The Birth of a Man
The year was the year '92-- the year of leanness--the scene aspot between Sukhum and Otchenchiri, on the river Kodor, a spotso near to the sea that amid the joyous babble of a sparklingrivulet the ocean's deep-voiced thunder was plainlydistinguishable.Also, the season being autumn, leaves of wild laurel wereglistening and gyrating on the white foam of the Kodor like aquantity of mercurial salmon fry. And as I sat on some rocksoverlooking the river there occurred to me the thought that, aslikely as not, the cause of the gulls' and cormorants' fretfulcries where the surf lay moaning behind a belt of trees to theright was that, like myself, they kept mistaking the leaves forfish, and as often finding themselves disappointed.Over my head hung chestnut trees decked with gold; at my feetlay a mass of chestnut leaves which resembled the amputatedpalms of human hands; on the opposite bank, where there waved,tanglewise, the stripped branches of a hornbeam, anorange-tinted woodpecker was darting to and fro, as thoughcaught in the mesh of foliage, and, in company with a troupe ofnimble titmice and blue tree-creepers (visitors from thefar-distant North), tapping the bark of the stem with a blackbeak, and hunting for insects.To the left, the tops of the mountains hung fringed with dense,fleecy clouds of the kind which presages rain; and these cloudswere sending their shadows gliding over slopes green andovergrown with boxwood and that peculiar species of hollowbeech-stump which once came near to effecting the downfall ofPompey's host, through depriving his iron-built legions of theuse of their legs as they revelled in the intoxicating sweetnessof the " mead " or honey which wild bees make from the blossomsof the laurel and the azalea, and travellers stillgather from those hollow stems to knead into lavashi or thincakes of millet flour.On the present occasion I too (after suffering sundry stingsfrom infuriated bees) was thus engaged as I sat on the rocksbeneath the chestnuts. Dipping morsels of bread into a potful ofhoney, I was munching them for breakfast, and enjoying, at thesame time, the indolent beams of the moribund autumn sun.In the fall of the year the Caucasus resembles a gorgeouscathedral built by great craftsmen (always great craftsmen aregreat sinners) to conceal their past from the prying eyes ofconscience. Which cathedral is a sort of intangible edifice ofgold and turquoise and emerald, and has thrown over its hillsrare carpets silk-embroidered by Turcoman weavers of Shemi andSamarkand, and contains, heaped everywhere, plunder brought fromall the quarters of the world for the delectation of the sun.Yes, it is as though men sought to say to the Sun God: " Allthings here are thine. They have been brought hither for thee bythy people."Yes, mentally I see long-bearded, grey-headed supermen, beingspossessed of the rounded eyes of happy children, descending fromthe hills, and decking the earth, and sowing it with sheerlykaleidoscopic treasures, and coating the tops of the mountainswith massive layers of silver, and the lower edges with a livingweb of trees. Yes, I see those beings decorating and fashioningthe scene until, thanks to their labours, this gracious morselof the earth has become fair beyond all conception.And what a privilege it is to be human! How much that iswonderful leaps to the eye-how the presence of beauty causes.the heart to throb with a voluptuous rapture that is almost pain!And though there are occasions when life seems hard, and thebreast feels filled with fiery rancour, and melancholy dries andrenders athirst the heart's blood, this is not a mood sent us inperpetuity. For at times even the sun may feel sad as hecontemplates men, and sees that, despite all that he has donefor them, they have done so little in return. . . .No, it is not that good folk are lacking. It is that they needto be rounded off--better still, to be made anew.**********************Suddenly there came into view over the bushes to my left a fileof dark heads, while through the surging of the waves and thebabble of the stream I caught the sound of human voices, a soundemanating from a party of " famine people " or folk who werejourneying from Sukhum to Otchenchiri to obtain work on a localroad then in process of construction.The owners of the voices I knew to be immigrants from theprovince of Orlov. I knew them to be so for the reason that Imyself had lately been working in company with the male membersof the party, and had taken leave of them only yesterday inorder that I might set out earlier than they, and, after walkingthrough the night, greet the sun when he should arise above thesea.The members of the party comprised four men and a woman--thelatter a young female with high cheek-bones, a figure swollenwith manifest pregnancy, and a pair of greyish-blue eyes thathad fixed in them a stare of apprehension. At the present momenther head and yellow scarf were just showing over the tops of thebushes; and while I noted that now it was swaying from side toside like a sunflower shaken by the wind, I recalled the factthat she was a woman whose husband had been carried off atSukhum by a surfeit of fruit--this fact being known to me throughthe circumstance