Sports in Winter--Bear and Wolf Hunting--Story of the Miller and the
Wolves--Other Tales about Wolves--Shooting Wolves from Sledges--Narrow
Escape from a Wolf--Breaking up of the Ice on the Volga--Dreadful
Sight of a Boat's Crew carried away with the Ice--Loss of an old Man
on the Ice--The Russian Bath--Trial of Vocal Powers of Two Musicians.
"But have you no sports in the winter season?" asked Fred. "I thought
that the country abounded in bears and wolves, and deer and game of all
sorts. They are the sort of animals I should like to look after."
"We have an abundance of bears and wolves, and of smaller animals too,
but we are not very fond of leaving our comfortable homes to shoot them.
Sometimes, when a bear becomes troublesome in a neighbourhood by his
depredations, the villagers turn out in a body to destroy him; and
wolves are the enemies of all. In winter, when hard pressed by hunger,
a flock of these are very dangerous, and numberless persons have fallen
victims to their voracity. A dreadful circumstance relating to wolves
occurred near this a few winters ago.
"A miller, Nicholas Eremeitch by name, was, with his wife and children,
returning from the neighbouring town to his own village, a distance of
some twenty versts or so. He and his wife sat in the front part of the
sledge; their children, well covered with skins, were behind, except
one, which was in its mother's arms, another at their feet. Their road
lay partly through a forest, and partly across an open plain, now
exhibiting one unbroken sheet of snow. The children were laughing
cheerily, for though the frost was excessive, there was no wind, and the
cold was scarcely felt. They had accomplished more than half their
distance at a good rate.
"Nicholas Eremeitch was well-to-do in the world, and he had a pair of
good horses, which knew how to go over the ground. A common peasant
would have driven but one, but he required them for his trade. He and
his wife were conversing together on what they had seen in the town,
when they were startled by a sharp yelp at no great distance off.
"`Is that a dog who has lost his master?' asked the miller's wife.
"`No, wife, no,' answered the miller. `Heaven protect us!'
"As he spoke there was a rushing sound heard from far off in the forest.
At first it was very faint; then it grew louder and louder. Their
sagacious steeds knew too well what caused the sound, and, snorting with
fear, they started off at full gallop. There was no necessity for
Nicholas to urge them on. He, also, too well knew the cause of the
sound. Anxiously he looked over his shoulder. Another yelp was heard,
louder and sharper than before. They were just entering on the plain.
Another and another yelp rang in their ears, and at the same moment a
pack of wolves, in a dense mass, were seen emerging from the forest.
The affrighted steeds tore on. It was with difficulty the miller could
keep them together. His wife clasped her infant closer to her bosom.
The children looked from under their fur covering, and then shrunk down
again shivering with fear, for they had an instinctive dread of the
danger which threatened them. The stout miller, who scarcely before had
ever known what fear was, turned pale, as the sharp, eager yelps of the
infernal pack sounded nearer and nearer behind him. He had no weapons
but his long whip and a thick stick. He clenched his teeth, and his
breath came fast and thick, as the danger grew more imminent. With
voice, and rein, and whip, he urged on his steeds, yet they wanted, as I
said, no inducement to proceed. They felt the danger as well as their
master. The miller's wife sat still, an icy coldness gathering round
her heart. All they had to trust to was speed. The nearest _isba_
where they could hope for aid was yet a long way off; yet rapidly as
they dashed onward, the hungry pack were fleeter still. A miracle alone
could save them--from man they could expect no help.
"`On!--on! My trusty steeds,' shouted the miller. `Courage, wife!--
courage! We may distance them yet. Trust in the good saints; they may
preserve us. Oh that I had my gun in my hand, I would give an account
of some of these brutes!'
"In vain, in vain the horses stretched their sinews to the utmost. Fast
though they flew through the air, the savage brutes were faster still.
The miller's shouts and cries seemed for a short time to keep the
animals at bay, but still they were gathering thickly around the sledge,
singling out its inmates for their prey.
"The poor children shrieked with terror as they beheld the fiery eyes,
the open mouths, and hanging tongues of the fierce brutes close to the
sledge. They fancied that they could feel their hot breath on their
cheeks--the terrible fangs of the animals seemed every instant about to
seize them. Again and again they piteously shrieked out--
"`Oh, father!--oh, mother, mother! Save us!'
