'O native land of long suffering,
Land of the Russian people.'
F. TYUTCHEV.
A French proverb says that 'a dry fisherman and a wet hunter are a sorry
sight.' Never having had any taste for fishing, I cannot decide what are
the fisherman's feelings in fine bright weather, and how far in bad
weather the pleasure derived from the abundance of fish compensates for
the unpleasantness of being wet. But for the sportsman rain is a real
calamity. It was to just this calamity that Yermolaï and I were exposed
on one of our expeditions after grouse in the Byelevsky district. The
rain never ceased from early morning. What didn't we do to escape it? We
put macintosh capes almost right over our heads, and stood under the
trees to avoid the raindrops.... The waterproof capes, to say nothing of
their hindering our shooting, let the water through in the most
shameless fashion; and under the trees, though at first, certainly, the
rain did not reach us, afterwards the water collected on the leaves
suddenly rushed through, every branch dripped on us like a waterspout, a
chill stream made its way under our neck-ties, and trickled down our
spines.... This was 'quite unpleasant,' as Yermolaï expressed it. 'No,
Piotr Petrovitch,' he cried at last; 'we can't go on like
this....There's no shooting to-day. The dogs' scent is drowned. The guns
miss fire....Pugh! What a mess!'
'What's to be done?' I queried.
'Well, let's go to Aleksyevka. You don't know it, perhaps--there's a
settlement of that name belonging to your mother; it's seven miles from
here. We'll stay the night there, and to-morrow....'
'Come back here?'
'No, not here....I know of some places beyond Aleksyevka...ever so much
better than here for grouse!'
I did not proceed to question my faithful companion why he had not taken
me to those parts before, and the same day we made our way to my
mother's peasant settlement, the existence of which, I must confess, I
had not even suspected up till then. At this settlement, it turned out,
there was a little lodge. It was very old, but, as it had not been
inhabited, it was clean; I passed a fairly tranquil night in it.
The next day I woke up very early. The sun had only just risen; there
was not a single cloud in the sky; everything around shone with a double
brilliance--the brightness of the fresh morning rays and of yesterday's
downpour. While they were harnessing me a cart, I went for a stroll
about a small orchard, now neglected and run wild, which enclosed the
little lodge on all sides with its fragrant, sappy growth. Ah, how sweet
it was in the open air, under the bright sky, where the larks were
trilling, whence their bell-like notes rained down like silvery beads!
On their wings, doubtless, they had carried off drops of dew, and their
songs seemed steeped in dew. I took my cap off my head and drew a glad
deep breath.... On the slope of a shallow ravine, close to the hedge,
could be seen a beehive; a narrow path led to it, winding like a snake
between dense walls of high grass and nettles, above which struggled up,
God knows whence brought, the pointed stalks of dark-green hemp.
I turned along this path; I reached the beehive. Beside it stood a
little wattled shanty, where they put the beehives for the winter. I
peeped into the half-open door; it was dark, still, dry within; there
was a scent of mint and balm. In the corner were some trestles fitted
together, and on them, covered with a quilt, a little figure of some
sort.... I was walking away....
'Master, master! Piotr Petrovitch!' I heard a voice, faint, slow, and
hoarse, like the whispering of marsh rushes.