that in the workmen's barraque where we hadshared quarters these folk had observed the good old Russiancustom of confiding to a stranger the whole of their troubles,and had done so in tones of such amplitude and penetration thatthe querulous words must have been audible for five verstsaround.And as I had talked to these forlorn people, these human beingswho lay crushed beneath the misfortune which had uprooted themfrom their barren and exhausted lands, and blown them, likeautumn leaves, towards the Caucasus where nature's luxuriant,but unfamiliar, aspect had blinded and bewildered them, and withits onerous conditions of labour quenched their last spark ofcourage; as I had talked to these poor people I had seen themglancing about with dull, troubled, despondent eyes, andheard them say to one another softly, and with pitiful smiles:"What a country!""Aye,-- that it is !--a country to make one sweat!""As hard as a stone it is!""Aye, an evil country! "After which they had gone on to speak of their native haunts,where every handful of soil had represented to them the dust oftheir ancestors, and every grain of that soil had been wateredwith the sweat of their brows, and become charged with dear andintimate recollections.Previously there had joined the party a woman who, tall andstraight, had had breasts as flat as a board, and jawbones likethe jawbones of a horse, and a glance in her dull, sidelongblack eyes like a gleaming, smouldering fire.And every evening this woman had been wont to step outside thebarraque with the woman in the yellow scarf and to seat herselfon a rubbish heap, and, resting her cheeks on the palms of herhands, and inclining her head sideways, to sing in a high andshrewish voice:Behind the graveyard wall,Where fair green bushes stand.I'll spread me on the sandA shroud as white as snow.And not long will it beBefore my heart's adored,My master and my lord,Shall answer my curtsey low.Usually her companion, the woman in the yellow scarf, had, withhead bent forward and eyes fixed upon her stomach, remainedsilent; but on rare, unexpected occasions she had, in thehoarse, sluggish voice of a peasant, sung a song with thesobbing refrain:Ah, my beloved, sweetheart of mine,Never again will these eyes seek thine!Nor amid the stifling blackness of the southern night had thesevoices ever failed to bring back to my memory the snowy wastesof the North, and the icy, wailing storm-wind, and the distanthowling of unseen wolves.In time, the squint-eyed woman had been taken ill of a fever, andremoved to the town in a tilted ambulance; and as she had lainquivering and moaning on the stretcher she had seemed still tobe singing her little ditty about the graveyard and the sand.The head with the yellow scarf rose, dipped, and disappeared.After I had finished my breakfast I thatched the honey-pot withsome leaves, fastened down the lid, and indolently resumed myway in the wake of the party, my blackthorn staff tiptappingagainst the hard tread of the track as I proceeded.The track loomed-- a grey, narrow strip-- before me, whileon my right the restless, dark blue sea had the air of beingceaselessly planed by thousands of invisible carpenters; soregularly did the stress of a wind as moist and sweet and warmas the breath of a healthy woman cause ever-rustling curls offoam to drift towards the beach. Also, careening on to its portquarter under a full set of bellying sails, a Turkish felucca wasgliding towards Sukhum; and, as it held on its course, it put mein mind of a certain pompous engineer of the town who hadbeen wont to inflate his fat cheeks and say: " Be quiet, you,or I will have you locked up! " This man had, for some reasonor another, an extraordinary weakness for causing arrests tobe made; and, exceedingly do I rejoice to think that by now theworms of the graveyard must have consumed him down to thevery marrow of his bones. Would that certain other acquaintancesof mine were similarly receiving beneficent attention!Walking proved an easy enough task, for I seemed to be borne onair, while a chorus of pleasant thoughts, of many-colouredrecollections, kept singing gently in my breast--a chorusresembling, indeed, the white-maned billows in the regularitywith which now it rose, and now it fell, to reveal in, as itwere, soft, peaceful depths the bright, supple hopes of youth,like so many silver fish cradled in the bosom of the ocean.Suddenly, as it trended seawards, the road executed a half-turn,and skirted a strip of the sandy margin to which the waves keptrolling in such haste. And in that spot even the bushes seemedto have a mind to look the waves in the eyes--so strenuously didthey lean across the riband-like path, and nod in the directionof the blue, watery waste, while from the hills a wind wasblowing that presaged rain.