul Ivanovitch,' she said beforemy departure. 'Perhaps it will serve to keep you in remembranceof me--you whom henceforth I shall regard as a brother, and whom Ithank.' . . . As I walked away I was very nigh to tears, so keenwas the pain in my heart. Aye, keen it was indeed! ""You did right," Vasili remarked softly after a pause."Things must always so befall. Always must it be a case eitherof 'Yes?' 'Yes,' and of folk coming together, or of 'No' 'No,'and of folk parting. And invariably the one person in the casegrieves the other. Why should that be?"Emitting a cloud of grey smoke, the ex-soldier repliedthoughtfully:"Yes, I know I did right; but that right was done only at agreat cost.""And always that too is the case," Vasili agreed. Then he added:"Generally such fortune falls to the lot of people who havetender consciences. He who values himself also values hisfellows; but, unfortunately a man all too seldom values evenhimself.""To whom are you referring? To you and myself?""To our Russian folk in general.""Then you cannot have very much respect for Russia." The ex-soldier's tone had taken on a curious note. He seemed to befeeling both astonished at and grieved for his companion.The other, however, did not reply; and after a few moments theex-soldier softly concluded:"So now you have heard my story."By this time the carpenters had ceased singing around thebarraque, and let their fire die down until quivering on the wallof the edifice there was only a fiery-red patch, a patch barelysufficient to render visible the shadows of the rocks; whilebeside the fire there was seated only a tall figure with a blackbeard which had, grasped in its hands, a heavy cudgel, and, lyingnear its right foot, an axe. The figure was that of a watchmanset by the carpenters to keep an eye upon ourselves, theappointed watchmen; though the fact in no way offended us.Over the defile, in a ragged strip of sky, there were gleamingstars, while the rivulet was bubbling and purling, and from theobscurity of the forest there kept coming to our ears, now thecautious, rustling tread of some night animal, and now themournful cry of an owl, until all nature seemed to be instinctwith a secret vitality the sweet breath of which kept moving theheart to hunger insatiably for the beautiful.Also, as I lay listening to the voice of the ex-soldier, a voicereminiscent of a distant tambourine, and to Vasili's pensivequestions, I conceived a liking for the men, and began to detectthat in their relations there was dawning something good andhuman. At the same time, the effect of some of Vasili's dicta onRussia was to arouse in me mingled feelings which impelled me atonce to argue with him and to induce him to speak at greaterlength, with more clarity, on the subject of our mutualfatherland. Hence always I have loved that night for the visionswhich it brought to me--visions which still come back to me like adear, familiar tale.I thought of a student of Kazan whom I had known in the days ofthe past, of a young fellow from Viatka who, pale-browed, andsententious of diction, might almost have been brother to the ex-soldier himself. And once again I heard him declare that "beforeall things must I learn whether or not there exists a God; pre-eminently must I make a beginning there."And I thought, too, of a certain accoucheuse named Velikova whohad been a comely, but reputedly gay, woman. And I remembered acertain occasion when, on a hill overlooking the river Kazan andthe Arski Plain, she had stood contemplating the marshes below,and the far blue line of the Volga; until suddenly turning pale,she had, with tears of joy sparkling in her fine eyes, criedunder her breath, but sufficiently loudly for all present to hearher:"Ah, friends, how gracious and how fair is this land of ours!Come, let us salute that land for having deemed us worthy ofresidence therein!"Whereupon all present, including a deacon-student from theEcclesiastical School, a Morduine from the Foreign College, astudent of veterinary science, and two of our tutors, had doneobeisance. At the same time I recalled the fact that subsequentlyone of the party had gone mad, and committed suicide.Again, I recalled how once, on the Piani Bor [Liquor Wharf] bythe river Kama, a tall, sandy young fellow with intelligent eyesand the face of a ne'er-do-well had caught my attention. The dayhad been a hot, languorous Sunday on which all things had seemedto be exhibiting their better side, and telling the sun that itwas not in vain that he was pouring out his brilliant potency,and diffusing his living gold; while the man of whom I speak had,dressed in a new suit of blue serge, a new cap cocked awry, and apair of brilliantly polished boots, been standing at the edge ofthe wharf, and gazing at the brown waters of the Kama, theemerald expanse beyond them and the silver-scaled pools leftbehind by the tide. Until, as the sun had begun to sink towardsthe marshes on the other side of the river, and to becomedissolved into streaks, the man had smiled with increasingrapture, and his face had glowed with creasing eagerness anddelight; until finally he had snatched the cap from his head,flung it, with a powerful throw far out into the russet waters,and shouted: "Kama, O my mother, I love you, and never willdesert you!"And the last, and also the best, recollection of things seenbefore the night of which I speak was the recollection of anoccasion when, one late autumn, I had been crossing the CaspianSea on an old two-masted schooner laden with dried apricots,plums, and peaches. Sailing on her also she had had some hundredfishermen from the Bozhi Factory, men who, originally forestpeasants of the Upper Volga, had