Sketches from a Hunter's Album (23 page)

‘Who is it?' asked a loud voice.

‘Who are you?'

‘I'm the local forester.'

I named myself.

‘Ah, I know you. On your way home, are you?'

‘Yes. But you can see, what a storm…'

‘Yes, a storm,' the voice responded.

A white lightning flash lit up the forester from head to toe. A crackling thunderclap followed immediately afterwards. The rain beat down with redoubled force.

‘It'll not be over soon,' the forester went on.

‘What's to be done?'

‘Let me lead you to my cottage,' he said sharply.

‘Please.'

‘Kindly take your seat.'

He went up to the head of the horse, took hold of the bridle and gave a tug. We set off. I clung to the cushion on the droshky which swayed ‘like a boat on the waves'
¹
and called to my dog. My poor mare splashed about heavily in the mud, slipping and stumbling, while the forester hovered to right and left in front of the shafts like a ghost. We travelled for quite a long while until my guide finally came to a stop.

‘Here we are at home, sir,' he said in a calm voice.

The garden gate creaked and several dogs started barking in unison. I raised my head and saw by the light of a lightning flash a small cottage set in a large courtyard surrounded by wattle fencing. From one small window a light shone faintly. The forester led the horse up to the porch and banged on the door. ‘Coming! Coming!' rang out a thin, small voice, followed by a sound of bare feet and the squeaky drawing of the bolt, and a little girl of about twelve, in a shirt tied with selvedge and with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the doorstep.

‘Show the gentleman the way,' he said to the little girl. ‘Meanwhile I'll put your droshky under cover.'

She glanced at me and went in. I followed her.

The forester's cottage consisted of one room, smoke-blackened, low and bare, without slats for bedding or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On a bench lay a single-barrelled gun and in one corner a pile of rags; beside the stove stood two large jugs. A
taper burned on the table, sadly flaring up, then guttering. In the very centre of the cottage hung a cradle tied to the end of a long pole. The little girl extinguished the lantern, seated herself on a tiny bench and began with her right hand to rock the cradle and with her other to adjust the taper. I looked around me and my heart sank, because it's not a happy experience to enter a peasant cottage at night. The baby in the cradle breathed heavily and quickly.

‘Are you all by yourself here?' I asked the little girl.

‘I am,' she said scarcely audibly.

‘You're the forester's daughter?'

‘Yes,' she whispered.

The door squeaked and the forester came across the threshold, ducking his head. He lifted the lantern off the floor, went to the table and lit the wick.

‘It's likely you're not used to just a taper, are you?' he said and shook his curls.

I looked at him. I'd rarely seen such a fine figure of a man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a splendid physique. Beneath the damp, coarse cloth of his shirt his powerful muscles stood out clearly. A black curly beard covered half his severe, masculine features and beneath broad eyebrows which met in the middle there gazed out small hazel eyes. He lightly placed his hands on his hips and stood in front of me.

I thanked him and asked him his name.

‘I'm called Foma,' he answered, ‘but I'm nicknamed Loner.'
*

‘So you're the one called Loner?'

I looked at him with redoubled interest. From my Yermolay and others I'd often heard stories about the Loner whom all the local peasants feared like fire. According to them there wasn't a better master of his job in the world: ‘He won't let you take so much as a bit o' brushwood! It doesn't matter when it is, even at dead o' night, he'll be down on you like a ton o' snow, an' you'd best not think of puttin' up a fight – he's as strong and skilful as a devil! An' you can't bribe him, not with drink, not with money, not with any trickery. More'n once there's good folks've tried to drive him off the face of the earth, but he's not given up.'

That's how the local peasants spoke about Loner.

‘So you're Loner,' I repeated. ‘I've heard about you, my friend. They say you won't let a thing go.'

‘I look after my job,' he answered sombrely. ‘I'm not eating my master's bread for nothing.'

He took a chopper from his belt, squatted down on the floor and began to hack out a taper.

‘You've no lady of the house?' I asked him.

‘No,' he answered and struck a heavy blow with the chopper.

