[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: Sasha warns the Baron. Page 32]
SASHA THE SERF:
AND
OTHER STORIES OF RUSSIAN LIFE.
[Illustration: Sasha]
LONDON:
BLACKIE & SON, 49 OLD BAILEY, E.C.;
GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN.
CONTENTS.
Sasha the Serf
The Coolest Man in Russia
Katinka, the Peasant Maid
Three Kopecks
The Devil in the Mine
A Bear-Hunt in Russia
A Story of Peter the Great
SASHA THE SERF.
CHAPTER I.
It was towards the close of a September day. Old Gregor and his
grandson Sasha were returning home through the forest with their
bundles of wood, the old man stooping low under the weight of the
heavier pieces he carried, while the boy dragged his great bunch of
twigs and splints by a rope drawn over his shoulder. Where the trees
grew thick the air was already quite gloomy, but in the open spaces
they could see the sky and tell how near it was to sunset.
Both were silent, for they were tired, and it is not easy to talk and
carry a heavy load at the same time. But presently something gray
appeared through the trees at the foot of a low hill; it was the rock
where they always rested on their way home. Old Gregor laid down his
bundle there, and wiped his face on the sleeve of his brown jacket,
but Sasha sprang upon the rock and began to balance himself upon one
foot, as was his habit whenever he tried to think about anything.
"Grandfather," he said at last, "why should all this forest belong to
the baron, and none of it to you?"
Gregor looked at him sharply for a moment before he answered.
"It was his father's and his grandfather's: it has been the property
of the family for many a hundred years, and we never had any."
"I know that, grandfather," said Sasha. "But why did it come so at
_first_?"
Gregor shook his head. "You might as well ask how the world was
made." Then, seeing that the boy looked troubled, he added in a
kinder tone, "Sasha, what put such a thought into your head?"
"Why, the forest itself!" replied the boy. "The baron lets us have
the top branches and little twigs, but he takes all the great logs
and trunks, and sells them for money. I know all the trees, and he
does not; I can find my way in the woods anywhere, and there's many a
tree that would say to me, if it could talk, 'I'd rather belong to
you, Sasha, than to the baron, because I know you, and I don't know
him.'"
"Ay, and the moon would say the same to you, boy, and the sun and the
stars, maybe. You might as well want to own them--and you don't even
belong to yourself!"
Gregor's words seemed harsh and fierce, but his voice was very sad.
The boy looked at him and knew not what to say, but his heart beat
violently. All at once he heard a rustle among the dead leaves, and
a sound as if of footsteps approaching. The old man took hold of his
grandson's arm, and made a sign for him to be silent. The sound came
nearer and nearer, and presently they could distinguish some dusky
object moving towards them through the trees.
"Is it a robber?" whispered the boy.
"It is not a man, unless he uses his knees for hind feet. I see his
head; it is a bear. Keep quiet, boy! make no noise: take this stick,
but hold it at your side as I do mine. If he comes close, look him
firmly in the face; and if I tell you to strike, hit him on the end
of the nose."
It was indeed a full-grown bear, marching slowly on his great flat
feet. He was not more than thirty yards distant when he saw them,
and stopped. Both kept their eyes fixed upon his head, but did not
move. Then he came a few paces nearer, and Sasha tried hard not to
show that he was trembling inwardly, more, however, from excitement
than fear. The bear gazed steadily at them for what seemed a long
time, and there was an expression of anger, but also of stupid
bewilderment, in his eyes. Finally he gave a sniff and a grunt,
tossed up his nose, and walked slowly on, stopping once or twice to
turn and look back before he disappeared from view. Sasha lifted his
stick and shook it at him. He felt that he should never again be
much afraid of bears.
"Now, boy," said his grandfather, "you have learned how to face
danger. I have been as near to a loaded cannon as to that bear, and
the wind of the ball threw me upon my face: but I was up the next
moment, and then the gunner went down! Our colonel saw it, and I
remember what he said--ay, every word! He would have kept his
promise, but we carried him from the field next day, and that was the
end of the matter. It was in France that it happened."
"Grandfather," asked the boy suddenly, "are there forests in France,
and do they belong to barons?"
"Pick up your faggot, boy, and come along!" said Gregor. "It will be
dark before we get to the village, and the potatoes are cooked by
this time."
The mention of the potatoes revived all Sasha's forgotten hunger, and
he obeyed in silence. After walking for a mile as rapidly as their
loads would permit them, they issued from the forest, and saw the
wooden houses of the village on a green knoll, in the last gleams of
sunset. The church, with its three little copper-covered domes,
stood on the highest point. Next to it the priest's house and
garden, and then began the broad street, lined with square log-cabins
and adjoining stables, sloping down to a large pond, at the foot of
which was a mill. Beyond the water there was a great stretch of
grazing meadow, then long rolling fields of rye and barley, extending
to the woods which bounded the view in every direction. The village
was situated within a few miles of the great main highway running
from Warsaw to Moscow, and the waters of the lake fed the stream
which flowed into one of the branches of the river Dnieper.
