Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics)

by Chandler, Robert

  ‘Well, at least they’ve unshod it, I suppose?’

  ‘No they haven’t, but they certainly ought to. Could be they hammered a nail right into its flesh.’

  I called out the coachman, and it turned out that Yermolay was right: the shaft-horse simply couldn’t rest its leg on the ground. Straight away I ordered it to be unshod and stood on some wet clay.

  ‘So, do you want me to hire some horses and go to Tula?’ Yermolay persisted.

  ‘Are there really any horses to hire in a dump like this?’ I was unable to control my irritation.

  The village where we found ourselves was indeed in the back of beyond, well out of everyone’s way. All the inhabitants seemed to be desperately poor, and it had been hard to find a single decent-sized hut, albeit without a chimney.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Yermolay, with his usual imperturbability. ‘You’re right about this village, but there used to be a really clever peasant living here. Well-off too – he had nine horses. He’s dead now, but his eldest son is in charge of everything. He’s as thick as they come, but he won’t have had time yet to get through everything his dad left behind. We’ll be able to get some horses out of him. You just tell me, and I’ll bring him to you. I’ve heard his brothers are pretty smart, but it’s him that’s the boss.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because he’s the eldest! That means the younger ones have to know their place!’ At this point Yermolay uttered some caustic and unprintable words about younger brothers in general. ‘I’ll get him over here. He’s a simple sort of bloke. You should be able to do a deal with him.’

  While Yermolay went off to find this ‘simple’ sort of person it occurred to me that it might be better if I went to Tula myself. Firstly, wise from experience, I knew I couldn’t rely on Yermolay. Once I’d sent him to town on a shopping expedition; he promised to do everything all in one day – and he disappeared for a week, spent the money on drink and came back on foot (he’d left in a droshky). Secondly, I knew a horse-dealer in Tula from whom I could get a replacement for the lame shaft-horse.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ I thought. ‘I’ll go myself. I should be able to have a nap on the way, as it’s a comfortable wagon.’

  ‘Here he is!’ Yermolay shouted quarter of an hour later, as he lurched into the hut. Behind him entered a well-built peasant in a white shirt, dark-blue trousers and bast shoes, tow-haired, weak-sighted, with a little pointed sandy beard, a long pudgy nose and a wide-open mouth. He did indeed look a bit of a ‘simple Simon’.

  ‘And here you are,’ said Yermolay. ‘He’s got some horses and he agrees.’

  ‘That is, sort of, I…’ the peasant croaked. Then he started to stutter, shaking his sparse hair and fingering the band round his cap, which he was holding in his hands. ‘I, sort of…’

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  The peasant looked down at the floor and seemed to be lost in thought.

  ‘What’s my name then?’

  ‘Yes. What’s your first name?’

  ‘Well, my first name is Filofey.’

  ‘Right then, my good friend Filofey. I’ve heard that you have some horses. Bring three of them over here, we’ll harness them to my wagon – it’s not a heavy one – and you can take me in to Tula. There’s a good moon at the moment, you’ll be able to see the way, and it’ll be nice and cool. What’s the road like in these parts?’

  ‘The road? The road isn’t bad. It’ll only be about twelve miles to the main road. There’s one bad bit, but otherwise it’s all right.’

  ‘What’s the bad bit?’

  ‘You ‘ave to ford the river.’

  ‘So you’re going to Tula yourself?’ enquired Yermolay.

  ‘Yes, I’ll go myself.’

  ‘Well!’ said my faithful servant and shook his head. ‘Well, well!’ he repeated. Then he spat and left the room.

  Evidently the trip to Tula no longer struck him as in any way attractive. For him it had become just a waste of time.

  ‘Do you know how to get there?’ I asked Filofey.

