MIST SHADOWS
At the same time that the wanderer on the rough path of Bjelostok forest
was gathering up its snow roses, another man on the far-off shores of
the Black Sea was preparing for a long, distant, and hurried journey.
The two men hasten to the same goal. They had never seen one another,
had never heard the other's name, had never corresponded. Yet each is
aware of the other's existence; aware that they are to meet, and that
this meeting must take place on a given day. The first has, perhaps, the
shorter road to take, but he can only ride slowly; he has to avoid
inhabited towns, to utilize night for his progress, to pass the days in
isolated csards.
The second has the longer and more difficult way; but the only battle he
has to fight is with the elements of earth, water, fire, and wind, and
these he can conquer. The fifth obstacle--man--places himself
obsequiously at his service. This traveller wears the uniform of a
colonel. Short of stature, he gains in height by the singular erectness
of his head and the elasticity of his walk. By that walk he can be
detected under any disguise. His closely cropped hair displays a broad,
high brow; his eager eyes dance in his head as he speaks. He has an
expressive face--one from which it is easy to read his thoughts, even
when his lips are silent--a face in which every muscle moves with his
words; one in strongest contrast to that of the other man. He can hide
his every feeling under an immovable countenance; this one betrays
beforehand his every thought. During his five minutes' colloquy with the
jemsik, he has exhausted a whole gamut of expressions, from flattery to
rage, as if playing upon the strings of a violin. He gesticulates
violently with his hands; now his five fingers are under the peasant's
nose; then they strike him on the shoulder, punch him in the ribs, seize
him by the lappet of his coat; now shake, then embrace him. He kisses
him, strokes his beard with coaxing action, then tugs at it, pushes him
roughly away, finally reaching him his flask for a drink; and perhaps
his only object has been to find out whether the road to Jekaseviroslaw
is passable or not.
For while the snow still lies deep in the forest of Bjelostok, and
gun-carriages may yet drive across the ice-covered Niemen, thaw has
already set in along the valleys of the Dnieper and the Don, and the
whole plain is a sea, from out which the rush huts, with their
surrounding plantations of reeds, stand out like solitary islands. To
every hut a boat made of willow is secured; this boat is the one and
only mode of locomotion, albeit a dangerous one, whereby in the spring
season the inhabitants can convey themselves to the pasture-land to look
after their cattle and horses.
As far as eye can reach stretches out the endless reddish-brown plain.
Rushes, reeds, and other water-plants not yet freed from their dried-up
winter clothing, lend a deep-red shimmer to the landscape, to which the
sprouting willows, now illumined by the light of the setting sun, add
their tinge of color. The storm-portending evening glow tinges the
fleecy clouds flame color, causing the rest of the sky to appear topaz
green. Myriads of water-birds whirl restlessly through the air, filling
the plain with their cries. In the far distance swim a flock of swans,
tinged golden in the setting sun, which, half-sunken beneath the
horizon, sends out its last rays across the changing clouds, like a
departing sovereign clothed in gold and purple.
Across the great, never-ending plain there is but one path, laid
bridge-like with willow stems. Over this the traveller must needs make
his way--there is no alternative. The river banks passed, further sign
of human habitation ceases. The smithy of a gypsy colony, which has
established itself on the side of a hill, alone sends its light far out
into the evening mist. Soon that, too, will be lost in the gathering
gloom; then the traveller's three-horsed car must jolt along by the
fitful light of the moon. An occasional kurgan rising up here and there
in the Steppe is the sole sign that it was once inhabited by a people.
Those tschudas upon the brow of the hill were their gods. Blocks of
stone, with roughly carved human heads, proclaim afar, even to the banks
of the Amur, the former abiding-place of a race which has not left even
a name behind, only its gods, which later races have called tschudas
(from the Hungarian word _csuda_, signifying "miracle").
The traveller will find shelter for the night with a Czaban, who has
chanced to dig himself a cave near the wayside, and lives there,
surrounded by his numerous herds of sheep. The Colonel remarks in his
note-book that the shepherds living in the neighborhood of the kurgans
are a stupid, squalid set, who smell of cheese.
Next morning the chariot with its ringing bells proceeds ever farther
and farther, until the inundated banks of the Dnieper oblige it to halt.
Here, the traveller has no resource but to take to a boat. Luckily the
stream is sufficiently swollen to enable his boat successfully to
navigate the famous Falls of Herodotus without striking on the rocks.
Only of the last does the ferryman warn him. It is the Nyenaschiketz
(the Insatiable). There it is not advisable to tempt one's fate by
evening light.
"But I must go on," says the traveller, imperiously. He is in haste.
That alters the case. His imperious "must" knows no hindrances. Upon it
follows the only answer, "Seisas" (Immediately). This one word
characterizes the whole people. It even bridges over the "Insatiable."
The boat goes to pieces, but boatman and traveller swim safely to
shore. The remainder of the night is passed in a fisherman's hut. The
traveller here remarks in his note-book that the boatmen and fisher-folk
who live on the banks of the Dnieper are a stupid, squalid set, who
smell of fish.