"The miller frantically lashed and lashed, and shouted to his steeds,
till his voice almost failed him. They could go no faster. Already,
indeed, their strength began to flag. `If they fail me at this juncture
all will be lost,' thought the miller; `still I'll not give up hope.'
"Again he lashed his horses, and then he lashed and lashed around him,
in the hopes of keeping off the infuriated animals, which now came
thronging up on either side. As yet they had not dared to seize the
horses; should they do so, all, he knew, would be lost. His wife, pale
as death, sat by his side. She could do nothing but cry for mercy. She
dared not look round, lest altogether she should lose her senses at the
sight she dreaded to see. She longs to draw her elder children to the
front of the sledge, but there is no room for them there; so, as before,
she sits still, clasping her infant to her bosom. On fly the horses.
The wolves pursue, growing bolder and bolder. There is a fearful
shriek.
"`Oh, mother! Mother! Save--'
"The cry is drowned by the sharp yelping of the wolves. On a sudden the
pack give up the chase. The miller looks round to learn the cause. His
eldest child--his favourite, Titiana, is no longer in her place. The
other children point with fearful gaze to the spot where the wolves are
circling round, snorting, and gnashing, and tearing, and leaping over
each other's shoulders. To rescue her is hopeless; to attempt it would
be the certain destruction of the rest. Flight, rapid and continuous,
offers the only prospect of safety. Faint, alas! Is that. On--on he
drives; but, oh horror!--once more the wolves are in hot pursuit. The
sledge is again soon overtaken. Fiercely the miller defends his
remaining children with loud shouts and lashings of his whip; but what
can a weapon such as that effect against a whole host of wild beasts?
Some of the fiercest leapt on the sledge.
"`Oh, mercy, mercy!'--Another child--their darling boy, poor little
Peoter, is torn away. Can they rescue him? No, no; it is impossible.
They must drive on--on--on--for their own lives. Even if they drive
fast as the wind, will they preserve the rest? For a few short moments
the wolves stop to revel in their dreadful banquet. The miller lashes
on his steeds furiously as before. He is maddened with horror. On, on
he drives. The poor mother sits like a statue. All faculties are
benumbed. She has no power to shriek. Scarcely does she know what has
occurred. Again the wolves are in full chase. Two children remain
alive, but they are exposed to the cold; their sheepskin mantle has been
torn away. They are weeping piteously. With a frantic grasp the miller
drags one up between him and his wife; but, alas! The other he cannot
save. He tries, but ere he can grasp it by the shoulder, the savage
brutes have dragged it down among them. A faint shriek escapes it, and
its miseries are at an end. With whetted appetites the wolves again
follow the sledge. The miller looks at the savage pack now almost
surrounding him, and his courage begins to give way. But his wife is
still by his side, and three children are unhurt. He may yet keep the
wolves off; but if they once venture on the sledge, if once his arm is
seized, he knows that all, all he holds dearest in life, must be lost
also. Still, therefore, he drives on, but he almost despairs of
escaping. He has too much reason for his worst fears. Impatient for
their expected banquet, the wolves begin to leap up round the sledge,
just as the waves of a breaking sea rise tumultuously round the
labouring bark. In a few minutes all will be over. The miller knows
full well that his horses will soon be seized, and then that hope must
indeed depart. Ah! The fatal moment has come. Already a wolf, more
famished than his companions, has flown at the neck of one of his
horses. The animal plunges and rears in a frantic attempt to free
himself from his foe. Ah! At that instant the miller shouts louder
than before--his courage returns--he lashes furiously at the wolf--The
noble horse frees himself and dashes onward.
"`We are saved--we are saved!' shouts the miller. `Wife, wife, arouse
yourself!'
"Far off he sees advancing over the snow a large sledge; it glides
nearer and nearer. Those in it see what is occurring. Shot after shot
is fired, and the wolves fall thickly around. Dashing up at full speed,
a sledge approaches. The miller almost shrieks with joy. For an
instant he forgets those he has lost; yet only for an instant. He has
the fond heart of a father. The sportsmen load and fire again. They
have come in search of this very pack. The miller and the rest of his
family were saved; but it was many a long week before he or his poor
bereaved wife recovered from the effects of that day's adventure."
"A very dreadful story indeed; very dreadful," observed Mr Evergreen.
"Do people generally get attacked by wolves when they travel by sledges
in winter."
