She turned up the little kerosene lamp and looked at me.
"Ai, ai," she said, "a _barin_." She looked at my coat and collar. "It will be but poor fare here."
"Not a _barin_" I urged, "but a poor wanderer coming from far and going farther still. I generally sleep under the open sky with G.o.d as my host and the world as my home, but to-night promises storm, and I fear to take cold in the rain."
The peasant girl, for she was no more, busied herself with the samovar. "You must have something hot to drink, and some milk and eggs perhaps. My husband is not yet home from market, but he will come belike very soon, and will be very glad to find a stranger. He will rejoice. He always rejoices to give hospitality to strangers upon the road."
When she had brought me a meal she fetched fresh hay from a barn and spread a quilt over it and made a bed for me, and would have given me her own pillow but that I pointed out that my pack itself made a very good resting-place for my head.
Then her husband came home, a strong kindly man, full of life and happiness, and he did rejoice as his little wife had promised. He was sorry he had not wine with which to entertain me. Such people drink wine not more than twice in a year.
And with these humble, gentle folk I forgot the rich man"s coldness, and healed my heart"s wounds. Life was made beautiful again. To-morrow the sun would be as bright as ever.
I slept in the comfortable warm bed on the floor of the poor peasant"s hut, and the storm rolled overhead, the winds moaned and the rain fell.
"You are going to Jerusalem," said the good man and woman next morning, "pray for us there. It is hard for us to leave our little hut and farm, or we would go to the Holy Land ourselves. We should like to go to the place where the Christ was born in Bethlehem and to the place where He died."
"I shall pray," I said; and I thought in my heart, "They are there in Jerusalem all the time, even though they remain here. For they show hospitality to strangers."
But as I trudged along my way there seemed to be a pathos too deep for tears underlying my experiences at the hands of the rich man and of the poor man.
That it should occur so in real life, and not merely in a moral tale!
The position of the rich man is so defensible. Of course it would have been ridiculous of him to have sheltered me. Who was I? I had no introduction. What was I? I might have robbed him in the night ... or murdered. I was ill-dressed and poor, therefore no doubt covetous of his fine clothes and wealth. They would only have themselves to blame if they sheltered me and I did them harm. Besides, was there not the tavern close by? All reason pointed to the tavern.
But something troubled them, something in my face and demeanour!
Alas for such people! They forget that Christ comes into this world not clothed in purple. They forget that Christ is always walking on the road, and that he shows himself as one needing help. And always once in a man"s life the pilgrim Christ comes knocking at his door, with the pack of man"s sorrows on his back and in his hand the staff which may be a cross.
I met the young officer in white next morning. He looked at me with a certain amount of surprise. I hailed him.
"Did you sleep well at the tavern?" he asked.
"I found shelter at a peasant"s house," I answered.
"Ah! That"s well. I didn"t think of that. You said you were going to Jerusalem. Why is that? Evidently you are not Russian."
I told him somewhat of my plans. He seemed interested and somewhat vexed. "I said we ought to have taken you in," he said apologetically.
"But you came so late--"like a thief in the night," as the Scripture saith."
I sat down on a stone and laughed and laughed. He stared at me in perplexity.
""Like a thief in the night,"" I cried out. "Oh, how came you to hit on that expression? Go on, please--"and I knew you not." Who is it who cometh as a thief in the night?"
The officer smiled faintly. He was dull of understanding, but evidently I had made a joke, or perhaps I was a little crazed.
He turned on his heel. "Sorry we turned you away," he repeated, "but there are so many scoundrels about. If you"re pa.s.sing our way again be sure and call in. Come whilst it"s light, however."
III
A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT
Dzhugba is an aggregation of cottages and villas round about the estuary of a little river flowing down from the Caucasus to the Black Sea. On the north a long cliff road leads to Novorossisk a hundred miles, and southward the same road goes on to Tuapse, some fifty miles from Maikop and the English oil-fields.
I arrived at the little town too late to be sure of finding lodging.
The coffee-house was a wild den of Turks, and I would not enter it; most private people were in bed. I walked along the dark main street and wondered in what unusual and unexpected manner I should spend the night. When one has no purpose, there is always some real _providence_ waiting for the tramp.
The quest of a night"s lodging is nearly always the origin of mysterious meetings. It nearly always means the meeting of utter strangers, and the recognition of the fact that, no matter how exteriorly men are unlike one another, they are all truly brothers, and have hearts that beat in unison. Thus did it happen that I met my strange host of Dzhugba.
A hatless but very hairy Russian met me at a turning of the road, and eyeing me with lackl.u.s.tre eyes asked me gruffly as a rude shopman might, "What do you want?"
"A lodging for the night."
The peasant reflected, as if mentally considering the resources of the little town. At last after a puzzling silence he put one fat hand on my shoulder, and staring into my face, p.r.o.nounced his verdict--
"The houses are all shut up and the people gone to bed. There is no place; even the coffee-house is full. But never mind, you can spend the night in a shed over here. I shall find you a place. No, don"t thank me; it comes from the heart, from the soul."
He led me along to a lumber-room by the side of the plank pier. It contained two dozen barrels of "Portlandsky" cement. The floor was all grey-white and I looked around somewhat dubiously, seeing that cement is rather dirty stuff to sleep upon. But, nothing abashed, my new friend waved his hand as if showing me into a regal apartment.
"Be at your ease!" said he. "Take whatever place you like, make yourself comfortable. No, no thanks; it is all from G.o.d, it is what G.o.d gives to the stranger."
He thereupon ran out on to the sand, for the shed was on the seash.o.r.e, and he beckoned me to follow. To my astonishment, we found out there an old rickety bedstead with a much rent and rusted spring mattress--apparently left for me providentially. It was so old and useless that it could not be considered property, even in Russia. It belonged to no one. Its nights were over. I gave it one night more.
The peasant was in high glee.
"Look what I"ve found for you," said he. "Who could have expected that to be waiting outside for you? Several days I have looked at that bedstead and thought, "What the devil is that skeleton? Whence?
Whither?" Now I understand it well. It is a bed, the bed of the Englishman on the long journey...."
The mattress was fixed to an ancient bed frame--one could not call it bedstead--with twisted legs that gave under weight and threatened to break down. We brought the "contrapshun" in.
"Splendid!" said my host.
"Impossible," I thought, trying to press down the p.r.i.c.kly wire where the mattress was torn.
"No doubt you are hungry," my friend resumed. I a.s.sured him I was not in the least hungry, but despite my protestations he ran off to bring me something to eat. I felt sorry; for I thought he might be bringing me a substantial supper, and I had already made a good meal about an hour before. What was more, he lived at some distance, and I did not care to trouble the good man, or for him to waken up his wife who by that hour was probably sleeping.
However, he was gone, and there was nothing to be done. I laid some hay on the creaking sorrow of a bed, and endeavoured to bend to safety the wilderness of torn and rusty wire. I spread my blanket over the whole and gingerly committed my body to the comfortable-seeming couch.
Imagine how the bed became an unsteady hammock of wire and how the contrivance creaked at each vibration of my body. I lay peacefully, however, looked at the array of cement barrels confronting me, and waited for my host. I expected a plate of chicken and a bottle of wine, and was gradually feeling myself converted to the idea that I wouldn"t mind a nice tasty supper even though I had made my evening meal.
What was my astonishment when the good man returned bearing a square-foot slice of black bread on which reposed a single yellow carrot! I looked curiously at the carrot, but my host said, "_Nitchevo, nitchevo, vinograd_"--"Don"t worry, don"t worry, a grape, that"s all."