staircases people were heard running to and fro, shouting 'Fire! fire!'
The owner of the old curiosity shop and his customer were rushing up
and down about the hall, not knowing what to do. At last one of them
seized a pot of withered geranium, and the other his rubbers, and both
hurried out. The White Lady stood near one of the windows with her
usual quiet smile, whilst on the window-sill there sat a pretty little
naked bronze boy. For many long years he had carried on his back a
basket, into which a candlestick was to be put. Though the boy, as I
have said, was only a child, he knew very well what 'fire' meant: he
knew it from the time when the bronze of which he was formed was melted
in a blast furnace. A deadly fear overspread his lovely face, and in a
tender, tinkling voice he addressed his pretty neighbour: 'Pray ... oh
pray ... throw me down into the street.... The fall can do me no harm,
I know ... but the fire will melt me.... Do, I beseech you; you have
only to raise your arm.'
But the White Beauty remained silent and motionless. She continued to
smile in a most winning and most promising manner, but made no gesture,
uttered no sound.
The old Sword also knew what 'fire' meant. How many times had he
witnessed in old times the conflagration of whole cities taken by
assault! He saw how unhappy citizens and desperate artisans fled from
their homes; how women sobbed and lamented when they saw the ruins,
and when their little ones were slaughtered or burnt. All this the old
Sword now remembered, and his steel blade ached at the thought: 'What
will happen to the White Lady?'
The old curiosity shop was situated on the third floor, and the window,
near which stood the beautiful woman who charmed the Sword, was only a
few feet distant from the neighbouring roof. The old Sword collected
all his strength, swung on his nail, and flung himself through the
window, placing his handle on the sill and his point on the cornice of
the neighbouring house.
'Queen of my soul, hasten! Pass along, treading upon me, and you will
be safe,' so he rang out in a trembling voice. The beauty smiled in
her enigmatic, winning manner, but did not utter a word or make a
motion. 'Make haste, I beseech you!' rang once more the anxious Sword.
'As soon as the fire reaches our hall my handle will be burnt, I shall
fall down, and your escape will be impossible.'
But these words made on the lady as little impression as his previous
ones: she remained motionless and dumb, but smiling in a bewitching
manner. Suddenly several firemen hurried in and began to seize
everything that their eyes fell upon, and to fling it through the
windows without any distinction. First went the sardonic, goggle-eyed
old man on the cane, and, without injury, tumbled headlong down. Then
came the red-nosed old toper, smiling as usual, his wine-glass still
in his hand; he dashed against a broken stool, and the canvas on which
he was painted was torn to pieces. Scores of solid and fragile things
followed.... One of the firemen seized the Sword and threw him into
the courtyard below. The jagged fighter made several somersaults in
the air, and plunging into the earth stood upright. A few moments
he shivered and made a dull sound. But one thought overpowered him
now: 'What would be the fate of his lady?' All of a sudden he noticed
something white falling from the window, and ... recognised his
goddess: it was she! The old Sword uttered a groan.
'Oh, why did she not speak? Why did she not avail herself of his
devotion? Why did she answer all his entreaties only by an enigmatic
smile? O Heavens, why?' At this very moment the White Lady fell down
upon the pavement and broke in two, just where men have a heart....
Many a time the old Sword had pierced men's hearts, and then their
hot blood flowed along his blade. He therefore cast a shuddering and
anxious look upon the fracture, expecting to see it bleed. He saw,
however, nothing but stone; the whole beauty consisted of marble....
The marble was white as snow; it was irreproachably fair, but yet it
was only marble, and nothing more.
[Illustration]
'MY OWN'
(A Siberian Fairy Tale)
The banks of the Vagaï are beautiful--very beautiful[9]--in some
places at least. Steep, almost overhanging, and high as the walls of
a fortress bastion, they rise frowning above the river sternly; yet
they are fair with the rich verdure of the forest that crowns their
heights. This forest is of many kinds. The century-old fir-trees, with
trunks that three men could not gird with outstretched arms, rise in
straight, dark-red columns, so high that to look up at even the lowest
branches you must throw your head back till your hat falls off; beside
them the gray-barked aspens quiver in every leaf, as if frightened
at the twisted, snaky black trunks of the bird-cherry--the tree that
smells so sweet in early spring when the white blossoms cover it like a
sheet of snow. The gentle rowan is not noticeable for its height; its
feathery leaves are the only thing that could attract your attention.