"I think we may safely say not generally," answered one of the Russian
guests, laughing. "If such were the case, people would be inclined to
stay at home. A story is current still more dreadful than the one you
have heard.
"A peasant woman was driving a sledge with several of her children in it
from one village to another, when she was pursued by a pack of wolves.
As the brutes overtook her, she threw them one of her children, to
induce them to stop and eat it up, while she drove on. Child after
child was treated in the same way, till she reached a village, when the
villagers came out and drove the wolves back. When the mother told her
story, one of the villagers, in his rage at her inhumanity, struck her
dead on the spot with his axe."
"A very dreadful story, but I do not believe a word about it," said
their host. "I do not believe that any woman would act so barbarous a
part."
"Nor do I," observed Cousin Giles. "The slavers on the coast of Africa
are wont to play a similar trick when pursued by our cruisers. They
will throw a live slave overboard at a time, in the hopes that the
cruiser will heave-to or lower a boat to pick the poor black up, and
thus allow them more time to escape."
"We often go out on sledges expressly to shoot the wolves," observed an
old country gentleman of the party. "We use large sledges, capable of
containing several persons, and we provide ourselves with plenty of guns
and ammunition. In one of the sledges a pig is carried, in charge of a
servant, and there is also a rope with a bag of hay, which is dragged
after the sledge. When we arrive on the ground where we expect to find
the wolves, the bag of hay is thrown out, and the servant gives the pig
a twitch of the tail, which makes it squeak lustily. Now, wolves are
especially fond of pork, and, hearing the well-known sounds, they hurry
out of their fastnesses from all quarters, in expectation of a feast.
As the brutes happily hunt by sight and sound, and not by scent, and
being, moreover, foolish brutes, as the more savage animals often are,
when they see the bag of hay they fancy that the pig must be inside it,
and eagerly give chase. Now the sport begins, and as the wolves draw
near, one after the other they get knocked over by the guns of the
sportsmen. We often kill numbers in that way, and thus get rid of most
noxious animals. Although their flesh is of no use, their skins are of
considerable value, mantles and cloaks being lined with them. A wolf is
a dangerous animal to meddle with when wounded. On one occasion I was
out hunting, when we had killed some fifty or more wolves. On our
return, we passed a remarkably large wolf, which lay apparently dead on
the snow. One of our party took it into his head that he would like to
possess himself of the skin, and, leaving the sledge, he approached the
brute with the intention of flaying it. He was about to take hold of
its muzzle, when the animal, resenting the indignity of having his nose
pulled, reared itself up on its forepaws, snarling furiously. Ere my
friend could spring back, the brute had seized him by the arm, and was
dragging him to the earth. In another instant his fangs would have been
at his throat, when the sportsman plunged his knife into its breast.
Still the wolf struggled with his antagonist. We were afraid to fire,
lest we should kill the man as well as the brute. It was a moment of
fearful suspense. The life-blood of the wolf was flowing freely, but
before he died he might have destroyed our friend. We drove to the spot
as fast as we could, in the hopes of being in time to rescue our
companion. As we were leaping from the sledge, the combatants rolled
over. Happily the man was uppermost. He drew a deep breath as we
released him.
"`I never wish to have such a fight as that again,' he exclaimed,
shaking himself. `It must have lasted a quarter of an hour at least.
How was it you did not sooner come to my assistance?'
"In reality, not two minutes had elapsed from the time he reached the
wolf till he finally killed it. His arm was somewhat lacerated, but his
thick coat had saved him. It was a lesson to me ever after, not to go
near a wild beast till I am certain he is put _hors de combat_."
"The breaking up of the ice on the various rivers of Russia is a time of
great excitement," observed the Count. "In an instant the natural
bridges which the winter has formed are destroyed, often with little or
no warning, and people are hurried down the stream on the floating
masses of ice, frequently unable to reach the shore, till, one mass
driven under the other by the fierce rush of waters, they are engulfed
beneath them. I was one year at Jaroslaf, on the Volga, at that period.