‘She's dead, is she?'

‘No…Yes…She's dead,' he added and turned away.

I said nothing. He raised his eyes and looked at me.

‘She ran off with a passer-by, a fellow from the town,' he pronounced with a cruel smile. The little girl bowed her head. The baby woke up and started crying. The little girl went to the cradle. ‘Here, give him this,' said Loner, thrusting a dirty feeding bottle into her hand. ‘She even abandoned him,' he went on in a low voice, pointing at the baby. He went to the door, stopped and turned round.

‘You'll likely, sir,' he began, ‘not want to eat our bread, but apart from bread I've…'

‘I'm not hungry.'

‘Well, you know how it is. I'd light the samovar, only I've got no tea…I'll go out and see how your horse is.'

He went out and banged the door. I again looked around. The cottage seemed to me even more miserable than before. The bitter odour of stale woodsmoke made it hard for me to breathe. The little girl didn't move from where she was and didn't raise her eyes. From time to time she gave the cradle a rock and modestly drew her shirt over her shoulders. Her bare feet hung down motionlessly.

‘What's your name?' I asked her.

‘Ulita,' she said, lowering her sad little face even further.

The forester came in and sat on the bench.

‘The storm's passing,' he remarked after a short silence. ‘If you say so, I'll lead you out of the forest.'

I rose. Loner picked up his gun and examined the breech-block.

‘What's that for?' I asked.

‘There's something going on in the forest…Someone's felling
wood up on Mare's Ridge,'
*
he added, in answer to my questioning look.

‘Can you hear it from here?'

‘Outside I can.'

We left together. The rain had stopped. In the far distance heavy masses of cloud still crowded together and long streaks of lightning flickered, but above our heads dark-blue patches of sky could be seen here and there and tiny stars twinkled through sparse, swiftly fleeting clouds. The outlines of trees, drenched in rain and shaken by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We started listening. The forester took off his cap and bent his head.

‘There!… There!' he said suddenly and pointed. ‘My, what a night he's chosen for it!'

I didn't hear a thing apart from the noise of leaves. Loner led the horse out from under the awning.

‘It's likely,' he added aloud, ‘I'll not get there in time.'

‘I'll come with you… Is that all right?'

‘All right,' he answered and put the horse back. ‘We'll catch him and then I'll lead you out. Let's go.'

We set off, Loner in front and I behind him. God knows how he knew the way, but he stopped only occasionally and then just to listen to the sound of the axe.

‘See,' he hissed through his teeth, ‘d'you hear it? D'you hear it?'

‘But where?'

Loner shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a gully, the wind dropped for a moment and the regular sounds of an axe clearly reached my hearing. Loner looked at me and nodded. We went further through wet bracken and nettles. A muffled and prolonged cracking sound was heard.

‘He's felled it,' said Loner.

Meanwhile the sky continued to clear and in the forest it became just a bit brighter. Finally we made our way out of the gully.

‘You wait here,' the forester whispered to me, bent down and, raising his gun aloft, disappeared among the bushes. I began listening intensely. Through the wind's constant noise I thought I heard such
faint sounds as an axe carefully cutting off branches, the creaking of wheels and the snorting of a horse.

‘Where're you going? Stop!' the iron voice of Loner suddenly cried out.

Another voice cried out plaintively, like a trapped hare. Then a struggle ensued.

‘Li-ar! Li-ar!' asserted Loner, breathing hard. ‘You'll not get away…'

I dashed off in the direction of the noise and, stumbling at each step, ran to the site of the struggle. The forester was busy with something on the ground beside a felled tree: he was holding the thief under him and twisting his arm round his back with a belt. I approached. Loner straightened up and set the other on his feet. I saw a peasant all damp and in tatters, with a long straggly beard. A wretched little horse, half-covered by an awkward piece of matting, also stood there along with the flat cart. The forester didn't say a word, the peasant also. He merely shook his head.

‘Let him go,' I whispered in Loner's ear. ‘I'll pay for the wood.'

