II

My father and mother died, you know, a long time ago when I was only a

little lad. They left me in the world alone. That’s what happened to

me, eh, hey! Well, the village warden looked at me and thought: “What

shall we do with this boy?” And the lord of the manor thought the

same thing. And at that time Raman, the forest guard, came out of the

forest, and he said to the warden: “Let me have that boy to take back

to my cottage with me. I’ll take good care of him. It will be company

for me in the forest and he will be fed.” That’s what he said, and the

warden answered: “Take him!” So he took me. And I have lived in the

forest ever since.

Raman brought me up here. God forbid that any one should look as

terrible as he did! His eyes were black, his hair was black, and a dark

soul looked out of his eyes because the man had lived alone in the

forest all his life. The bears, people said, were his brothers and the

wolves were his nephews. He knew all the wild animals and was afraid

of none, but he kept away from people and wouldn’t even look at them.

That’s what he was like. It’s the honest truth. When he looked at me

I felt as if a cat were tickling my back with its tail. But he was a

good man all the same, and I must say he fed me well. We always had

buckwheat porridge with grease, and a duck if he happened to kill one.

Yes, he fed me well; it’s the truth and I must say it.

So we two lived together. Raman used to go out into the forest every

day and lock me up in the cottage so that the wild animals shouldn’t

eat me. Then they gave him a wife called Aksana.

The Count, who was the lord of the manor, gave him his wife. He called

Raman to the village and said to him:

“Come, Raman, you must marry.”

“How can I marry? What should I do with a wife in the forest when I

already have a boy there? I don’t want to marry!” he said.

He wasn’t used to girls, that’s what the matter was. But the Count was

sly. When I remember him, lad, I think to myself: there are no men like

him now, they are all gone. Take yourself, for instance. They say you

are a Count’s son too. That may be true, but you haven’t got the--well

the real thing, in you. You’re a miserable little snip of a boy, that’s

all you are.

But he was a real one, just as they used to be. You may think it a

funny thing that a hundred men should tremble before one, but look at

the falcon, boy, and the chicken! Both are hatched out of an egg, but

the falcon longs to soar as soon as his wings are strong. Then, when he

screams in the sky, how not only the little chickens but the old cocks

run! The noble is a falcon, the peasant is a hen.

I remember when I was a little boy seeing thirty peasants hauling heavy

logs out of the forest and the Count riding along alone on his horse,

twirling his whiskers. The horse under him was prancing, but he kept

looking from side to side. Oi, oi! When the peasants met the Count, how

they got out of his way, turning their horses aside into the snow, and

how they took off their caps! They had heavy work afterwards pulling

the logs out of the snow back on to the road while the Count galloped

away. The road had been too narrow for him to pass the peasants of

course! Whenever the Count moved an eyebrow the peasants trembled. When

he laughed, they laughed; when he frowned, they cried. No one ever

opposed the Count; it had never been done.

But Raman had grown up in the forest and did not know the ways of the

world, so the Count was not very angry when he refused the girl.

“I want you to marry,” the Count said. “Why I want you to do it is my

business. Take Aksana.”

“I don’t want to,” answered Raman. “I don’t want her. Let the Devil

marry her, I won’t! There now!”

The Count ordered a knout to be brought. They stretched Raman out, and

the Count asked him:

“Will you marry, Raman?”

“No,” he answered, “I won’t.”

“Then give it to him on the back,” commanded the Count, “as hard as you

can lay it on.”

They gave it to him good and hard. Raman was a strong man, but he got

tired of it at last.

“All right, stop!” he cried. “That’s enough. May all the devils in hell

take her! I won’t suffer this torture for any woman! Give her to me;

I’ll marry her!”

Now there lived at the Count’s castle a huntsman named Opanas. Opanas

came riding in from the fields just as they were persuading Raman to be

married. He heard Raman’s trouble and fell at the Count’s feet. He fell

down and kissed them.

“What’s the use of thrashing that man, kind master?” he asked. “Better

let me marry Aksana with a free will.”

Eh, hey; he wanted to marry her himself. That’s what he wanted, yes

indeed!

So Raman was pleased and grew happy again. He got up and tied up his

breeches and said:

“That’s splendid!” says he. “But why couldn’t you have come a little

sooner, man? And the Count too--that’s how it always is! Wouldn’t it

have been better to have found out first who wanted to marry her?

