At the bottom of the deep sylvan hollow it was dark, damp, and still.
The murmuring of the stream was borne through the silence, monotonous
and melancholy, like a lament. From the steep sides of the gully above
waved the naked branches of the hazels, dwarf-cherries, and maples;
here and there the roots of the trees, saturated with the spring
water, projected helplessly out of the ground. The forest was still
dead; the gloom of evening magnified the lifeless monotony of its hues
and the sad silence lurking within it which had something of the gloomy
and triumphant repose of an old churchyard.
The chums had already been sitting a long time there in the damp and
silent gloom, beneath a group of aspens clustered together in a huge
clump of earth at the bottom of the ravine. A tiny fire burnt brightly
in front of them, and as they warmed their hands over it, they cast
into it, from time to time, dry twigs and branches, taking care that
the flame should burn evenly all the time, and that the fire should not
give forth smoke. Not very far off stood the horse. They had wrapped
her mouth round with a sleeve torn from the rags of Hopeful, and had
fastened her by her bridle to the trunk of a tree.
Hopeful, crouching down on his heels by the fire, was dreamily gazing
at the flame and whistling his song; his comrade, cutting away at
a bunch of osier-twigs, was making a basket out of them, and his
occupation kept him silent.
The sad melody of the stream and the soft whistling of the unlucky man
blended into one accord, and floated plaintively in the silence of
the evening and the forest. Now and then some twigs on the fire would
crackle, crackle and hiss, doubtless their way of sighing, as if they
felt that life was more lingering than their death in the fire, and
therefore more of a torment.
"What do you say? Shall we be going soon?" inquired Hopeful.
"It's early yet. Let it get quite dark and then we'll go," replied
Jig-Leg, without raising his head from his work.
Hopeful sighed and began to cough.
"Frozen, eh?" inquired his companion after a long pause.
"N--n--no ... Something makes me miserable."
"Let's hear it!" and Jig-Leg shook his head.
"My heart is throbbing."
"Sick, eh?"
"I suppose so ... but it may be something else."
Jig-Leg was silent for a while and then he said:
"I say!... don't think!"
"Of what?"
"Of everything."
"Look here now"--Hopeful suddenly seemed to grow alive--"how can I help
thinking? I look at her"--he waved his hand towards the horse--"I look
at her and I understand--I had such a one also. She was a sorrel, and
at all sorts of work--first-class. Once upon a time I even had a pair
of them--I worked right well in those days."
"What are you driving at?" asked Jig-Leg curtly and coldly. "I don't
like this sort of thing in you, you set up the bagpipes and begin to
groan!--what's the good?"
Hopeful silently threw into the fire a handful of twigs broken up
small, and watched the sparks fly upwards and disappear in the damp
air. His eyes blinked frequently, and shadows ran swiftly across his
face. Presently he turned his head in the direction of the horse and
gazed at her for a long time.
The horse was standing motionless, as if rooted in the ground; her
head, distorted out of recognition by the wrapping, was hanging down.
"We must take a single-minded view of things," said Jig-Leg, severely
and emphatically, "our life--is a day and a night--twenty-four hours
and that's all! If there's food--well and good; if there isn't--well
squeak and squeak as much as you like, you'd better leave off, for it
does no good. And the way you went on just now isn't nice to listen to.
It's because you're sick, that's what it is."
"It must be because I'm sick, I suppose," agreed. Hopeful meekly, but,
after a brief silence, he added, "But it may be owing to a weak heart."
"And that's because your heart is sick," declared Jig-Leg categorically.
He bit through the osier-twigs, waved them over his head, cut the air
with a shrill whistle, and said severely:
"I'm right enough you see--there's nothing of that sort the matter with
me."
The horse shifted from leg to leg; a branch cracked somewhere; some
earth plumped into the stream, introducing some fresh notes into its
quiet melody; then from somewhither two little birds started up and
flew along the gully, screeching uneasily. Hopeful followed them with
his eyes and remarked quietly:
"What birds are those? If they are starlings they have no business in
this forest. They are mostly around dwelling-places. I suppose they are
silk-tails[2] ... lots of 'em about."
"They may be cross-bills."[3]
[2] Bombycilla garrula.