been well-built, bearded,healthy, goodhumoured, animal-spirited young fellows, youngsterstanned with the wind, and salted with the sea water; youngsterswho, after working hard at their trade, had been rejoicing at theprospect of returning home. And careering about the deck likeyouthful bears as ever and anon lofty, sharp-pointed waves hadseized and tossed aloft the schooner, and the yards had cracked,and the taut-run rigging had whistled, and the sails had belliedinto globes, and the howling wind had shaved off the white crestsof billows, and partially submerged the vessel in clouds of foam.And seated on the deck with his broad back resting against themainmast there had been one young giant in particular. Clad in awhite linen shirt and a pair of blue serge trousers, and innocentalike of beard and moustache, this young fellow had had full, redlips, blue, boyish, and exceedingly translucent eyes, and a faceintoxicated in excelsis with the happiness of youth; whileleaning across his knees as they had rested sprawling over thedeck there had been a young female trimmer of fish, a wench asmassive and tall as the young man himself, and a wench whose facehad become tanned to roughness with the sun and wind, eyebrowsdark, full, and as large as the wings of a swallow, breasts asfirm as stone, and teats around which, as they projected from thefolds of a red bodice, there had lain a pattern of blue veins.The broad, iron-black palm of the young fellow's long, knottedhand had been resting on the woman's left breast, with the armbare to the elbow; while in his right hand, as he had sat gazingpensively at the woman's robust figure, there had been grasped atin mug from which some of the red liquor had scattered stainsover the front of his linen shirt.Meanwhile, around the pair there had been hovering some of theyoungster's comrades, who, with coats buttoned to the throat, andcaps gripped to prevent their being blown away by the wind, hademployed themselves with scanning the woman's figure with enviouseyes, and viewing her from either side. Nay, the shaggy greenwaves themselves had been stealing occasional glimpses at thepicture as clouds had swirled across the sky, gulls had utteredtheir insatiable scream, and the sun, dancing on the foam-fleckedwaters, had vested the billows, now in tints of blue, now innatural tints as of flaming jewels.In short, all the passengers on the schooner had been shoutingand laughing and singing, while the great bearded peasants hadalso been paying assiduous court to a large leathern bottle whichhad lain ensconced on a heap of peach-sacks, with the result thatthe scene had come to have about it something of the antique,legendary air of the return of Stepan Razin from his Persiancampaign.At length the buffeting of the wind had caused an old man with acrooked nose set on a hairy, faun-like face to stumble over oneof the woman's feet; whereupon he had halted, thrown up his headwith nonsenile vigour, and exclaimed:"May the devil fly away with you, you shameless hussy! Why liesprawling about the deck like this? See, too, how exposed youare!"The woman had not stirred at the words--she had not even opened aneye; only over her lips there had passed a faint tremor. Whereasthe young fellow had straightened himself, deposited his tin mugupon the deck, and cried loudly as he laid his disengaged handupon the woman's breast."Ah, you envy me, do you, Yakim Petrov? Never mind, though youhave done no great harm. But run no risks; do not look forneedless trouble, for your day for sucking sugarplums is past."Whereafter, raising both his hands, the young fellow had softlylet them sink again upon the woman's bosom as he addedtriumphantly:"These breasts could feed all Russia! "Then, and only then, had the woman smiled a long, slow smile. Andas she had done so everything in the vicinity had seemed to smilein unison, and to rise and fall in harmony with her bosom--yes,the whole vessel, and the vessel's freight. And at the momentwhen a particularly large wave had struck the bulwarks, andbesprinkled all on board with spray, the woman had opened herdark eyes, looked kindly at the old man, and at the young fellow,and at the scene in general--then set herself to recover herbosom."Nay," the young fellow had cried as he interposed to remove herhands. "There is no need for that, there is no need for that.Let them ALL look."**************************************************Such the memories that came back to my recollection that night.Gladly I would have recounted them to my companions, but,unfortunately, these had, by now, succumbed to slumber. The ex-soldier, resting in a sitting posture, and snoring loudly, hadhis back prised against his wallet, his head sloped sideways, andhis hands clasped upon his knees, while Vasili was lying on hisback with his face turned upwards, his hands clasped behind hishead, his dark, finely moulded brows raised a little, and hismoustache erect. Also, he was weeping in his sleep--tears werecoursing down his brown, sunburnt cheeks; tears which, in themoonlight, had in them something of the greenish tint of achrysolite or sea water, and which, on such a manly face, lookedstrange indeed!Still the rivulet was purling as it flowed, and the firecrackling; while bathed in the red glow of the flames there wassitting, bent forward, the dark, stonelike figure of theMolokans' watchman, with the axe at his feet reflecting theradiant gleam of the moon in the sky above us.All the earth seemed to be sleeping as ever the waning starsseemed to draw nearer and nearer. . . .The slow length of the next day was dragged along amid an inertiaborn of the moist heat, the song of the river, and theintoxicating