The mist had partly lifted, showing the wet reed thatches, and was now
turning into dew that moistened the road and the grass beside the
fence. Smoke rose everywhere in clouds from the chimneys. The people
were going out of the village, some to their work, some to the river,
and some to the cordon. The hunters walked together along the damp,
grass-grown path. The dogs, wagging their tails and looking at their
masters, ran on both sides of them. Myriads of gnats hovered in the air
and pursued the hunters, covering their backs, eyes, and hands. The air
was fragrant with the grass and with the dampness of the forest. Olénin
continually looked round at the ox-cart in which Maryánka sat urging on
the oxen with a long switch.
It was calm. The sounds from the village, audible at first, now no
longer reached the sportsmen. Only the brambles cracked as the dogs ran
under them, and now and then birds called to one another. Olénin knew
that danger lurked in the forest, that _abreks_ always hid in such
places. But he knew too that in the forest, for a man on foot, a gun is
a great protection. Not that he was afraid, but he felt that another in
his place might be; and looking into the damp misty forest and
listening to the rare and faint sounds with strained attention, he
changed his hold on his gun and experienced a pleasant feeling that was
new to him. Daddy Eróshka went in front, stopping and carefully
scanning every puddle where an animal had left a double track, and
pointing it out to Olénin. He hardly spoke at all and only occasionally
made remarks in a whisper. The track they were following had once been
made by wagons, but the grass had long overgrown it. The elm and
plane-tree forest on both sides of them was so dense and overgrown with
creepers that it was impossible to see anything through it. Nearly
every tree was enveloped from top to bottom with wild grape vines, and
dark bramble bushes covered the ground thickly. Every little glade was
overgrown with blackberry bushes and grey feathery reeds. In places,
large hoof-prints and small funnel-shaped pheasant-trails led from the
path into the thicket. The vigour of the growth of this forest,
untrampled by cattle, struck Olénin at every turn, for he had never
seen anything like it. This forest, the danger, the old man and his
mysterious whispering, Maryánka with her virile upright bearing, and
the mountains—all this seemed to him like a dream.
“A pheasant has settled,” whispered the old man, looking round and
pulling his cap over his face—“Cover your mug! A pheasant!” he waved
his arm angrily at Olénin and pushed forward almost on all fours. “He
don’t like a man’s mug.”
Olénin was still behind him when the old man stopped and began
examining a tree. A cock-pheasant on the tree clucked at the dog that
was barking at it, and Olénin saw the pheasant; but at that moment a
report, as of a cannon, came from Eróshka’s enormous gun, the bird
fluttered up and, losing some feathers, fell to the ground. Coming up
to the old man Olénin disturbed another, and raising his gun he aimed
and fired. The pheasant flew swiftly up and then, catching at the
branches as he fell, dropped like a stone to the ground.
“Good man!” the old man (who could not hit a flying bird) shouted,
laughing.
Having picked up the pheasants they went on. Olénin, excited by the
exercise and the praise, kept addressing remarks to the old man.
“Stop! Come this way,” the old man interrupted. “I noticed the track of
deer here yesterday.”
After they had turned into the thicket and gone some three hundred
paces they scrambled through into a glade overgrown with reeds and
partly under water. Olénin failed to keep up with the old huntsman and
presently Daddy Eróshka, some twenty paces in front, stooped down,
nodding and beckoning with his arm. On coming up with him Olénin saw a
man’s footprint to which the old man was pointing.
“D’you see?”
“Yes, well?” said Olénin, trying to speak as calmly as he could. “A
man’s footstep!”
Involuntarily a thought of Cooper’s _Pathfinder_ and of _abreks_
flashed through Olénin’s mind, but noticing the mysterious manner with
which the old man moved on, he hesitated to question him and remained
in doubt whether this mysteriousness was caused by fear of danger or by
the sport.
“No, it’s my own footprint,” the old man said quietly, and pointed to
some grass under which the track of an animal was just perceptible.
The old man went on, and Olénin kept up with him. Descending to lower
ground some twenty paces farther on they came upon a spreading
pear-tree, under which, on the black earth, lay the fresh dung of some
animal.
The spot, all covered over with wild vines, was like a cosy arbour,
dark and cool.
“He’s been here this morning,” said the old man with a sigh; “the lair
is still damp, quite fresh.”
Suddenly they heard a terrible crash in the forest some ten paces from
where they stood. They both started and seized their guns, but they
could see nothing and only heard the branches breaking. The rhythmical
rapid thud of galloping was heard for a moment and then changed into a
hollow rumble which resounded farther and farther off, re-echoing in
wider and wider circles through the forest. Olénin felt as though
something had snapped in his heart. He peered carefully but vainly into
the green thicket and then turned to the old man. Daddy Eróshka with
his gun pressed to his breast stood motionless; his cap was thrust
backwards, his eyes gleamed with an unwonted glow, and his open mouth,
with its worn yellow teeth, seemed to have stiffened in that position.
“A horned stag!” he muttered, and throwing down his gun in despair he
began pulling at his grey beard, “Here it stood. We should have come
round by the path.... Fool! fool!” and he gave his beard an angry tug.
“Fool! Pig!” he repeated, pulling painfully at his own beard. Through
the forest something seemed to fly away in the mist, and ever farther
and farther off was heard the sound of the flight of the stag.
It was already dusk when, hungry, tired, but full of vigour, Olénin
returned with the old man. Dinner was ready. He ate and drank with the
old man till he felt warm and merry. Olénin then went out into the
porch. Again, to the west, the mountains rose before his eyes. Again
the old man told his endless stories of hunting, of _abreks_, of
sweethearts, and of all that free and reckless life. Again the fair
Maryánka went in and out and across the yard, her beautiful powerful
form outlined by her smock.