The Cossacks - graf Tolstoy Leo (suggested reading TXT) 📗
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married who’ll be left?’
‘Well then, he’s saving up for her dowry,’ said Olenin.
‘What dowry? The girl is sought after, she’s a fine girl. But he’s
such a devil that he must yet marry her to a rich fellow. He wants
to get a big price for her. There’s Luke, a Cossack, a neighbour
and a nephew of mine, a fine lad. It’s he who killed the Chechen—
he has been wooing her for a long time, but he hasn’t let him have
her. He’s given one excuse, and another, and a third. “The girl’s
too young,” he says. But I know what he is thinking. He wants to
keep them bowing to him. He’s been acting shamefully about that
girl. Still, they will get her for Lukashka, because he is the
best Cossack in the village, a brave, who has killed an abrek and
will be rewarded with a cross.’
‘But how about this? When I was walking up and down the yard last
night, I saw my landlord’s daughter and some Cossack kissing,’
said Olenin.
‘You’re pretending!’ cried the old man, stopping.
‘On my word,’ said Olenin.
‘Women are the devil,’ said Eroshka pondering. ‘But what Cossack
was it?’
‘I couldn’t see.’
‘Well, what sort of a cap had he, a white one?’
‘Yes.’
‘And a red coat? About your height?’
‘No, a bit taller.’
‘It’s he!’ and Eroshka burst out laughing. ‘It’s himself, it’s
Mark. He is Luke, but I call him Mark for a joke. His very self! I
love him. I was just such a one myself. What’s the good of minding
them? My sweetheart used to sleep with her mother and her sister-in-law, but I managed to get in. She used to sleep upstairs; that
witch her mother was a regular demon; it’s awful how she hated me.
Well, I used to come with a chum, Girchik his name was. We’d come
under her window and I’d climb on his shoulders, push up the
window and begin groping about. She used to sleep just there on a
bench. Once I woke her up and she nearly called out. She hadn’t
recognized me. “Who is there?” she said, and I could not answer.
Her mother was even beginning to stir, but I took off my cap and
shoved it over her mouth; and she at once knew it by a seam in it,
and ran out to me. I used not to want anything then. She’d bring
along clotted cream and grapes and everything,’ added Eroshka (who
always explained things practically), ‘and she wasn’t the only
one. It was a life!’
‘And what now?’
‘Now we’ll follow the dog, get a pheasant to settle on a tree, and
then you may fire.’
‘Would you have made up to Maryanka?’
‘Attend to the dogs. I’ll tell you tonight,’ said the old man,
pointing to his favourite dog, Lyam.
After a pause they continued talking, while they went about a
hundred paces. Then the old man stopped again and pointed to a
twig that lay across the path.
‘What do you think of that?’ he said. ‘You think it’s nothing?
It’s bad that this stick is lying so.’
‘Why is it bad?’
He smiled.
‘Ah, you don’t know anything. Just listen to me. When a stick lies
like that don’t you step across it, but go round it or throw it
off the path this way, and say “Father and Son and Holy Ghost,”
and then go on with God’s blessing. Nothing will happen to you.
That’s what the old men used to teach me.’
‘Come, what rubbish!’ said Olenin. ‘You’d better tell me more
about Maryanka. Does she carry on with Lukashka?’
‘Hush … be quiet now!’ the old man again interrupted in a
whisper: ‘just listen, we’ll go round through the forest.’
And the old man, stepping quietly in his soft shoes, led the way
by a narrow path leading into the dense, wild, overgrown forest.
Now and again with a frown he turned to look at Olenin, who
rustled and clattered with his heavy boots and, carrying his gun
carelessly, several times caught the twigs of trees that grew
across the path.
‘Don’t make a noise. Step softly, soldier!’ the old man whispered
angrily.
There was a feeling in the air that the sun had risen. The mist
was dissolving but it still enveloped the tops of the trees. The
forest looked terribly high. At every step the aspect changed:
what had appeared like a tree proved to be a bush, and a reed
looked like a tree.
The mist had partly lifted, showing the wet reed thatches, and was
now turning into dew that moistened the road and the grass beside
the fence. Smoke rose everywhere in clouds from the chimneys. The
people were going out of the village, some to their work, some to
the river, and some to the cordon. The hunters walked together
along the damp, grass-grown path. The dogs, wagging their tails
and looking at their masters, ran on both sides of them. Myriads
of gnats hovered in the air and pursued the hunters, covering
their backs, eyes, and hands. The air was fragrant with the grass
and with the dampness of the forest. Olenin continually looked
round at the ox-cart in which Maryanka sat urging on the oxen with
a long switch.
It was calm. The sounds from the village, audible at first, now no
longer reached the sportsmen. Only the brambles cracked as the
dogs ran under them, and now and then birds called to one another.