scents of forest and flowers. In short, one feltinclined to do nothing, from morn till night, save roam thedefile without the exchanging of a word, the conceiving of adesire, or the formulating of a thought.At sunset, when we were engaged in drinking tea by the fire, theex-soldier remarked:"I hope that life in the next world will exactly resemble lifein this spot, and be just as quiet and peaceful and immune fromwork. Here one needs but to sit and melt like butter and sufferneither from wrong nor anxiety."Then, as carefully he withdrew his pipe from his lips, andsighed, he added:"Aye! If I could but feel sure that life in the next world willbe like life here, I would pray to God: 'For Christ's sake takemy soul at the earliest conceivable moment.'""What might suit YOU would not suit ME," Vasili thoughtfullyobserved. "I would not always live such a life as this. I mightdo so for a time, but not in perpetuity.""Ah, but never have you worked hard," grunted the ex-soldier.In every way the evening resembled the previous one; there wereto be observed the same luscious flooding of the defile withdove-coloured mist, the same flashing of the silver crags in theroseate twilight, the same rocking of the dense, warm forest'ssoft, leafy tree-tops, the same softening of the rocks' outlinesin the gloom, the same gradual uplift of shadows, the samechanting of the "matchmaking" river, the same routine on thepart of the big, sleek carpenters around the barraque--a routineas slow and ponderous in its course as the movements of a droveof wild boars.More than once during the off hours of the day had we sought tomake the carpenters' acquaintance, to start a conversation withthem, but always their answers had been given reluctantly, inmonosyllables, and never had a discussion seemed likely to getunder way without the whiteheaded foreman shouting to theparticular member of the gang concerned: " Hi, you, Pavlushka!Get back to work, there! " Indeed, he, the foreman, had outdoneall in his manifestations of dislike for our friendship, and asmonotonously as though he had been minded to rival the rivulet asa songster, he had hummed his pious ditties, or else raised hissnuffling voice to sing them with an ever-importunate measure ofinsistence, so that all day long those ditties had been coursingtheir way in a murky, melancholy-compelling flood. Indeed, as theforeman had stepped cautiously on thin legs from stone to stoneduring his ceaseless inspection of the work of his men, he hadcome to seem to have for his object the describing of aninvisible, circular path, as a means of segregating us moresecurely than ever from the society of the carpenters.Personally, however, I had no desire to converse with him, forhis frozen eyes chilled and repelled me and from the moment whenI had approached him, and seen him fold his hands behind him, andrecoil a step as he inquired with suppressed sternness, "What doyou want?" there had fallen away from me all further ambition tolearn the nature of the songs which he sang.The ex-soldier gazed at him resentfully, then said with an oath:"The old wizard and pilferer! Take my word for it that a lump ofpiety like that has got a pretty store put away somewhere."Whereafter, as he lit his pipe and squinted in the direction ofthe carpenters, he added with stifled wrath:"The airs that the 'elect' give themselves--the sons ofbitches! ""It is always so," commented Vasili with a resentment equal tothe last speaker's. "Yes, no sooner, with us, does a manaccumulate a little money than he sticks his nose in the air, andfalls to thinking himself a real barin.""Why is it that you always say 'With us,' and 'Among us,' and soon?""Among us Russians, then, if you like it better.""I do like it better. For you are not a German, are you, nor aTartar?""No. It is merely that I can see the faults in our Russianfolk."Upon that (not for the first time) the pair plunged into adiscussion which had come so to weary them that now they spokeonly indifferently, without effort."The word 'faults' is, I consider, an insult," began the ex-soldier as he puffed at his pipe. "Besides, you don't speakconsistently. Only this moment I observed a change in yourterms.""To what?""To the term 'Russians.'""What should you prefer?"A new sound floated into the defile as from some point on thesteppe the sound of a bell summoning folk to the usual Saturdayvigil service. Removing his pipe from his mouth, the ex-soldierlistened for a moment or two. Then, at the third and last strokeof the bell, he doffed his cap, crossed himself with punctiliouspiety, and said:"There are not very many churches in these parts."Whereafter he threw a glance across the river, and addedvenomously:"Those devils THERE don't cross themselves, the accursed Serbs!"Vasili looked at him, twisted a left-hand moustache, smoothed itagain, regarded for a moment the sky and the defile, and sank hishead."The trouble with me," he remarked in an undertone, "is that Ican never remain very long in one place--always I keep fancyingthat I shall meet with better things elsewhere, always I keephearing a bird singing in my heart, 'Do you go further, do yougo further.'""That bird sings in the heart of EVERY man," the ex-soldiergrowled sulkily.With a glance at us both, Vasili laughed a subdued laugh."'In the heart of every man'? " he repeated. "Why, such astatement is absurd. For it means, does it not, that every one ofus is an idler, every one of us is constantly waiting forsomething to turn up--that, in fact, no one of us is any betterthan, or able to do any better than, the folk whose soleutterance is 'Give unto us, pray give unto us'? Yes, if that bethe case, it is an unfortunate