Old Izergil and other stories / Старуха Изергиль и другие рассказы. Книга для чтения на английском языке

“What is to be said at a moment like that? Nothing. Nur murmured: ‘Bind the fellow,’ but nobody would raise a hand to bind Loiko Zobar; not a soul would do it, and Nur knew this. So he turned and walked away. Danilo picked up the knife Radda had tossed away and stood staring at it for some time, his grey whiskers twitching; there were still traces of Radda’s blood on the blade, which was curved and sharp. Then Danilo went over to Zobar and plunged the knife into his back over the heart. After all, he was Radda’s father, was the old soldier Danilo.

“‘You’ve done it,’ said Loiko clearly, turning to Danilo, and then he went to join Radda.

“We stood looking at them. There lay Radda, pressing her hair to her breast with her hand, her wide-open eyes gazing up into the blue sky, while at her feet lay the brave Loiko Zobar. His curly hair had fallen over his face, hiding it from us.

“For some time we stood there lost in thought. Old Danilo’s whiskers were quivering and his thick brows were drawn. He looked up at the sky and said not a word, but hoary-haired Nur had thrown himself on the ground and his body was shaking with sobs.

“And there was good cause to cry, young falcon.

“The moral is, let nothing lure you off the path you have taken. Keep going straight ahead; then, perhaps, you will not come to a bad end.

“And that is the whole story, young falcon.”

Makar stopped talking, slipped his pipe into his tobacco pouch, and pulled his coat over his chest. A fine rain was falling and the wind was stronger. The waves broke with a dull angry rumble. One by one the horses came up to our dying fire, gazed at us with big intelligent eyes, then ranged themselves in a ring about us.

“Hi, hi!” Makar called to them affectionately, and when he had patted the neck of his favourite black, he turned to me and said: “Time to go to sleep.” He wrapped himself from head to foot in his Caucasian coat, stretched out on the ground and lay still, I had no desire to sleep. I sat there gazing into the darkness of the steppe, and before my eyes floated the image of Radda, so proud, so imperious, so lovely. She was pressing the hand with the hair in it to her breast, and from between the slender dark fingers oozed drops of blood that turned into fiery stars as they struck the ground.

And behind her floated the brave figure of Loiko Zobar. Locks of curly black hair covered his face, and from under the hair streamed big cold tears.

The rain increased and the sea sang a solemn dirge to these two handsome Gipsies – Loiko Zobar and Radda, daughter of the old soldier Danilo.

And the two of them whirled round and round, soundlessly, gracefully, in the darkness of the night, and try as he might the handsome Zobar could not overtake the proud Radda.

1892

Afloat
An Easter Story

I

The leaden clouds crept slowly over the sleepy river, seeming to sink lower and lower; in the distance their grey tatters appeared to touch the surface of the swift, turbid springtide waves, and where they touched the water, rose towering to the skies in an impenetrable wall of cloud, blocking the current and barring the way of the rafts.

And the waves, ineffectually trying to lift this wall, beat vainly against it in a low, plaintive murmur, recoiling from each impact to roll back into the damp gloom of the fresh spring night.

But the rafts sailed on, and the distance receded before them in a wilderness of heavy tumbled cloud masses.

The shores were invisible, hidden by the night, pushed back by the sweeping surge of the tide.

The river resembled a sea. The sky above it was wrapped in clouds. Everything was damp, oppressive and dreary.

The rafts glided swiftly and noiselessly over the waters, and in front of them a steamboat loomed out of the darkness, its funnel shooting out a merry swarm of sparks and its wheel blades churning the water…

Two red lanterns on the shallows glimmered larger and brighter, and the lamp on the mast swayed gently from side to side and winked mysteriously at the darkness.

The air was filled with the plash of water and the heavy sighs of the engine.

“Look ou-oot!” came a deep-chested shout from the rafts.

At the tail-end of the raft two men stood at the helm oars. One of them was Mitya, the son of the timber-floater, a fair, sickly-looking, thoughtful youth of twenty. The other was Sergei, the hired workman, a morose-faced strapping fellow with a red beard framing a set of strong prominent teeth with a bared upperlip drawn up in a sarcastic expression.

“Put over to larboard!” a loud cry from the head of the rafts once more rent the darkness.

“We know what to do, what you hollering about?” muttered Sergei testily, and taking a deep breath he bent his body to the oar.