The whole region, including the village and nearly all the people in
it, belonged to the estate of Baron Popoff, the roofs of whose
residence were just visible to the southward, on a hill overlooking
the road to Moscow. The former castle had been entirely destroyed
during the retreat of Bonaparte's army, and the baron's grandfather
suffered so many losses at the time, that he was only able to build a
large and very plain modern house; but the people continued to call
it the "Castle" or "Palace," just as before.
Although the baron sold every year great quantities of timber, grain,
hemp and wool from his estates, he always seemed to be in want of
money. The servants who went with him every year to St. Petersburg
were very discreet, and said little about their master's habits of
life; but the people understood, somehow, that he often lost large
sums by gambling. This gave them a good deal of uneasiness, for if
he should be obliged to part with the estate, they would all be
transferred with it to a new owner--and this might be one who had
other estates in a different part of the country, to which he could
send them if he was so minded.
At the time of which we are writing twenty-two millions of the
Russian people were serfs. Their labour, even their property,
belonged to the owner of the land upon which they lived. The latter
had not the power to sell them to another, as was formerly the case
in the Southern States of America, but he could remove them from one
estate to another if he had several. Baron Popoff was a haughty and
indifferent master, but not a cruel one; the people of the village
had belonged to his family for several generations, and were
accustomed to their condition. At least, they saw no way of changing
it, except by a change of masters, which was more likely to be a
misfortune than a benefit.
It was nearly dark when old Gregor and his grandson threw down their
loads and entered the house. The supper was already waiting, for
Sasha's sister, little Minka, had been up to the church door to see
whether they were coming. In one corner of the room a tiny lamp was
burning before a picture of the Virgin Mary and Child Jesus, all
covered with gilded brass except the hands and faces, which were
nearly black, partly from the smoke, and partly because the common
Russian people imagine that the Hebrews were a very dark-skinned
race. Sasha's father, Ivan, had also lighted a long pine-splint, and
the room looked very cheerful. The boiled potatoes were smoking in a
great wooden bowl, beside which stood a dish of salt, another of
melted fat, and a loaf of black bread. They had neither plates,
knives nor forks, only some coarse wooden spoons, and all ate out of
the bowl, after the salt had been sprinkled and the fat poured over
the potatoes. For drink there was an earthen pitcher of quass, a
kind of thin and rather sour beer.
Old Gregor sat on one side of the table, and his son Ivan with Anna,
his wife, opposite. There were five children, the eldest being
Alexander (whom we know by his nickname "Sasha," which is the Russian
for "Aleck" or "Sandy"), then Minka, Peter, Waska, and Sergius.
Sasha was about thirteen years old, rather small for his age, and
hardly to be called a handsome boy. Only there was something very
pleasant in his large gray eyes, and his long, thick flaxen hair
shone almost like silver when the sun fell upon it. However, he
never thought about his looks. When he went to the village
bath-house, on a Saturday evening, to take his steam-bath with the
rest, the men would sometimes say, after examining his joints and
muscles, "You are going to be strong, Sasha!"--and that was as much
as he cared to know about himself.
The boy was burning with desire to tell the adventure with the bear,
but he did not like to speak before his grandfather, and there was
something in the latter's eye which made him feel that he was
watching him. Gregor first lighted his pipe, and then, in the
coolest manner possible--as if it were something that happened every
day--related the story.
"Pity I hadn't your gun with me, Ivan," he said at the close; "what
with the meat, the fat, and the skin, we should have had thirty
roubles."
The children were quite noisy with excitement. Little Peter said,
"What for did you let him go, Sasha? I'd have killed him, and
carried him home!" Then all laughed so heartily that Peter began to
cry, and was soon packed into a box in the corner, where he was soon
as fast asleep as ever was the proverbial door-nail.
"Take the gun with you to-morrow, father." said Ivan.
"It's too much with my load of wood," answered the old man. "The old
hunting-knife is all I want. Sasha will stand by me with a club: I
don't think he'll be afraid next time."
Sasha was about to exclaim, "I was not afraid the first time!" but
before he spoke it flashed across his mind that he did tremble a
little; but he consoled himself a little that it was not from fear.
By this time it was dark outside. Two pine-splints had burned out,
one after the other, and only the little lamp before the shrine
enabled those present to see each other. The old people went to bed
in their narrow rooms, which were hardly better than closets; and
Sasha, spreading a coarse sack of straw on the floor, lay down,
covering himself with his sheepskin coat, and in five minutes was so
sound asleep that he might have been dragged about by the heels
without being awakened.