Instead of that they grab the first man that comes along and begin

flogging him! Do you think that is Christian?” he asked. “Bah!”

Eh, hey; he didn’t have any mercy on the Count, that’s the sort of man

Raman was. When he got angry it was safest to keep out of his way, even

for a Count. But the Count was sly! You see he was after something. He

ordered Raman to be stretched out on the grass.

“I want to make you happy, fool!” he cried. “And you turn up your nose

at me! You are living alone now like a bear in his den; it is dull for

me when I come to see you. Lay it on to the fool until he says he has

had enough! As for you Opanas, go to the devil! You weren’t asked to

this party,” he said. “So don’t sit down at the table unless you want

to be entertained like Raman.”

But Raman’s anger had gone beyond joking by that time, eh, hey! They

tickled him well, and, you know, people in those days could take a

man’s hide off beautifully with a knout, but he lay quite still and

never said: that’s enough! He endured it a long time, but at last he

spat and cried:

“It’s not right to baste a Christian like this for a woman without even

counting the stripes! That’s enough! And may your hands shrivel and

drop off, you accursed servants! The devil himself must have taught you

to use the knout. Do you think I’m a bundle of wheat on a threshing

floor that you beat me like this? If that’s your idea, I’m going to get

married.”

Then the Count laughed.

“That’s splendid!” he cried. “Though you won’t be able to sit down at

your wedding, you will dance all the livelier.”

The Count was a jolly man, indeed he was, eh, hey! Something bad

happened to him afterwards though; God forbid that anything like that

should ever happen to any Christian! I wouldn’t wish it for any one. It

wouldn’t be right to wish it even for a Jew. That’s what I think about

it.

Well, they got Raman married. He brought his young wife to this

cottage, and at first he did nothing but scold her and blame her for

his thrashing.

“You’re not worth a thrashing to any man!” he used to say.

As soon as he came home out of the forest he would chase her out of the

house shouting:

“Away with you! I don’t want a woman in my house! Don’t let me see you

here again! I don’t like to have a woman sleeping here. I don’t like

the smell.”

Eh, hey!

But later he got used to her. Aksana swept out the hut and painted it

to look nice and clean, and put the china neatly away, and at last

everything shone so brightly that one’s heart grew merry at the sight

of it. Raman saw what a good woman she was, and little by little he got

used to her. Yes, he not only got used to her, lad, he began to love

her. Yes indeed, I am telling you the truth. That’s what happened to

Raman. When he found out what the woman was like he said:

“Thanks to the Count I have learnt what a good thing is. What a fool I

was! How many stripes I took, and now I see that it isn’t so bad after

all! It is even good. That’s the truth!”

And so some time passed, I don’t know exactly how much. Then one day

Aksana lay down on a bench and began to groan. That evening she was

ill, and when I woke up in the morning I heard a shrill little voice

squeaking. Eh, hey, I thought to myself, I know what has happened, a

baby has been born! And so it had.

The baby did not stay long in this world. Only from that morning until

night. It stopped squeaking in the evening. Aksana cried, but Raman

said:

“The child has gone, so now we won’t call in the priest. We can bury it

ourselves under a pine tree.”

That’s what Raman said. And he not only said it, he did it. He dug a

little grave under a tree and buried the child. There stands the old

stump of the tree to this day. It has been split by lightning. Yes,

that is the same pine tree under which Raman buried the child. And I’ll

tell you something, boy: to this day when the sun goes down and the

stars shine out over the forest a little bird comes flying to that tree

and cries. It pipes so sadly, poor little bird, that one’s heart aches

to hear it. It is the little unchristened soul crying for a cross. A

learned man, they say, who knows things out of books, could give it a

cross and then it would not fly about any more. But we live here in the

forest and don’t know anything. It comes flying up begging for help and

all we can say is: “You poor, poor little soul, we can’t do anything

for you!” So then it cries and flies away, and next day it comes back

again. Ah, boy, I’m sorry for the poor little soul!

Well, when Aksana got well again she was always going to the grave. She

would sit on the grave and cry; sometimes she would cry so loudly that

her voice could be heard through the whole forest. She was grieving for

her baby, but Raman did not grieve for the baby, he grieved for her.

He used to come back out of the forest and stand by Aksana and say:

“Be quiet, silly woman! What is there to cry for? One child has died

but there may be another. And a better one, perhaps! Because that one

may not have been mine, I don’t know whether it was or not, but the

next one will be mine!”