***************************But hark! From some point among the bushes a low moan arose--thesound which never fails to thrill the soul and move it toresponsive quivers!Thrusting aside the foliage, I beheld before me the woman in theyellow scarf. Seated with her back resting against the stem of ahazel-bush, she had her head sunken deeply between hershoulders, her mouth hideously agape, her eyes staring vaguelybefore her, her hands pressed to her swollen stomach, her breathissuing with unnatural vehemence, and her abdomen convulsively,spasmodically rising and falling. Meanwhile from her throat wereissuing moans which at times caused her yellow teeth to showbare like those of a wolf."What is the matter?" I said as I bent over her. "Has anyoneassaulted you?"The only result was that, shuffling bare feet in the sand like afly, she shook her nerveless hand, and gasped:"Away, villain! Away with you!"Then I understood what was the matter, for I had seen a similarcase before. Yet for the moment a certain feeling of shynessmade me edge away from her a little; and as I did so, she uttereda prolonged moan, and her almost bursting eyeballs vented hot,murky tears which trickled down her tense and livid features.Thereupon I turned to her again, and, throwing down cooking-pot,teapot, and wallet, laid her on her back, and strove to bend herknees upwards in the direction of her body. Meanwhile she soughtto repel me with blows on face and breast, and at length rolledon to her stomach. Then, raising herself on all fours, she,sobbing, gasping, and cursing in a breath, crawled away like abear into a remoter portion of the thicket."Beast!" she panted. "Oh, you devil!"Yet, even as the words escaped her lips, her arms gave way beneathher, and she collapsed upon her face, with legs stretched out,and her lips emitting a fresh series of convulsive moans.Excited now to fever pitch, I hurriedly recalled my small storeof knowledge of such cases and finally decided to turn her onher back, and, as before, to strive to bend her knees upwards inthe direction of her body. Already signs of imminent parturitionwere not wanting."Lie still," I said, "and if you do that it will not be longbefore you are delivered of the child."Whereafter, running down to the sea, I pulled up my sleeves,and, on returning, embarked upon my role, of accoucheur.Scoring the earth with her fingers, uprooting tufts of witheredgrass, and struggling to thrust them into her mouth, scatteringsoil over her terrible, inhuman face and bloodshot eyes, thewoman writhed like a strip of birch bark in a wood fire. Indeed,by this time a little head was coming into view, and it neededall my efforts to quell the twitchings of her legs, to help thechild to issue, and to prevent its mother from thrusting grassdown her distorted, moaning throat. Meanwhile we cursed oneanother-- she through her teeth, and I in an undertone; she, Ishould surmise, out of pain and shame, and I, I feel certain,out of nervousness, mingled with a perfect agony of compassion."O Lord!" she gasped with blue lips flecked with foam as hereyes (suddenly bereft of their colour in the sunlight) shedtears born of the intolerable anguish of the maternal function,and her body writhed and twisted as though her frame had beensevered in the middle."Away, you brute!" was her oft-repeated cry as with her weakhands, hands seemingly dislocated at the wrists, she strove tothrust me to a distance. Yet all the time I kept sayingpersuasively: "You fool! Bring forth as quickly as you can!"and, as a matter of fact, was feeling so sorry for her thattears continued to spurt from my eyes as much as from hers, andmy very heart contracted with pity. Also, never did I cease tofeel that I ought to keep saying something; wherefore, Irepeated, and again repeated: "Now then! Bring forth as quicklyas ever you can!"And at last my hands did indeed hold a human creature in all itspristine beauty. Nor could even the mist of tears prevent mefrom seeing that that human creature was red in the face, andthat to judge from the manner in which it kept kicking andresisting and uttering hoarse wails (while still bound to itsmother by the ligament), it was feeling dissatisfied in advancewith the world. Yes, blue-eyed, and with a nose absurdly sunkenbetween a pair of scarlet, rumpled cheeks and lips whichceaselessly quivered and contracted, it kept bawling: "A-aah!A-a-ah!"Moreover, so slippery was it that, as I knelt and looked at itand laughed with relief at the fact that it had arrived safely,I came near to letting it fall upon the ground: wherefore Ientirely forgot what next I ought to have done."Cut it!" at length whispered the mother with eyes closed, andfeatures suddenly swollen and resembling those of a corpse."A knife!" again she whispered with her livid lips. "Cut it!"My pocket-knife I had had stolen from me in the workmen'sbarraque; but with my teeth I severed the caul, and then thechild gave renewed tongue in true Orlovian fashion, while themother smiled. Also, in some curious fashion, the mother'sunfathomable eyes regained their colour, and became filled aswith blue fire as, plunging a hand into her bodice and feelingfor the pocket, she contrived to articulate with raw andblood-flecked lips:"I have not a single piece of string or riband to bind the caulwith."Upon that I set to, and managed to produce a piece of riband,and to fasten it in the required position.Thereafter she smiled more brightly than ever. So radiantly didshe smile that my eyes came near to being blinded with thespectacle."And now rearrange yourself," I said, "and in the meanwhile Iwill go and wash the baby.""Yes, yes," she murmured uneasily. "But be very careful