‘Are all your birds tame?’ I asked, overtaking the girl.
‘All tame,’ she answered abruptly, not even glancing at me. ‘Now
look,’ she said, stopping by the wattle hedge. ‘Do you see the little
footpath there, between the fir-trees? Can you see it?’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Go straight along it. When you come to the oak stump, turn to your
left. You must go straight on through the forest. Then you will come
out on the Irenov road.’
All the while she directed me, pointing with her right hand,
involuntarily I admired her. There was nothing in her like the local
girls, whose faces have such a scared, monotonous look under the ugly
head-bands which cover their forehead, mouth, and chin. My unknown
was a tall brunette from twenty to twenty-five years old, free and
graceful. Her white shirt covered her strong young bosom loosely and
charmingly. Once seen, the peculiar beauty of her face could not be
forgotten; it was even difficult to get accustomed to it, to describe
it. The charm lay in her large, shining, dark eyes, to which the thin
arched eyebrows gave an indescribable air, shy, queenly, and innocent,
and in the dusky pink of her skin, in the self-willed curl of her lips.
Her under-lip was fuller, and it was pushed forward a little, giving
her a determined and capricious look.
‘Are you really not afraid to live by yourselves in such a lonely
spot?’ I asked, stopping by the hedge.
She shrugged her shoulders indifferently.
‘Why should we be afraid? The wolves do not come near us.’
‘Wolves are not everything. Your hut might be smothered under the snow.
The hut might catch on fire. Anything might happen. You two are there
alone, no one could come to your assistance.’
‘Thank God for that!’ she waved her hand scornfully. ‘If granny and I
were left alone entirely, it would be much better, but----’
‘What?’
‘You will get old, if you want to know so much,’ she cut me short. ‘And
who are you?’ she asked anxiously.
I realised that probably the old woman and the girl were afraid of
persecution from the authorities, and I hastened to reassure her.
‘Oh, don’t be alarmed. I’m not the village policeman, or the clerk, or
the exciseman.... I’m not an official at all.’
‘Is that really true?’
‘On my word of honour. Believe me, I am the most private person. I’ve
simply come to stay here a few months, and then I’m going away. If you
like, I won’t tell a soul that I’ve been here and seen you. Do you
believe me?’
The girl’s face brightened a little.
‘Well, then, if you’re not lying, you’re telling the truth. But tell
me: had you heard about us, or did you come across us by accident?’
‘I don’t quite know how to explain it myself.... Yes, I had heard, and
I even wanted to call on you some time. But it was an accident that I
came to-day, I lost my way. Now tell me: why are you afraid of people?
What harm do they do you?’
She glanced at me with suspicion. But my conscience was clear, and I
endured her scrutiny without a tremor. Then she began to speak, with
increasing agitation.
‘They do bad things.... Ordinary people don’t matter, but the
officials.... The village policeman comes--he must be bribed. The
inspector--pay again. And before he takes the bribe he insults my
grandmother; says she’s a witch, a hag, a convict.... But what’s the
good of talking?...’
‘But don’t they touch you?’ The imprudent question escaped my lips.
She drew up her head with proud self-confidence, and angry triumph
flashed in her half-closed eyes.
‘They don’t touch me.... Once a surveyor came near to me.... He wanted
a kiss.... I don’t think he will have forgotten yet how I kissed him.’
So much harsh independence sounded in these proud, derisive words, that
I involuntarily thought:
‘You haven’t been bred in the Polyessie forest for nothing. You’re
really a dangerous person to joke with....’
‘Do we touch anybody?’ she continued as her confidence in me grew. ‘We
do not want people. Once a year I go to the little town to buy soap and
salt ... and some tea for granny. She loves tea. Otherwise, I could do
without them for ever.’
‘Well, I see you and your granny are not fond of people.... But may I
come to see you sometimes for a little while?’
She laughed. How strange and unexpected was the change in her pretty
face! There was no trace of her former sternness in it. It had in an
instant become bright, shy, and childish.
‘Whatever will you do with us? Granny and I are dull.... Why, come, if
you like, and if you are really a good man. But ... if you do happen to
come, it would be better if you came without a gun....’
‘You’re afraid?’
‘Why should I be afraid? I’m afraid of nothing.’ Again I could catch in
her voice her confidence in her strength. ‘But I don’t like it. Why do
you kill birds, or hares even? They do nobody any harm, and they want
to live as much as you or I. I love them; they are so tiny, and such
little stupids.... Well, good-bye.’ She began to hurry. ‘I don’t know
your name.... I’m afraid granny will be cross with me.’
With easy swiftness she ran to the hut. She bent her head, and with her
hands caught up her hair, blown loose in the wind.
‘Wait, wait a moment,’ I called. ‘What is your name? Let us be properly
introduced.’
‘My name’s Alyona.... Hereabouts they call me Olyessia.’
I shouldered my gun and went the way I had been shown. I climbed a
small mound from whence a narrow, hardly visible, forest path began,
and looked back. Olyessia’s red skirt, fluttering in the wind, could
still be seen on the steps of the hut, a spot of bright colour on the
smooth and blinding background of the snow.
An hour later Yarmola returned. As usual he avoided idle conversation,
and asked me not a word of how and where I lost my way. He just said,
casually:
‘There.... I’ve left a hare in the kitchen.... Shall we roast it, or do
you want to send it to any one?’
‘But you don’t know where I’ve been to-day, Yarmola?’ I said,
anticipating his surprise.
‘How do you mean, I don’t know?’ he muttered gruffly. ‘You went to the
witch’s for sure....’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘How could I help it? I heard no answer from you, so I went back on
your tracks.... Sir!’ he added in reproachful vexation, ‘you shouldn’t
do such things.... It’s a sin!...’