Love and Youth Page 10

  All the boys laughed, and then they were silent for a bit, which often happens when people have been having a conversation in the open air. I looked round. The night was deep, majestic and solemn; the cool damp late evening had given way to the dry warmth of midnight, which would hang for many hours yet like a soft curtain over the sleeping fields. There was still a long time to go before the first lisping sounds, the first rustles and whispers of the morning, and the first dewdrops of daybreak. There was no moon in the sky—it rose late at that time. Countless golden stars seemed to be drifting quietly towards the Milky Way, twinkling one after another; and watching them, you truly seemed to feel aware of the earth’s own relentless, headlong rush through space …

  Suddenly a strange, sharp, painful cry sounded twice in succession over the river; a few moments later it came again from further off …

  Kostya shuddered. ‘What was that?’

  ‘That’s a heron’s cry,’ said Pavel coolly.

  ‘A heron …’ repeated Kostya. ‘And what do you think, Pavlusha—I heard something last night,’ he went on after a brief pause, ‘and I thought you might know …’

  ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘Here’s what. I was walking from Stony Ridge to Sashkino, and first I went through our walnut wood, and then I crossed the meadow—you know, where it takes a sharp bend, and goes down to a pit full of water, you know, where it’s all overgrown with rushes. Well, I went on past that pit, boys, and suddenly something in there gave a groan, it was so pitiful, so pitiful—oo-oo … oo-oo … oo-oo! I was so scared, boys, I mean, it was late, and that voice was so miserable—I think I could have cried myself … What could that have been, eh?’

  ‘That was the pit where the robbers drowned Akim the forester, last summer,’ remarked Pavlusha. ‘Maybe it was his soul lamenting.’

  ‘Oh my, boys,’ said Kostya, opening his large eyes even wider. ‘I’d no idea Akim was drowned in that pit. I’d have been twice as scared!’

  ‘But then people say there are tiny little frogs, too, that cry sadly like that.’

  ‘Frogs? No, no, that wasn’t frogs … No way …’ (The heron over the river gave another cry.) ‘Just listen to that!’ Kostya exclaimed. ‘You’d think it was a leshy, a wood spirit, shrieking.’

  ‘No, the leshy doesn’t shriek, he’s dumb,’ Ilyusha interrupted, ‘all he does is clap his hands and rattle the branches.’

  ‘So you’ve seen the leshy, have you?’ Fedya asked sarcastically.

  ‘No, I haven’t, and God save me from seeing him—but some people have. Just a few days ago, he led one of our peasants astray, set him wandering this way and that through the forest, and round and round the same clearing … he never got home till nearly dawn.’

  ‘Well, and did he see him?’

  ‘Yes he did. He’s a huge, tall creature, he said, standing there all dark, muffled up in something, as if he’s hiding behind a tree, and you can’t make him out, for he seems to be hiding from the moon; and looking at you, looking with those huge eyes, and winking, and winking …’

  ‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Fedya, with a little shudder and a twitch of his shoulders. ‘Ugh!’

  ‘What makes all these foul creatures breed in our world?’ Pavel wondered. ‘Honestly, I can’t understand it!’

  ‘Don’t speak ill of him—watch out, he’ll hear you,’ said Ilyusha.

  Another silence fell.

  ‘Look up, boys, look up there!’ came Vanya’s childish voice suddenly. ‘Look at God’s stars—like a swarm of bees!’

  He poked his fresh little face out from under his rug, leaned on his fist and slowly raised his large, soft eyes heavenwards. All the boys looked up at the sky, and a long time passed before they lowered them again.

  ‘Vanya,’ began Fedya in a gentle voice, ‘how’s your sister Anyutka? Is she well?’

  ‘Yes, she’s well,’ replied Vanya with a slight lisp.

  ‘Ask her—why doesn’t she come to see us any more?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You tell her to come and see us.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll give her a treat.’

  ‘Will you give me one too?’

  ‘Yes, you too.’

  Vanya sighed. ‘No, you don’t have to give me one. Better let her have one, she’s so nice and kind.’