withhim--be very gentle."Yet it was little enough care that the rosy little homunculusseemed to require, so strenuously did he clench his fists, andbawl as though he were minded to challenge the whole world tocombat."Come, now!" at length I said. "You must have done, or yourvery head will drop off."Yet no sooner did he feel the touch of the ocean spray, andbegin to be sprinkled With its joyous caresses, than he lamentedmore loudly and vigorously than ever, and so continuedthroughout the process of being slapped on the back and breastas, frowning and struggling, he vented squall after squall whilethe waves laved his tiny limbs."Shout, young Orlovian!" said I encouragingly. "Let fly withall the power of your lungs!"And with that, I took him back to his mother. I found her witheyes closed and lips drawn between her teeth as she writhed inthe torment of expelling the after-birth. But presently Idetected through the sighs and groans a whispered:"Give him to me! Give him to me!""You had better wait a little," I urged."Oh no! Give him to me now!"And with tremulous, unsteady hands she unhooked the bosom of herbodice, and, freeing (with my assistance) the breast whichnature had prepared for at least a dozen children, applied themutinous young Orlovian to the nipple. As for him, he at onceunderstood the matter, and ceased to send forth furtherlamentation."O pure and holy Mother of God!" she gasped in a long-drawn,quivering sigh as she bent a dishevelled head over the littleone, and, between intervals of silence, fell to uttering soft,abrupt exclamations. Then, opening her ineffably beautiful blueeyes, the hallowed eyes of a mother, she raised them towards theazure heavens, while in their depths there was coming and goinga flame of joy and gratitude. Lastly, lifting a languid hand,she with a slow movement made the sign of the cross over bothherself and her babe."Thanks to thee O purest Mother of God!" she murmured."Thanks indeed to thee!"Then her eyes grew dim and vague again, and after a pause(during which she seemed to be scarcely breathing) she said in ahard and matter-of-fact tone:"Young fellow, unfasten my satchel."And whilst I was so engaged she continued to regard me with asteady gaze; but, when the task was completed she smiledshamefacedly, and on her sunken cheeks and sweat-flecked templesthere dawned the ghost of a blush."Now," said she, "do you, for the present, go away.""And if I do so, see that in the meanwhile you do not moveabout too much.""No, I will not. But please go away."So I withdrew a little. In my breast a sort of weariness waslurking, but also in my breast there was echoing a soft andglorious chorus of birds, a chorus so exquisitely in accord withthe never-ceasing splash of the sea that for ever could I havelistened to it, and to the neighbouring brook as it purled onits way like a maiden engaged in relating confidences about herlover.Presently, the woman's yellow-scarfed head (the scarf now tidilyrearranged) reappeared over the bushes."Come, come, good woman!" was my exclamation. "I tell youthat you must not move about so soon."And certainly her attitude now was one of utter languor, and shehad perforce to grasp the stem of a bush with one hand tosupport herself. Yet while the blood was gone from her face,there had formed in the hollows where her eyes had been twolakes of blue."See how he is sleeping!" she murmured.And, true enough, the child was sound asleep, though to my eyeshe looked much as any other baby might have done, save that thecouch of autumn leaves on which he was ensconced consisted ofleaves of a kind which could not have been discovered in thefaraway forests of Orlov."Now, do you yourself lie down awhile," was my advice."Oh, no," she replied with a shake of her head on its sinuousneck; "for I must be collecting my things before I move ontowards--""Towards Otchenchiri""Yes. By now my folk will have gone many a verst in thatdirection.""And can you walk so far? ""The Holy Mother will help me."Yes, she was to journey in the company of the Mother of God. Sono more on the point required to be said.Glancing again at the tiny, inchoate face under the bushes, hereyes diffused rays of warm and kindly light as, licking herlips, she, with a slow movement, smoothed the breast of thelittle one.Then I arranged sticks for a fire, and also adjusted stones tosupport the kettle."Soon I will have tea ready for you," I remarked."And thankful indeed I shall be," she responded, "for my breastsare dried up.""Why have your companions deserted you?" I said next."They have not deserted me. It was I that left them of my ownaccord. How could I have exposed myself in their presence?"And with a glance at me she raised a hand to her face as,spitting a gout of blood, she smiled a sort of bashful smile."This is your first child, I take it?""It is. . . . And who are you?""A man.""Yes, a man, of course; but, are you a MARRIED man? ""No, I have never been able to marry.""That cannot be true.""Why not?"With lowered eyes she sat awhile in thought."Because, if so, how do you come to know so much about women'saffairs?"This time I DID lie, for I replied:"Because they have been my study. In fact, I am a medicalstudent.""Ah! Our priest's son also was a student, but a student