[3] Loxia curvirostra.
"It's too early for cross-bills, and besides, what does a cross-bill
want in a fir-wood? It has no business there. They can only be
silk-tails."
"All right--drop 'em."
"Oh certainly!" agreed Hopeful, and he sighed heavily for some reason
or other.
The work in the hands of Jig-Leg progressed rapidly, he had already
woven the bottom of the basket, and was skilfully making the sides. He
cut the osiers with his knife, bit them through with his teeth, bent
and twined them, and snorted from time to time whenever he gave a tug
at his bristling moustaches.
Hopeful looked sometimes at him, sometimes at the horse, which seemed
to have petrified into its dejected pose, and sometimes at the sky,
already almost nocturnal, but without stars.
"The muzhiks grab all the horses," he suddenly remarked in a strange
voice--"and there are none left except here and there perhaps--so there
are no more horses!"
And Hopeful waved his arms about. His face was dull, and his eyes
blinked as frequently as if he was looking at something bright blazing
up before them.
"What's that to do with you?" asked Jig-Leg severely.
"I was calling to mind a story...." said Hopeful guiltily.
"What story?"
"Yes!... Just as it might be here ... the same thing happened to my
knowledge once ... they took away a horse ... from a neighbour of
mine ... Michael his name was ... such a big muzhik he was ... and
pock-marked...."
"Well?"
"Well, they took her away.... She was browsing on the winter
pastures--and all at once she was gone. When Michael understood that he
was nagless, down he plumped on the ground, and how he howled! Ah, my
little friend, how he did bellow then, to be sure ... it was just as if
he had broken his leg...."
"Well?"
"Well ... he was a long time like that."
"And how do you come in?"
At this sharp question from his comrade, Hopeful slunk away from him,
and timidly answered:
"Oh ... I only remembered it, that's all. For without his horse the
muzhik is in a hole."
"I tell you what it is," began Jig-Leg severely, looking Hopeful
straight in the face, "chuck it, d'ye hear? There's no sense in what
you say, do you understand? Michael, your neighbour, indeed! What's it
got to do with you?"
"Anyhow, it's a pity," objected Hopeful, shrugging his shoulders.
"A pity! Good heavens! and is there anyone who ever takes pity on us?"
"What do you mean?"
"Shut up! it will soon be time to go."
"Soon?"
"Yes."
Hopeful moved a little towards the fire, poked it with his stick, and
looking askance at Jig-Leg, who was once more immersed in his work,
said softly and beseechingly:
"Hadn't we better let her[4] go?"
"It's your low nature that makes you talk like that!" exclaimed Jig-Leg
angrily.
[4] The horse.
"Nay, but for God's sake listen!" persisted Hopeful softly, and with a
tone of conviction, "Just think, there's danger in it! Here we shall
have to drag her along for four versts.... And suppose the gipsies
won't take her!--what then?"
"That's my affair."
"As you like! Only it would be better to let her go. Let her go and
slope. Look what a knacker she is!"
Jig-Leg was silent, but his fingers moved more quickly than ever.
"How much would they give for her, I should like to know, in case they
gave anything at all?" persisted Hopeful, quietly but stubbornly. "And
now it's the best time. It will be dark immediately. If we go along the
gully we shall come out at Dubenka. Let's keep our eyes open, and we
may be able to prig something or other."
The monotonous speech of Hopeful, blending with the gurgling of the
stream, floated down the gully, and enraged the industrious Jig-Leg.
He was silent, ground his teeth, and the osier-twigs broke beneath his
fingers from sheer excitement.
"The women are bleaching their linen now."
The horse snorted loudly and became restive. Enwrapped by the mist, she
now looked more monstrous and more wretched than ever. Jig-Leg looked
at her and spat into the fire.
"The cattle, too, are now at large ... the geese are in the fields...."
"How long will it take you to spit it all out, you devil?" inquired
Jig-Leg savagely.
"For heaven's sake, Stephen, don't be angry with me. Let her loose in
the woods. It's the right thing to do."
"Have you eaten anything to-day?" shrieked Jig-Leg.
"No," replied Hopeful, confused and frightened by his comrade's shout.