  And Vanya laid his head down on the ground again. Pavel stood up and picked up the empty pan.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Fedya asked him.

  ‘The river, to get some water. I want a drink.’

  The dogs got up and followed him.

  ‘Careful not to fall in the river!’ Ilyusha called after him.

  ‘Why would he fall in?’ said Fedya. ‘He’ll be careful.’

  ‘Yes, of course he’ll be careful; but anything can happen. He could bend down and start scooping up water, and a river fairy, a vodyanoy, could grab him by the arm and pull him in. And then people would say, the lad fell into the water … but he never fell in at all … Hark at that—he’s gone into the reeds,’ he added, listening hard.

  And indeed the reeds were ‘shushing’, as people call it, where they were being parted.

  ‘And is it true,’ asked Kostya, ‘that mad Akulina lost her wits the day she fell into the water?’

  ‘Yes, that was when it happened … Just look at her now! But they say she was a great beauty before that. The vodyanoy bewitched her. He can’t have expected her to be pulled out so quickly. But while he had her at the bottom of the river, that’s when he bewitched her.’

  (I had occasionally met Akulina myself. Dreadfully thin, covered in rags, her face black as soot, a dull look in her eyes and teeth always bared, she stands on the roadway stamping her feet on one spot for hours on end, pressing her bony hands hard against her breast and slowly shifting from one leg to the other, like a wild animal in a cage. She understands nothing that is said to her, but just giggles fitfully from time to time.)

  ‘And they say,’ Kostya went on, ‘Akulina threw herself into the river because her lover had been untrue to her.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And do you remember Vasya?’ Kostya added mournfully.

  ‘Which Vasya?’ asked Fedya.

  ‘The one that drowned,’ said Kostya, ‘in this same river. Oh, what a boy he was! Really, what a boy he was! His mother, Feklista, how she loved him, that Vasya! And she seemed to have a feeling, Feklista did, that the water would do for him somehow. Sometimes Vasya would come out with us boys in the summertime, to have a swim in the river, and she’d be all of a tremble! The other women would be fine, coming by with their pails, waddling along, but Feklista would put down her pail and start calling him, “Come back! Come back home, light of my life! Oh, do come back, my little falcon!” And how he happened to drown, the Lord alone knows. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was there too, raking hay, and suddenly she heard a noise as if someone was blowing bubbles through the water—and she looked, and all she could see was Vasya’s little cap floating on the water. And ever since then, Feklista hasn’t been quite right in the head either; she’ll go and lie down at the same spot where he drowned, she’ll lie down, boys, and start singing a song—you know, Vasya used to sing that song, and she’ll start singing it herself, and she’s crying and crying, and complaining bitterly to God …’

  ‘Here’s Pavlusha back,’ said Fedya.

  Pavlusha came up to the fire with the pan full of water.

  ‘Listen, boys,’ he said after a pause. ‘Something bad happened.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Kostya quickly.

  ‘I heard Vasya’s voice.’

  Everyone shivered.

  ‘What do you mean? What do you mean?’ stammered Kostya.

  ‘Honestly, I did. Just as soon as I bent over the water, suddenly I heard Vasya’s voice calling me, and it seemed to be coming from under water: “Pavlusha! Pavlusha!” Then I listened some more, and it called me again, “Pavlusha, come
here!” So I ran away. But I did get some water.’

  ‘Oh my Lord! Oh my Lord!’ said all the boys, and crossed themselves.

  ‘You know, that was the vodyanoy calling you, Pavel,’ said Fedya. ‘And we were just talking about him, about Vasya.’

  ‘Oh dear, that’s a bad sign,’ said Ilyusha slowly.

  ‘Well, never mind! Forget it!’ said Pavel firmly, and sat down. ‘You can’t escape your fate.’

  The boys became subdued; it was obvious that Pavel’s account had moved them deeply. They began to settle down round the fire as if preparing to sleep.

  ‘What’s that?’ Kostya asked suddenly, raising his head.

