The Gifts of Feodor Himkoff

by Arthur Quiller-Couch

　　From Noughts and Crosses: Stories, Studies and Sketches.

　　It is just six years ago that I first travelled the coast fromGorrans Haven to Zoze Point.Since then I have visited it in fair weather and foul; and in time,perhaps, shall rival the coastguardsmen, who can walk it blindfold.But to this day it remains in my recollection the coast I trod,without companion, during four dark days in December. It was a rudeintroduction. The wind blew in my face, with scuds of cold rain; aleaden mist hung low on the left, and rolled slowly up Channel.Now and then it thinned enough to reveal a white zigzag of breakersin front, and a blur of land; or, far below, a cluster of drippingrocks, with the sea crawling between and lifting their weed. But forthe most part I saw only the furze-bushes beside the path, eachpowdered with fine raindrops, that in the aggregate resembled a coatof grey frieze, and the puffs of spray that shot up over the cliff'slip and drenched me.Just beyond the Nare Head, where the path dipped steeply, a brightsquare disengaged itself from the mist as I passed, and, around it,the looming outline of a cottage, between the footpath and the sea.A habitation more desolate than this odd angle of the coast couldhardly have been chosen; on the other hand, the glow of firelightwithin the kitchen window was almost an invitation. It seemed worthmy while to ask for a drink of milk there, and find out what mannerof folk were the inmates.An old woman answered my knock. She was tall, with a slight stoop,and a tinge of yellow pervading her face, as if some of thecomplexion had run into her teeth and the whites of her eyes.A clean white cap, tied under the chin with tape, concealed all butthe edge of her grey locks. She wore a violet turnover, a largewrapper, a brown stuff gown that hardly reached her ankles, and thickworsted stockings, but no shoes."A drink o' milk? Why not a dish o' tea?""That will be troubling you," said I, a bit ashamed for feeling solittle in want of sustenance."Few they be that troubles us, my dear. Too few by land, an' toomany by sea, rest their dear souls! Step inside by the fire.There's only my old man here, an' you needn't stand 'pon ceremony wi'he: for he's stone-deaf an' totelin'. Isaac, you poor deafhaddock, here's a strange body for 'ee to look at; tho' you'm pastall pomp but buryin', I reckon." She sighed as I stepped past intothe warmth.The man she called Isaac was huddled and nodding in a chair, beforethe bluish blaze of a wreck-wood fire. He met me with an incuriousstare, and began to doze again. He was clearly in the last declineof manhood, the stage of utter childishness and mere oblivion; andsat there with his faculties collapsed, waiting for release.My mired boots played havoc with the neatly sanded floor; but the oldwoman dusted a chair for me as carefully as if I had worn robes ofstate, and set it on the other side of the hearth. Then she put thekettle to boil, and unhitching a cup from the dresser, took a keyfrom it, and opened a small cupboard between the fireplace and thewall. That which she sought stood on the top shelf and she had toclimb on a chair to reach it. I offered my help: but no--she wouldget it herself. It proved to be a small green canister.The tea that came from this canister I wish I could describe.No sooner did the boiling water touch it than the room was filledwith fragrance. The dotard in the chair drew a long breath throughhis nostrils, as though the aroma touched some quick centre in hismoribund brain. The woman poured out a cup, and I sipped it."Smuggled," I thought to myself; for indeed you cannot get such teain London if you pay fifty shillings a pound."You like it?" she asked. Before I could answer, a small table stoodat my elbow, and she was loading it with delicacies from thecupboard. The contents of that cupboard! Caviare came from it, anda small ambrosial cheese; dried figs and guava jelly; olives,cherries in brandy, wonderful filberts glazed with sugar; biscuitsand all manner of queer Russian sweets. I leant back with wide eyes."Feodor sends us these," said the old woman, bringing a dish ofCornish cream and a home-made loaf to give the feast a basis."Who's Feodor?""Feodor Himkoff." She paused a moment, and added, "He's mate on aRussian vessel.""A friend?"The question went unnoticed. "Is there any you fancy?" she asked."Some o't may be outlandish eatin'.""Do you like these things?" I looked from her to the caviare."I don't know. I never tried. We keeps 'em, my man an' I, for allpoor come-by-chance folks that knocks.""But these are dainties for rich men's