Aksana did not like it when he talked like that. She would stop crying

and begin to howl at him with bad words. Then Raman would get angry.

“What are you howling for?” he would ask. “I didn’t say anything of the

kind. I only said I didn’t know. And the reason I don’t know is because

you were living in the world among men then, and not in the forest.

So how can I be sure? Now you are living in the forest; now it is all

right. Old granny Feodosia said when I went to the village to fetch

her: ‘Your baby came very quickly, Raman.’ And I said to the old woman:

‘How do I know whether it came quickly or not?’ But come now, stop

bawling or I’ll get angry, and might even beat you.”

Well, Aksana would shout at him for a while and then she would stop.

She would scold him and hit him on the back, but when Raman began to

get angry himself she would grow quiet. She would be frightened. She

used to embrace him then, and kiss him, and look into his eyes. Then my

Raman would grow quiet again. Because, you know, lad--but you probably

don’t know, though I do, even if I have never married, because I’m an

old man--I know that a young woman is so sweet to kiss that she can

twist any man around her finger at will no matter how angry he is. Oi,

oi, I know what these women are! And Aksana was a tidy young thing; one

doesn’t see her like now-a-days. I’ll tell you, lad, women are not what

they were.

Well, one day a horn blew in the forest: tara-tara-ta-ta! That’s how

it echoed through the forest, clearly and gaily. I was a little fellow

then and didn’t know what it was. I saw the birds rising from their

nests and flapping their wings and screaming, and I saw the hares

skipping over the ground with their ears laid back, as fast as they

could scamper. I thought perhaps it was some unknown wild animal making

that pretty noise. But it was not a wild animal, it was the Count

trotting through the forest on his horse and blowing his horn. Behind

him came his huntsmen leading their hounds on the leash. The handsomest

of all the huntsmen was Opanas, caracoling behind the Count dressed in

a long blue Cossack coat. Opanas’ cap had a peaked golden crown, his

horse was capering under him, his carbine was glistening on his back,

and his bandura[E] was slung across his shoulder by a strap. The Count

liked Opanas because he played well on the bandura and was an expert at

singing songs. Ah, this lad Opanas was handsome, terribly handsome!

The Count simply didn’t compare with Opanas. The Count was bald and his

nose was red and his eyes, though they were merry, were not like those

of Opanas! When Opanas looked at me--at me, a little whipper-snapper--I

couldn’t help laughing, and I wasn’t a young girl! People said that

Opanas’ father was a Cossack from beyond the Dnieper; every one there

is handsome and nimble and sleek. And think, boy, the difference there

is between flying across the plains like a bird with a horse and a

lance, and chopping wood with an axe!

Well, I ran out of the hut and looked, and there came the Count and

stopped right in front of the house, and the huntsmen stopped too.

Raman ran out of the hut and held the Count’s stirrup and the Count

climbed down from his horse. Raman bowed to him.

“Good day!” the Count says to Raman.

“Eh, hey,” answers Raman. “I’m very well, thanks, and how are you?”

You see, Raman didn’t know how to answer the Count as he ought to have

done. The attendants all laughed at his words and the Count laughed too.

“I’m very glad you are well,” says the Count. “And where is your wife?”

“Where should my wife be? My wife is in the hut.”

“Then we’ll go into the hut,” says the Count. “And meanwhile light

a fire, lads, and prepare something to eat, for we have come to

congratulate the young couple.”

So they went into the hut; the Count, and Opanas, and Raman bareheaded

behind them with Bogdan, the oldest of the huntsmen and the Count’s

faithful servant. There are no servants like him in the world now.

Bogdan was old and ruled the other attendants sternly, but in the

Count’s presence he was like that dog there. There was no one in the

world for Bogdan except the Count. People said that when Bogdan’s

father and mother had died he had asked the old Count for a house and

land, for he wanted to marry. But the old Count would not allow it. He

made him the young Count’s servant and said: “There are your mother and

father and wife!” So Bogdan took the boy and taught him to ride and

shoot. And the young Count grew up and began to rule in his father’s

place, and old Bogdan still followed him like a dog.

Okh, I’ll tell you the truth. Many people have cursed Bogdan; many

tears have fallen because of him, and all on account of the Count.

At one word from the Count, Bogdan would have torn his own father to

shreds.

Well, I was a little fellow, and I ran into the house behind the Count.

I was curious to see what would happen. Wherever he went I went too.

