SOMETHING WONDERFUL HAPPENS TO IVAN.
“Dir ist dein Ohr geklungen
Vom Lob das man dir bot,
Doch ist zu ihn gedrungen
Ein schwacher Schrei der Noth.
Der ist ein Held der Freien
Der, wenn der Ruhm ihn kränzt,
Noch gluht, zu dem zu weihen,
Das frommet und nicht glänzt.”--RUCKÄRT.
When Ivan awoke it was broad daylight; the shed was empty, and all
around him still and silent. After a few moments of bewilderment, he
remembered where he was, and a sudden terror seized him lest the boat
might have come and gone, and his companions have crossed the river
without him. So he threw on his shuba and hurried out. They were
standing on the bank, watching eagerly for the boat--or rather for
the boatman, of whom as yet there was no appearance, though they were
tantalized by the sight of the empty boat lying high and dry on the
opposite bank. Their irritation increased every moment, and curses were
not wanting, which lost none of their effect uttered in that hard,
resonant, metallic language.
At this point a new wayfarer joined the group. He came with long
strides, as one in eager haste, and his annoyance at the delay seemed
even greater than that of the rest. He was a fine, active, young
fellow, neatly dressed, and with a mason’s trowel stuck in the sash of
his caftan, where all the others carried the indispensable axe. Seeing
no sign of the approach of a boat, he grew pale, and ground his teeth
with angry disappointment.
“Just like my luck!” he muttered. “As well throw myself into the river
at once, as wait here much longer.”
“Patience, friend,” said the oldest of the mujiks. “Are we not all in
the like case? Nay, we are worse off than you, for we have waited here
all night.”
“Worse off! you little know! With you it is a matter of a few kopecks;
with me it is life and death. If I am not at Klopti by sundown, there
is the knout for my back.”
“Why? In Heaven’s name, what have you done?”
“Done! nothing in the world but work at my trade, and pay my obrok
truly to my lord” (for he was one of that numerous class of serfs
who were permitted by their lords to work on their own account, upon
payment of an annual tax, or _obrok_). “But he raised my obrok three
times, until at last I could scarcely live, and was left no chance of
saving a rouble or two for the future. Then last summer I fell from
the scaffolding of a house I was building, and was sore hurt. Only
that the people I lodged with were good Christians, it would have gone
ill with me. But I recovered, thanks to my patron St. Stefen; and when
the spring came on I got work again--government work too, which is
well paid. I made up my obrok, and then--why then, my brothers, the
world went well with me, and my heart was light. Little Katinka, the
daughter of the kind soul that took care of me while I was ill, was the
prettiest girl in the quarter, and good and pure like a candle of white
wax made to burn before the picture of a holy saint. So we gave each
other our troth; and I think the Czar himself on his golden throne was
scarce happier than I. But five days ago there came a messenger from
Klopti to call me home at once. My lord wants to make him a new house,
and must needs have me to build it for him and to teach the men of the
village to build also. It was sudden; but my lord does not think much
of us poor people--God forgive him!”
“But, brother;--what is it you call yourself?” asked the mujik who had
spoken before.
“Stefen Alexitch, at your service.”
“Well, then, Brother Stefen, why did you not set out at once? You would
have been by this time at your journey’s end.”
“I know it. Indeed I was wrong, very wrong. But the very next day was
Katinka’s feast-day, and as I knew only too well that I was never
likely to look on her sweet face again, I was tempted to stay, just
that I might dance one more measure with her. I thought I could have
walked more quickly. And now this cursed delay! God grant my lord may
not lose patience altogether, and wreak his vengeance on my poor old
father and mother! That would be worse than the knout across my own
shoulders.”
Stefen’s narrative elicited many expressions of compassion.
“Poor lad! thy case is hard indeed,” said one.
“Ah,” sighed another, “how true the proverb, ‘Heaven is high, and the
Czar far off.’”
But at that moment a third exclaimed joyfully,--
“Look, brothers!--the boat at last!”
So it was. At first it was seen to shoot rapidly across the strong
current of the river; but by-and-by the rower seemed to flag, and his
strokes grew uncertain and unsteady.
The mujiks were too glad to see him on any terms to be critical about
the quality of his performances. They crowded to the river’s brink,
that they might be ready to spring into the boat the moment it touched
the land.
Ivan took advantage of the confusion to steal up to Stefen and slip his
silver rouble quietly into his hand. “Take it,” he whispered. “It is
all I have; but you can get a fairing with it to send to Katinka.”
It was poor consolation; but he meant it well, and Stefen’s sore heart
was soothed by the gentle touch. He bent over the boy and kissed him.
There was no time to do more; if they wished to get places in the boat,
they must hasten.