But wait till autumn comes; then it is hung all over with clusters of
scarlet berries, and brightens up the forest. The mighty cedar, with
its long, grand sweeps of feathery needles, towers up higher even than
its comrade the fir; here and there beneath the trees is scattered
about an undergrowth of young pines, almost branchless, like bristles
or long sticks standing up out of the earth. But the commonest trees
in this forest are certainly silver birches. The trunks of these
birches stand out sometimes straight and slender, with delicate heads
of foliage, looking like cadets in their white shirts; sometimes
gnarled, branchy, knotted, with the air of a burly peasant, rugged with
labour.
[9] The _Vagaï_ is one of the largest tributaries of _Irtýsh_,
a mighty stream, which flows into one of the most gigantic
rivers of Siberia, the Obi.
Underneath, at the base of all these tree-trunks, so different in
thickness, height, and colour, all the ground is covered with masses
of bright flowers, and a carpet of grass that buries you waist-deep
when you walk. And the longer you look upon this forest scene the
more varied, the more exquisite, it appears to you. There are so many
beautiful shades of green--pale and delicate on the birch-trees, dark
on the cedars, almost black on the _pikhta_. Here the trees cluster
together on the river-bank, pressing one against the other, forming an
impassable barrier,--there they draw back, as if wearied of following
the course of the river, and leave a wide, open space, where you can
see the edge of the nearest bank, and the barren precipice of the
opposite one, also crowned with glorious green forest; and if you
advance to the edge you can see, far below, the torrent itself, swift
and mighty.
Ah yes, the Vagaï is beautiful! And not only is it beautiful, but it
is a merry life there--in any case it is a merry life for the birds
who live there. So many joys are theirs! The woodpeckers can find in
the bark of the trees (especially the old stumps of fallen trees)
fat caterpillars and beetles; for the snipe and woodcocks there are
endless strawberries, bilberries, cranberries, thick clumps of wild
oats and other edible grasses. The great cones, with their juicy nuts,
cluster on the branches of the pines and giant cedars, like candles
on a Christmas-tree, then late in autumn they fall to the ground.
The clear, fresh water of the Vagaï seems to call you to bathe and
drink. And then the bright sunshine, the transparent, fragrant air, the
green carpet of the forest, the joyous company of comrades, with whom
one can sing, chirp, hop, dart about, and fly like an arrow on light
wings. What more can heart desire? Living such a life, should one not
rejoice in this bright world, fling away all envy and malice, and share
together with one's fellow-creatures all the delights which our common
mother, Nature, gives?
So thought all the birds of the forest tract we are speaking of, and so
they lived. Early, very early, in the morning, when the first scarlet
flush shone in the sky to herald the golden sunbeams, one little bird
would wake up and open its eyes, and there beside it another would
have begun fluttering its wings, drinking the bright dewdrops from the
leaves, pecking seeds from the grasses. Then the first bird would look
at its friend, thinking, 'There's plenty for all;' and it, too, would
begin chirruping, delighted to have a companion with whom to share
both its labour and its rest. And both together would dart off and
fly to the Vagaï to bathe. So the little birds lived happily, neither
quarrelling nor disagreeing, helping one another in their work and
dangers, and sharing together all that the bright world gave them.
But this way of living and thinking did not suit a certain
broad-beaked, ponderous cedar-crow,[10] who had taken up her abode in a
huge cedar.
[10] A rather large brown bird, with white spots, belonging to
the crow family. Its Latin name is _Nucifraga Caryocatœ_.
This cedar stood apart in a glade, and the Cedar-crow liked it just on
account of its separate position.
'I will settle here; this shall be _my_ estate. I don't want any one
else's property, and no one shall touch _mine_! It's comfortable and
private and nice!' The clumsy bird flew all round the cedar, and, being
satisfied with it, settled there.
The Cedar-crow stopped there a day, two days ... the other birds darted
past, chirping, flying races, playing with one another, rejoicing
together in the good gifts of their mother-earth, the bright sun, and
the Vagaï, and the delights of companionship; but the thick-billed
Cedar-crow dared not leave her tree; there she sat watching that no
other bird should touch her private nuts. When a woodcock did but pass,
she flew to him in anxiety, crying out: 'Go away!--go away! There's
nothing here for you; go back where you came from! I don't touch your
things; you let _mine_ alone.'
