The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91 Page 11

  When Kiryukha and Vasya returned with the water they filled the pot and secured it over the fire. With the jagged spoon in his mouth, Styopka took up his post in the smoke near the pot and pensively gazed at the water as he waited for the first signs of scum. Panteley and Yemelyan sat side by side silently brooding. Dymov lay on his belly, his head propped on his fists, gazing at the fire. Styopka’s shadow danced over him, so that his handsome face would be momentarily in darkness and then light up again. A short way off Kiryukha and Vasya wandered around gathering weeds and birch bark for the fire. Hands in pockets, Yegorushka stood by Panteley and watched the flames devouring the weeds.

  Everyone was resting, musing, fitfully glancing at the cross over which the red patches were dancing. There is something melancholy, dreamlike and highly poetic about a lonely grave. You can hear its very silence and in that silence you sense the presence of the soul of the unknown being lying beneath the cross. Is that soul at peace on the steppe? Does it not grieve on moonlit nights? Around a grave the steppe seems sad, cheerless and pensive, the grass sadder and the grasshoppers’ chatter more subdued. No passer-by would forget to mention that solitary soul in his prayers or stop looking back at the grave until it was far behind and veiled in darkness…

  ‘Grandpa, why is that cross there?’ asked Yegorushka.

  Panteley looked at the cross, then at Dymov and asked, ‘Mikola, isn’t this where them reapers murdered the merchants?’

  Reluctantly, Dymov raised himself on one elbow and looked at the road.

  ‘That’s the place all right,’ he replied.

  Silence followed. Kiryukha broke some dry stalks, bundled them together and thrust them under the pot. The fire flared up; Styopka was enveloped in black smoke and in the darkness the shadow of the cross darted down the road near the wagons.

  ‘Yes, they was murdered,’ Dymov said reluctantly. ‘Some merchants, father and son, was travelling around selling icons. They put up at an inn not far from here – it’s kept by Ignaty Fomin now. The old boy had a drop too much and took to boasting that he’d a pile of cash on him. As you know, merchants is a boastful lot, God save us, and he just couldn’t help showing off to the people there. Well, at that time some reapers was staying the night at the inn. When they heard the merchant boasting like that they took note.’

  ‘Oh Lord! Oh Mother of God!’ sighed Panteley.

  ‘So, next day, at first light,’ continued Dymov, ‘the merchants was about to go on their way when the reapers tagged along with them. “Let’s all travel together, yer ‘onner,” they said. “It’s more cheerful and it’s safer, seeing as it’s a bit off the beaten track around ’ere.” So as not to break the icons the merchants had to go at walking-pace – and that suited the reapers down to the ground.’

  Dymov rose to a kneeling position and stretched himself.

  ‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘There weren’t no trouble until the merchants reached this spot, when the reapers laid into ’em with their scythes. The son put up a good fight, grabbed a scythe from one of them and laid into ’em too. Well, as I don’t have to tell you, the reapers came out on top, seeing as there was eight of them. They hacked at the merchants till there wasn’t a piece of flesh left on ’em. After they’d finished their business they dragged ’em off the road, father on one side, the son on the other. Opposite this cross, on the other side, there’s another one… Don’t know if it’s still in one piece… can’t see it from here.’

  ‘It’s still in one piece,’ said Kiryukha. ‘Folks say they didn’t find much money.’

  ‘No, not much,’ confirmed Panteley. ‘A hundred roubles in all.’

  ‘Yes – and three of them reapers died soon afterwards, seeing as the merchant gave ’em a right slashing with his scythe. They bled to death. The merchant chopped off one of the reaper’s hands and they say he ran about three mile without it. They found ’im on a little hill near Kurikov. He was squatting with his head on his knees as if he was thinking hard. But when they looked closer they saw the spirit had departed – he was dead.’

  ‘They found him from the trail of blood,’ said Panteley.

  Everyone looked at the cross and again there was a hush. From somewhere, probably the gully, came the mournful sound of a bird, ‘Sleep! sleep! sleep!’