Well, I looked, and there, standing in the middle of the hut, I saw the

Count stroking his whiskers and laughing. And there was Raman standing

first on one foot and then on another, crushing his hat in his hands,

and there, too, was Opanas leaning against the wall, looking, poor

fellow, like a young oak in a storm. He was frowning and sad.

All three were turned toward Aksana. Only old Bogdan was sitting on a

bench in a corner with his top-knot[F] hanging down, waiting for the

Count to give him an order. Aksana was standing in a corner by the

stove with her eyes on the floor, as crimson as that poppy there in

the barley. Okh, it was plain the witch felt that something wicked was

about to happen because of her. Let me tell you something, lad: if

three men stand looking at one woman nothing good ever comes of it.

Hair is sure to fly, if nothing worse. I know that, because I have seen

it happen myself.

“How now, Raman, lad?” laughed the Count. “Did I give you a good wife

or not?”

“Not bad,” answered Raman. “The woman will do.”

Here Opanas shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyes to Aksana, and

muttered:

“What a woman she is! If only that goose hadn’t got her!”

Raman overheard the words and turned to Opanas and said:

“Why do I seem a goose to you, Lord Opanas? Eh, hey; tell me that!”

“Because you don’t know how to protect your wife; that’s why you’re a

goose.”

That’s what Opanas said to him! The Count stamped his foot. Bogdan

shook his head, but Raman thought a minute and then raised his head and

looked at the Count.

“Why should I protect her?” he asked Opanas, but his eyes were fixed

on the Count. “There’s no one here in the forest except wild beasts,

unless it is our gracious Count when he comes. Whom should I protect

her from? Look out, you misbegotten Cossack you, don’t provoke me, or

before you know it I’ll have you by the forelock!”

And perhaps the business would have ended in a thrashing if the Count

hadn’t interfered. He stamped his foot, and every one was silent.

“Gently there, you Devil’s spawn,” he said. “You didn’t come here to

fight. Congratulate the young people first, and then in the evening

we’ll go hunting on the marsh. Here, follow me!”

The Count turned on his heel and left the hut. The attendants had

already spread a dinner under the trees. Bogdan followed the Count, but

Opanas stayed with Raman in the front entry.

“Don’t be angry with me, brother,” said the Cossack. “Listen to what

Opanas has to tell you. You saw how I rolled in the dust at the Count’s

feet, and kissed his boots, and begged him to give me Aksana? Well, God

bless you, man! The priest has tied you up; it’s your luck, I see, but

my heart can’t stand that wicked fellow making sport of you and of her

again. Hey ho, no one knows what I have in my heart! It would be well

were I to lay him in the cold ground for a bed with the help of my gun!”

Raman stared at the Cossack and asked:

“Have you gone out of your head this hour, Cossack?”

I did not hear what Opanas began whispering to Raman in the front entry

in answer to this; I only heard Raman clap him on the back.

“Okh, Opanas, Opanas! How wicked and cunning people are in this world!

I knew nothing of this, living in the forest. Eh, hey, Count, Count,

what evil you have brought on your head!”

“Come!” Opanas says to him. “Go now, and don’t show anything,

especially before Bogdan. You’re a simple man and that hound of the

Count’s is crafty. Be sure you don’t drink much of the Count’s wine;

and if he sends you out on the marsh with the huntsmen and himself

wants to stay behind, lead the huntsmen to the old oak tree, put

them on a round-about road, and tell them that you are going to walk

straight through the forest. Then come back here as quick as you can.”

“Good,” says Raman. “It’s hunting I shall go, though my gun won’t be

loaded with bird-shot for little birds, but with a good stout bullet

for a bear.”

Then they went out. The Count was sitting on a carpet on the ground.

He ordered a flagon of wine and a goblet to be brought to him, filled

a goblet full and passed it to Raman. Eh, hey; the Count’s flagon and

goblet were fair to see and his wine was better still. One little

goblet, and your heart would be full of happiness; another, and it

would leap in your breast; if a man were not used to it he would roll

under his seat after the third unless a woman were there to lay him on

top of it.

Eh, hey; I tell you, the Count was clever. He wanted to make Raman

drunk on his wine, but there was no wine in the world that could

overpower Raman. He emptied one goblet from the Count’s hands and then

another, and still another, until his eyes glowed like a wolf’s and his

black whiskers began to twitch. The Count at last grew angry.