'But do you suppose the rest of the forest is only _ours_?' said the
Woodcock. 'You can have them too; of course any one may take as much
as they want. There's enough for every one.'
'Yes, I dare say. _You_ can do as you like. But _I_ feel safer when I
have something of my _own_.'
'Why, you foolish one!' exclaimed a thrush, which had flown up to them,
'we always live in whole companies--thousands together--and never cut
up things into "mine" and "thine"; and yet no harm happens to us.'
'Yes; so long as there is plenty for all, but afterwards there's no
saying what will happen,' thought the Cedar-crow, though she did not
say so aloud. 'If the land is divided between all of us, how much will
each one have? Now I've got the whole of this huge cedar to myself; it
will last my time, and I can leave it to my children and grandchildren;
there will be more for them than for your fledglings....'
'You're just gone silly with greediness,' said the other birds, and
flew away, chirruping and darting after one another in the air. But
the Cedar-crow, the forest landowner, seeing that she was alone, pulled
a cone from her cedar, and began picking out the nuts. She ate as much
as she could, and then returned to the work of guarding her estate.
She sat and looked about her, and occasionally flew round the tree,
constantly afraid that some one was touching her property.
The time for nest-building came. All the birds paired and got to
work: one carried a feather, another a straw; each one wove in its
contribution properly; then they would hop about, chirp to one another,
and fly off together to fetch more material.
The Cedar-crow became more anxious than ever. 'There!' she thought;
'they will lay eggs and hatch new fledglings, and they, too, will all
want to eat and drink; they will simply ravage my cedar. I shall have
nothing left!'
She even left off going down to the Vagaï to drink. Yet she was
tormented with thirst: her tongue hung out; her eyes distended; she
could hardly breathe; and still she dared not leave her tree. She
endured it till nightfall. At night all the birds settled down to rest
sweetly after their day's work; only here and there an owl with great
round eyes would flit past. But the Cedar-crow could not go to sleep;
she had to fly to the river and drink; and this misery was not only
once--at dawn to-morrow it would begin again!
At last the envious bird could bear it no longer. Clearly she could not
manage alone. She began thinking how to get out of the difficulty. It
occurred to her that it might be better to take another cedar-crow into
partnership with her, and build a nest; certainly it would be another
mouth to feed, but then the two of them together could guard their
property, and not lose a single cone. And even if they had fledglings,
it would still be better than now: in the first place, she would feel
safer; in the second place, with so many to keep watch, not a single
nut would be lost, let alone a cone. And the cedar was very big; it
would be enough for five, even ten families.
The Cedar-crow polished her beak, pecked off a cone, glancing about her
as she did so, flew round the cedar, and settled herself to look out
for a mate. There, just opposite her, on a neighbouring fir-tree, sat
another cedar-crow, large and heavy, with a great strong beak. It sat
looking at the cedar; evidently it wanted some nuts.
The forest landowner flew across to it, and began to explain: 'This is
my estate; no one has a right to touch it; but, if you like, I will
take you into companionship, if you will help me to guard our cedar
from intruders.' The male looked at the cedar-tree, and saw that it was
a fine one. 'You won't get such a cedar every day.'
'All right,' said he; 'if one lets every one in to share in God's
blessings one will just starve. I've seen enough of these fools that do
nothing and lay by nothing: just fly in coveys, peck everything bare,
and there's not a thing left. I myself was just looking for a good
cedar, to take possession of it, and let no one come near.'
They paired, and set to work to build their nest; one would bring the
materials, or go down to drink, while the other guarded the estate.
Well, some time passed, and behold their little fledglings peeped out
of the nest. The old Cedar-crows were more anxious than ever about
their property; formerly they had only watched over the cones, now they
let no one so much as fly past the cedar-tree.
But how were they to prevent the birds from ever flying past, when
forests and meadows and water alike swarm with them? The greedy birds
drove away their comrades day after day and the whole day long; by the
evening they could hardly move their wings for weariness. At last they
got worn out. What were they to do? They thought and thought, and at
last an idea struck them.