case indeed!"And again he laughed. Yet his eyes were sorrowful, and as thefingers of his right hand lay upon his knee they twitched asthough they were longing to grasp something unseen.The ex-soldier frowned and snorted. For my own part, however, Ifelt troubled for, and sorry for, Vasili. Presently he rose,broke into a soft whistle, and moved away by the side of thestream."His head is not quite right," muttered the ex-soldier as hewinked in the direction of the retreating figure. "Yes, I tellyou that straight, for from the first it was clear to me.Otherwise, what could his words in depredation of Russia mean,when of Russia nothing the least hard or definite can be said?Who really knows her? What is she in reality, seeing that each ofher provinces is a soul to itself, and no one could state whichof the two Holy Mothers stands nearest to God--the Holy Mother ofSmolensk, or the Holy Mother of Kazan? "For a while the speaker sat scraping greasy deposit from thebottom and sides of the kettle; and all that while he grumbled asthough he had a grudge against someone. At length, however, heassumed an attitude of attention, with his neck stretched out asthough to listen to some sound."Hist!" was his exclamation.What then followed, followed as unexpectedly as when, like anevil bird, a summer whirlwind suddenly sweeps up from thehorizon, and discharges a bluish-black cloud in torrents of rainand hail, until everything is overwhelmed and battered to mud.That is to say, with much din of whistling and other sounds therenow came pouring into the defile, and began to ascend the trailbeside the stream, a straggling procession of some thirty workmenwith, gleaming dully in the hands of their leading files, flagonsof vodka, and, suspended on the backs and shoulders of others,wallets and bags of bread and other comestibles, and, in twoinstances, poised on the heads of yet other processionists, largeblack cauldrons the effect of which was to make their bearerslook like mushrooms."A vedro [2 3/4 gallons] and a half to the cauldron!" whisperedthe ex-soldier with a computative grunt as he gained his feet."Yes, a vedro and a half," he repeated. As he spoke the tip ofhis tongue protruded until it rested on the under-lip of hishalf-opened mouth. In his face there was a curiously thirsty,gross expression, and his attitude, as he stood there, was thatof one who had just received a blow, and was about to cry out inconsequence.Meanwhile the defile rumbled like a barrel into which heavyweights are being dropped, for one of the newcomers was beatingan empty tin pail, and another one whistling in a manner thetossed echoes of which drowned even the rivulet's murmur asnearer and nearer came the mob of men, a mob clad variously inblack, grey, or russet, with sleeves rolled up, and heads, inmany cases, bare save for their own towsled, dishevelled locks,and bodies bent with fatigue, or carried stumblingly along onlegs bowed outwards. Meanwhile, as the dull, polyphonous roar ofvoices swept through the neck of the defile, a man shouted inbroken, but truculent, accents:"I say no! Fiddlesticks! Not a man is there who could drink morethan a vedro of 'blood-and-sweat' in a day.""A man could drink a lake of it.""No, a vedro and a half. That is the proper reckoning.""Aye, a vedro and a half." And the ex-soldier, as he repeatedthe words, spoke both as though he were an expert in the matterand as though he felt for the matter a touch of respect. Then,lurching forward like a man pushed by the scruff of the neck, hecrossed the rivulet, intercepted the crowd, and became swallowedup in its midst.Around the barraque the carpenters (the foreman ever glimmeringamong them) were hurriedly collecting tools. Presently Vasilireturned--his right hand thrust into his pocket, and his leftholding his cap."Before long those fellows will be properly drunk! " he saidwith a frown. "Ah, that vodka of ours! It is a perfect curse!"Then to me: "Do YOU drink?""No," I replied."Thank God for that! If one does not drink one will never reallyget into trouble."For a moment he gazed gloomily in the direction of the newcomers.Then he said without moving, without even looking at me:"You have remarkable eyes, young fellow. Also, they seemfamiliar to me--I have seen them somewhere before. Possibly thathappened in a dream, though I cannot be sure. Where do you comefrom?"I answered, but, after scanning me perplexedly, he shook hishead."No," he remarked. "I have never visited that part of thecountry, or indeed, been so far from home.""But this place is further still?""Further still?""Yes--from Kursk."He laughed."I must tell you the truth," he said. "I am not a Kurskan atall, but a Pskovian. The reason why I told the ex-soldier that Iwas from Kursk was that I neither liked him nor cared to tell himthe whole truth-he was not worth the trouble. And as for my realname, it is Paul, not Vasili--Paul Nikolaev Silantiev-- and is somarked on my passport (for a passport, and a passport quite inorder, I have got).""And why are you on your travels? ""For the reason that I am so--I can say no more. I look back froma given place, and wave my hand, and am gone again as a featherfloats before the wind."