I
Dark, yellow snow still lay in the ravines from under which flowed
icy streamlets; on the surface it was thawing, and last year's grass
pointed up like stiff golden arrows to the cold Heavens. Here and
there, in bright sunny patches, appeared the first yellow flowers.
The sky was dull and overcast, laden with massy, leaden-coloured
clouds.
A carrion-crow flew low over the trees and the twittering birds fell
silent. When the menace had passed they broke forth anew in
triumphant song, once more absorbed by the joy of living,
The swelling earth gurgled happily beneath the soft kiss of the warm
humid wind, and from somewhere afar came reverberating sounds of
spring; perchance from the people in the village across the water, or
perchance from the warbling birds over the streams.
Ivanov the forester came out on to the door-step which had already
dried, and lighted a cigarette; it burned but slowly in the moist
atmosphere of the deepening twilight.
"It will be hot, Mitrich, thank God!" remarked the watchman, Ignat,
as he passed by with some buckets.... "Snipe will be about to-morrow,
and we will have to hunt right into Easter."
He went into the cow-house, then returned, sat down on a step, and
rolled a cigarette.
The pungent odour of his bad tobacco mingled with the sweet aroma of
dying foliage and melting snow. Beyond the river a church bell was
ringing for the Lenten festival, and there was a melancholy thrill in
its notes as they crossed the water.
"That must be the seventh Gospel," said Ignat. "They will be coming
out with the candles soon." Then he added abruptly: "The river won't
reach to a man's waist in the summer and now it is like a torrent;
they have been hardly able to cross it in the long boat ... Spring,
ah!... Well, I shall certainly have to clean out my double-barrelled
gun to-day." With a business-like air he spat into a puddle and
vigorously inhaled his cigarette smoke.
"The cranes will come down by the garden for the night, at dusk,
judging by all portents, and to-morrow we will go after the grouse,"
replied Ivanov, and listened intently to the myriad sounds of
evening.
Ignat also listened, bending his shaggy head sideways to the earth
and the sky. He caught some desired note and agreed:
"Yes, it must be so. I can hear the beat of their wings. I am truly
thankful. At dawn to-morrow we must get out the drosky. We will go to
the Ratchinsky wood and have a look. We can get through all right by
the upper road."
From the right of the steps, his daughter Aganka skipped gaily on to
the terrace and began beating the dust out of a sheep-skin
coat with thin brown sticks. It was cold and she commenced to dance
for warmth, singing in a shrill voice:
"The nightingale sings
In the branches above--
The nightingale brings
No rest to his love!"
Ignat gave her an indulgent look; nevertheless he said sternly:
"Come, come! That is sin ... it is Lent and you singing!"
Aganka merely laughed.
"There is no sin now!" she retorted, turning her back to the steps
and propping up her right leg as she vigorously beat the sheepskin
coat.
Ignat playfully threatened her--then smiled and said to Ivanov: "A
fine girl, isn't she?... She is not yet sixteen and is already a
flirt! Its no use talking to her. She won't remain in the house at
night, but must go slipping off somewhere."
Aganka turned round sharply, tossing her head. "Well, I am not a dead
creature!"
"You are not, my girl; indeed you are not--only hold your tongue!"
Ivanov glanced at her. She was like a little wild fawn with her fresh
young body and sparkling eyes, always so ready to bewitch. His own
weary eyes involuntarily saddened for a moment; then he said
cheerily, in a louder tone than necessary:
"Well, isn't that the right attitude? Isn't it the best way? Love
while you can, Aganka, have a happy time."
"Oh, yes, let her have a happy time by all means ... it is young
blood's privilege." replied Ignat.
The bells again rang out for the Gospel. The sky grew darker and
darker. Ravens croaked hoarsely amidst the verdant foliage of the
trees. Ignat put his ear to the ground, listening. From the distance,
from the garden, the ravines, and the pasturage came the low cries of
cranes, barely audible amid the subdued rustling of the spring. Ignat
thrust forward his bearded face, it looked at first serious and
attentive, then it grew cunning and became animated with joy.
"The cranes have come down!" he cried in an excited whisper, as
though afraid of frightening them. Then he began to bustle about,
muttering:
"I must grease the double-barrel...."
Ivanov also bestirred himself. Because while tracking the cranes he
would be seeing her, Arina's image now came vividly before him--
broad, strong, ardent, with soft sensual lips, and wearing a red
handkerchief.
"Get the drosky out at dawn to-morrow," he ordered Ignat. "We will go
to the Ratchinsky wood. I will go there now and have a look round."