“How sturdily that Devil’s spawn can lap up the wine and never blink an

eye! Any other fellow would have been blubbering by now, but look at

him, lads; he is laughing still!”

The wicked Count well knew that if a man cried from wine his top-knot

would soon be trailing on the table. But this time he had mistaken his

man.

“And why should I cry?” asked Raman in return. “That would even be

rude. The gracious Count comes to congratulate me on my marriage and

I begin to howl like a woman! Thank God I have nothing to cry for yet;

let my enemies do the crying!”

“That means you are contented?” asks the Count.

“Eh, hey! And why should I be discontented?”

“Do you remember how I betrothed you with the help of a knout?”

“How should I not remember? I was a foolish man then and didn’t know

bitter from sweet. The knout was bitter, but I loved it better than

a woman. Thanks to you, gracious Count, this fool has learned to eat

honey.”

“All right, all right,” says the Count. “And now I want you to do me a

good turn. Go out on the marsh with my huntsmen and shoot as many birds

as you can, and especially do I want you to get me a blackcock.”

“And when does the Count send us out on the marsh?” asks Raman.

“When you have had one more drink. Opanas will sing us a song, and then

go in God’s name.”

Raman fixes his eyes on the Count and says:

“That will not be easy. It is late, the marsh is far, and, besides, the

forest is murmuring in the wind; there will be a storm to-night. How

can one kill a shy bird on an evening like this?”

But the Count was drunk, and he was always powerfully bad-tempered in

his cups. He heard his attendants whispering among themselves that

“surely Raman was right, there would soon be a storm,” and he was very

angry. He slammed down his goblet and glared about him. Every man held

his tongue.

Only Opanas was not afraid; he stepped out as the Count had told him to

do to sing his song with his bandura. He tuned it, glanced sideways at

the Count, and said:

“Come to your senses, gracious Lord! When has it ever been known that

men went hunting birds at night, in a dark forest, in the midst of a

storm?”

That’s how bold he was! The other serfs of the Count were afraid, of

course, but he was a free man of Cossack birth. An old Cossack player

of the bandura had brought him as a youngster from the Ukraine. There,

lad, the people had made trouble in the town of Uman. They had put out

this old Cossack’s eyes, cut off his ears, and sent him out like that

into the world. So he had walked and walked, from village to town, and

wandered into our country with the little lad Opanas as his guide. The

old Count took him into his house because he loved beautiful songs. So

when the old man died, Opanas grew up in the palace. The young Count

grew to like him, and would often endure speeches from him for which he

would have flayed three skins off the back of another man.

So it was now. He was angry at first, and the men thought he was going

to hit the Cossack, but he soon spoke to Opanas and said:

“Oi, Opanas, Opanas! You’re a clever lad, but it’s plain you don’t

understand that no man should put his nose in the crack of a door for

fear some one might slam it.”

That’s how he guessed the Cossack’s riddle! And the Cossack saw at once

he had guessed it. And he answered the Count in a song. Oi, if the

Count had been able to understand a Cossack song, his Countess might

not have had to shed tears over him that night! “Thank you, Count, for

your wisdom,” said Opanas. “Now in return I am going to sing to you.

Listen well.”

Then he raised his head and looked up at the sky; he saw an eagle

soaring there and the wind driving the dark clouds along. He listened

and heard the tall pines murmuring.

And once more he struck the strings of his bandura.

Eh, lad, you never chanced to hear Opanas play, and now you will never

hear it! The bandura is a simple trick, but oh, how well a man who

knows it can make it talk! When Opanas ran his hand across the strings

it told him everything: how the dark pine forest sings in a storm; how

the wind hums through the sedge on the desert steppe; how the dry grass

whispers on a high Cossack grave.

No, lad, you won’t hear such playing as that now-a-days!

All kinds of people come here now that have been not only in our

Polyesie but in other countries as well: all over the Ukraine, in

Chirigin and Poltava and Kiev. They say that players of the bandura are

out of fashion now and that you never hear them at fairs and in the

bazaars. I still have an old bandura hanging on the wall of the hut.

Opanas taught me to play it, but no one has learnt to play it from me.

When I die--and that will be soon--who knows, perhaps nobody in the

wide world will ever hear the notes of a bandura again. No, indeed!

And Opanas began singing a song in a low voice. Opanas’ voice was not

loud; it was brooding and sad, and went straight to the heart. And the

song, lad, was made up for the Count by the Cossack himself. I have

never heard it again, and when, later, I used to tease Opanas to sing

it, he always refused.

