Works of Ivan Turgenev (Illustrated) (241 page)

‘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.’

These last words Kassyan uttered quickly, almost unintelligibly; then he said something more which I could not catch at all, and such a strange expression passed over his face that I involuntarily recalled the epithet ‘cracked.’ He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to himself again. ‘What sunshine!’ he murmured in a low voice. ‘It is a blessing, oh, Lord! What warmth in the woods!’

He gave a movement of the shoulders and fell into silence. With a vague look round him he began softly to sing. I could not catch all the words of his slow chant; I heard the following:

             ’They call me Kassyan,

               But my nickname’s the Flea.’

‘Oh!’ I thought, ‘so he improvises.’ Suddenly he started and ceased singing, looking intently at a thick part of the wood. I turned and saw a little peasant girl, about seven years old, in a blue frock, with a checked handkerchief over her head, and a woven bark - basket in her little bare sunburnt hand. She had certainly not expected to meet us; she had, as they say, ‘stumbled upon’ us, and she stood motionless in a shady recess among the thick foliage of the nut - trees, looking dismayed at me with her black eyes. I had scarcely time to catch a glimpse of her; she dived behind a tree.

‘Annushka! Annushka! come here, don’t be afraid!’ cried the old man caressingly.

‘I’m afraid,’ came her shrill voice.

‘Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid; come to me.’

Annushka left her hiding place in silence, walked softly round — her little childish feet scarcely sounded on the thick grass — and came out of the bushes near the old man. She was not a child of seven, as I had fancied at first, from her diminutive stature, but a girl of thirteen or fourteen. Her whole person was small and thin, but very neat and graceful, and her pretty little face was strikingly like Kassyan’s own, though he was certainly not handsome. There were the same thin features, and the same strange expression, shy and confiding, melancholy and shrewd, and her gestures were the same…. Kassyan kept his eyes fixed on her; she took her stand at his side.

‘Well, have you picked any mushrooms?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she answered with a shy smile.

‘Did you find many?’

‘Yes.’ (She stole a swift look at him and smiled again.)

‘Are they white ones?’

‘Yes.’

‘Show me, show me…. (She slipped the basket off her arm and half -

lifted the big burdock leaf which covered up the mushrooms.) ‘Ah!’ said

Kassyan, bending down over the basket; ‘what splendid ones! Well done,

Annushka!’

‘She’s your daughter, Kassyan, isn’t she?’ I asked. (Annushka’s face flushed faintly.)

‘No, well, a relative,’ replied Kassyan with affected indifference. ‘Come, Annushka, run along,’ he added at once, ‘run along, and God be with you! And take care.’

‘But why should she go on foot?’ I interrupted. ‘We could take her with us.’

Annushka blushed like a poppy, grasped the handle of her basket with both hands, and looked in trepidation at the old man.

‘No, she will get there all right,’ he answered in the same languid and indifferent voice. ‘Why not?… She will get there…. Run along.’

Annushka went rapidly away into the forest. Kassyan looked after her, then looked down and smiled to himself. In this prolonged smile, in the few words he had spoken to Annushka, and in the very sound of his voice when he spoke to her, there was an intense, indescribable love and tenderness. He looked again in the direction she had gone, again smiled to himself, and, passing his hand across his face, he nodded his head several times.

‘Why did you send her away so soon?’ I asked him. ‘I would have bought her mushrooms.’

‘Well, you can buy them there at home just the same, sir, if you like,’ he answered, for the first time using the formal ‘sir’ in addressing me.

‘She’s very pretty, your girl.’

‘No … only so - so,’ he answered, with seeming reluctance, and from that instant he relapsed into the same uncommunicative mood as at first.

Seeing that all my efforts to make him talk again were fruitless, I went off into the clearing. Meantime the heat had somewhat abated; but my ill - success, or, as they say among us, my ‘ill - luck,’ continued, and I returned to the settlement with nothing but one corncrake and the new axle. Just as we were driving into the yard, Kassyan suddenly turned to me.

‘Master, master,’ he began, ‘do you know I have done you a wrong; it was I cast a spell to keep all the game off.’

‘How so?’

‘Oh, I can do that. Here you have a well - trained dog and a good one, but he could do nothing. When you think of it, what are men? what are they? Here’s a beast; what have they made of him?’

It would have been useless for me to try to convince Kassyan of the impossibility of ‘casting a spell’ on game, and so I made him no reply. Meantime we had turned into the yard.

Annushka was not in the hut: she had had time to get there before us, and to leave her basket of mushrooms. Erofay fitted in the new axle, first exposing it to a severe and most unjust criticism; and an hour later I set off, leaving a small sum of money with Kassyan, which at first he was unwilling to accept, but afterwards, after a moment’s thought, holding it in his hand, he put it in his bosom. In the course of this hour he had scarcely uttered a single word; he stood as before, leaning against the gate. He made no reply to the reproaches of my coachman, and took leave very coldly of me.

Directly I turned round, I could see that my worthy Erofay was in a gloomy frame of mind…. To be sure, he had found nothing to eat in the country; the only water for his horses was bad. We drove off. With dissatisfaction expressed even in the back of his head, he sat on the box, burning to begin to talk to me. While waiting for me to begin by some question, he confined himself to a low muttering in an undertone, and some rather caustic instructions to the horses. ‘A village,’ he muttered; ‘call that a village? You ask for a drop of kvas — not a drop of kvas even…. Ah, Lord!… And the water — simply filth!’ (He spat loudly.) ‘Not a cucumber, nor kvas, nor nothing…. Now, then!’ he added aloud, turning to the right trace - horse; ‘I know you, you humbug.’ (And he gave him a cut with the whip.) ‘That horse has learnt to shirk his work entirely, and yet he was a willing beast once. Now, then — look alive!’

‘Tell me, please, Erofay,’ I began, ‘what sort of a man is Kassyan?’

Erofay did not answer me at once: he was, in general, a reflective and deliberate fellow; but I could see directly that my question was soothing and cheering to him.