The boatman, meanwhile, was volubly explaining the cause of his delay,
his speech thickened with much vodka. A party of boyars--_very_ great
boyars, high and mighty excellencies--had come to the post-house on
the Moscow road, and the postmaster had kept him busy going on their
errands, both last night and this morning. It was easy to see in what
coin his services had been paid for; he had taken so much vodka that
he was scarcely able to row the boat at all, and, moreover, it was too
heavily freighted for safety, not to say for comfort.
Ivan had never been on the water before, and he soon became thoroughly
frightened; not without reason. When they reached the middle of the
river the boatman showed himself so manifestly incapable that Stefen
offered to take the oars. Russian peasants are usually good-tempered,
even when under the influence of vodka; but the boatman, unhappily,
was surly and dogged by nature, and rudely refused to yield his place.
For a few minutes Stefen waited quietly; then seeing that the man was
allowing the boat to drift, to the peril of all their lives, he made an
attempt to take the oars from him by force. The boatman resisted, and
a struggle ensued, from which Ivan hid his face in terror; for now the
two men were standing up, striking and pushing each other wildly, while
the frail, heavily-laden boat swayed and rocked beneath their reckless
feet. One was drunk, the other angry and “bitter of soul.” At length
Ivan heard a heavy plash close beside him. Hastily uncovering his eyes,
he saw the waters closing over the luckless Stefen, and uttered a cry
of horror. To his great relief, however, Stefen rose again to the
surface, and one of the mujiks, seizing an oar, held it out to him. But
either he had lost his presence of mind, or, more probably, his head
had been hurt by the boat in falling. At all events, he made no effort
to grasp the oar; and the mujiks--ignorant, stupid, and awkward, though
not lacking in kindliness--gave him up for lost. Indeed, their own
situation was critical enough; but they got to the shore somehow.
The boatman was sobered by the shock, and almost stupified with grief
for what had happened. But the others crowded round him, and urged him
to go and seek for poor Stefen’s body, that he might at least be buried
like a Christian. This he consented to do; and the task of finding it
proved unexpectedly easy, for a miniature island, in the midst of the
river, with a single tree growing upon it, had arrested the body as
it was borne downwards by the strong current of the stream. The group
on the shore waited in mournful silence while the boatman and two of
the mujiks went and returned, bringing with them their solemn freight,
which they laid sadly and reverently on the fair greensward, beneath
the happy morning sun.
All crossed themselves and murmured a prayer for his soul; and the
oldest of the mujiks detached a little sacred picture from his own neck
and laid it on his breast.
It was Ivan’s first meeting face to face with the king of terrors. The
form so lately full of life and energy lay stiff and rigid; while the
brow, the cheek, the lips--when he saw the strange and solemn change
that had swept over all these, his young heart could bear no more, he
lifted up his voice and wept. His tears unlocked the floodgates of the
general sorrow; all the mujiks standing around him wept and wrung their
hands, like the grown-up children that in truth they were.
Just at that moment, as if to throw into strongest relief the contrast
between life and death, between earth’s brightest sunshine and her
deepest shadows, a young boyar from the party at the post-house came
riding rapidly over the smooth greensward. Drawing near the weeping
group, he checked his horse to a foot-pace, and Ivan turned and looked
at him. There was no splendour in his dress--an officer’s uniform,
gray in colour and plain in fashion. But his face, which seemed to
bring the glow and glory of the morning with it, held Ivan’s gaze with
a kind of fascination. Features almost perfect enough for the deathless
marble of a Grecian sculptor might have worn no charm to his untrained
eye, if they had not also beamed with a kindness and gentleness that
took his heart at once. That bright, young face--the first beardless
manly face he remembered to have seen--left itself for ever on his
mind. It was destined to be the inspiration of his life; and when death
closed his eyes, he had scarcely a dearer hope than to see it once
again in the morning of the resurrection.
The boyar, meanwhile, had come quite close to the group ere he appeared
to perceive distinctly the cause of their distress. But no sooner had
he done so than he sprang from his horse, flinging the bridle to Ivan,
who proudly accepted the charge. The next moment he was bending over
the lifeless form; the next, he turned and said cheerfully to the
mujiks standing near,--
“My children, this is not death. We will save him yet.”
They were speechless with amazement. Was this stranger a holy saint,
a worker of miracles? They knew at least that he was a nobleman and
an officer, whom fortunately every instinct of their nature, every
habit of their lives, taught them to obey without a question. Rapidly
singling out two or three of the most intelligent-looking, he set them
to work--working with them himself as Ivan, used to the dawdling,
dreamy ways of the mujiks, had never in his life seen any one work
before. By magic, as it seemed, poor Stefen’s dripping clothes were
removed, and he was wrapped in the warmest garments the mujiks could
contribute for the purpose--Ivan, amongst others, gladly offering his
little sheepskin shuba. Then the cold and rigid limbs were gently
chafed, a work of time and patience. Those who were helping did
mechanically whatever they were directed to do, while the rest looked
on in a kind of wondering stupefaction. How could even a boyar expect
to bring a dead man to life?