“The man for whom that song was sung,” he would say, “is no longer in

this world.”

The Cossack told the Count all the truth in that song, and what the

Count’s fate would be, and the Count wept; the tears even trickled down

his beard, and yet it was plain that not one word did he understand.

Okh, I can’t remember the song; I can only remember a few words. The

Cossack sang about Count Ivan:

“Oi, Ivan! Alas, oi, Count!

The Count is clever and much he knows.

He knows that the falcon soars in the sky, and falls upon the crow.

Oi, Ivan! Alas, oi, Count!

But the Count does not know

How it is in this world,

That the crow will at last kill the falcon at its nest.”

There, lad! I seem to hear that song at this moment, and to see those

men again. There stands the Cossack with his bandura; the Count is

sitting on his carpet; his head is bowed, and he is weeping. The

Count’s men are gathered about him and are nudging one another with

their elbows, and old Bogdan is shaking his head. And the forest is

murmuring, just as it is murmuring now, and the bandura is chiming

softly, dreamily, while the Cossack sings of how the Countess wept over

the grave of Count Ivan:

“She cries, the Countess cries,

While over the grave of Count Ivan a black crow flies.”

Okh, the Count did not understand that song. He wiped his eyes and said:

“Come now, Raman! Come, lads, mount your horses! And you, Opanas, ride

with them; I’ve had enough of your singing! That was a good song, only

you sang of things that never happen in this world.”

But the Cossack’s heart was softened by his song and his eyes were dim.

“Okh, Count, Count,” says Opanas. “In my country the old men say that

legends and songs contain the truth. But in legends the truth is like

iron that has passed through the world from hand to hand for many years

and has grown rusty. But the truth in songs is like gold that rust will

never corrode. That’s what the old men say!”

But the Count waved his hand.

“It may be so in your country, but here it is not so. Go, go, Opanas; I

am tired of listening to you.”

The Cossack stood still for a moment and then fell at the Count’s feet.

“Do as I beseech you, Count!” he cried. “Mount your horse and ride home

to your Countess! My heart foretells disaster.”

At that the Count grew angry in earnest. He kicked the Cossack aside

with his boot as if he had been a dog.

“Get out of my sight!” he shouted. “Now I see that you’re not a Cossack

but an old woman! Leave me, or evil will befall you! What are you

waiting for, hounds? Am I no longer your master? Here, I’ll show you

something that your fathers never saw done by my father!”

Opanas rose like a dark thunder-cloud and exchanged glances with Raman.

Raman was standing off at one side, leaning on his carbine as if

nothing had happened.

The Cossack struck his bandura against a tree; the bandura flew to

pieces and the sound of its groan echoed through the forest.

“Very well, then!” he cried. “Let the devils in the next world teach

him who will not hear wise counsel in this! I see, Count, you have no

need of a faithful servant!”

Before the Count could answer Opanas had jumped into his saddle and

ridden away. The other attendants mounted their horses too. Raman

shouldered his carbine and walked away; as he passed the hut he called

out to Aksana:

“Put the boy to sleep, Aksana; it is time. And prepare a bed for the

Count!”

They had soon all ridden away into the wood by that road there, and

the Count went into the hut; only the Count’s horse was left standing

outside, tied to a tree. Night was already falling; a murmur was going

about the forest, and a few drops of rain were falling, just as they

are now. Aksana laid me to sleep in the hayloft and made the sign of

the cross over me for the night. I could hear my Aksana crying.

Okh, what could a little lad like me understand of all that was going

on? I wrapped myself in the hay and lay listening to the storm singing

its song in the forest until I began to fall asleep.

Eh, hey! Suddenly I heard footsteps outside the hut. They reached the

tree, and some one untied the Count’s horse. The horse snorted and

stamped and galloped away into the forest. The sound of its hoofs soon

died away in the distance. But before long I heard galloping again;

some one was coming down the road. This man rode up post haste, jumped

down from his saddle, and rushed to the window of the hut.

“Count! Count!” cried the voice of old Bogdan. “Oi, Count! Open the

door quickly! That devil of a Cossack means harm! He has let your horse

loose in the forest!”

Before the old man had time to finish his sentence he was seized from

behind. I was frightened, for I heard something fall.

The Count tore open the door and jumped out with his carbine in his

hand, but Raman caught him in the front entry right by the top-knot as

he had done the other, and flung him to the ground as well.