“Oo-ooch! Get going, Mitya!”

Mitya, with his feet braced against the wet logs, lugged the heavy pole of the tiller over to him with his thin hands, breaking into a hoarse cough.

“Put her over… more to port!.. Godammit!” cried an anxious infuriated voice in front.

“All you know’s to yell! Your weakly son couldn’t break a straw across his knee, and you put him on the tiller and then holler all over the river. Too stingy to hire another man, damned skinflint – messing around with your daughter-in-law. Well, yell yourself blue now!..”

Sergei now grumbled aloud, apparently not afraid of being heard – in fact, as though wanting to be heard…

The steamboat raced past the rafts, churning the waters under its blades into a hissing foam. The logs pitched and tossed from the surge, and the braces made from twisted branches creaked with a dreary wet sound.

The steamer’s lighted windows gazed out upon the river and the rafts like a row of huge eyes, casting their reflection in shimmering bright patches on the turbulent water, then vanished from sight.

The heaving swell threw waves splashing over the rafts, the logs tossed up and down, and Mitya, swaying on his feet, clung hard to the tiller for fear of losing his balance.

“Now, now!” Sergei muttered mockingly, “doing a dance! Mind your father doesn’t yell at you again… Or he’ll give you a poke in the ribs that’ll send you dancing properly! Put over to starboard! Heave-ho, now! Oo-ooch!..”

And Sergei, with brawny arms, powerfully plied his oar, cleaving deep into the waters…

Tall and energetic, a trifle morose and sarcastic, he stood as if rooted to the logs with his bare feet, tensely poised, peering into the distance, ready at any moment to veer the rafts round.

“Christ, look at the way your dad’s cuddling Mash-ka! The devils! No shame or conscience – the man hasn’t! Why don’t you go somewhere, away from those foul devils?.. eh? D’you hear what I say?”

“I hear!” said Mitya in an undertone, keeping his eyes averted from where, through the misty gloom, Sergei could sec his father sitting.

“I hear! Ugh, you sop!” mocked Sergei and burst into a laugh.

“Some goings-on, I tell you!” he went on, provoked by Mitya’s apathy. “There’s an old devil fox you! Marries off his son, then takes his daughter-in-law for himself and doesn’t give a rap! The old blighter!”

Mitya said nothing and gazed back at the river where the clouds have closed in another dense wall.

Now the clouds were everywhere, and it seemed that the rafts were not floating down the current but standing motionless in the thick black water, crushed beneath the weight of these dark-grey masses of cloud which had fallen upon it from the heavens and stemmed its progress.

The river looked like a fathomless pool hedged in by towering mountains and clothed in a dense cloak of mist.

An oppressive stillness reigned all around, and the water, gently lapping the sides of the raft, lay as if in a hushed expectancy. There was an infinite sadness, a timid question in that frail sound, the only one amid the night, that seemed only to deepen its stillness…

“A bit of a breeze now wouldn’t be bad…” said Sergei. “Though better not – a wind’ll bring rain,” he debated with himself as he filled his pipe.

There was the flash of a lighted match, the sizzling sound of a clogged pipe, and the broad face of Sergei swum out of the murk in the light of a flickering red flame.

“Mitya!” came his voice. He was less morose now, and the amused tone in his voice was more in evidence.

“What?” answered Mitya in an undertone, his eyes still peering into the distance, staring at something he saw there through his big melancholy eyes.

“How’d the thing happen, my lad, eh?”

“What thing?” retorted Mitya in a tone of annoyance.

“How d’you get married? What a scream! How’d it happen? Now, you went to bed with your wife – and what happened next, eh?!”

“Hey, you fellows there! Look ou-oot!” a warning shout echoed across the river.

“He can yell all right, that damned rip!” Sergei observed in a tone of admiration, and returned to his subject.

“Well, come on, tell us about it! Mitya! Tell us how it happened, eh?”

“Oh, leave me alone, Sergei! I told you already!” said Mitya in a pleading whisper, and, probably aware that he would not shake off the importunate Sergei, he hurriedly began:

“Well, we went to bed. And I says to her – ‘I can’t be your husband, Maria. You’re a strong healthy lass, and I’m a sick, weakly man. I didn’t want to marry at all, but Dad made me – you’ve got to, he says, and that’s that! I’m not fond of your sex, and still less of you,’ I says. ‘Too lively by half… Yes… And I can’t do anything of that kind… you know… It’s just filthy and wicked… Children too… You’ve got to answer for them before God…’”

“Filthy!” screamed Sergei, rocking with laughter, “Well, and what about her, Masha – what did she have to say, eh?”