  Pavel listened.

  ‘That’s curlews flying, and whistling.’

  ‘Where are they flying to?’

  ‘The place where they say winter never comes.’

  ‘Why, is there a place like that?’

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Yes, far, far away, over the warm seas.’

  Kostya sighed and closed his eyes.

  Over three hours had passed since I had joined the boys. The moon had risen at last, though I did not notice it at first, it was such a thin little crescent. This moonless night seemed just as splendid as it had been before … But many of the stars that had so recently shone high in the sky had by now descended to the earth’s dark edge; everything around us had fallen quite still, as generally only happens in the early mornings; everything was wrapped in the deep, unmoving sleep that comes just before dawn. The air no longer held its powerful fragrance—dampness seemed to be flooding it again. Those short summer nights! And the boys’ conversation had faded away like their fires … Even the dogs were dozing; and the horses, as far as I could make them out in the faint, glimmering starlight, were also sleeping, with drooping heads … I was overcome with a pleasant drowsiness that soon passed into sleep.

  A fresh breeze wafted over my face. I opened my eyes: morning was near. There was no dawn blush in the sky yet, but the east had already grown pale. I could see everything around me, though only indistinctly. The pallid grey sky was luminous, cold, with a tinge of blue; the stars now shone with a feeble, flickering light, then vanished altogether. The earth was damp, the leaves sweating with dew; there were living sounds to be heard, and voices; and a little morning breeze was playing restlessly over the fields. My body responded to it with a light, happy shiver. I stood up briskly and walked over to the boys. They were all sleeping like the dead, around their smouldering bonfire. Pavel alone sat up and looked at me intently.

  I nodded to him and set off for home along the misty river. I had scarcely gone a couple of versts when I already found myself enveloped in a flood of light—first a crimson glow, then red, then golden streams of warm, youthful radiance: they flowed over the broad, dewy meadow around me, and ran from woodland to woodland over the green hills ahead of me and the long dusty road behind me, and over the bushes glittering in the rosy light of dawn, and along the river that shone with such a shy tinge of blue under the rising mist. Everything stirred, woke, sang, rustled, spoke aloud. Big dewdrops gleamed all round me, like glittering diamonds. Pure and clear, as though washed in the morning coolness, came the notes of a bell. And suddenly the herd of horses, fresh after their night’s rest, came galloping past, driven by those same boys whom I knew.

  I have to add that, sadly, Pavel died that same year. He was not drowned, but killed by a fall from a horse. Such a shame—he was a splendid lad!

  BIRYUK

  One evening I was on my way home from the hunt, on my own, driving a racing droshky. There were still some eight versts to go; my fine mare raced bravely along the dusty road, pricking up her ears and snorting from time to time; my weary dog ran along behind, never dropping back a step, as if he was tethered to the rear wheels. A storm was on the way. Ahead of us, a gigantic purple storm cloud loomed over the forest, while long grey clouds scudded overhead, advancing towards me. Willow leaves trembled and whispered restlessly. All of a sudden the stifling heat gave way to moist, cool air, as the shadows quickly thickened. I flicked my horse’s reins, descended into a hollow, crossed a dried-up stream overgrown with willow bushes, and climbed uphill into a forest. The winding road ahead of me ran among thick hazel bushes, already shrouded in darkness, and it was hard to go forward. The droshky jolted over the tough roots of hundred-year-old oaks and limes as it ran along the deep ruts left by cartwheels, and my horse stumbled. A sudden violent gust of wind rushed hissing through the treetops overhead, and heavy raindrops rattled and pattered over the leaves. Lightning flashed, and the storm broke. The rain fell in sheets. I carried on at a walk, but soon had to stop altogether, for my horse was sinking into the mud, and I couldn’t see a thing. I sheltered as best I could next to a spreading bush. Crouching down on my seat and covering my face, I waited patiently for the storm to pass. Suddenly, by a flash of lightning, I thought I saw a tall figure, and as I continued to stare that way, the figure seemed to rise out of the ground beside my droshky.