"Then, deuce take you, you may starve for all I care. I spit upon you."
Hopeful looked at him in silence, Jig-Leg, collecting the osiers
together, bound them into a bundle, and snorted angrily. The reflection
of the fire fell upon his face, and his face, with the bristling
moustaches, was red and angry.
Hopeful turned away and sighed heavily.
"I spit upon such sentiments. I say--do as you like," said Jig-Leg,
hoarsely and viciously. "But let me tell you this," he went on, "if you
go hedging like this any more, you are no company for me. To that I
mean to stick. I know what you are, you...."
"You're an odd chap...."
"No more tall talk."
Hopeful squirmed and coughed; then after coughing his cough out, he
sighed heavily.
"Do you know why I talk so much about it? Because it is dangerous."
"All right!" cried Jig-Leg angrily.
He picked up the osier-twigs, flung them over his shoulder, shoved the
unfinished basket under his arm, and rose to his feet.
Hopeful also stood up, looked at his comrade, and softly approached the
horse.
"Wo-ah! Christ be with thee! Fear not!" his hollow voice resounded
through the gully.
"Wo-ah! Stand still! Well--go of your own accord--go along, then--there
you are!"
Jig-Leg watched his comrade pottering about the horse and unwinding the
clout from its mouth, and the moustaches of the surly thief twitched
with excitement.
"Let's be off," said he, moving forwards.
"I'm coming," said Hopeful.
And forcing their way through the scrub, they went silently along the
gully in the midst of the night darkness, which filled it to the very
brim.
The horse, too, came after them.
Presently behind them they heard the splashing of water, which drowned
the melody of the stream.
"Ah, thou fool! thou hast fallen into the water," said Hopeful.
Jig-Leg snorted angrily, but remained silent.
In the dark, amidst the gloomy silence of the ravine, resounded the
gentle crackling of twigs; the sound came floating along from the
place where the red cluster of the embers of the fire sparkled on the
ground like some monstrous and maliciously-mirthful eye.
The moon arose.
Her transparent radiance filled the ravine with a mist-like gloom; the
shadows fell on every side, making the forest all the denser, and the
silence therein more complete and more austere The white stems of the
birches, silvered over by the moon, stood out like wax-candles against
the darker ground of the oaks, elms, and brushwood.
The chums walked along the bottom of the ravine in silence. It was hard
going; sometimes their feet stumbled, sometimes they sank deep in the
mire. Hopeful frequently panted, and a whistling, wheezing, rattling
sound came from his breast, just as if a lot of large clocks that had
not been cleaned for a long time were stowed away there. Jig-Leg went
in front, the shadow of his lofty and erect figure fell upon Hopeful.
"Look now!" said he, petulantly and sulkily; "where are we going? What
are we after? Eh?"
Hopeful groaned, and was silent.
"The night is now shorter than a sparrow's beak, by daylight we shall
come to the village, and how shall we do? It is just as if we were
gentlemen at large taking a stroll."
"I feel very bad, brother," said Hopeful quietly.
"Very bad!" exclaimed Jig-Leg ironically; "there you are, of course!
How so?"
"I have great difficulty in breathing," replied the sick thief.
"In breathing? Why have you a great difficulty in breathing?"
"Because I am ill, I suppose."
"You lie! It is because you are stupid."
Jig-Leg stopped short, turned towards his comrade, and shaking his
fingers beneath his nose, added:
"Yes--you cannot breathe because of your stupidity. Do you understand?"
Hopeful bowed his head low, and answered guiltily:
"Certainly!"
He would have said something more, but began to cough instead, leaning
on to the trunk of a tree with trembling hands; and he coughed for a
long time, trampling the ground without moving from the spot, shaking
his head, and opening his mouth wide.
Jig-Leg continued looking at his face, which stood out haggard, earthy
and greenish in the light of the moon.
"You'll awaken all the wood-sprites in the forest," he said at last,
surlily.
And when Hopeful had coughed himself out, and throwing back his head,
groaned freely, he made a proposition to him in a dictatorial tone.
"Rest a bit. Sit down."
And they sat down on the damp earth in the shadow of the bushes.