***************************"Silence!" a threatening voice near the barraque broke in. "Iam the foreman here."The voice of the ex-soldier replied:"What workmen are these of yours? They are mere sectarians,fellows who are for ever singing hymns."To which someone else added:"Besides, old devil that you are, aren't you bound to finish allbuilding work before the beginning of a Sunday?""Let us throw their tools into the stream.""Yes, and start a riot," was Silantiev's comment as he squattedbefore the embers of the fire.Around the barraque, picked out against the yellow of itsframework, a number of dark figures were surging to and fro asaround a conflagration. Presently we heard something smashed topieces--at all events, we heard the cracking and scraping of woodagainst stone, and then the strident, hilarious command:"Hold on there! I'LL soon put things to rights! Carpenters, justhand over the saw!"Apparently there were three men in charge of the proceedings: theone a red-bearded muzhik in a seaman's blouse; the second a tallman with hunched shoulders, thin legs, and long arms who keptgrasping the foreman by the collar, shaking him, and bawling,"Where are your lathes? Bring them out!" (while noticeable alsowas a broad-shouldered young fellow in a ragged red shirt whokept thrusting pieces of scantling through the windows of thebarraque, and shouting, "Catch hold of these! Lay them out in arow!"); and the third the ex-soldier himself. The last-named, ashe jostled his way among the crowd, kept vociferating, viciously,virulently, and with a curious system of division of hissyllables:"Aha-a, ra-abble, secta-arians. Yo-ou would have nothing to sayto me, you Se-erbs! Yet I say to YOU: Go along, my chickens, forthe re-est of us are ti-ired of you, and come to sa-ay so!""What does he want?" asked Silantiev quietly as he lit acigarette. "Vodka? Oh, THEY'LL give him vodka! . . . Yet are younot sorry for fellows of that stamp?"Through the blue tobacco-smoke he gazed into the glowing embers;until at last he took a charred stick, and collected the embersinto a heap glowing red-gold like a bouquet of fiery poppies; andas he did so, his handsome eyes gleamed with just such a reverentaffection, such a prayerful kindliness, as must have lurked inthe eyes of primeval, nomadic man in the presence of the dancing,beneficent source of light and heat."At least I am sorry for such fellows," Vasili continued."Aye, the very thought of the many, many folk who have come tonothing! The very thought of it! Terrible, terrible!"A touch of daylight was still lingering on the tops of themountains, but in the defile itself night was beginning to loom,and to lull all things to sleep--to incline one neither to speakoneself nor to listen to the dull clamour of those others on theopposite bank, where even to the murmur of the rivulet thedistasteful din seemed to communicate a note of anger.There the crowd had lit a huge bonfire, and then added to it asecond one which, crackling, hissing, and emitting coils ofbluish-tinted smoke, had fallen to vying with its fellow inlacing the foam of the rivulet with muslin-like patterns in red.As the mass of dark figures surged between the two flares anhilarious voice shouted to us the invitation:"Come over here, you! Don't be backward! Come over here, I say!"Upon which followed a clatter as of the smashing of a drinking-vessel, while from the red-bearded muzhik came a thick, raucousshout of:"These fellows needed to be taught a lesson!"Almost at the same moment the foreman of the carpenters broke hisway clear of the crowd, and, carefully crossing the rivulet bythe stepping-stones which we had constructed, squatted down uponhis heels by the margin, and with much puffing and blowing fellto rinsing his face, a face which in the murky firelight lookedflushed and red."I think that someone has given him a blow," hazarded Silantievsotto voce.And when the foreman rose to approach us this proved to be thecase, for then we saw that dripping from his nose, and meanderingover his moustache and soaked white beard, there was a stream ofdark blood which had spotted and streaked his shirt-front."Peace to this gathering!" he said gravely as, pressing hisleft hand to his stomach, he bowed."And we pray your indulgence," was Silantiev's response, thoughhe did not raise his eyes as he spoke. "Pray be seated."Small, withered, and, for all but his blood-stained shirt,scrupulously clean, the old man reminded me of certain picturesof old-time hermits, and the more so since either pain or shameor the gleam of the firelight had caused his hitherto dead eyesto gather life and grow brighter--aye, and sterner. Somehow, as Ilooked at him, I felt awkward and abashed.A cough twisted his broad nose. Then he wiped his beard on thepalm of his hand, and his hand on his knee; whereafter, as hestretched forth the pair of senile, dark-coloured hands, and heldthem over the embers, he said:"How cold the water of the rivulet is! It is absolutely icy."With a glance from under his brows Silantiev inquired:"Are you very badly hurt?""No. Merely a man caught me a blow on the bridge of the nose,where the blood flows readily. Yet, as God knows, he will gainnothing by his act, whereas the suffering which he has caused mewill go to swell my account with the Holy Spirit."As the man spoke he glanced across the rivulet. On the oppositebank two men were staggering along, and drunkenly bawling thetipsy refrain:"In the du-u-uok let me die,In the au-autumn time!""Aye, long is it since I received a blow," the old mancontinued, scanning the two revellers from under his hand."Twenty years it must be since last I did so. And now the blow wasstruck for nothing, for no real fault.. You see, I have beenallowed no nails for the doing of the work, and have been obligedto make use of wooden clamps for most of it, while battens alsohave not been forthcoming; and, this being so, it was through noremissness of mine that the work could not be finished by sunsettonight. I suspect, too, that, to eke out its wages, that rabblehas been thieving, with the eldest leading the rest. And that,again, is not a thing for which I can be held responsible. True,this is a