“She… ‘Well, what am I to do now,’ she says. Sits and cries. ‘Why don’t you like me?’ she says. ‘It isn’t as if I was ugly,’ she says. She’s a shameless hussy, Sergei!.. ‘What am I to do – go to my father-in-law with my fine health?’ I told her – ‘do just as you please… Go wherever you want. I can’t go against my soul. Grandpa Ivan used to say that thing’s a mortal sin. We’re not beasts, you and I, are we?’ And all she does is cry. ‘You’ve spoiled my life, youth, poor girl that I am.’ I was awfully sorry for her. ‘Never mind, things’ll come round somehow. Or, maybe you’ll go into a convent?’ I says. She starts swearing at that – ’you’re a fool, Mitya, a scoundrel, that’s what you are…’”

“Well, I’m blowed!” stuttered Sergei in amazement. “D’you actually mean to say you gave her that bit of advice – told her to go into a convent?”

“That’s what I told her,” answered Mitya simply.

“And she called you a fool?” said Sergei in a rising voice.

“Yes… She swore at me.”

“I should think so too! And quite right! I’d have boxed your ears in the bargain if I was her,” he added in a sudden change of tone. He now spoke sternly and weightily.

“D’you think a man can go against the law? That’s what you’ve gone and done! It’s the way of the world – and that’s all there is to it! There’s no arguing about it! And what do you do? Crikey, what a thing to say! Go into a convent! Silly ass! What d’you think the lass wants? And you talk about a convent! Good lor’, some people make you sick! D’you realize what you’ve done, you muff? You’re no damned good yourself and you’ve ruined that girl’s life, made her that old gaffer’s mistress – and led the old fellow into the sin of lechery. Look how much law you’ve broken! Silly ass!”

“The law’s in a man’s soul, Sergei. It’s the same law for all – don’t do anything that goes against the soul and you won’t be doing any evil on earth,” said Mitya gently and soothingly, with a toss of his head.

“But that’s just what you have done!” Sergei countered energetically. “A man’s soul! Bah!.. What’s the soul got to do with it? You can’t put a ban on everything – it isn’t done. The soul… You’ve got to understand it first, brother, and then talk…”

“No, Sergei, that’s not so!” Mitya broke in warmly, seeming to have suddenly kindled. “The soul’s always pure, brother, like a dewdrop. It’s in a shell, that’s where it is! It’s deep. And if you hearken, to it you won’t go wrong. It’ll always be God’s way if it’s done the soul’s way. For isn’t God in the soul? – and if so, the law’s there too. It’s God who created it, God who breathed it into man. Only you’ve got to be able to look into it. Only by forgetting self can a man…”

“Hey, you! Sleepy devils! Look sharp!” a thundering voice echoed over the river.

Judging by its lustiness the voice clearly belonged to a healthy, vigorous man pleased with himself and the world, a man richly endowed with vitality and well aware of it. He shouted not because he was provoked to do so by the raftsmen, but because his heart swelled with a sense of elation and vigour, the sheer joy of living that sought an outlet and found it in that lusty boisterous sound.

“Hear him bark, the old devil!’’ Sergei noted with pleasure, keeping a vigilant lookout in front of him. “Spooning like a couple of doves! Ain’t you envious, Mitya?’’

Mitya turned his eyes indifferently to the fore oars where two figures could be seen running across the rafts from side to side, now stopping close to each other, now merging into a dark blur.

“Don’t you envy ’em?” repeated Sergei.

“Why should I? It’s their sin, and they’ll answer for it,” answered Mitya quietly.

“So!” drawled Sergei ironically, and refilled his pipe. The darkness was once more lit up by a red glow.

The night grew deeper, and the grey, black clouds, descended still lower over the still broad river.