Jig-Leg made a cigarette, began smoking it, looked at its glow, and
began to speak very deliberately.
"If only we had a home somewhere or other to go to, we might possibly
return home...."
"That's true," said Hopeful, wagging his head.
Jig-Leg looked askance at him, and continued: "But as we haven't got a
home--we must go on."
"Yes--we must," groaned Hopeful.
"We've no place to go to, so there's no sense talking about it. And the
chief cause of it is--we are fools! And what fools we are too!"
The dry voice of Jig-Leg cut through the air, and must have greatly
disquieted Hopeful--for he flung himself prone on the ground, sighed,
and gurgled oddly.
"And I want something to eat--I've a frightful longing that way,"
Jig-Leg concluded his drawling, reproachfully resonant speech.
Then Hopeful rose to his feet with an air of decision.
"What's the matter?" asked Jig-Leg.
"Let's be off!"
"Why so lively all at once?"
"Let's go!"
"Come along, then," and Jig-Leg also stood up, "only there's no sense
in this...."
"I don't care what happens!" and Hopeful waved his hand.
"Plucked up your courage again, eh?"
"What? Here you've been tormenting me and tormenting me, and
blackguarding me and blackguarding me ... Oh Lord!"
"Then why do you mess about so?"
"Mess about?"
"Yes."
"Well, look you, I felt so sorry."
"For whom? For what?"
"For whom? For that man, I suppose."
"For that--man?" drawled Jig-Leg. "Come now, take a pinch of snuff,
and have done with it. Ah! you're a good soul, but you've no sense.
What's the man to you? Can I make you understand that? Why, he'd collar
you, and smash you like a flea beneath his nail! At the very time that
you are pitying him I Then you'll go and declare your stupidity to
him, and in return for your compassion, he'll plague you with all the
seven plagues. Why, you carry your very guts in your hand for people
to look at, and drag your very vitals out into the light of day. Pity
indeed!--Ugh! I've no patience with you. For Heaven's sake, why don't
you have pity on yourself, instead of knocking yourself to bits? A
pretty fellow you are! Pity indeed!--pooh!"
Jig-Leg was quite outraged.
His voice, cutting and full of irony and contempt for his comrade,
resounded through the wood, and the branches of the shrubs shook with a
gentle rustle, as if agreeing with the rough truth of his words.
Hopeful, overwhelmed by these reproaches, paced along slowly on his
trembling legs, drawing up his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, and
drooping his head upon his breast.
"Wait!" said he at last. "What matters it? I'll put it all right. When
we come to the village, I will go into it--all alone. I'll go--you need
not come with me.... I'll prig the very first thing that falls within
my reach--and so home! Come along, and I'll show you something! It will
be hard for me--but don't say a word."
He spoke almost inaudibly, panting hard, with a rattling and a gurgling
in his breast. Jig-Leg looked at him suspiciously, stopped short as
if he were about to say something, waved his hand, and went on again
without saying anything.
For a long time they went on slowly and in silence.
The cocks began to crow somewhere near, the dogs barked, presently
the melancholy sound of the watch-bell was wafted to them from the
distant village church, and was swallowed up in the sombre silence of
the forest. A large bird, looking like a big black patch in the faint
moonlight, rose into the air, and there was an ominous sound in the
ravine of a flurried piping and the rustling of feathers.
"A crow--and a seed crow[5] too, if I'm not mistaken," observed Jig-Leg.
"Look here!" said Hopeful, sinking heavily on the ground, "go you, and
I'll remain here ... I can do no more ... I'm choking ... and my head
is going round."
"Well, there you are!" said Jig-Leg crossly. "What, can't you do a
little more?"
"I can't."
"I congratulate you. Ugh!"
"I've not a bit of strength in me."
"I'm not surprised, we've tramped without a meal since yesterday."
"No, it's not that ... it's all up with me ... look how the blood
trickles!"
And Hopeful raised his hand to Jig-Leg's face, all bespattered with
something dark. The other looked askance at it, and then, lowering his
voice, asked:
"What's to be done?"
"You go on ... I'll remain here ... I may rest a bit."
"Where shall I go? Suppose I go to the village and say there's a man in
the forest taken bad?"