After a considerable time had been spent in this manner, the whole
party from the post-house came up, boyars and servants, all on
horseback. Instead of calling upon their companion to join them, as
Ivan rather expected them to do, the boyars at once dismounted and
joined _him_, leaving their horses on the road in the care of the
servants. One of these drew near Ivan, and attempted to take his charge
from him; but he resisted.
“No,” he said. “My boyar’s hand gave this bridle into mine, and into no
other but his will I give it back again.”
“Let the boy alone, Ilya,” cried another of the attendants, with a
good-humoured laugh. “Let him keep his luck. It may not come twice in
his life-time.”
After that Ivan could not so easily see what was happening, though he
watched intently and with the keenest interest. “His boyar” seemed to
refer the matter, as to a person of superior authority, to a very tall,
very stern-looking individual, who examined Stefen carefully, putting
his hand on his heart and on his wrist. Presently, and rather to Ivan’s
horror, he drew from his pocket a sort of case, out of which there
flashed a bright instrument of steel, like a thin sharp knife, and with
this he proceeded to inflict a deep cut upon Stefen’s arm; while, far
from objecting, the young boyar carefully held it for him, and then
produced a fine white kerchief of his own, which he gave him to bind
the wound.[7]
But still the pale, cold form lay there stiff and motionless. Was
it death? or was it only a death-like swoon? It was the nobles who
were busy now, chafing the cold hands and feet, and using every other
possible means to restore animation; for the peasants had given place
to them, and stood aside, silent and wondering spectators of the scene.
Time passed: life and death were struggling for the mastery, and
the conflict was tedious and protracted. It was no even contest.
From the first, victory seemed to incline to the side of the sable
king. The chance of life, always desperate, lessened apparently
with every minute, and when the minutes grew to hours it seemed to
vanish altogether away. At last the tall surgeon shook his head, and
turning to the boyar said something in a foreign tongue that evidently
expressed despair. But _he_ would not admit the thought. Ivan knew not,
of course, what he said in answer, but it was easy to see that he had
steadfastly resolved not to abandon hope, and that he was entreating,
urging, even commanding the rest to continue their efforts.
Apparently for no purpose but to please him they obeyed. An interval
followed of renewed exertion, though of ever-waning hope. At length,
however, the surgeon’s instrument flashed out once more, and almost
immediately afterwards a thrill of emotion passed through the entire
group. One shuddering sigh, one faint, low groan was heard from the
lips that had seemed to be sealed for ever in death. “Thank God!” said
the boyar, raising the military cap from his stately head with its
clustering chestnut curls. “This is amongst the brightest days of my
life.” Ivan stood near enough to see that his blue eyes were full of
tears.
Whilst they gave Stefen a little vodka, and prepared a kind of litter
in which to carry him to the post-house, several other persons came up,
including the priest and the starost of the nearest village; for some
of the mujiks had gone away and spread the story of the strange things
they had been witnessing.
Then to Ivan’s young eyes the scene became confused. Much happened that
he could not exactly understand. But Stefen was alive--that at least
was certain, for he saw him try to kiss the hand that had so patiently
drawn him back from the gates of the grave. And now, for the first
time, the thought occurred to Ivan that his triumph over Michael would
be complete and glorious. Michael assuredly had never seen a dead man
brought to life again!
At last the great people seemed to be preparing to pursue their
journey. Ivan watched “his boyar” as he talked for some time to the
priest and the starost, who stood before him with uncovered heads and
an air of the deepest reverence; then, seeing him look for his horse,
he led his charge forward, and held the stirrup gracefully while he
mounted. He got a word of praise for his “long patience,” and a bright
piece of gold glittered in his hand.
“Take me with you, my boyar,” he cried, with a sudden impulse. “Let me
serve you; I would _love_ to do it.”
“My child, you shall serve me one day--not yet,” said the boyar,
smiling.
A few moments more, and the stately cavalcade had moved away. Ivan
stood in silence, unable to withdraw his gaze from the retreating
figure of his hero until it was lost in the distance.
The white-haired priest came up to him and laid his hand on his
shoulder. “My lad,” he said, “do you know who has spoken to you--whose
horse you have had the honour of holding?”
“Yes,” said Ivan, wakening out of a dream; “no--yes--at least I know it
was a boyar, a great, and good, and splendid boyar, with the face of an
angel. I love him!”