Government job, and some of those fellows are young,and young, hungry fellows such as they will (may they beforgiven!) steal, since everyone hankers to get something inreturn for a very little. But, once more, how is that my fault?Yes, that rabble must be a regular set of rascals! Just now theydeprived my eldest son of a saw, of a brand-new saw; andthereafter they spilt my blood, the blood of a greybeard!"Here his small, grey face contracted into wrinkles, and, closinghis eyes, he sobbed a dry, grating sob.Silantiev fidgeted--then sighed. Presently the old man looked athim, blew his nose, wiped his hand upon his trousers, and saidquietly:"Somewhere, I think, I have seen you before.""That is so. You saw me one evening when I visited yoursettlement for the mending of a thresher.""Yes, yes. That is where I DID see you. It was you, was it not?Well, do you still disagree with me? "To which the old man added with a nod and a smile:"See how well I remember your words! You are, I imagine, stillof the same opinion?""How should I not be?" responded Silantiev dourly."Ah, well! Ah, well!"And the old man stretched his hands over the fire once more,discoloured hands the thumbs of which were curiously bentoutwards and splayed, and, seemingly, unable to move in harmonywith the fingers.The ex-soldier shouted across the river:"The land here is easy to work, and makes the people lazy. Whowould care to live in such a region? Who would care to come toit? Much rather would I go and earn a living on difficult land."The old man paid no heed, but said to Silantiev--said to him withan austere, derisive smile:"Do you STILL think it necessary to struggle against what hasbeen ordained of God? Do you STILL think that long-suffering isbad, and resistance good? Young man, your soul is weak indeed:and remember that it is only the soul that can overcome Satan."In response Silantiev rose to his feet, shook his fist at the oldman, and shouted in a rough, angry voice, a voice that was nothis own:"All that I have heard before, and from others besides yourself.The truth is that I hold all you father-confessors in abhorrence."Moreover," (this last was added with a violent oath) "it is notSatan that needs to be resisted, but such devil's ravens, suchdevil's vampires, as YOU."Which said, he kicked a stone away from the fire, thrust hishands into his pockets, and turned slowly on his heel, with hiselbows pressed close to his sides. Nevertheless the old man,still smiling, said to me in an undertone:"He is proud, but that will not last for long.""Why not?""Because I know in advance that--"Breaking off short, he turned his head upon his shoulder, and satlistening to some shouting that was going on across the river.Everyone in that quarter was drunk, and, in particular, someonecould be heard bawling in a tone of challenge:"Oh? I, you say? A-a-ah! Then take that!"Silantiev, stepping lightly from stone to stone, crossed theriver. Then he mingled--a conspicuous figure (owing to hisapparent handlessness)--with the crowd. Somehow, on his departure,I felt ill at ease.Twitching his fingers as though performing a conjuring trick, theold man continued to sit with his hands stretched over theembers. By this time his nose had swollen over the bridge, andbruises risen under his eyes which tended to obscure his vision.Indeed, as he sat there, sat mouthing with dark, bestreaked lipsunder a covering of hoary beard and moustache, I found that hisbloodstained, disfigured, wrinkled, as it were "antique" facereminded me more than ever of those of great sinners of ancienttimes who abandoned this world for the forest and the desert."I have seen many proud folk," he continued with a shake of hishatless head and its sparse hairs. "A fire may burn up quickly,and continue to burn fiercely, yet, like these embers, becometurned to ashes, and. so lie smouldering till dawn. Young man,there you have something to think of. Nor are they merely mywords. They are the words of the Holy Gospel itself."Ever descending, ever weighing more heavily upon us, the nightwas as black and hot and stifling as the previous one had been,albeit as kindly as a mother. Still the two fires on the oppositebank of the rivulet were aflame, and sending hot blasts of vapouracross a seeming brook of gold.Folding his arms upon his breast, the old man tucked the palms ofhis hands into his armpits, and settled himself more comfortably.Nevertheless, when I made as though to add more twigs andshavings to the embers he exclaimed imperiously:"There is no need for that.""Why is there not? ""Because that would cause the fire to be seen, and bring some ofthose men over here."Again, as he kicked away some boughs which I had just broken up,he repeated:"There is no need for that, I tell you."Presently, there approached us through the shimmering fire lighton the opposite bank two carpenters with boxes on their backs,and axes in their hands."Are all the rest of our men gone?" inquired the foreman of thenewcomers."Yes," replied one of them, a tall man with a drooping moustacheand no beard."Well, 'shun evil, and good will result.'""Aye, and we likewise wish to depart.""But a task ought not to be left unfinished. At dinner-time Isent Olesha to say that none of those fellows had better bereleased from work; but released they have been, and now theresult is apparent! Presently, when they have drunk a little moreof their poison, they will fire the barraque."Every time that the first of the two carpenters inhaled the smokeof my cigarette he spat into the embers, while the other man, ayoung fellow as plump as a female baker, sank his towsled headupon his breast as soon as he sat down, and fell asleep.Next, the clamour