"No ... they'd kill me."
"If they get the chance."
Hopeful fell upon his back, coughed a hollow cough, and vomited a whole
quantity of blood.
[5] A rook.
"How goes it?" inquired Jig-Leg, standing over him, but looking the
other way.
"Very badly," said Hopeful, in an almost inaudible voice, and fell
a-coughing again.
Jig-Leg cursed loudly and cynically.
"Suppose I call someone?"
"Whom?" said Hopeful, his voice was like a dismal echo.
"Or perhaps you may now be able to get up and go on for a little while?"
"No, no!"
Jig-Leg sat by the head of his comrade, and embracing his own knees
with his arms gazed steadily at Hopeful's face. The breast of Hopeful
was moving convulsively with a hollow rattling sound, his eyes were
deep-sunken, his lips gaped strangely apart and seemed to cleave to
his teeth. From the left corner of his mouth a dark living jet was
trickling.
"Is it still flowing?" asked Jig-Leg quietly, and in the tone of his
question there was something very near to respect.
The face of Hopeful shuddered.
"It is flowing," came a faint rattle.
Jig-Leg rested his head on his knees and was silent.
Over them hung the wall of the ravine furrowed by the deep cavities of
the spring streams. From its summit a shaggy row of trees illuminated
by the moon looked down into the abyss. The other side of the ravine,
which had a gentler slope, was overgrown with shrubs; here and there
the grey stems of the aspens stood out against its darker masses, and
on their naked branches the nests of the rooks were visible.... And the
ravine itself, lit up by the moon, was like a vision of slumber, like
a weary dream, with nothing of the hues of life; and the quiet gurgling
of the stream magnified its lifelessness still more and overshadowed
its melancholy silence.
"I am dying," whispered Hopeful in a scarce audible voice, and
immediately afterwards he repeated in a loud and clear voice, "I am
dying, Stephen!"
Jig-Leg trembled all over, wriggled, snorted, and raising his head from
his knees said, awkwardly, very gently, and as if fearing to disturb
something:
"Oh, you've not come to that ... don't be afraid. Quite impossible!
This is such a simple thing ... why it's nothing, my brother, God bless
me!"
"Oh, Lord Jesus Christ!" sighed Hopeful heavily.
"It's nothing at all!" whispered Jig-Leg, bending over his comrade's
face; "just you keep quiet for a bit ... maybe it will pass over!"
But Hopeful began to cough, and a new sound was audible in his breast,
just as if a wet clout was being smacked against his ribs. Jig-Leg
looked at him and twirled his moustaches in silence. Having coughed
himself out, Hopeful began to pant loudly and uninterruptedly--just as
if he were running away somewhere with all his might. For a long time
he panted like this, then he said:
"Forgive me, Stephen ... if anything I ... that horse you know ...
forgive me, little brother!"
"You forgive me!" interrupted Jig-Leg, and after a pause, he added:
"And I ... whither shall I go? And how will it be with me?"
"It doesn't matter. May the Lord give thee...."
He sighed without finishing his sentence and was silent.
Then he began to make a rattling sound ... then he stretched out his
legs--one of them he jerked sideways.
Jig-Leg gazed at him without once removing his eyes. A few moments
passed as long as hours.
Suddenly Hopeful raised his head, but immediately it fell helplessly
back on to the ground.
"What, my brother?" said Jig-Leg, leaning over him. But he answered no
more, but lay there quiet and motionless.
The sour-visaged Jig-Leg remained sitting by his chum a few minutes
longer, then he arose, took off his hat, crossed himself, and slowly
went on his way along the ravine. His face was peaked, his eyebrows and
moustaches were bristling, and he walked as firmly as if he wanted to
beat the earth with his feet and do her a mischief.
The day was already breaking. The sky was grey and cheerless; a savage
silence prevailed in the ravine; only the stream, disturbing no one,
uttered its monotonous melancholy speech.
But hark, there's a rustle--maybe a clump of earth has rolled down the
side of the ravine.... The rook awakes, and, croaking uneasily, flies
off elsewhere. Presently a titmouse utters her cry. In the damp cold
air of the ravine sounds don't live long--they arise and immediately
vanish.