  ‘‘Course I do. The only thing is that I, sort of, if you don’t mind, I can’t –‘ow can I suddenly…’

  It turned out that when he was hiring Filofey, Yermolay merely told him not to ask foolish questions and that of course he would be duly recompensed. But Filofey, even if he was, as Yermolay put it, a simpleton, wouldn’t take this assurance as sufficient on its own. He asked me for fifty roubles in paper money – a huge sum. I offered him ten roubles, a low price, and we started to haggle. At first Filofey held his ground, but then he began to yield, albeit reluctantly and taking his time. Yermolay came in for a moment and started to assure me that ‘this simpleton’ (‘‘E really does like that word!’ muttered Filofey under his breath), ‘this simpleton hasn’t the least idea what the going rate is’, and reminded me in this context that about twenty years ago a coaching inn opened by my mother on a prime site for business at the junction of two main roads went into decline and failed, because the old house-serf installed to run the place genuinely had no idea of the value of money and thought that the more coins he had, whatever their denomination, the better he was doing. So, for instance, he would gladly exchange one silver quarter for six copper groats – though he still didn’t leave off cussing and swearing while he was about it.

  ‘Oh Filofey, Filofey, you’re such a simpleton!’ Yermolay finally exclaimed, and he went out, angrily banging the door.

  Filofey didn’t answer back, as though he realized that he did indeed have a rather silly name and even that it was quite acceptable to make fun of a man for being called something like that, although the guilty party here was the village priest, who really ought to have come up with something more appropriate at the christening.1

  Anyway, we finally clinched the deal at twenty roubles. He set off to get the horses and an hour later produced no fewer than five of them, so that I could choose. The horses proved to be quite serviceable, although their manes and tails were matted and their bellies were large and swollen like drums. Filofey was accompanied by two of his brothers, who were completely unlike him in appearance. Short, with dark eyes and sharp noses, they did indeed give the impression of being pretty smart, speaking quickly and volubly (or, as Yermolay put it, babbling away) but deferring to their eldest brother.

  They wheeled the wagon out from the shed and spent about an hour and a half fussing around with it and the horses. First they would loosen the traces, then they would fasten them up as tightly as they possibly could. The two younger brothers insisted that the roan be the shaft-horse because ‘it knows best how to go downhill’, but Filofey decided it should be the one they called ‘Shaggy’. And so Shaggy was put in the shafts.

  The wagon was stuffed full of hay, and under the seat they shoved the harness from the lame shaft-horse in case I happened to buy a new horse in Tula. Filofey, who had managed to dash home and return in his late father’s long white loose cloak, high formless hat and blacked boots, solemnly climbed up into the driver’s seat. I got in and looked at my watch. It was a quarter past ten. Yermolay didn’t even say goodbye; he began beating Jack, his dog. Filofey tugged at the reins and shouted ‘Come on, me dearies!’ in his squeaky, high-pitched voice, while his brothers jumped on at each side, whipping the trace-horses under their bellies – and the wagon moved off and went out through the gates and onto the road. Shaggy was on the point of rushing off into his own familiar yard, but Filofey brought him back to his senses with a few blows of the whip, and soon the village was behind us and we were coasting along a fairly smooth road between thick, unbroken clumps of hazel.

  It was a gloriously quiet night, ideal for a journey. One moment the wind would rustle through the bushes and rock the branches, the next moment it would completely die down. Small, silvery, motionless clouds could be seen here and there in the sky. The moon stood high in the heavens and clearly illuminated the area around us. I stretched out on the hay and was on the point of dropping off to sle
ep when I remembered about the ‘bad place’ and shook myself awake.

  ‘Hi there, Filofey, how far is it to the ford?’

  ‘To the ford? It’ll be about five miles.’

  ‘Five miles,’ I thought. ‘We won’t be there for at least an hour. Time for a nap.’

  ‘Filofey, you do know the road well, do you?’ I asked again.

  ‘‘Ow could I not know it well, this ‘ere road? It’s not the first time I’ve been ‘ere…’

  He added something else, but I was no longer listening. I was asleep.

  I was aroused not by my own intention of waking up exactly one hour later, the way one often does, but by a strange, if faint, squelching and gurgling right next to my ears. I raised my head.

  What was going on? I was lying in the wagon as before, but all around the wagon – and not more than half an arm’s length below its floor – there was a smooth, moonlit, watery expanse, trembling and breaking up into small, distinct ripples. I looked in front: on the driver’s seat, hanging his head and slouching forward, Filofey was sitting as motionless as a stuffed dummy, and a little further away, above the murmuring water, lay the curved shaft-bow and the backs and heads of the horses. And everything was as still, as silent, as if we were in a magic realm, as if it were all a dream, a fabulous dream. What on earth was going on? I looked behind, from under the hood at the rear of the wagon. Why, we were in the very middle of the river, a good thirty paces from either bank!

  ‘Filofey!’ I yelled.

  ‘What?’ he replied.

  ‘What do you mean “What?” For goodness sake! Where on earth are we?’

  ‘In the river.’

  ‘I can see we’re in the river. And any minute now we might drown. Is this how you ford a river? Come on! Filofey, are you asleep? Answer me!’

  ‘I just made a little mistake,’ my driver replied. ‘Sorry to say I went a bit to one side – now we just have to sit an’ wait.’

  ‘What do you mean, “sit an’ wait”? What on earth is there to wait for?’

  ‘Just give Shaggy time to look about ‘im. Whichever way’e chooses, that’ll be the way to go.’

  I sat up in the hay. The head of the shaft-horse was motionless above the surface of the water. In the clear light of the moon I could just see one ear twitching – first backwards, then forwards.

  ‘But he’s asleep as well, that Shaggy of yours!’

  ‘No ‘e ain’t,’ responded Filofey. ‘‘E’s sniffing the water.’

  And everything fell silent again; only the water, as before, was quietly gurgling. I was numb with cold.

  Moonlight, night, the river and ourselves in the river…

  ‘What’s that hissing?’ I asked Filofey.

  ‘‘Issing? It’s ducks in the bulrushes… or maybe snakes.’

  Suddenly the head of the shaft-horse began to shake, its ears pricked up, it snorted and began to feel its way forward.

  ‘Gee-up, gee-up!’ Filofey bellowed at the top of his voice, getting to his feet and brandishing his whip. The wagon immediately gave a start, lurched forward, cutting across the current, and moved off, jerking and swaying from side to side. At first I thought we were sinking, going deeper into the river, but after some jolts and two or three plunges, the smooth watery expanses suddenly seemed to have got lower. Yes, the water level was getting lower and lower, the wagon was emerging from the river, now I could see the wagon wheels and the horses’ tails, and then, churning up powerful and abundant plumes of spray that shot up like diamond – or rather sapphire – shafts of light through the dull haze of the moon, the horses quickly and gleefully dragged us up on to the sandy bank and set off up the road, out of step and awkwardly pounding their wet, glistening legs.

  ‘What,’ I wondered, ‘is Filofey going to say now? “See, I was right all along!” or something of that sort?’ But Filofey said nothing. Consequently I felt there was no need to tell him off for being so careless and, settling down in the hay, I tried again to get off to sleep.

  But I simply couldn’t drop off, not because I wasn’t tired after the shoot, and not because anxiety had dispelled my sleepiness, but because of the great beauty of the countryside we were going through. There were vast, open, grassy water-meadows with a multitude of small swards, ponds, rivulets and creeks, overgrown at their ends by osiers and willows, truly Russian places, places loved by the Russian people, just like those places where the heroes of old Russian folklore used to go to shoot white swans and grey ducks. The well-worn road unwound before us like a yellowish ribbon, the horses cantered along easily, and I couldn’t not look – it was a feast for the eyes! And it all floated past so gently and harmoniously under the kindly moon… Even Filofey was captivated by it.

  ‘These ‘ere meadows of ours are called after St George,’ he said, turning towards me. ‘And further on are the ones they call the Grand Dukes’s. You won’t find no meadows like them anywhere else in Russia. Lor’, they’re beautiful!’ Shaggy snorted and shook himself. ‘Bless yer ‘eart!’ said Filofey gravely under his breath. ‘There’s beauty for you!’ he said. He sighed, then gave a protracted grunt. ‘And soon it’ll be ‘aymaking time, and there’ll be a veritable mountain of all that ‘ay! And these creeks are fair teeming with fish. You’ve never seen such bream!’ he added in a sing-song voice. ‘Yes, far too soon to give up the ghost, you know.’

  He raised an arm.

