I
The forest was murmuring.
There was always a murmuring in this forest, long-drawn, monotonous,
like the undertones of a distant bell, like a faint song without words,
like vague memories of the past. There was always a murmuring in the
forest because it was a dense wood of ancient pines, untouched as
yet by the axe and saw of the timber merchant. The tall, century-old
trees with their mighty red-brown trunks stood in frowning ranks,
proudly thrusting their green, interwoven tops aloft. The air under
them was still and sweet with resin; bright ferns pierced the carpet
of needles with which the ground was clothed, and superbly displayed
their motionless, fringed foliage. Tall, green grass-blades had shot
upward in the moist places, and there, too, white clover-heads drooped
heavily, as if overcome with gentle languor. And always overhead,
without a pause and without an end, droned the voice of the forest, the
low sighing of the ancient pines.
But now these sighs had grown deeper and louder. I was riding along a
woodland path, and although the sky was invisible, I knew, under the
darkly frowning trees, that a storm was gathering overhead. The hour
was late. A few last rays of sunlight were still filtering in here and
there between the tree-trunks, but misty shadows had already begun to
gather in the thickets. A thunder-storm was brewing for the night. I
was forced to abandon all idea of continuing the chase that day, and
could only think of reaching a night’s lodging before the storm broke.
My horse struck his hoof against a bare root, snorted, and pricked his
ears, harkening to the muffled impacts of the forest echo. Then of his
own accord he turned his steps into the well-known path that led to the
hut of the forest guard.
A dog barked. White plastered walls gleamed among the thinning
tree-trunks, a blue wisp of smoke appeared, curling upward under the
overshadowing branches, and a lop-sided cottage with a dilapidated
roof stood before me, sheltering under a wall of ruddy tree-trunks.
It seemed to have sunk down upon the ground, while the proud graceful
pines nodded their heads, high, high above it. In the centre of the
clearing stood two oak trees, huddling close to one another.
Here lived the foresters Zakhar and Maksim, the invariable companions
of my hunting expeditions. But now they were evidently away from home,
for no one came out of the house at the barking of the great collie.
Only their old grandfather with his bald head and his grey whiskers was
sitting on a bench outside the door, braiding shoes of bast. The old
man’s beard swept almost to his belt; his eyes were vague as if he were
trying in vain to remember something.
“Good evening, daddy! Is any one at home?”
“Eh, hey,” mumbled the old man, shaking his head; “neither Zakhar nor
Maksim is here and Motria has gone into the wood for the cow. The cow
has run away; perhaps the bears have eaten her. And so there is no one
in the cottage.”
“Well, well, never mind. I’ll sit here with you and wait.”
“Yes, sit down and wait!” the old man nodded, and watched me with dim,
watery eyes as I tied my horse to the branch of one of the oaks. The
old man was failing fast. He was nearly blind and his hands trembled.
“And who are you, lad?” he asked, as I sat down on the bench.