“Where’d you get all that wisdom from, Mitya, eh? Or were you born that way? You don’t lake after your Dad a bit. He’s full o’ spunk, your Dad is. Just think – the old fellow’s half a century, and look at the peach lie’s getting off with! She’s a regular beauty! And hasn’t she fallen for him – you can see that with half an eye. Yes, she loves him, my dear fellow. She’s crazy about him. Who wouldn’t love a trump like that? The king of trumps, that’s what your Dad is, a topnotcher. It does your heart good to see the way he handles his work; he’s made a pretty penny too; looked up to plenty, and his head’s screwed on right. M’yes. You don’t take after your Dad, or after your mother either. Mitya? I wonder what your father’d do if your mother, Anfisa, had been alive? Humph! I can just see it… She was pretty hot stuff too. your Ma was… A match for Silan.”

Mitya was silent, leaning on his oar and gazing into the water.

Sergei fell silent too. From the front of the rafts came a woman’s rippling laughter, answered by a man’s deep laugh. Their figures, woven into the darkness, were barely visible to Sergei, who peered at them with curiosity through the gloom. One could distinguish that the man was tall and was standing by the oar with his legs wide apart half-facing a plump little woman who was leaning her bosom against another oar within ten feet of the first. She wagged a premonitory finger at the man and went into gales of merry laughter. Sergei turned away with a sigh of regret, and after a profound silence, began again:

“Ah, well! They’re having a sweet time. Lovely! Nothing for a lonely vagabond like me! Gad, I’d never in my life leave a woman like that if I had her! Hang it, I’d squeeze the life out of her if I got her in my hands. There! That’s the way I love you – let her know it… Hell! I’ve got no luck with women… Looks like they don’t take to ginger fellows. M’yes. She a capricious bit – that one is. A proper minx! She’s out for a good time, Mitya! Hi, are you asleep?”

“No,” Mitya answered softly.

“Good for you! How d’you intend to go through life, brother? Come to think of it, you’re all alone in the blessed world. That ain’t very cheerful! What d’you intend to do with yourself? You won’t be able to live among people. You’re a poor fish of a man. What’s the use of a man who can’t stand up for himself! What you need in life, brother, are fangs and claws. Everyone’ll try to worst you. Now, tell me, can you stick up for yourself? I’d like to sec you doing it! Bah! You’re a poor fish!”

“D’you mean me?” Mitya came out of his reveries with a start. “I’ll go away. This very autumn – to the Caucasus – and that’s all! God! Only to get away from you people! Soulless people! Godless men you are – only to get away from you is salvation! What are you living for? Where’s your God? It’s a mere word to you… D’you live according to Jesus Christ? You – you’re wolves! People over there are different, their souls live in that of Christ, and their hearts are filled with love and they yearn for the world’s salvation… And you? Oh, you! Beasts, sinks of corruption! There are different people. I’ve seen them. They’ve called me. I’ll go to them. They brought me the holy book of scriptures. Read it, man of God, they said, dear brother of ours, read the word of truth!.. And I read it, and my soul was reborn, by this word of God. I’ll go away. I’ll run away from you mad wolves, who feed on each other’s flesh. May you be damned!”

Mitya uttered all this in a passionate whisper, choking with wrath and withering scorn towards these mad wolves, overcome by a sudden hungering for the people whose souls yearned for the salvation of the world.

Sergei was astounded. He stood silent for a while with his mouth agape and his pipe in his hand. Then, after a moment’s thought, he glanced round and said in a hollow, sullen voice:

“Fancy going off the deep end like that!.. You’re pretty fierce too. You shouldn’t ha’ read that book. Who knows what kind o’book it is? Oh, well… go ahead, clear out, or you may get spoilt altogether. Go along with you, before you get real wild… What kind of people are they down in the Caucasus? Monks? Or maybe the Old Believers? What are they – Molokans, perhaps? Eh?”

But Mitya had gone out as quickly as he had kindled. He plied his oar, gasping with the effort, and muttered something rapidly and nervously under his breath.

Sergei waited long and in vain for a response. His robust simple nature was oppressed by the grim, deathly-still night. He wanted to be reminded of life, to waken the hushed world with sound, to stir up and frighten the lurking rapt stillness of these ponderous masses of water slowly winding to the sea, and those inert mountains of cloud hanging drearily in the air. Life was being lived at the other end of the rafts, and that roused him to life.

From there now and again came floating a soft thrilling laugh and snatches of exclamations, muffled by the silence and darkness of a night saturated with the fragrance of spring, a night that stirred a passionate longing to live.