The male Cedar-crow flew to the Plover. 'Call a meeting of all the
birds,' said he; 'on business.'
'What business?' asked the Plover.
'Well, that doesn't matter. Important business.'
'But still, I must know why to call the birds to a meeting; may be you
want to disturb them for some trifle?'
'Not for a trifle at all; we want to give up our claim to the forest.'
'How do you mean "Give up your claim"?'
'Why, simply to give it up! We are worried out of our lives. And all
because every one considers that we are their comrades, and that they
can poke their beaks into our place as if it were their own.'
The Plover saw that there was something very strange, and not only
strange, but dismal. The more he thought of it, the worse it seemed
to him. However, there was nothing for it but to call a council. 'All
right,' he said; 'come again at this time to-morrow.'
The next day the Plover flew over fields, pastures, and forests,
wailing more mournfully than ever: 'Pity! Pity! Pity!...'
The birds, wondering at the melancholy cry, flew down in countless
numbers to the Vagaï; on all sides resounded chirruping and twittering.
Here the mellow call of the cuckoo predominated; there the elaborate
whistle of the goldhammer. The Cedar-crow, the forest landowner, was
there waiting. She came forward and made her speech--
'It is a custom among you, respected birds, to live together and hold
everything in common. That is your own affair; but we cannot live so.
We have children, and are bound to think of them and have something to
leave them. Among you every one snatches the food from his neighbour's
beak, and robs his neighbour without any question; and we find that
all this ends in nothing but anxiety. We don't want things that belong
to others, and we feel it hard when others give us no peace. So we
have resolved to announce to you that we want no part in your communal
forest, and will not touch it; we will not take from it a single seed
or stalk; but you, on your side, agree together that no one shall peck
our nuts, or perch on our cedar, or fly across our glade. This is our
request to you, respected birds.'
When the Cedar-crow left off speaking there was silence: the birds sat
with their bills wide open, and could not utter a word for amazement.
The first to recover himself was a starling. 'Why--you--idiot!' he
cried. 'Think yourself what a fool you are! All the wide world is here
before you, and you want to give it up for one little glade!'
'Oh, the world! The world is not _mine_--it's _every one's_--not much
of it will fall to my share; it's all very well to be so sure! but
the cedar, if it is small, at least it's _mine_!' That is what the
Cedar-crow thought; but aloud she only said: 'Well, if you think it
better to possess the whole world in common than one little glade
separately, what is there to argue about? The world remains to you, so
it must be a good bargain for you; and there's nothing more to be said.
Then give us our glade, leave us in peace, and that is all we ask.'
'You foolish creature!' exclaimed the other birds; 'he spoke for your
advantage; of course, your glade will be no loss to us; but it's
piteous to see a creature so blind! He only wanted to bring you to your
senses.'
'You must have a lot of good advice to spare if you can give away so
much of it without being asked,' replied the Cedar-crow, polishing her
broad beak.
Seeing that the Cedar-crow was hopelessly wrong-headed, the birds
talked the matter over, and decided that she and her mate should be
left in undisturbed possession of their cedar glade, and that no one
should approach within twenty fathoms of it.
The Cedar-crows were delighted. Now, they thought, at last we shall be
at peace! And so they were. No one ever came near; they had no longer
any need to guard their cedar, or to do anything but eat, drink, and
sleep. The rest of their time they spent in gazing at one another, and
comparing who had the longest beak. Once it chanced that a nightingale,
coming from a far country to seek her lost mate (he had been trapped by
bird-catchers), flew to the cedar. She did not know of the agreement
among the birds of the Vagaï concerning the cedar glade, and she flew
into it. The Cedar-crows were so bored that they were almost glad to
see her! They flew out, however, and entered into a polite explanation.
'You probably do not know of the agreement concerning this glade. No
one has the right to fly within twenty fathoms of it, because it is
_ours_. We have renounced our claim to all the rest of the forest, and
do not take a single seed or stalk from it; but this glade belongs to
us.'
'Whatever is that for?' asked the Nightingale, in amazement. 'Why,
supposing there's a bad harvest on your cedar, what will become of you
then?'
It was the first time that such a question had been put to the
Cedar-crows, and they did not know what to answer.