Loner silently seized the horse by its mane with his left hand while with his right he held the thief by his belt.

‘Well, get a move on, you good-for-nothing,' he said sternly.

‘There's my axe there,' mumbled the thief.

‘No point it getting lost!' exclaimed the forester and picked the axe up.

We set off and I followed along behind. The rain started again and soon it began to pour. We made our way with difficulty back to the cottage. Loner abandoned the little horse in the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, slackened the knotted belt and set him down in a corner. The little girl, who'd been asleep beside the stove, jumped up and started looking at us in silent fright. I sat down on a bench.

‘It's such a downpour,' remarked the forester, ‘we'll have to wait a bit. Would you like to lie down?'

‘Thank you.'

‘I'd lock 'im up in that cupboard, for your sake,' he went on, pointing at the peasant, ‘only there's no bolt, as you can see…'

‘Leave him be, don't touch him,' I broke in.

The peasant glanced at me from under his brows. Inwardly I made
myself promise to free the poor wretch no matter what happened. He was sitting motionless on a bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his haggard, wrinkled face, the jaundiced overhanging brows, restless eyes and thin limbs. The little girl lay down on the floor at his very feet and went to sleep again. Loner sat at the table, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirruped in the corner. The rain beat down on the roof and slid down the windows. We were all silent.

‘Foma Kuzmich,' the peasant began suddenly in a hollow, broken voice, ‘Foma Kuzmich…'

‘What's up wi' you?'

‘Let me go.'

Loner didn't answer.

‘Let me go… It's bein' hungry… Let me go.'

‘I know your sort,' the forester said sombrely. ‘You're all the same where you come from, a bunch of thieves!'

‘Let me go,' repeated the peasant. ‘It's the bailiff, you know… ruined is what we are… Let me go!'

‘Ruined!… No one's got a right to thieve.'

‘Let me go, Foma Kuzmich! Don't do me in! Your master, you know yourself, he'll gobble me up, just you see!'

Loner turned away. The peasant shivered as if in a fever. He continuously shook his head and breathed unevenly.

‘Let me go,' he repeated in miserable despair, ‘for God's sake! I'll pay, just you see, by God I will! By God, it's bein' hungry… an' the babes cryin', you know what it's like. It gets real hard, just you see.'

‘But you none the less shouldn't go thieving.'

‘My little horse,' the peasant went on, ‘let 'er go, she's all I got… Let 'er go!'

‘I'm telling you I can't. I'm also one who takes orders and I'll have to answer for it. And I've got no reason to be kind to the likes of you.'

‘Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need as ever was, that's what… Let me go!'

‘I know your sort!'

‘Just let me go!'

‘What's the point of talking to you, eh? You sit there quietly, otherwise you know what you'll get from me, don't you? Can't you see there's a gentleman here?'

The poor fellow dropped his eyes. Loner yawned and rested his head on the table. The rain still went on. I waited to see what would happen.

The peasant suddenly straightened himself. His eyes were burning and his face had gone red.

‘Well, eat me, go on, stuff yourself!' he began, screwing up his eyes and turning down the corners of his mouth. ‘Go on, you bloody bastard, suck my Christian blood, go on, suck!'

The forester turned round.

‘I'm talkin' to you, you bloody Asian, you bloodsucker!'

‘Drunk, are you, that's why you've started swearing at me, eh?' said the forester in astonishment. ‘Lost your senses, have you?'

‘Drunk, ha! Not on your money I wouldn't, you bloody bastard, bloody animal you, animal, animal!'

‘Hey, that's enough from you! I'll give you what for!'

‘What's it to me! It's all the same – I'll be done for! What can I do without a horse? Kill me – it'll be the same end, if it's from hunger or from you, it's all the same to me! It's all over, wife, children – it's all done for! Just you wait, though, we'll get you in the end!'

Loner stood up.

‘Hit me! Hit me!' shouted the peasant in a voice of fury. ‘Come on, hit me! Hit me!' (The little girl quickly scrambled up from the floor and stared at him.) ‘Hit me! Hit me!'