  ‘There’s many wicked folk in this world,’ said Yemelyan.

  ‘So many, so many!’ affirmed Panteley, drawing closer to the fire – and from his expression he seemed scared. ‘So many,’ he continued in an undertone. ‘I’ve seen so many of ’em in my time… wicked folk, like. I’ve seen many righteous folk, but sinners be beyond number. Save us and have mercy, Holy Mother!… I remember once – about thirty years ago, maybe more – I was driving a merchant from Morshansk.19 He were a handsome fellow, very grand and he had pots of money… that merchant, like… He were a good man, right decent sort. So, we was driving along and we put up for the night at an inn. But in the north the inns ain’t like they be in these ’ere parts. Up there the yards are roofed over, like cattle-sheds – rather like threshing-barns on the big farms – only them barns be a bit higher, like. So, we stopped at the inn and everything seemed all right. My merchant had a room to himself and I stayed with the horses – everything was as it should be. Well, lads, I says me prayers and before I goes to sleep I take a little stroll in the yard. It was pitch-black out there, couldn’t see a darned thing. So I walk on a bit till I’m near the wagons and I see a twinkling light. What the heck could that be! The innkeeper and his wife must’ve long gone to bed and except me and my merchant there was no other guests. So what was that light? Well, I didn’t like the look of it… I went a bit closer… to the light, like. Lord in heaven have mercy! Save us, Holy Mother! Level with the ground there’s a little window with iron bars… in the house, like. So I lie down on the ground to have a look and as soon as I did the shivers ran up and down me spine.’

  Trying not to make a noise, Kiryukha put another clump of weeds onto the fire. After waiting for the crackling and hissing to die down the old man continued, ‘I look in and see a big cellar, all dark and gloomy… A small lamp’s burning on a barrel and in the middle there’s about a dozen men in red shirts with rolled-up sleeves – all sharpening long knives. “Oho!” I think, “this means we’ve fallen into a gang of robbers…” So what could we do? I run to the merchant, gently wake him up and say, “Now, Mister Merchant, don’t you go panicking now, but we’re in big trouble. We’ve landed in a robber’s den.” His face drops and he asks, “What are we going to do, Panteley? I’ve a pile of cash on me, it’s for the orphans. As for my soul – that’s in God’s hands. I’m not afraid of dying, but it would be terrible to lose the orphans’ money.” Well, I was at my wits’ end. The gates was locked, there was no escape, either by driving or running out of there. If there’d been a fence – well, you can climb over fences, but the yard was all roofed in… “Well,” I says, “don’t be afraid Mister Merchant, and say your prayers. Perhaps the Lord won’t let any harm come to the orphans. Stay in your room and lie low. Meanwhile I’ll try and think of something.” Agreed. So I prays to God and he instructs me in me mind, like. I climb onto the carriage and ever so quiet, so no one could hear, I start stripping the thatch from the eaves. I make a hole and out I climb. Out, like… Then I run down the road as fast as I can. I run and I run – fair knackered myself, I did. Must’ve run about three mile in one breath – maybe more… Well, praise be to God, I see a village and run to one of the huts and bang on the window. “Good Christians!” I cries, “don’t let a Christian soul perish.” I wakes ’em all up. The villagers gather together and off we go. Some had ropes, others cudgels, some pitchforks. We go and break down the inn gate and head straight for the cellar… By then the robbers had sharpened their knives and were about to cut the merchant’s throat. The villagers grabbed the lot of ’em, tied ’em up and hauled ’em off to the police. The merchant gave ’em three hundred roubles to show his thanks and he gave me five gold coins – and he made a note o
f my name, so’s he could remember me in his prayers. It’s said that later on they found piles of human bones in the cellar… Yes, bones, like. They used to rob folk and then bury ’em so there’d be no trace. Well, the executioners at Morshansk gave ’em a right old flogging.’

  Having finished his story, Panteley surveyed his audience. They said nothing and simply looked at him. The water was boiling now and Styopka was skimming the froth.