The Count saw that things were going badly for him and he cried:

“Oi, let me go, Raman, lad! Have you forgotten the good turn I did you?”

Raman answered:

“I remember, wicked Count, the good turn you did me and my wife. And

now I shall pay you for it.”

But the Count cried again:

“Help me, help me, Opanas, my faithful servant! I have loved you as my

own son!”

But Opanas answered:

“You drove your faithful servant away like a dog. You have loved me as

a stick loves the back which it beats, and now you love me as the back

loves the stick which beats it! I begged and implored you to listen to

me. You wouldn’t!”

Then the Count began calling to Aksana for help.

“Intercede for me, Aksana; you have a kind heart!”

Aksana came running out, wringing her hands.

“I begged you on my knees, Count, at your feet I once begged you, to

spare my maidenhood, and to-night I besought you not to defile me, a

married woman. You would not spare me, and now you are asking mercy for

yourself. Okh, do not ask it from me; what can I do?”

“Let me go!” cried the Count once more. “You will all go to Siberia

because of me!”

“Do not grieve for us, Count,” answered Opanas. “Raman will be out on

the marsh before your men get back, and, as for me, I am alone in the

world, thanks to your kindness. I shan’t worry about myself. I shall

shoulder my carbine and be off into the forest. I shall gather together

a band of lusty lads and we shall roam through the country, coming

forth out of the forest onto the highroads at night. When we reach a

village we shall make straight for the Count’s domain. Come on, Raman,

lad, raise up the Count and let us carry his honour out into the rain.”

Then the Count began to struggle and scream, but Raman only growled

under his breath, and Opanas laughed. So they went out.

But I took fright. I rushed into the hut and ran straight to Aksana.

My Aksana was sitting on a bench, as white as that plaster wall.

And the storm was raging in earnest through the forest by now; the

pines were shouting with many voices, and the wind was howling, while

from time to time a clap of thunder would rend the air. Aksana and I

sat on a bench, and all at once I heard someone groan in the forest.

Okh, he groaned so pitifully that to-day when I remember it my heart

grows heavy, and yet it happened many years ago.

“Aksana,” I asked, “dear Aksana, who is that groaning in the forest?”

But she took me in her arms and rocked me and said:

“Go to sleep, little lad, it is nothing! It is only--the forest

murmuring.”

And the forest was murmuring indeed! Oh, how loudly it was talking that

night!

We sat there together a little while longer and then I heard what I

thought was a shot in the forest.

“Aksana,” I asked, “dear Aksana, who is that shooting with a gun?”

But she only rocked me and answered:

“Be quiet, be quiet, little lad; that is God’s lightning striking in

the forest.”

But she herself was crying, and holding me close to her breast. She

rocked me to sleep, repeating softly:

“The forest is murmuring; the forest is murmuring, little lad.”

So I lay in her arms and went to sleep.

And when morning came, lad, I jumped up, and there was the sun shining

and Aksana sitting all dressed in the hut. I remembered what had

happened the night before and thought: “It was all a dream!”

But it was not a dream; oi, no, not a dream; it was true. I ran out of

the hut into the forest. The birds were singing and the dew was shining

on the grass. I ran into the thicket and there I saw the Count and a

huntsman lying side by side. The Count was peaceful and pale, but the

huntsman was grey, like a dove, and stern as if he had been alive. On

the breasts of the Count and of the huntsman were bloody stains.

* * * * *

“Well, and what became of the others?” I asked, seeing that the old man

had bowed his head and was silent.

“Eh, hey! That is all there is to the story, as Opanas the Cossack used

to say. He lived long in the forest, roaming about the highroads and

over the domains of the nobles with his lads. His fate had been written

at his birth; his fathers had been robbers and a robber he had to be.

He came here to this hut more than once, lad, most often when Raman

was away. He would come and sit for a while and sing a song and play

upon his bandura. But when he came with his comrades, Aksana and Raman

would always be here together to greet him. Okh, to tell you the truth,

lad, guilty deeds have been done here. Maksim and Zakhar will soon come

back out of the forest--look well at them both. I say nothing to them

about it, but any one who knew Raman and Opanas could tell at a glance

which one of the boys looks like which, although they are not the sons

but the grandsons of those men. That is what has been done here in this

forest, lad, in my memory.

“And the forest is murmuring loudly to-night. There will be rain.”