The opposite bank is inhabited by the Zaporogenes, who take their name
from the falls "zaporagi"--people who live beside waterfalls. Here it is
only possible to proceed on horseback. By nightfall the traveller has
reached Szetsa, a so-called village. The houses are earthen caves,
thatched with grass, called "kurenyi." The traveller, after having sung
and drunk with the Zaporogenes, observes in his note-book that the
dwellers in "kurenyi" are a stupid, squalid set, smelling of
coach-grease.
The first work of a Zaporagen is to soak his new garments in tar, to
make them durable. Among that people are to be found the first
indistinct traces of a longing after freedom, primitive, but still
existent. This instinct reaches its culminating-point in the propensity
to rob their neighbors; turn their wives out of doors when tired of
them, and take to themselves a fresh one, who may please them better.
On, on, in the saddle, until the ancient city of the Steppe looms in the
horizon, "the Mother of Cities." It is Kiev, the so often razed and
rebuilt Jerusalem of the Scythians, with its catacombs and remains of
Sarmatic saints. In the distance a deceptive Fata Morgana, looking with
its gilded cupolas like a city of churches, from out which the mighty
tower of Lavra rises like a giant.
The traveller avoids alike the Beresztovo, the most inhabited quarter,
and the barracks; nor does he avail himself of the hospitable shelter of
the Lavra monastery, but seeks the Jewish quarter, and there in a
poor-looking Jewish hovel passes the night, taking counsel with soldiers
who, as though informed beforehand of his coming, have entered one by
one through the low entrance-door, to disappear in like manner by the
opposite one.
The traveller remarks in his note-book that the Jews are a stupid,
squalid set, who smell of anise-seed.
The way lies ever northwards. Spring-time vanishes from the earth; the
glow of evening from the sky; a canopy of gloomy gray mist overspreads
the firmament: the pale disk of the sun is like a medal upon a ragged
soldier's cloak. Even the waning moon only rises late of nights. The
nights grow longer, and the flames of the rush-heaps burning in the
fields impede the way. The traveller is often obliged to turn back to
the houses which border the pine forests. They are well-ordered, pretty
domiciles, inhabited by apostates who have taken refuge from their
pursuers in the woods.
There, too, sounds an occasional chord of yearning after freedom. They
are prepared to endure, to make a firm stand, one and the other, in
order to be allowed to write the name of Jesus ("Jhsus"). This is
something for a beginning!
The traveller records in his note-book that the Raskolniks are stupid
and unhappy, and smell of leather.
Still farther northwards. Upon the plains green with young wheat follow
again expanses of snow; instead of flocks of swans and cranes, swarms of
ravens and Arctic birds are to be seen thickening the air. This time the
traveller passes the night in the Sloboden, where all sorts and
conditions of men congregate--men from the most remote parts in search
of work, offering their pair of hands for any description of labor.
Hither each brings his misery, his ignorance, and--foul odors. The
misery and ignorance are one and the same, but the foul odors are
diverse: by these they distinguish one from another, through these they
fall into broils. No sooner do they perceive the alien smell than they
come to blows.
Time presses with the traveller. Now he has reached the land of sledges.
Thick mists and snow-storms are his companions. There come days in which
there is no morning or noon-day; the snow-drifts change the world around
him into a prison-house. Such terrific snow-storms are only known in
those parts; they are "pad," the terror of travellers. The night frosts
have become insupportable in their severity; the mile-stones lie hidden
under the snow; the north wind has swept it into hillocks in many
places; then, again, into deep holes, in which the sledge sinks
axle-deep: a chorus of wolves howl in the woods. By morning the door of
the csárda is snowed up; the only mode of egress is to crawl through the
hole in the roof, where the jemsik, his sledge already horsed, is in
waiting, leaning against the chimney. He calls laughingly to his fare:
"It is cold enough for a couple of fur coats, sir!"
The north wind has chased away the clouds over night; the sky is the
color of steel. In the gray lilac-tinted horizon a red glowing fire-ball
is rising--it is the sun, which, running its orbit, scarce rises over
the earth; even at mid-day it gives out no warmth. The kingdom of winter
reigns. And now the way becomes more peopled. Life seems bright and
stirring in this kingdom of winter. Whole strings of sledges, laden high
with wares, move onwards in the one direction; well-appointed equipages,
steering clear of the heavily laden freight, pass them by. It is the
last day of the journey. Along the horizon a shining streak grows
visible--the frozen ocean. The streak grows broader and broader, and as
the sun goes down the rays of the aurora borealis stretch up over the
starry sky to its very zenith; and, illuminated by this magic sea of
rosy light, there arises from out the expanse of snow a giant city, with
the white roofs of its palaces, the cupolas of its churches, the
bastions of its fortresses, cupolas and bastions alike of dazzling
whiteness, as though it were the ghost of a city, painted white upon
white; above it the rosy northern light, behind it the bluish-leaden
veil of mist.
The traveller has reached his goal. But the other--is he here too?