“Then pray for him all the days of thy life, for know that he is none
other than thy sovereign lord and mine, the Czar Alexander Paulovitch.”
Ivan stared, then burst out laughing. “You are jesting with me,” he
said. “Nay, father, I am only a boy, but I know better than that. I am
quite twelve years old, and I know very well that the Czar lives in St.
Petersburg, and wears a golden crown, and sits upon a throne, and all
the boyars stand uncovered around him.”
“Still, I tell thee truth. That handsome young officer was the great
Czar himself--the lord of all the Russias. To prove my words--I am a
poor man, but I will give thee twice, three times its value for that
coin in thy hand, which his hand touched.”
Ivan shook his head. “No, no, father; I don’t believe a word of your
story; but I love my boyar, and I will not give away his gift. He said
I should serve him one day, and I mean to do it. Though, to be sure,”
he added, thoughtfully, “I might almost part with it for poor Stefen’s
sake, and to do a good deed. How will he dare to meet his master’s
face--later than ever now?”
“Never trouble thyself for thy friend Stefen; he is rich enough this
day to buy his freedom, if he will. He who gave him back his life has
taken care to make that life worth the keeping.”
“Then he can marry Katinka?”
“He can marry whom he pleases. Our lord the Czar never leaves anything
half done.”
“Oh! what a good day it has been!” and Ivan, in his own estimation far
too old to be deceived by an idle story, was by no means too old to
leap and dance for very joy.
“You believe _that_,” said the priest; “then why do you doubt the rest
of my story?”
“Because,” returned Ivan, “I have wit enough to know that the great
Czar, who ‘is God upon earth,’ as the proverb says, would not care for
the life of a poor mujik, and toil hard to save it, as my boyar did
this day.”
“Well, fools will be fools while the world lasts. Here, take thy shuba;
Stefen left it for thee when they brought him to the post-house. Go thy
ways; and God teach thee that it shows more wit to believe what one is
told than to question it.”
“Good day, father,” returned Ivan; “I am going home--to Nicolofsky,
where people speak the truth to their neighbours.”
With this parting shaft, he drew on his shuba, and turned his steps
homewards, highly pleased with his adventure. What a story he would
have for the starost and mativshka, for Pope Nikita and one-eared
Michael, not to speak of Anna Popovna, by no means the least in his
estimation!
He crossed the river without delay--the ferry-boat and the penitent
ferryman being this time both in readiness--and then he resumed his
journey on foot. As he walked, he ate the remainder of his bread; for
he had tasted nothing that day, and it was now long past noon. With a
happy heart he pursued his way until about sunset, when fatigue obliged
him to stop and rest. He lay down under a solitary fir-tree, intending
only to indulge in a short--a _very_ short slumber. But nature
proved too strong for him: when he awoke again the sky was flushed
with the light of early dawn. The remainder of his task was quickly
accomplished: he walked into the starost’s cottage as the family were
sitting down to their morning meal of kasha, or stewed grain.
Warm was the welcome and great were the rejoicings that greeted his
appearance. The poor people had been sorely terrified by the mysterious
absence of their nursling, and they had sought him far and near,
through the birch-wood and the corn-fields, and even for some distance
in the waste. They were preparing to renew the search that day with
anxious and foreboding hearts.
Almost all Nicolofsky crowded to the starost’s cottage to congratulate
Ivan and to hear his wonderful story. Certainly, he had attained his
object, if that object was to make himself the hero of the village, and
totally and for ever to eclipse the exploits of Michael Ivanovitch!
But Ivan was no more the thoughtless little lad who set out two days
ago in search of adventures. His young heart had awakened from the
sleep of childhood; new feelings, vague and dimly comprehended, were
beginning to stir it. As he trod his homeward way, full of all the
wonders he had witnessed, a voice seemed to murmur within him, “And I,
too, am a boyar.” What did it mean to be a boyar? He had no words in
which to express his thought; but the dawning light of a grand truth,
faint and far off, shone upon him from the face of the first boyar
he had ever seen, as it bent anxiously and tenderly over the mujik’s
senseless form--that to be greater than all the rest meant to do good
to all the rest.
He told his adventures modestly and truthfully. What he had done with
his silver rouble he told no one, but he showed the gold piece that
had been given him with proud pleasure, and asked the starost to make
a hole in it, as he wished to keep it always, and to wear it on the
ribbon round his neck with the little iron cross put there at his
baptism.
He told what the priest had said to him, adding, however, “But of
course he was mocking me; no one could believe such a foolish story as
that.”
Every one present agreed with him, except Pope Nikita, who pondered
awhile, and then said thoughtfully, “Who knows? it may have been. After
all, One greater than the Czar put his hands upon the poor sick folk
and healed them.”[8]