  ‘Who are you?’ came a resonant voice.

  ‘Who are you yourself?’

  ‘I’m the forester here.’

  I told him my name.

  ‘Oh, I know you! On your way home?’

  ‘Yes. But you can see the storm …’

  ‘Yes, there’s a storm,’ replied the voice.

  A flash of white lightning lit up the forester from head to foot, and a sharp cracking thunderclap followed an instant later. The rain poured down harder than ever.

  ‘This won’t be over any time soon,’ the forester said.

  ‘What can one do!’

  ‘I’d better take you to my hut,’ he said shortly.

  ‘That’s kind of you.’

  ‘Stay where you are, then.’

  He went to my horse’s head and pulled on her bridle. We moved off. I held on to the upholstered seat of the droshky, which was rocking like a boat on the high seas, and called my dog. My poor mare was squelching through the mud, slithering and stumbling along, while the forester swayed this way and that like a ghost in front of the shafts. We drove along for quite a while, but eventually my guide stopped. ‘Here we are, mister, we’ve arrived,’ he said in a low voice. A wicket gate creaked, and several puppies started barking in chorus. I looked up; in the glare of a lightning flash I glimpsed a little hut in the middle of a wide yard enclosed by a wattle fence. A dim light showed in a window. The forester led my horse up to the entrance and knocked. ‘Coming! Coming!’ came a piping little voice, followed by the patter of bare feet. The bolt scraped open, and a girl of twelve in a smock tied with a strip of cloth appeared in the doorway, holding a lantern.

  ‘Light the gentleman in,’ he told her, and added ‘I’ll put your droshky under cover.’

  The girl glanced at me and went back in. I followed her.

  The forester’s hut consisted of a single smoky room, low-pitched and empty. There were no bunks and no partition. A ragged sheepskin hung on the wall. I saw a single-barrelled shotgun lying on a bench, a heap of rags in a corner, and two big pots standing by the fire. A taper was burning on the table, flaring up dismally and fading out. A cradle hung in the middle of the hut, suspended on the end of a long pole. The girl blew out her lantern, sat down on the tiny bench and began rocking the cradle with her right hand while attending to the taper with her left. I looked around with a sinking heart. A peasant’s hut at night is not a cheerful place. The baby in the cradle was breathing hard and rapidly.

  ‘Are you all on your own here?’ I asked the girl.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, so softly that I could barely hear her.

  ‘Are you the forester’s daughter?’

  ‘That’s right,’ she whispered.

  The door creaked and the forester strode in, head bowed. He picked up the lantern from the floor, brought it to the table and lit it.

  ‘Not used to tapers, I guess?’ he said, tossing back his curly hair.

&nbs
p; I looked at him. Rarely had I seen such a fine-looking young man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and splendidly built. His powerful muscles bulged under his damp canvas shirt. His stern, manly face was half hidden behind a curly black beard; small brown eyes looked boldly out under a pair of thick eyebrows that met over his nose. He stood facing me, resting his hands lightly on his hips.

  I thanked him for taking me in, and asked his name.

  *‘Foma,’ he said. ‘They call me Biryuk.’

  ‘Ah, you’re Biryuk, are you?’

  I looked at him again, with redoubled curiosity. I had often heard tales about Biryuk the forester, from my man Yermolay and others. Apparently all the peasants around dreaded him worse than fire. Never, they said, had the world known such a master of his trade. ‘He won’t let you take so much as a handful of brushwood; he’ll come down on you like snow off a roof, any time of day, even at midnight, and don’t even think of standing up to him—he’s strong, and nimble as the devil himself … And there’s no getting round him, not with vodka, nor money either, nothing’ll tempt him. Time and again our good folk have tried to get rid of him, but there’s no chance, he’s too much for them.’

  That was what the local peasants said about him.

  ‘So you’re Biryuk,’ I repeated. ‘I’ve heard about you, my man. They say you never let anybody off.’

  ‘I do my duty,’ he replied sullenly. ‘It’s not right to eat the master’s bread for nothing.’