You, my friends, who were there at the time, will not have forgotten
the circumstance. I was on horseback, riding along the banks of the
river, to watch the huge masses of ice which came floating down the
stream. Sometimes they would glide calmly by, in almost unbroken
sheets; then they would meet with some obstruction--either a narrow part
of the stream, or a promontory, or a rock--and then they would leap and
rush over each other, as if imbued with life, and eager to escape from
the pursuit of an enemy. The rushing and crushing and grinding of the
ice, and roar of the waters was almost deafening. The masses would
assume, too, all sorts of fantastic shapes, which one, with a slight
exertion of fancy, might imagine bears, and lions, and castles, and
ships under sail--indeed all sorts of things, animate and inanimate. As
I looked up the stream, my attention was drawn to a large black object,
which I soon made out to be a vessel of the largest size which navigates
those waters. She came gliding rapidly down--now stem, now stern
foremost; now whirling round and round, and evidently beyond all
control. To my horror, I perceived as she drew near there were several
men on board. The current brought her close to the bank where I was.
By the gaunt looks and gestures of the crew, I perceived that they were
suffering from hunger. This notion was confirmed when the vessel drew
still nearer.
"`Oh, give us bread!--oh, give us bread!' they shouted, in piteous
tones. `We have had no food for these three days. We have been seven
days thus driving on, and unable to reach the shore.'
"On hearing this, I galloped along the bank, so as to get before the
vessel, and succeeded in finding some bread at some cottages a little
way on. The peasants willingly brought it out, and by my directions
endeavoured to heave it on board the vessel. Oh, it was sad to see the
eager way in which the starving wretches held out their hands for the
food, but in vain. Loaf after loaf was thrown by the strongest men
present; but the bread, which would have preserved their lives, fell
into the water, or on to the masses of ice which surrounded the vessel,
some few yards only short of her. I and others galloped on, in the
hopes that she might be driven still nearer; but, as we thought she was
approaching, the current swept her away again into the middle of the
stream. It was a melancholy exemplification of the story of Tantalus.
There were those poor famished men floating down a river in the midst
truly of plenty--for where can be found more fertile regions!--and yet
they were unable to procure a mouthful of food to appease the pangs of
hunger.
"I endeavoured to devise some plan to send them help; but all the plans
I could think of seemed hopeless. No boat could approach them, could
one have been procured, or people to man her. A stone might have
carried a thin line on board, but no thin line could be found. I asked
for one at every cottage I passed, but in vain. At length, with a sad
heart, I saw the vessel with her hapless crew drive by me. On she was
whirled by the rapid current till I lost sight of her. I had but faint
hopes of the people being saved. If, before starvation deprived them of
all strength to move, the vessel struck on one of the banks, they might
be saved. If not, they would be carried onward, down the stream, till
she reached the Caspian Sea, where, perhaps, leaky from the crushing she
had received from the masses of ice, she might go to the bottom; or,
after knocking about for a long time, she might be picked up, the bones
of her crew telling plainly their melancholy fate.
"That very day, as I rode back, I witnessed another scene, which I shall
never forget. High up the stream I descried an object on a large slab
of ice which came floating down towards me. As it came nearer, I
perceived a telega, a country cart, with a horse harnessed to it. Near
it I saw a human figure kneeling. By his side was a dog, which, from
its attitude, even at that distance, I guessed was looking up into his
master's face. So still were all the figures, that I might have fancied
them a group chiselled out of marble. Nearer drew the sheet of ice. I
then saw that the figure was that of an old man; his cap had fallen off,
and his long white locks were streaming in the wind. His hands were
lifted up in prayer, and his lips moved, as if imploring aid from above.
His faithful dog looked up wistfully and inquiringly, as if to say,
`Master dear, what is the matter?--how can I help you?' The old man
seemed resigned fully to his fate, and not inclined to make an effort to
save himself. He turned his head, and then saw farther down the stream
a number of people, who were beckoning to him, and showing their anxiety
to save him. At first when he saw them, he shook his head, and once
more addressed himself to prayer. He had evidently given up all hope of
being saved. But when the cheering voices of his fellow-creatures
reached his ears, and he saw their friendly gestures, the desire to live
returned, and he rose from his knees. In his cart were a number of long
poles. He seized one of them, and stood balancing it in his hand, while
he looked eagerly towards the shore. He called to his dog, `Now, my
faithful one, you and I have a dangerous work to perform. Life or death
depends on the course we take.' He approached the edge of the floe,
which was now driven close to another large mass, and then whirled round
again, a wide gulf being left between them. The poor dog whined, and
drew back with dismay as he watched the eddying waters close before him.
"`Courage, courage, friend!' shouted the people on the shore, as the
floe on which the old man stood approached another sheet of ice at that
moment attached to the shore. `Leap, leap, friend!' His tall sinewy
figure showed me that he might justly in his youth have trusted to his
athletic powers to save him from a similar predicament, but age, alas!
