At the end of a month, over the grave of the dead a stone chapel was
erected. Over the driver's there was as yet no stone, and only the fresh
green grass sprouted over the mound that served as the sole record of the
past existence of a man.
"It will be a sin and a shame, Seryóha," said the cook at the station-house
one day, "if you don't buy a gravestone for Khveódor. You kept saying,
'It's winter, winter,' but now why don't you keep your word? I heard it
all. He has already come back once to ask why you don't do it; if you don't
buy him one, he will come again, he will choke you."
"Well, now, have I denied it?" urged Seryóha. "I am going to buy him a
stone, as I said I would. I can get one for a ruble and a half. I have not
forgotten about it; I'll have to get it. As soon as I happen to be in town,
then I'll buy him one."
"You ought at least to put up a cross, that's what you ought to do," said
an old driver. "It isn't right at all. You're wearing those boots now."
"Yes. But where could I get him a cross? You wouldn't want to make one out
of an old piece of stick, would you?"
"What is that you say? Make one out of an old piece of stick? No; take your
axe, go out to the wood a little earlier than usual, and you can hew him
out one. Take a little ash-tree, and you can make one. You can have a
covered cross. If you go then, you won't have to give the watchman a little
drink of vodka. One doesn't want to give vodka for every trifle. Now,
yesterday I broke my axletree, and I go and hew out a new one of green
wood. No one said a word."
Early the next morning, almost before dawn, Seryóha took his axe, and went
to the wood.
Over all things hung a cold, dead veil of falling mist, as yet untouched by
the rays of the sun.
The cast gradually grew brighter, reflecting its pale light over the vault
of heaven still covered by light clouds. Not a single grass-blade below,
not a single leaf on the topmost branches of the tree-top, waved. Only from
time to time could be heard the sounds of fluttering wings in the thicket,
or a rustling on the ground broke in upon the silence of the forest.
Suddenly a strange sound, foreign to this nature, resounded and died away
at the edge of the forest. Again the noise sounded, and was monotonously
repeated again and again, at the foot of one of the ancient, immovable
trees. A tree-top began to shake in an extraordinary manner; the juicy
leaves whispered something; and the warbler, sitting on one of the
branches, flew off a couple of times with a shrill cry, and, wagging its
tail, finally perched on another tree.
The axe rang more and more frequently; the white chips, full of sap, were
scattered upon the dewy grass, and a slight cracking was heard beneath the
blows.
The tree trembled with all its body, leaned over, and quickly straightened
itself with a fearful shudder on its base.
For an instant all was still, then once more the tree bent over; a crash
was heard in its trunk; and tearing the thicket, and dragging down the
branches, it plunged toward the damp earth.
The noise of the axe and of footsteps ceased.
The warbler uttered a cry, and flew higher. The branch which she grazed
with her wings shook for an instant, and then came to rest like all the
others with their foliage.
The trees, more joyously than ever, extended their branches over the new
space that had been made in their midst.
The first sunbeams, breaking through the cloud, gleamed in the sky, and
shone along the earth and heavens.
The mist, in billows, began to float along the hollows; the dew, gleaming,
played on the green foliage; translucent white clouds hurried along their
azure path.
The birds hopped about in the thicket, and, as though beside themselves,
voiced their happiness; the juicy leaves joyfully and contentedly whispered
on the tree-tops; and the branches of the living trees slowly and
majestically waved over the dead and fallen tree.