for theChurch.""Very well. Then you know what I am. Now I will go and fetchsome water."Upon this she inclined her head towards her little son andlistened for a moment to his breathing. Then she said with aglance towards the sea:"I too should like to have a wash, but I do not know what thewater is like. What is it? Brackish or salt?""No; quite good water--fit for you to wash in.""Is it really?""Yes, really. Moreover, it is warmer than the water of thestreams hereabouts, which is as cold as ice.""Ah! Well, you know best."Here a shaggy-eared pony, all skin and bone, was seenapproaching us at a foot's pace. Trembling, and drooping itshead, it scanned us, as it drew level, with a round black eye,and snorted. Upon that, its rider pushed back a ragged fur cap,glanced warily in our direction, and again sank his head."The folk of these parts are ugly to look at," softly commentedthe woman from Orlov.Then I departed in quest of water. After I had washed my faceand hands I filled the kettle from a stream bright and lively asquicksilver (a stream presenting, as the autumn leaves tossed inthe eddies which went leaping and singing over the stones, atruly enchanting spectacle), and, returning, and peeping throughthe bushes, perceived the woman to be crawling on hands andknees over the stones, and anxiously peering about, as though insearch of something."What is it? " I inquired, and thereupon, turning grey in theface with confusion she hastened to conceal some article underher person, although I had already guessed the nature of thearticle."Give it to me," was my only remark. "I will go and bury it.""How so? For, as a matter of fact, it ought to be buried underthe floor in front of some stove.""Are we to build a stove HERE? Build it in five minutes?" Iretorted."Ah, I was jesting. But really, I would rather not have itburied here, lest some wild beast should come and devour it. . .Yet it ought to be committed only to the earth."That said, she, with averted eyes, handed me a moist and heavybundle; and as she did so she said under her breath, with an airof confusion:"I beg of you for Christ's sake to bury it as well, as deeply,as you can. Out of pity for my son do as I bid you."I did as she had requested; and, just as the task had beencompleted, I perceived her returning from the margin of the seawith unsteady gait, and an arm stretched out before her, and apetticoat soaked to the middle with the sea water. Yet all herface was alight with inward fire, and as I helped her to regainthe spot where I had prepared some sticks I could not helpreflecting with some astonishment:"How strong indeed she is!"Next, as we drank a mixture of tea and honey, she inquired:"Have you now ceased to be a student?""Yes.""And why so? Through too much drink? ""Even so, good mother.""Dear me! Well, your face is familiar to me. Yes, I rememberthat I noticed you in Sukhum when once you were arguing with thebarraque superintendent over the question of rations. As I didso the thought occurred to me: 'Surely that bold young fellowmust have gone and spent his means on drink? Yes, that is how itmust be.'"Then, as from her swollen lips she licked a drop of honey, sheagain bent her blue eyes in the direction of the bush underwhich the slumbering, newly-arrived Orlovian was couched."How will he live?" thoughtfully she said with a sigh--thenadded:"You have helped me, and I thank you. Yes, my thanks are yours,though I cannot tell whether or not your assistance will havehelped HIM."And, drinking the rest of her tea, she ate a morsel of bread,then made the sign of the cross. And subsequently, as I wasputting up my things, she continued to rock herself to and fro,to give little starts and cries, and to gaze thoughtfully atthe ground with eyes which had now regained their originalcolour. At last she rose to her feet."You are not going yet? " I queried protestingly."Yes, I must.""But--""The Blessed Virgin will go with me. So please hand me over thechild.""No, I will carry him."And, after a contest for the honour, she yielded, and we walkedaway side by side."I only wish I were a little steadier on my feet," she remarkedwith an apologetic smile as she laid a hand upon my shoulder,Meanwhile, the new citizen of Russia, the little human being of anunknown future, was snoring soundly in my arms as the seaplashed and murmured, and threw off its white shavings, and thebushes whispered together, and the sun (now arrived at themeridian) shone brightly upon us all.In calm content it was that we walked; save that now and thenthe mother would halt, draw a deep breath, raise her head, scanthe sea and the forest and the hills, and peer into her son'sface. And as she did so, even the mist begotten of tears ofsuffering could not dim the wonderful brilliancy and clearnessof her eyes. For with the sombre fire of inexhaustible love werethose eyes aflame.Once, as she halted, she exclaimed:"0 God, 0 Mother of God, how good it all is! Would that forever I could walk thus, yes, walk and walk unto the very end ofthe world! All that I should need would be that thou, my son, mydarling son, shouldst, borne upon thy mother's breast, grow andwax strong!"And the sea murmured and murmured.
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