tables.""May be. I've never tasted--they'd stick in our ozels if we tried."I wanted to ask a dozen questions, but thought it politer to acceptthis strange hospitality in silence. Glancing up presently, however,I saw her eyes still fixed on me, and laid down my knife."I can't help it," I said, "I want to know about Feodor Himkoff.""There's no secret," she answered. "Leastways, there was one, buteither God has condemned or forgiven afore now. Look at my manthere; he's done all the repentin' he's likely to do."After a few seconds' hesitation she went on--"I had a boy, you must know--oh! a straight young man--that went fora soldier, an' was killed at Inkerman by the Rooshians. Take anotherlook at his father here; you think 'en a bundle o' frailties, Idessay. Well, when the news was brought us, this poor old worm liftshis fist up to the sun an' says, 'God do so to me an' more also,' hesays, 'if ever I falls across a Rooshian!' An' 'God send me aRooshian--just one!' he says, meanin' that Rooshians don't grow onbrambles hereabouts. Now the boy was our only flesh."Well, sir, nigh sixteen year' went by, an' we two were sittin', onequakin' night, beside this very fire, hearkenin' to the bedlamoutside: for 'twas the big storm in 'Seventy, an' even indoors wemust shout to make ourselves heard. About ten, as we was thinkin' toalley-couchey, there comes a bangin' on the door, an' Isaac gets upan' lets the bar down, singin' out, 'Who is it?'"There was a big young man 'twixt the doorposts, drippin' wet, wi'smears o' blood on his face, an' white teeth showin' when he talked.'Twas a half-furrin talk, an' he spoke a bit faint too, but fairlygrinned for joy to see our warm fire,--an' his teeth were white aspearl."'Ah, sir,' he cried, 'you will help? Our barque is ashore below--fifteen poor brothers! You will send for help?--you will aid?'"Then Isaac stepped back, and spoke very slow--'What nation?' heasked. 'She is Russ--we are all Russ; sixteen poor brothers fromArchangel,' said the young man, as soon as he took in the question.My man slewed round on his heel, and walked to the hearth here; butthe sailor stretched out his hands, an' I saw the middle finger ofhis right hand was gone. 'You will aid, eh? Ah, yes, you will aid.They are clingin'--so--fifteen poor brothers, and many have wives.'But Isaac said, 'Thank Thee, God,' and picked up a log from thehearth here. 'Take 'em this message,' said he, facin' round; an',runnin' on the sailor, who was faint and swayin', beat him forth wi'the burnin' stick, and bolted the door upon him."After that we sat quiet, he an' I, all the night through, nevertakin' our clothes off. An' at daybreak Isaac walked down to theshore. There was nothin' to see but two bodies, an' he buried theman' waited for more. That evenin' another came in, an' next day,two; an' so on for a se'nnight. Ten bodies in all he picked up andburied i' the meadow below. An' on the fourth day he picked up abody wi' one finger missin', under the Nare Head. 'Twas the youngman he had driven forth, who had wandered there an' broke his neck.Isaac buried him too. An' that was all, except two that thecoastguard found an' held an inquest over an' carr'd off tochurchyard."So it befell; an' for five year' neither Isaac nor me opened mouth'pon it, not to each other even. An' then, one noonday, a sailorknocks at the door; an' goin' out, I seed he was a furriner, wi'great white teeth showin' dro' his beard. 'I be come to see MisterIsaac Lenine,' he says, in his outlandish English. So I called Isaacout; an' the stranger grips 'en by the hand an' kisses 'en, sayin','Little father, take me to their graves. My name is Feodor Himkoff,an' my brother Dmitry was among the crew of the Viatka. You wouldknow his body, if you buried it, for the second finger was gone fromhis right hand. I myself--wretched one!--chopped it by bad luck whenwe were boys, an' played at wood cuttin' wi' our father's axe.I have heard how they perished, far from aid, and how you gave 'emburial in your own field: and I pray to all the saints for you,' hesays."So Isaac led 'en to the field and showed 'en the grave that wasstaked off 'long wi' the rest. God help my poor man! he was too biga coward to speak. So the man stayed wi' us till sundown, an' kissedus 'pon both cheeks, an' went his way, blessin' us. God forgi'e us--God forgi'e us!"An' ever since he's been breaking our heads dro' the post-office wi'such-like precious balms as these here." She broke off to settleIsaac more comfortably in his chair. "'Tis all we can do to get ridof 'em on poor trampin' fellows same as yourself."

　　THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *