‘Go on, in God’s name! I am tired; I have driven into the town,’ he said, and drew his cloak over his head.
‘But pray do me a kindness,’ I said. ‘I … I will pay for it.’ ‘I don’t want your money.’
‘But please, old man.’
He half raised himself and sat up, crossing his little legs.
‘I could take you perhaps to the clearing. Some merchants have bought the forest here — God be their judge! They are cutting down the forest, and they have built a counting - house there — God be their judge! You might order an axle of them there, or buy one ready made.’
‘Splendid!’ I cried delighted; ‘splendid! let us go.’
‘An oak axle, a good one,’ he continued, not getting up from his place.
‘And is it far to this clearing?’
‘Three miles.’
‘Come, then! we can drive there in your trap.’
‘Oh, no….’
‘Come, let us go,’ I said; ‘let us go, old man! The coachman is waiting for us in the road.’
The old man rose unwillingly and followed me into the street. We found my coachman in an irritable frame of mind; he had tried to water his horses, but the water in the well, it appeared, was scanty in quantity and bad in taste, and water is the first consideration with coachmen…. However, he grinned at the sight of the old man, nodded his head and cried: ‘Hallo! Kassyanushka! good health to you!’
‘Good health to you, Erofay, upright man!’ replied Kassyan in a dejected voice.
I at once made known his suggestion to the coachman; Erofay expressed his approval of it and drove into the yard. While he was busy deliberately unharnessing the horses, the old man stood leaning with his shoulders against the gate, and looking disconsolately first at him and then at me. He seemed in some uncertainty of mind; he was not very pleased, as it seemed to me, at our sudden visit.
‘So they have transported you too?’ Erofay asked him suddenly, lifting the wooden arch of the harness.
‘Yes.’
‘Ugh!’ said my coachman between his teeth. ‘You know Martin the carpenter…. Of course, you know Martin of Ryaby?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he is dead. We have just met his coffin.’
Kassyan shuddered.
‘Dead?’ he said, and his head sank dejectedly.
‘Yes, he is dead. Why didn’t you cure him, eh? You know they say you cure folks; you’re a doctor.’
My coachman was apparently laughing and jeering at the old man.
‘And is this your trap, pray?’ he added, with a shrug of his shoulders in its direction.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, a trap … a fine trap!’ he repeated, and taking it by the shafts almost turned it completely upside down. ‘A trap!… But what will you drive in it to the clearing?… You can’t harness our horses in these shafts; our horses are all too big.’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Kassyan, ‘what you are going to drive; that beast perhaps,’ he added with a sigh.
‘That?’ broke in Erofay, and going up to Kassyan’s nag, he tapped it disparagingly on the back with the third finger of his right hand. ‘See,’ he added contemptuously, ‘it’s asleep, the scare - crow!’
I asked Erofay to harness it as quickly as he could. I wanted to drive myself with Kassyan to the clearing; grouse are fond of such places. When the little cart was quite ready, and I, together with my dog, had been installed in the warped wicker body of it, and Kassyan huddled up into a little ball, with still the same dejected expression on his face, had taken his seat in front, Erofay came up to me and whispered with an air of mystery:
‘You did well, your honour, to drive with him. He is such a queer fellow; he’s cracked, you know, and his nickname is the Flea. I don’t know how you managed to make him out….’
I tried to say to Erofay that so far Kassyan had seemed to me a very sensible man; but my coachman continued at once in the same voice:
‘But you keep a look - out where he is driving you to. And, your honour, be pleased to choose the axle yourself; be pleased to choose a sound one…. Well, Flea,’ he added aloud, ‘could I get a bit of bread in your house?’
‘Look about; you may find some,’ answered Kassyan. He pulled the reins and we rolled away.
His little horse, to my genuine astonishment, did not go badly. Kassyan preserved an obstinate silence the whole way, and made abrupt and unwilling answers to my questions. We quickly reached the clearing, and then made our way to the counting - house, a lofty cottage, standing by itself over a small gully, which had been dammed up and converted into a pool. In this counting - house I found two young merchants’ clerks, with snow - white teeth, sweet and soft eyes, sweet and subtle words, and sweet and wily smiles. I bought an axle of them and returned to the clearing. I thought that Kassyan would stay with the horse and await my return; but he suddenly came up to me.
‘Are you going to shoot birds, eh?’ he said.
‘Yes, if I come across any.’
‘I will come with you…. Can I?’
‘Certainly, certainly.’
So we went together. The land cleared was about a mile in length. I must confess I watched Kassyan more than my dogs. He had been aptly called ‘Flea.’ His little black uncovered head (though his hair, indeed, was as good a covering as any cap) seemed to flash hither and thither among the bushes. He walked extraordinarily swiftly, and seemed always hopping up and down as he moved; he was for ever stooping down to pick herbs of some kind, thrusting them into his bosom, muttering to himself, and constantly looking at me and my dog with such a strange searching gaze. Among low bushes and in clearings there are often little grey birds which constantly flit from tree to tree, and which whistle as they dart away. Kassyan mimicked them, answered their calls; a young quail flew from between his feet, chirruping, and he chirruped in imitation of him; a lark began to fly down above him, moving his wings and singing melodiously: Kassyan joined in his song. He did not speak to me at all….
The weather was glorious, even more so than before; but the heat was no less. Over the clear sky the high thin clouds were hardly stirred, yellowish - white, like snow lying late in spring, flat and drawn out like rolled - up sails. Slowly but perceptibly their fringed edges, soft and fluffy as cotton - wool, changed at every moment; they were melting away, even these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. I strolled about the clearing for a long while with Kassyan. Young shoots, which had not yet had time to grow more than a yard high, surrounded the low blackened stumps with their smooth slender stems; and spongy funguses with grey edges — the same of which they make tinder — clung to these; strawberry plants flung their rosy tendrils over them; mushrooms squatted close in groups. The feet were constantly caught and entangled in the long grass, that was parched in the scorching sun; the eyes were dazzled on all sides by the glaring metallic glitter on the young reddish leaves of the trees; on all sides were the variegated blue clusters of vetch, the golden cups of bloodwort, and the half - lilac, half - yellow blossoms of the heart’s - ease. In some places near the disused paths, on which the tracks of wheels were marked by streaks on the fine bright grass, rose piles of wood, blackened by wind and rain, laid in yard - lengths; there was a faint shadow cast from them in slanting oblongs; there was no other shade anywhere. A light breeze rose, then sank again; suddenly it would blow straight in the face and seem to be rising; everything would begin to rustle merrily, to nod, to shake around one; the supple tops of the ferns bow down gracefully, and one rejoices in it, but at once it dies away again, and all is at rest once more. Only the grasshoppers chirrup in chorus with frenzied energy, and wearisome is this unceasing, sharp dry sound. It is in keeping with the persistent heat of mid - day; it seems akin to it, as though evoked by it out of the glowing earth.
Without having started one single covey we at last reached another clearing. There the aspen - trees had only lately been felled, and lay stretched mournfully on the ground, crushing the grass and small
undergrowth below them: on some the leaves were still green, though they were already dead, and hung limply from the motionless branches; on others they were crumpled and dried up. Fresh golden - white chips lay in heaps round the stumps that were covered with bright drops; a peculiar, very pleasant, pungent odour rose from them. Farther away, nearer the wood, sounded the dull blows of the axe, and from time to time, bowing and spreading wide its arms, a bushy tree fell slowly and majestically to the ground.
For a long time I did not come upon a single bird; at last a corncrake flew out of a thick clump of young oak across the wormwood springing up round it. I fired; it turned over in the air and fell. At the sound of the shot, Kassyan quickly covered his eyes with his hand, and he did not stir till I had reloaded the gun and picked up the bird. When I had moved farther on, he went up to the place where the wounded bird had fallen, bent down to the grass, on which some drops of blood were sprinkled, shook his head, and looked in dismay at me…. I heard him afterwards whispering: ‘A sin!… Ah, yes, it’s a sin!’
The heat forced us at last to go into the wood. I flung myself down under a high nut - bush, over which a slender young maple gracefully stretched its light branches. Kassyan sat down on the thick trunk of a felled birch - tree. I looked at him. The leaves faintly stirred overhead, and their thin greenish shadows crept softly to and fro over his feeble body, muffled in a dark coat, and over his little face. He did not lift his head. Bored by his silence, I lay on my back and began to admire the tranquil play of the tangled foliage on the background of the bright, far away sky. A marvellously sweet occupation it is to lie on one’s back in a wood and gaze upwards! You may fancy you are looking into a bottomless sea; that it stretches wide below you; that the trees are not rising out of the earth, but, like the roots of gigantic weeds, are dropping — falling straight down into those glassy, limpid depths; the leaves on the trees are at one moment transparent as emeralds, the next, they condense into golden, almost black green. Somewhere, afar off, at the end of a slender twig, a single leaf hangs motionless against the blue patch of transparent sky, and beside it another trembles with the motion of a fish on the line, as though moving of its own will, not shaken by the wind. Round white clouds float calmly across, and calmly pass away like submarine islands; and suddenly, all this ocean, this shining ether, these branches and leaves steeped in sunlight — all is rippling, quivering in fleeting brilliance, and a fresh trembling whisper awakens like the tiny, incessant plash of suddenly stirred eddies. One does not move — one looks, and no word can tell what peace, what joy, what sweetness reigns in the heart. One looks: the deep, pure blue stirs on one’s lips a smile, innocent as itself; like the clouds over the sky, and, as it were, with them, happy memories pass in slow procession over the soul, and still one fancies one’s gaze goes deeper and deeper, and draws one with it up into that peaceful, shining immensity, and that one cannot be brought back from that height, that depth….
‘Master, master!’ cried Kassyan suddenly in his musical voice.
I raised myself in surprise: up till then he had scarcely replied to my questions, and now he suddenly addressed me of himself.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘What did you kill the bird for?’ he began, looking me straight in the face.
‘What for? Corncrake is game; one can eat it.’
‘That was not what you killed it for, master, as though you were going to eat it! You killed it for amusement.’
‘Well, you yourself, I suppose, eat geese or chickens?’
‘Those birds are provided by God for man, but the corncrake is a wild bird of the woods: and not he alone; many they are, the wild things of the woods and the fields, and the wild things of the rivers and marshes and moors, flying on high or creeping below; and a sin it is to slay them: let them live their allotted life upon the earth. But for man another food has been provided; his food is other, and other his sustenance: bread, the good gift of God, and the water of heaven, and the tame beasts that have come down to us from our fathers of old.’
I looked in astonishment at Kassyan. His words flowed freely; he did not hesitate for a word; he spoke with quiet inspiration and gentle dignity, sometimes closing his eyes.
‘So is it sinful, then, to kill fish, according to you?’ I asked.
‘Fishes have cold blood,’ he replied with conviction. ‘The fish is a dumb creature; it knows neither fear nor rejoicing. The fish is a voiceless creature. The fish does not feel; the blood in it is not living…. Blood,’ he continued, after a pause, ‘blood is a holy thing! God’s sun does not look upon blood; it is hidden away from the light … it is a great sin to bring blood into the light of day; a great sin and horror…. Ah, a great sin!’
He sighed, and his head drooped forward. I looked, I confess, in absolute amazement at the strange old man. His language did not sound like the language of a peasant; the common people do not speak like that, nor those who aim at fine speaking. His speech was meditative, grave, and curious…. I had never heard anything like it.
‘Tell me, please, Kassyan,’ I began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, ‘what is your occupation?’
He did not answer my question at once. His eyes strayed uneasily for an instant.
‘I live as the Lord commands,’ he brought out at last; ‘and as for occupation — no, I have no occupation. I’ve never been very clever from a child: I work when I can: I’m not much of a workman — how should I be? I have no health; my hands are awkward. In the spring I catch nightingales.’
‘You catch nightingales?… But didn’t you tell me that we must not touch any of the wild things of the woods and the fields, and so on?’
‘We must not kill them, of a certainty; death will take its own without that. Look at Martin the carpenter; Martin lived, and his life was not long, but he died; his wife now grieves for her husband, for her little children…. Neither for man nor beast is there any charm against death. Death does not hasten, nor is there any escaping it; but we must not aid death…. And I do not kill nightingales — God forbid! I do not catch them to harm them, to spoil their lives, but for the pleasure of men, for their comfort and delight.’
‘Do you go to Kursk to catch them?’
‘Yes, I go to Kursk, and farther too, at times. I pass nights in the marshes, or at the edge of the forests; I am alone at night in the fields, in the thickets; there the curlews call and the hares squeak and the wild ducks lift up their voices…. I note them at evening; at morning I give ear to them; at daybreak I cast my net over the bushes…. There are nightingales that sing so pitifully sweet … yea, pitifully.’
‘And do you sell them?’
‘I give them to good people.’
‘And what are you doing now?’
‘What am I doing?’
‘Yes, how are you employed?’
The old man was silent for a little.
‘I am not employed at all…. I am a poor workman. But I can read and write.’
‘You can read?’
‘Yes, I can read and write. I learnt, by the help of God and good people.’
‘Have you a family?’
‘No, not a family.’
‘How so?… Are they dead, then?’
‘No, but … I have never been lucky in life. But all that is in God’s hands; we are all in God’s hands; and a man should be righteous — that is all! Upright before God, that is it.’
‘And you have no kindred?’
‘Yes … well….’
The old man was confused.
‘Tell me, please,’ I began: ‘I heard my coachman ask you why you did not cure Martin? You cure disease?’
‘Your coachman is a righteous man,’ Kassyan answered thoughtfully. ‘I too am not without sin. They call me a doctor…. Me a doctor, indeed! And who can heal the sick? That is all a gift from God. But there are … yes, there are herbs, and there are flowers; they are of use, of a certainty. There is plantain, for instance, a herb good for man; there is bud
- marigold too; it is not sinful to speak of them: they are holy herbs of God. Then there are others not so; and they may be of use, but it’s a sin; and to speak of them is a sin. Still, with prayer, may be…. And doubtless there are such words…. But who has faith, shall be saved,’ he added, dropping his voice.
‘You did not give Martin anything?’ I asked.
‘I heard of it too late,’ replied the old man. ‘But what of it! Each man’s destiny is written from his birth. The carpenter Martin was not to live; he was not to live upon the earth: that was what it was. No, when a man is not to live on the earth, him the sunshine does not warm like another, and him the bread does not nourish and make strong; it is as though something is drawing him away…. Yes: God rest his soul!’
‘Have you been settled long amongst us?’ I asked him after a short pause.
Kassyan started.
‘No, not long; four years. In the old master’s time we always lived in our old houses, but the trustees transported us. Our old master was a kind heart, a man of peace — the Kingdom of Heaven be his! The trustees doubtless judged righteously.’
‘And where did you live before?’
‘At Fair Springs.’
‘Is it far from here?’
‘A hundred miles.’
‘Well, were you better off there?’
‘Yes … yes, there there was open country, with rivers; it was our home: here we are cramped and parched up…. Here we are strangers. There at home, at Fair Springs, you could get up on to a hill — and ah, my God, what a sight you could see! Streams and plains and forests, and there was a church, and then came plains beyond. You could see far, very far. Yes, how far you could look — you could look and look, ah, yes! Here, doubtless, the soil is better; it is clay — good fat clay, as the peasants say; for me the corn grows well enough everywhere.’
‘Confess then, old man; you would like to visit your birth - place again?’
‘Yes, I should like to see it. Still, all places are good. I am a man without kin, without neighbours. And, after all, do you gain much, pray, by staying at home? But, behold! as you walk, and as you walk,’ he went on, raising his voice, ‘the heart grows lighter, of a truth. And the sun shines upon you, and you are in the sight of God, and the singing comes more tunefully. Here, you look — what herb is growing; you look on it — you pick it. Here water runs, perhaps — spring water, a source of pure holy water; so you drink of it — you look on it too. The birds of heaven sing…. And beyond Kursk come the steppes, that steppes - country: ah, what a marvel, what a delight for man! what freedom, what a blessing of God! And they go on, folks tell, even to the warm seas where dwells the sweet - voiced bird, the Hamayune, and from the trees the leaves fall not, neither in autumn nor in winter, and apples grow of gold, on silver branches, and every man lives in uprightness and content. And I would go even there…. Have I journeyed so little already! I have been to Romyon and to Simbirsk the fair city, and even to Moscow of the golden domes; I have been to Oka the good nurse, and to Tsna the dove, and to our mother Volga, and many folks, good Christians have I seen, and noble cities I have visited…. Well, I would go thither … yes … and more too … and I am not the only one, I a poor sinner … many other Christians go in bast - shoes, roaming over the world, seeking truth, yea!… For what is there at home? No righteousness in man — it’s that.’
Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) Page 206