Had unstrung his nerves and weakened his muscles. He hesitated. Again
the people shouted, `Courage, courage!--leap, leap!' He looked up to
Heaven for a moment, and then sprang forward. His dog followed. There
was a shriek of horror; the treacherous ice, worn at the edges by the
constant abrasion of the other pieces, was rotten and unable to bear the
weight suddenly placed on it. It gave way ere he could take a second
leap, and sank beneath him. One cry escaped him, and the wild foaming
waters closed over his head. His dog, lighter of foot, reached the
shore in safety, and was till his death in my possession."
The guests gave a shudder at the recital.
"We have had enough of tales of horror for one day," said the Count.
"Have you ever tried our Russian bath, Fairman?"
"No; I must confess to having neglected that duty of a traveller, who
ought to taste every dish, go through every operation, and see every
ceremony characteristic of the country," answered Cousin Giles,
laughing. "I cannot fancy a roll in the snow after a hot bath."
"Whether it is injurious or not depends on the effect which the hot bath
produces on the frame," answered the Count. "Every country mansion has
a bath, placed near a stream, if possible. It is a very simple affair.
The bath-house is divided into two portions. In the inner half is a
large oven, and high up round the walls are rows of seats. In the oven
are placed large stones which are completely heated through. In the
room stand ready some buckets of water. The people who are to bathe
then come in and take their seats on the benches, having left their
clothes in the outer room; the door is closed, and the water is thrown
over the hot stones. This fills the whole room with hot vapour, which
thoroughly penetrates the pores of the skin. The bathers are then
rubbed over with towels and brushes, and a profuse perspiration ensues,
which continues till all superfluous moisture has exuded from the body.
There is then, it must be understood, no lassitude, no weakness, such as
is produced by physical exertion, while also perspiration has in reality
ceased. The frame, therefore, is not liable to receive a chill, but is,
on the contrary, strengthened to resist it. Consequently, a person may
either rush out into the freezing air and roll in the snow, or may
plunge into a bath of pure cold water with impunity. For this purpose
the bath-houses are, as I said, built near a stream or pond; and most
refreshing and invigorating it is, after taking the steam-bath, to leap
into the bright, sparkling stream. One comes out again like a new
being, feeling capable of any exertion."
Cousin Giles and his companions declared, after the description they had
heard, that they should be anxious to take a true Russian bath before
they left the country.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of some musicians and
singers, who came expressly to amuse the company. The instrumental
music was very good, and received, as it merited, an abundance of
applause; but the great amusement of the evening was a contest between
two rival singers. On their introduction they bowed to the company,
which was composed evidently of persons much superior to them in rank.
"Come, friend Nedopeouski, do you begin," said the Count, addressing a
tall man with a very quiet, almost sheepish expression of countenance.
Thus summoned, the singer, who had been standing for some time alone
without uttering a word, began an air, which it was evident could only
be accomplished by a person capable of reaching the highest notes. He
soon showed that he was equal to what he had undertaken. It was
wonderful the mode in which he played with his voice: it rose and fell,
and swelled again, now seeming to come through the roof from the clouds,
now scarcely audible; sweet and strong notes succeeded each other with
rapid transition. Then others present joined in chorus, and this
seeming to encourage him to still further exertions, he quickly
surpassed all his first efforts, till, utterly overcome, he could sing
no longer, and would have sunk on the ground had not some of the guests,
enraptured by the music, sprung up and caught him in their arms. Loud
acclamations of delight broke from every one present, and it appeared as
if there was no use in his rival attempting to compete with him. On the
speedy recovery of the first singer, the Count, however, beckoned to him
to begin. He rose and stood forward. At first his voice was weak, but
his notes seemed to rivet the attention of his audience. As he
proceeded, it became more and more animated, firmer, and fuller,
exhibiting a wonderful combination of freshness, sweetness, and power;
so exquisitely plaintive, so overflowing with poignant grief--for it was
of a melancholy character--that tears, sobs, and groans broke from the
breasts of most of his audience. It was truly the triumph of song over
human feelings, and the palm of victory was unanimously awarded to the
last singer.
"I am glad you heard these singers," observed the Count, as his guests
were retiring for the night. "We Russians are celebrated, I believe,
for our musical talents, and I think you have heard a fair specimen of
them this evening."