  ‘Is the fat ready?’ Kiryukha whispered.

  ‘Won’t be long.’

  Without taking his eyes off Panteley and apparently afraid he might start his next story without him, Styopka ran over to the wagons; soon he returned with a small wooden bowl and started rubbing the pork fat in it.

  ‘Another time I was travelling – with a merchant, too,’ Panteley continued in the same undertone and without blinking. ‘As I remember now, his name was Pyotr Grigorych. A decent man, he was… that merchant, like. We put up at an inn, same as before, him in a room and me with the horses… The landlord and his wife seemed honest, kind folk all right – and the workers, too. But lads, I just couldn’t get to sleep – I had a funny feeling and that was enough! The gates were open, lots of folk were around, but I fair had the creeps, didn’t feel right at all. Now, everyone had long gone to bed… it was dead of night and soon it would be time to be getting up. There was I, lying all on me own in the carriage without closing me eyes – just like an owl. Then all of a sudden, lads, I hear a tapping – someone was creeping up to the carriage. I pokes me head out and sees a woman in just a shift, with nothing on her feet. “What do you want, me dear?” I asks. She was shaking all over – in a terrible state she was! “Get up, good man!” she says. “There’s trouble… The master and his wife are up to no good. They want to do your merchant in. I heard the master and his wife whispering together – with my own ears I did.” Well, my heart hadn’t been aching for nothing! “And who might you be?” I ask. “I’m the cook.” Fine. So I climb out of the carriage and go to the merchant’s room. I wake him up and say, “Right, Pyotr Grigorych, there’s something a bit fishy round here. You can catch up on your sleep later, sir, but get dressed now while there’s time, so we can escape from evil while the going’s good!” But the moment he started putting on his clothes the door opened and lo and behold! – Holy Mother of God! – into the room come the innkeeper and his wife, with three labourers. So the labourers was in it too! “That merchant’s got pots of money, so let’s share it out,” says the innkeeper. All five had long knives… yes, a knife each. The innkeeper locks the door and says, “Say your prayers, travellers… But if you start yelling we won’t let you finish them before you die.” But how could we shout? Our throats were choking with fear, we weren’t up to shouting then. The merchant bursts into tears and says, “Good Christians! You’ve decided to kill me because you’ve taken a fancy to my money. So be it. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last. A lot of my fellow merchants have been murdered at inns like these. But why kill my coachman, good Christians? Why should he suffer because of my money?” And he says it all so pitiful, like! But the innkeeper replies, “If we spare his life he’ll be the first to witness against us. It makes no difference whether we kill one or two – as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I say. So, say your prayers, that’s all – no point in talking any more!” Me and the merchant kneels down side by side, both of us weeping and we starts saying our prayers. The merchant was thinking of his children but I was still young then, I wanted to live… We look at the icon and we pray – oh, such a sorry sight it was – makes me weep even now! But the innkeeper’s wife just looks at us and says, “You’re nice people, so don’t hold it against us in the next world and don’t you go begging God to come down hard on us – we’re only doing this because we need the money.” We pray and pray, weep and weep – and God hears us. He took pity, like… So, just as the innkeeper grabs the merchant’s beard to slit his throat there’s suddenly one hell of a banging on the window from outside. We all quake in our boots and the innkeeper’s arms dropped. Someone was banging and shouting, “Pyotry Grigorych! Are you there? Get ready, it’s time to go!” When they saw someone had come for the merchant they all panicked and took to their heels. Well, we dashed into the yard, harnessed the horses and you couldn’t see us for dust!’

  ‘Who was that banging on the window?’ asked Dymov.

  ‘At the window? Must’ve been a saint or an angel, I reckons, as there was no one else about. When we drove out of the yard there wasn’t a soul in the street. It was all God’s doing!’