“Stop it, Mitya – what you tacking for? The old man’ll start swearing, you watch,” he said, no longer able to endure the silence, and noticing that Mitya was stabbing the water with his oar in a desultory fashion. Mitya stopped, wiped the perspiration from his brow, and froze motionless on his oar, breathing hard.

“Very few steamboats about today somehow… Been sailing so long and only came across one of ’em.”

And seeing that Mitya evinced no intention of replying, he went on argumentatively:

“I suppose that’s because navigation hasn’t started yet. It’s only just beginning. We’ll make Kazan in fine time – the Volga’s pulling grand. Got a giant’s spine, she has – lift anything on earth. What’s the matter with you? Got the wind up, Mitya, or what? Eh?”

“What do you want?” answered Mitya irritably.

“Nothing. Funny chap you are… Why don’t you say something? Thinking all the time? Chuck it. It ain’t good for a man. Oh, you wiseacre – you think you’re wise, but that you haven’t a ha’porth of wisdom – that you can’t see! Ha-ha!”

Giving himself a laugh in the knowledge of his own superiority, Sergei followed it up with a deep grunt, then fell silent for a while, broke off a whistle he had started, and pursued his train of thought.

“Thinking! That ain’t a pastime for a common man. Look at your father – he doesn’t worry his head, yet he lives. Spooning with your wife and making fun o’ you, the two of ’em, you wise chump. Yes! That’s the stuff! I bet you Masha’s pregnant already, what? Don’t get scared, the kid won’t take after you. He’ll be a sturdy bounder like Silan Petrov – you can take that from me. He’ll be registered as yours, you know. Some business, let me tell you! Ha! Call you ‘daddy.’ And you won’t be his daddy but his brother, by the looks o’ it. His daddy’ll be his grandpa! How do you like that! Gad, what a dirty bunch o’sinners! A dare-devil lot! Isn’t that so, Mitya?”

“Sergei!” came a passionate, agitated, almost sobbing whisper. “For Christ’s sake, don’t tear my heart, don’t torture me, leave me alone! Be quiet! In the name of God, I beg you not to speak to me; stop tormenting me, stop sucking my blood. I’ll throw myself in the river, and a great sin will lie on you. I’ll destroy my soul – leave me in peace! I swear by God – please!..

The silence of the night was rent by a painfully shrill cry, and Mitya dropped on the logs as though struck down by something heavy that had fallen out of the sullen clouds poised above the black river.

“There, there!” muttered a dismayed Sergei, watching the figure of his companion writhing on the logs, as though seared by a burning flame. “You’re a funny chap! If you take it so bad why didn’t you… er… why didn’t you say so, silly…”

“You’ve been tormenting me all the way. Why? What am I – your enemy? eh? your enemy?” Mitya whispered passionately…

“Funny chap you are! Really, you are!” stammered Sergei in a flustered and injured tone. “How’s I to know? I don’t know what’s going on in your soul!”

“I want to forget it all, don’t you understand! Forget it for all time! My disgrace… the terrible anguish… You’re savages! I’ll go away! I’ll go for ever… I can’t stand it any more!..”

“Yes, go away!..” bellowed Sergei in a voice that reverberated over the river, and followed up the exclamation with a thunderous cynical invective. But the words suddenly died on his lips and he seemed to shrink as he squatted down, apparently stunned at the human drama that had unfolded before him and to which he could no longer shut his eyes.

“Hey, you!” the voice of Silan Petrov came floating over the river. “What’s up there? What’s the barking about? Eh-ho-o?”

Silan Petrov seemed to like making a noise, wakening the heavy silence of the river with his deep, powerful lungs. His shouts followed one another in quick succession, rending the warm damp air with a lusty vitality that seemed to crush the puny figure of Mitya who was again at his oar. Sergei answered his employer at the top of his voice, while in an undertone he cursed him in picturesque, spicy Russian terms. Two voices split the silence of the night, tore it and shook it in a tumult of sound that now mingled in a deep rich note like the tone of a brass trumpet, now rose to a shrill falsetto, floated in the air, faded, and died. Then silence reigned once more.

Yellow patches of moonlight fell upon the water from out the rifts in the clouds and vanished with a brief gleam into the smudgy greyness around.

The rafts drifted on amid the darkness and silence.