across the rivulet subsided for awhile. Butsuddenly I heard the ex-soldier exclaim in drunken, singsongaccents which came from the very centre of the tumult:"Hi, do you answer me! How comes it that you have no respect forRussia? Is not Riazan a part of Russia? What is Russia, then, Ishould like to know? ""A tavern," the foreman commented quietly; whereafter, turningto me, he added more loudly:"I say this of such fellows-- that a tavern... But what a noisethose roisterers are making, to be sure!"The young fellow in the red shirt had just shouted:"Hi, there, soldier! Seize him by the throat! Seize him, seizehim!"While from Silantiev had come the gruff retort:"What? Do you suppose that you are hunting a pack of hounds?""Here, answer me!" was the next shouted utterance--it came fromthe ex-soldier-- whereupon the old man remarked to me in anundertone:"It would seem that a fight is brewing."Rising, I moved in the direction of the uproar. As I did so, Iheard the old man say softly to his companions:"He too is gone, thank God!"Suddenly there surged towards me from the opposite bank a crowdof men. Belching, hiccuping, and grunting, they seemed to becarrying or dragging in their midst some heavy weight. Presentlya woman's voice screamed, "Ya-av-sha!" and other voices raisedmingled shouts of "Throw him in! Give him a thrashing!" and"Drag him along!"The next moment we saw Silantiev break out of the crowd,straighten himself, swing his right fist in the air, and hurlhimself at the crowd again. As he did so the young fellow in thered shirt raised a gigantic arm, and there followed the sound ofa muffled, grisly blow. Staggering backwards, Silantiev slidsilently into the water, and lay there at my feet."That's right!" was the comment of someone.For a moment or two the clamour subsided a little, and duringthat moment or two one's ears once more became laved with thesweet singsong of the river. Shortly afterwards someone threwinto the water a huge stone, and someone else laughed in a dullway.As I was bending to look at Silantiev some of the men jostled me.Nevertheless, I continued to struggle to raise him from the spotwhere, half in and half out of the water, he lay with his headand breast resting against the stepping-stones."You have killed him!" next I shouted--not because I believedthe statement to be true, but because I had a mind to frighteninto sobriety the men who were impeding me.Upon this someone exclaimed in a faltering, sobered tone:"Surely not?"As for the young fellow in the red shirt, he passed me by with abraggart, resentful shout of:"Well? He had no right to insult me. Why should he have saidthat I was a nuisance to the whole country?"And someone else shouted:"Where is the ex-soldier? Who is the watchman here?""Bring a light," was the cry of a third.Yet all these voices were more sober, more subdued, morerestrained than they had been, and presently a little muzhikwhose poll was swathed in a red handkerchief stooped and raisedSilantiev's head. But almost as instantly he let it fall again,and, dipping his hands into the water, said gravely:"You have killed him. He is dead."At the moment I did not believe the words; but presently, as Istood watching how the water coursed between Silantiev's legs,and turned them this way and that, and made them stir as thoughthey were striving to divest themselves of the shabby old boots,I realised with all my being that the hands which were resting inmine were the hands of a corpse. And, true enough, when Ireleased them they slapped down upon the surface like wet dish-cloths.Until now, about a dozen men had been standing on the bank toobserve what was toward, but as soon as the little muzhik's wordsrang out these men recoiled, and, with jostlings, began to vent,in subdued, uneasy tones, cries of:"Who was it first struck him?""This will lose us our jobs.""It was the soldier that first started the racket.""Yes, that is true.""Let us go and denounce him."As for the young fellow in the red shirt, he cried:"I swear on my honour, mates, that the affair was only aquarrel.""To hit a man with a bludgeon is more than a quarrel.""It was a stone that was used, not a bludgeon.""The soldier ought to--"A woman's high-pitched voice broke in with a plaintive cry of:"Good Lord! Always something happens to us! "As for myself, I felt stunned and hurt as I seated myself uponthe stepping-stones; and though everything was plain to my sight,nothing was plain to my understanding, while in my breast astrange emptiness was present, save that the clamour of thebystanders aroused me to a certain longing to outshout them all,to send forth my voice into the night like the voice of a brazentrumpet.Presently two other men approached us. In the hand of the firstwas a torch which he kept waving to and fro to prevent its beingextinguished, and whence, therefore, he kept strewing showers ofgolden sparks. A fair-headed little fellow, he had a body as thinas a pike when standing on its tail, a grey, stonelikecountenance that was deeply sunken between the shoulders, a mouthperpetually half-agape, and round, owlish-looking eyes.As he approached the corpse he bent forward with one hand uponhis knee to throw the more light upon Silantiev's bruised headand body. That head was resting turned upon the shoulder, and nolonger could I recognise the once handsome Cossack face, soburied was the jaunty forelock under a clot of black-red mud, andconcealed by a swelling which had made its appearance above theleft ear. Also, since the mouth and moustache had been bashedaside the teeth lay bared in a twisted, truly horrible smile,while, as the most horrible point of all, the left eye washanging from its