Olenin knew that danger lurked in the forest, that abreks always
hid in such places. But he knew too that in the forest, for a man
on foot, a gun is a great protection. Not that he was afraid, but
he felt that another in his place might be; and looking into the
damp misty forest and listening to the rare and faint sounds with
strained attention, he changed his hold on his gun and experienced
a pleasant feeling that was new to him. Daddy Eroshka went in
front, stopping and carefully scanning every puddle where an
animal had left a double track, and pointing it out to Olenin. He
hardly spoke at all and only occasionally made remarks in a
whisper. The track they were following had once been made by
wagons, but the grass had long overgrown it. The elm and plane-tree forest on both sides of them was so dense and overgrown with
creepers that it was impossible to see anything through it. Nearly
every tree was enveloped from top to bottom with wild grape vines,
and dark bramble bushes covered the ground thickly. Every little
glade was overgrown with blackberry bushes and grey feathery
reeds. In places, large hoof-prints and small funnel-shaped
pheasant-trails led from the path into the thicket. The vigour of
the growth of this forest, untrampled by cattle, struck Olenin at
every turn, for he had never seen anything like it. This forest,
the danger, the old man and his mysterious whispering, Maryanka
with her virile upright bearing, and the mountains—all this
seemed to him like a dream.
‘A pheasant has settled,’ whispered the old man, looking round and
pulling his cap over his face—‘Cover your mug! A pheasant!’ he
waved his arm angrily at Olenin and pushed forward almost on all
fours. ‘He don’t like a man’s mug.’
Olenin was still behind him when the old man stopped and began
examining a tree. A cock-pheasant on the tree clucked at the dog
that was barking at it, and Olenin saw the pheasant; but at that
moment a report, as of a cannon, came from Eroshka’s enormous gun,
the bird fluttered up and, losing some feathers, fell to the
ground. Coming up to the old man Olenin disturbed another, and
raising his gun he aimed and fired. The pheasant flew swiftly up
and then, catching at the branches as he fell, dropped like a
stone to the ground.
‘Good man!’ the old man (who could not hit a flying bird) shouted,
laughing.
Having picked up the pheasants they went on. Olenin, excited by
the exercise and the praise, kept addressing remarks to the old
man.
‘Stop! Come this way,’ the old man interrupted. ‘I noticed the
track of deer here yesterday.’
After they had turned into the thicket and gone some three hundred
paces they scrambled through into a glade overgrown with reeds and
partly under water. Olenin failed to keep up with the old huntsman
and presently Daddy Eroshka, some twenty paces in front, stooped
down, nodding and beckoning with his arm. On coming up with him
Olenin saw a man’s footprint to which the old man was pointing.
‘D’you see?’
‘Yes, well?’ said Olenin, trying to speak as calmly as he could.
‘A man’s footstep!’
Involuntarily a thought of Cooper’s Pathfinder and of abreks
flashed through Olenin’s mind, but noticing the mysterious manner
with which the old man moved on, he hesitated to question him and
remained in doubt whether this mysteriousness was caused by fear
of danger or by the sport.
‘No, it’s my own footprint,’ the old man said quietly, and pointed
to some grass under which the track of an animal was just
perceptible.
The old man went on; and Olenin kept up with him.
Descending to lower ground some twenty paces farther on they came
upon a spreading pear-tree, under which, on the black earth, lay
the fresh dung of some animal.
The spot, all covered over with wild vines, was like a cosy
arbour, dark and cool.
‘He’s been here this morning,’ said the old man with a sigh; ‘the
lair is still damp, quite fresh.’
Suddenly they heard a terrible crash in the forest some ten paces
from where they stood. They both started and seized their guns,
but they could see nothing and only heard the branches breaking.
The rhythmical rapid thud of galloping was heard for a moment and
then changed into a hollow rumble which resounded farther and
farther off, re-echoing in wider and wider circles through the
forest. Olenin felt as though something had snapped in his heart.
He peered carefully but vainly into the green thicket and then
turned to the old man. Daddy Eroshka with his gun pressed to his
breast stood motionless; his cap was thrust backwards, his eyes
gleamed with an unwonted glow, and his open mouth, with its worn
yellow teeth, seemed to have stiffened in that position.
‘A homed stag!’ he muttered, and throwing down his gun in despair
he began pulling at his grey beard, ‘Here it stood. We should have
come round by the path…. Fool! fool!’ and he gave his beard an
angry tug. Fool! Pig!’ he repeated, pulling painfully at his own
beard. Through the forest something seemed to fly away in the
mist, and ever farther and farther off was heard the sound of the
flight of the stag.
It was already dusk when, hungry, tired, but full of vigour,
Olenin returned with the old man. Dinner was ready. He ate and
drank with the old man till he felt warm and merry. Olenin then
went out into the porch. Again, to the west, the mountains rose
before his eyes. Again the old man told his endless stories of
hunting, of abreks, of sweethearts, and of all that free and
reckless life. Again the fair Maryanka went in and out and across
the yard, her beautiful powerful form outlined by her smock.
The next day Olenin went alone to the spot where he and the old
man startled the
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