  Panteley told a few more stories: all of them featured those same long knives and all were rich in flights of fancy. Had he heard these yarns from someone else? Or had he invented them himself in the remote past and then, when his memory grew weaker, began to confuse fact and fiction and could no longer tell one from the other? Anything was possible, but the strange thing was that now and throughout the journey whenever he happened to tell a story he showed a strong preference for fiction and never spoke about what he had actually experienced. Yegorushka took everything at face value and believed every word; but later he found it most odd that a man who in his time had travelled the length and breadth of Russia, who had seen and known so much, a man whose wife and children had been burnt to death, could think so little of his eventful life that whenever he was sitting by the camp fire he would either say nothing about it or talk about what had never even existed.

  Over the stew everyone silently reflected on what they had just heard. Life really is frightening and full of marvels, so that however terrifying the stories you may tell in Russia, however much you may embroider them with bandits’ dens, long knives and suchlike wonders, they will always strike your listeners as if they were true. Only someone highly skilled in interpretation will look on them sceptically and even he will not make any comment. The wayside cross, the dark bales, the wide expanse of steppe and the destinies of those gathered around the camp fire – all this was in itself so marvellous and terrifying that all that was fantastic about legends and folk-tales paled and could not be distinguished from real life.

  Everyone ate from the pot, but Panteley sat on his own, away from the others, eating his stew from a wooden bowl. His spoon was different from the others and was made of cypress wood with a little cross at the end. As Yegorushka looked at him he remembered the lamp-glass.

  ‘Why is grandpa sitting on his own?’ he quietly asked Styopka.

  ‘He’s an Old Believer,’20 Styopka and Vasya whispered in reply, looking as if they’d just mentioned some weakness or secret vice.

  All of them sat in silence, engrossed in their own thoughts. After all those hair-raising stories no one felt inclined to talk about ordinary matters. Suddenly, in the silence, Vasya sat bolt upright, fixed his lacklustre eyes on some invisible point and pricked his ears up.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Dymov.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ Vasya replied.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s over there! I can just make out his dim white shape.’

  Where Vasya was looking there was nothing but darkness. All of them listened hard, but they could hear no footsteps.

  ‘Is he coming along the road?’ asked Dymov.

  ‘No, across the fields. He’s coming towards us.’

  A minute passed in silence.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the merchant what’s buried here, haunting the steppe,’ said Dymov.

  Everyone cast a sidelong glance at the cross, looked at each other and suddenly burst out laughing – they were ashamed of being so scared.

  ‘Why should he go haunting?’ Panteley asked. ‘Only them what the earth rejects wander around of nights. Now them merchants were a good lot… they received a martyr’s crown… them merchants…’

  But then footsteps were heard. Someone was hurrying towards them.

  ‘He’s carrying something,’ Vasya said.

  They could hear the dry grass rustle under the walker’s feet and the tall weeds
crackle, but in the glare of the fire nothing was visible. At last the footsteps sounded close by, someone coughed. The flickering light seemed to withdraw, a veil slipped from their eyes and the drivers suddenly saw a man standing before them.

  Whether it was the flickering light or because everyone was anxious to see that man’s face before anything else, oddly enough what struck them at first glance was not his face or his clothes, but his smile. It was unusually broad, good-natured, gentle – like that of a wakened child, one of those infectious smiles to which it is difficult not to respond in kind. After they had taken a closer look, the stranger turned out to be a man of about thirty, not at all good-looking – in fact, quite unremarkable. He was from the south, with a long nose, long arms and long legs. Everything about him was long, only his neck was so short it gave him a stooping look. He wore a clean white shirt with an embroidered collar, white baggy trousers and new high boots. In comparison with the drivers he looked the perfect dandy. He was carrying something large and white and at first glance rather strange, while over his shoulder peeped the barrel of a gun – which was also long.

  When he emerged from the darkness and came into the bright circle he stopped dead in his tracks and for a full thirty seconds looked at the drivers as if he meant to say, ‘Now, just admire that smile of mine!’ Then he stepped over to the fire and beamed even more.

  ‘How about some grub, lads?’ he asked.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Panteley answered for everyone.

  The stranger put what he had been carrying down by the fire – it was a dead bustard – and greeted them again.