socket, and, become hideously large, gazing,seemingly, at the inner pocket of the flap of Silantiev's pea-jacket, whence there was protruding a white edging of paper.Slowly the torch holder described a circle of fire in the air,and thereby sprinkled a further shower of sparks over the poormutilated face, with its streaks of shining blood. Then hemuttered with a smack of the lips:"You can see for yourselves who the man is."As he spoke a few more sparks descended upon Silantiev's scalpand wet cheeks, and went out, while the flare's reflection soplayed in the ball of Silantiev's eye as to communicate to it anadded appearance of death.Finally the torch holder straightened his back, threw his torchinto the river, expectorated after it, and said to his companionas he smoothed a flaxen poll which, in the darkness, lookedalmost greenish:"Do you go to the barraque, and tell them that a man has beendone to death.""No; I should be afraid to go alone.""Come, come! Nothing is there to be afraid of. Go, I tell you.""But I would much rather not.""Don't be such a fool!"Suddenly there sounded over my head the quiet voice of theforeman."I will accompany you," he said. Then he added disgustedly as hescraped his foot against a stone:"How horrible the blood smells! It would seem that my very footis smeared with it."With a frown the fair-headed muzhik eyed him, while the foremanreturned the muzhik's gaze with a scrutiny that never wavered.Finally the elder man commented with cold severity:"All the mischief has come of vodka and tobacco, the devil'sdrugs."Not only were the pair strangely alike, but both of themstrangely resembled wizards, in that both were short of stature,as sharp-finished as gimlets, and as green-tinted by the darknessas tufts of lichen."Let us go, brother," the foreman said. "Go we with the HolySpirit."And, omitting even to inquire who had been killed, or even toglance at the corpse, or even to pay it the last salute demandedof custom, the foreman departed down the stream, while in hiswake followed the messenger, a man who kept stumbling as hepicked his way from stone to stone. Amid the gloom the pair movedas silently as ghosts.The narrow-chested, fair-headed little muzhik then raked me withhis eyes; whereafter he produced a cigarette from a tin box,snapped-to the lid of the box, struck a match (illuminating oncemore the face of the dead man), and applied the flame to thecigarette. Lastly he said:"This is the sixth murder which I have seen one thing andanother commit.""One thing and another commit?" I queried.The reply came only after a pause; when the little muzhik asked:" What did you say? I did not quite catch it."I explained that human beings, not inanimate entities, murderedhuman beings."Well, be they human beings or machinery or lightning oranything else, they are all one. One of my mates was caught insome machinery at Bakhmakh. Another one had his throat cut in abrawl. Another one was crushed against the bucket in a coal mine.Another one was--"Carefully though the man counted, he ended by erring in hisreckoning to the extent of making his total "five." Accordinglyhe re-computed the list--and this time succeeded in making thetotal amount to "seven.""Never mind," he remarked with a sigh as he blew his cigaretteinto a red glow which illuminated the whole of his face. "Thetruth is that I cannot always repeat the list correctly, just asI should like. Were I older than I am, I too should contrive toget finished off; for old-age is a far from desirable thing. Yes,indeed! But, as things are, I am still alive, nor, thank theLord, does anything matter very much."Presently, with a nod towards Silantiev, he continued:"Even now HIS kinsfolk or his wife may be looking for news ofhim, or a letter from him. Well, never again will he write, andas likely as not his kinsfolk will end by saying to themselves:'He has taken to bad ways, and forgotten his family.' Yes, goodsir."By this time the clamour around the barraque had ceased, and thetwo fires had burnt themselves out, and most of the mendispersed. From the smooth yellow walls of the barraque dark,round, knot-holes were gazing at the rivulet like eyes. Only in asingle window without a frame was there visible a faint light,while at intervals there issued thence fragmentary, angryexclamations such as:"Look sharp there, and deal! Clubs will be the winners.""Ah! Here is a trump!""Indeed? What luck, damn it!"The fair-headed muzhik blew the ashes from his cigarette, andobserved:"No such thing is there at cards as luck--only skill."At this juncture we saw approaching us softly from across therivulet a young carpenter who wore a moustache. He halted besideus, and drew a deep breath."Well, mate?" the fair-headed muzhik inquired."Would you mind giving me something to smoke?" the carpenterasked. The obscurity caused him to look large and shapeless,though his manner of speaking was bashful and subdued."Certainly. Here is a cigarette.""Christ reward you! Today my wife forgot to bring my tobacco,and my grandfather has strict ideas on the subject of smoking.""Was it he who departed just now? It was."As the carpenter inhaled a whiff he continued:"I suppose that man was beaten to death?""He was--to death."For a while the pair smoked in silence. The hour was pastmidnight.Over the defile the jagged strip of sky which roofed it lookedlike a river of blue flowing at an immense height above thenight-enveloped earth, and bearing the brilliant stars on itssmooth current.Quieter and quieter was everything growing; more and more waseverything becoming part of the night....One might have thought that nothing particular had happened.
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