  ‘Eh, look! In the lake… Is that an ‘eron standing there? Don’t tell me they fish at night! Aah! It isn’t an ‘eron, it’s a branch. Well I never! It’s that moon ‘aving me on.’

  And so we continued, further and further, until the meadows came to an end and gave way to groves of trees and ploughed fields. Two or three lights in a little village to one side winked at us, and it was now only about three miles to the main road. I fell asleep. And once again I didn’t wake up of my own accord. This time I was aroused by the sound of Filofey’s voice.

  ‘Mister! Eh, Mister!’

  I sat up. The wagon was standing on a smooth patch in the middle of the road. Looking at me from the driver’s seat with wide open eyes (I was surprised – I’d never have imagined his eyes were so big), Filofey whispered meaningfully and mysteriously, ‘Knocking! Something’s knocking!’

  ‘What’s that you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying there’s a knocking. Bend down and listen. Can’t you ‘ear?’

  I leant out of the wagon, held my breath, and I really did hear a weak, intermittent knocking sound somewhere far, far away behind us, something like the sound of wheels.

  ‘Can’t you ‘ear?’ said Filofey again.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I answered. ‘There’s some sort of a vehicle coming along.’

  ‘If you can’t ‘ear it proper, then listen! There! Bells – and whistling too. Can you ‘ear it now? Take your cap off, you’ll ‘ear better.’

  I didn’t take my cap off, but I listened for all I was worth.

  ‘Well yes, could be… But what of it?’

  Filofey turned towards the horses.

  ‘It’s a cart with iron-rimmed wheels… careering along without a load,’ he said, and picked up the reins. ‘It’ll be people who are up to no good, Mister. There’s a lot of mischief goes on round ‘ere, yer know, near Tula.’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish! What makes you think they’re up to no good?’

  ‘I’m telling yer the truth. Bells, and an empty cart. They’re up to no good all right.’

  ‘Well, is it still a long way to Tula?’

  ‘About ten miles, and there’s nobody at all lives round these ‘ere parts.’

  ‘Well, get a move on then, stop wasting time.’

  Filofey brandished his whip, and the wagon moved off once again.

  Although I didn’t believe Filofey, I just couldn’t drop off to sleep again. Suppose, after all, he was right? An unpleasant feeling began to stir within me. I sat up in the wagon – until then I had been lying down – and began to look to either side. While I was
asleep a thin mist had been forming, not on the ground but up in the sky, so that it was high above us, with the moon hanging inside it and looking like a whitish blotch surrounded by smoke. Everything was dim and blurred, although at ground level you could see more clearly. Round about us it was flat and depressing, just field after field with a few bushes and gullies and then more fields, mostly lying fallow and sometimes covered with weeds. Empty… and dead! Not even the occasional cry of a quail.

  This went on for about half an hour. Now and again Filofey would swing his whip and click his tongue, but neither he nor I said a single word. Then we reached the top of a small incline. Filofey stopped the troika and said, ‘Knocking. I can still ‘ear this knocking, Mister!’

  I thrust my head out of the wagon again, but I might just as well not have bothered, so clear now, if far away, was the rumble of cart wheels, the sound of people whistling, bells jingling and even hooves thudding. I fancied I could hear singing and laughter. True, the wind was coming from that direction, but there could be no doubt that these unknown travellers had now drawn at least half a mile closer, maybe even a mile.

  Filofey and I looked at one another in silence. He merely shifted his hat forward from the back of his head to his brow and immediately, bending over the reins, began to whip the horses. They set off at a gallop, but they couldn’t keep up the pace for long and fell back to a trot. Filofey continued to whip them. We simply had to get away! I couldn’t explain to myself why, having not shared Filofey’s anxieties earlier, I was now suddenly convinced that the people following hot on our tracks were indeed up to no good. The sounds were the same as before – the jangling of little bells, the rattling of an empty cart, a whistling, an indistinct hubbub. But now I was in no doubt. Filofey was right!

  Another twenty minutes or so went by. As well as the knocking and rumbling of our own wagon, during the last few of these twenty minutes we could hear another sort of knocking and rumbling.