'A bad harvest!' Indeed it was possible. It often happens that in
one place the harvest fails, and close by, or very near, such a
quantity ripens that it goes to waste. But the young birds reassured
their parents: on that cedar they had been hatched, and had grown up;
they had always lived upon its fruits; they had always seen it the
same--mighty and burdened with cones--could they imagine it different?
'A bad harvest! What do you mean?' they cried in chorus. 'The harvest
cannot fail on our cedar!'
'Of course it can't!' echoed the parent birds in delight.
The Nightingale shook her little gray head, but made no further comment.
'Then it is forbidden to fly here?' she said. 'I beg your pardon, I did
not know.'
'Oh, we are not angry; indeed, as you are on a journey, we shall be
glad to offer you some refreshment,' replied the female Cedar-crow,
glancing at her mate; and she laid before the Nightingale a single nut.
'Thank you,' said the Nightingale, and flew away without touching the
nut.
The Cedar-crows settled down again to their ordinary life, and there
is no saying how long they would have gone on in the same way if a
runaway tramp had not happened to make a bonfire in the _taïgá_.[11] It
was a long time since he had enjoyed a hot drink, and he was thirsty.
He made some tea, drank it, and was just going to start on again,
when he heard bells, then a rustling sound and footsteps. The poor
fellow was terrified: 'The _Ispravnik_!'[12] he thought. 'I shall be
caught!' He rushed into the thicket, not stopping even to scatter the
burning brands or stamp out the embers. In the meantime a light wind
rose, the embers glowed, the dry pine-needles caught fire, and soon
the flames were creeping on from one fallen trunk to another--farther
and farther, wider and wider, licking the trees, curling round whole
thickets--and the _taïgá_ was on fire. That is a common thing in
Siberia.
[11] Virgin forest in Siberia.
[12] A police-officer, acting as chief of the district.
For some time the Cedar-crows had noticed that the air was of a milky
colour. For some time the sun had been dull-red by day, and by night
they could see a far-off crimson glare in the sky. Now the smell of
burning was in the air, and still the Cedar-crows could not believe
that their estate was in danger of fire. It disturbed them far more
that innumerable birds began flying past their glade to the Vagaï; the
beasts, too, hurrying to the river, ran straight by the cedar.... Soon
it grew difficult to breathe, yet still the Cedar-crows could not bear
to part from their estate; they still dreaded lest some other birds
or beasts might take possession of their glade. At last, though, they
could bear it no longer; they were forced to go. But when, after all,
they made up their minds to leave the cedar, it was too late. The fire
attacked their glade from all sides at once, and when they attempted
to fly upwards they dropped, stifled with smoke, on to the ground. The
cool, green grass refreshed them, and, in desperation, they struggled
again to reach the river. But all around them rose terrible fiery
pillars, and the unhappy birds, scorched and half dead, sank again to
the ground, and rose no more.
Presently rain began to pour in torrents, and put out the fire within
a few yards of the glade. That glade was now a dismal scene of ruin:
the tall grass was burnt brown, the mighty cedar was a charred and
naked corpse. All around stood the trees--aspens, birches, limes, and
bird-cherries--burnt to skeletons, or with dead and shrivelled leaves
hanging from them here and there. Mournfully they raised their barren
branches towards the heavens, as though praying for mercy; and thus,
with lifted hands, they perished.
But beyond that bare skeleton thicket stood in the distance the fresh
and untouched forest. The female Cedar-crow, lying helpless on the
ground, gazed upon it despairingly. Beside her lay her fledgling--the
only one left alive. He was feebly fluttering his scorched wings and
uttering piteous cries.
'Oh, if only some of the birds would come to us!' thought the unhappy
mother; 'surely they would have pity on my child, and would carry him
down to the waterside and feed him. He would recover there; he would
not die of hunger and thirst!...'
But no one came near the glade. All the birds remembered the general
agreement: not to disturb the Cedar-crows in their seclusion, and not
to approach within twenty fathoms of their estate. And not one of the
birds knew what had happened to the Cedar-crow family.
When the bright sun rose next morning no one of that family saw
it--they were all dead....
Meanwhile the other birds, leaving the fire-ravaged places for other
parts of the forest that were still fresh and green, rejoiced as
formerly in the fair world, sharing everything together; and far along
the clear Vagaï the air was filled with their joyous and friendly
twittering.