The face of the dead was stern and majestic. But there was no motion either on the pure cold brow, or the firmly closed lips. She was all attention.
But did she perhaps now understand these grand words?
IV.
At the end of a month, over the grave of the dead a stone chapel was erected. Over the driver"s there was as yet no stone, and only the fresh green gra.s.s sprouted over the mound that served as the sole record of the past existence of a man.
"It will be a sin and a shame, Seryoha," said the cook at the station-house one day, "if you don"t buy a gravestone for Khveodor. You kept saying, "It"s winter, winter," but now why don"t you keep your word? I heard it all. He has already come back once to ask why you don"t do it; if you don"t buy him one, he will come again, he will choke you."
"Well, now, have I denied it?" urged Seryoha. "I am going to buy him a stone, as I said I would. I can get one for a ruble and a half. I have not forgotten about it; I"ll have to get it. As soon as I happen to be in town, then I"ll buy him one."
"You ought at least to put up a cross, that"s what you ought to do," said an old driver. "It isn"t right at all. You"re wearing those boots now."
"Yes. But where could I get him a cross? You wouldn"t want to make one out of an old piece of stick, would you?"
"What is that you say? Make one out of an old piece of stick? No; take your axe, go out to the wood a little earlier than usual, and you can hew him out one. Take a little ash-tree, and you can make one. You can have a covered cross. If you go then, you won"t have to give the watchman a little drink of vodka. One doesn"t want to give vodka for every trifle. Now, yesterday I broke my axletree, and I go and hew out a new one of green wood. No one said a word."
Early the next morning, almost before dawn, Seryoha took his axe, and went to the wood.
Over all things hung a cold, dead veil of falling mist, as yet untouched by the rays of the sun.
The cast gradually grew brighter, reflecting its pale light over the vault of heaven still covered by light clouds. Not a single gra.s.s-blade below, not a single leaf on the topmost branches of the tree-top, waved. Only from time to time could be heard the sounds of fluttering wings in the thicket, or a rustling on the ground broke in upon the silence of the forest.
Suddenly a strange sound, foreign to this nature, resounded and died away at the edge of the forest. Again the noise sounded, and was monotonously repeated again and again, at the foot of one of the ancient, immovable trees. A tree-top began to shake in an extraordinary manner; the juicy leaves whispered something; and the warbler, sitting on one of the branches, flew off a couple of times with a shrill cry, and, wagging its tail, finally perched on another tree.
The axe rang more and more frequently; the white chips, full of sap, were scattered upon the dewy gra.s.s, and a slight cracking was heard beneath the blows.
The tree trembled with all its body, leaned over, and quickly straightened itself with a fearful shudder on its base.
For an instant all was still, then once more the tree bent over; a crash was heard in its trunk; and tearing the thicket, and dragging down the branches, it plunged toward the damp earth.
The noise of the axe and of footsteps ceased.
The warbler uttered a cry, and flew higher. The branch which she grazed with her wings shook for an instant, and then came to rest like all the others with their foliage.
The trees, more joyously than ever, extended their branches over the new s.p.a.ce that had been made in their midst.
The first sunbeams, breaking through the cloud, gleamed in the sky, and shone along the earth and heavens.
The mist, in billows, began to float along the hollows; the dew, gleaming, played on the green foliage; translucent white clouds hurried along their azure path.
The birds hopped about in the thicket, and, as though beside themselves, voiced their happiness; the juicy leaves joyfully and contentedly whispered on the tree-tops; and the branches of the living trees slowly and majestically waved over the dead and fallen tree.
A PRISONER IN THE CAUCASUS.
I.
A Russian of rank was serving as an officer in the army of the Caucasus.
His name was Zhilin.
There came to him one day a letter from his home. His aged mother wrote him: "I am now getting along in years, and before I die I should like to see my beloved son. Come and bid me farewell, lay me in the ground, and then with my blessing return again to your service. And I have been finding a bride for you, and she is intelligent and handsome and has property. If you like, you can marry and settle down together."
Zhilin cogitated, "It is very true: the old lady has been growing feeble; maybe I shall not have a chance to see her again. Let us go, and if the bride is pretty--then I might marry."
He went to his colonel, got his leave of absence, took his farewell of his comrades, gave the soldiers of his command nine gallons[95] of vodka as a farewell treat, and made his arrangements to depart.
[Footnote 95: Four _vedros_, equivalent exactly to 8.80 gallons.]
There was war at that time in the Caucasus. The roads were not open for travel either by day or night. If any of the Russians rode or walked outside of the fortress, the Tatars were likely either to kill him or carry him off to the mountains. And it was arranged that twice a week an escort of soldiers should go from fortress to fortress. In front and behind marched the soldiers, and the travellers rode in the middle.
It was now summer-time. At sunrise the baggage-train was made up behind the fortification; the guard of soldiery marched ahead, and the procession moved along the road.
Zhilin was on horseback, and his effects were on a cart that formed part of the train.
They had twenty-five versts[96] to travel. The train marched slowly; sometimes the soldiers halted; sometimes a wagon-wheel came off, or a horse balked, and all had to stop and wait.
[Footnote 96: Sixteen and a half miles.]
The sun was already past the zenith, but the train had only gone half way, so great were the dust and heat. The sun was baking hot, and nowhere was there shelter. A bald steppe; not a tree or a shrub on the road.
Zhilin rode on ahead, occasionally stopping and waiting till the train caught up with him. He would listen, and hear the signal on the horn to halt again. And Zhilin thought, "Would I better go on alone without the soldiers? I have a good horse under me; if I fall in with the Tatars, I can escape. Or shall I wait?"
He kept stopping and pondering. And just then another officer, also on horseback, rode up to him; his name was Kostuilin, and he had a musket.
He said, "Zhilin, let us ride on ahead together. I am so hungry that I cannot stand it any longer, and the heat too,--you could wring my shirt out!" Kostuilin was a heavy, stout, ruddy man, and the sweat was dripping from him.
Zhilin reflected, and said, "And your musket is loaded?"
"It is."
"All right, let us go. Only one condition: not to separate."
And they started on up the road. They rode along the steppe, talking and looking on each side. There was a wide sweep of view. As soon as the steppe came to an end, the road went into a pa.s.s between two mountains.
And Zhilin said, "I must ride up on that mountain, and reconnoitre, otherwise you see they might come down from the mountain and surprise us."
But Kostuilin said, "What is there to reconnoitre? Let us go ahead."
Zhilin did not heed him.
"No," says he, "you wait for me here below. I"ll just glance around."
And he spurred his horse up the mountain to the left.