Title: The Romance of the Woods
Author: Whishaw, F. J.
Language: English
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THE ROMANCE _of the_ WOODS


_by_

F. J. WHISHAW.

Author of "_Out of Doors in Tsarland_."


_London,
Longmans Green & Co.
and New York._

1895

_All rights reserved_



CONTENTS


                                                   PAGE

   I. ON A RUSSIAN MOOR                               1

  II. IN AMBUSH AT THE LAKE-SIDE                     33

 III. A DAY AFTER CRAWFISH                           55

  IV. A FINLAND PARADISE                             75

   V. AFTER DUCKS ON LADOGA                         105

  VI. ABOUT BEARS: BY ONE OF THEM                   115

 VII. THE FOLK-LORE OF THE MOUJIK                   185

VIII. THE BEAR THAT DIED OF CURSES                  212

  IX. AMONG THE WOOD-GOBLINS                        232

   X. AN UNBAPTIZED SPIRIT                          253

  XI. A WITCH! A WITCH!                             273



THE ROMANCE OF THE WOODS



CHAPTER I

ON A RUSSIAN MOOR


I once had a strange dream. I dreamed that I was dead, and that dying
I suddenly discovered all my preconceived ideas as to the future state
to have been entirely erroneous, at any rate in so far as concerned
such persons as myself--the respectable middle class, so to call it,
of mundane sinners. Had I belonged to the aristocracy of piety and
goodness, which, alas! I did not, or had I occupied a position at the
lower end of the list, other things might have befallen me, better or
worse, as the case deserved; but being, as I say, one of the decently
respectable middle-class sinners, I was shown, in this foolish dream
of mine, into a committee-room marked No. 2, and there informed that
since I was neither very good nor very bad, my present destiny was to
continue to inhabit this planet for a number of years--I forget how
many--not, indeed, in my present corporeal form, but as a spiritual
essence; and that I might select any place this side of the dark
river, the Styx, as my temporary abode, there to live in Nature's
bosom and to assimilate and be assimilated until the simplicity and
beauty of Nature, uncontaminated by man, should have purified me of
all the harmful taints which I had acquired during my terrestrial
existence among fellow-mortals.

And I remember that, in my dream-foolishness, I clasped my hands and
fell on my knees, and with streaming eyes assured the committee of
Mahatmas (for such, in the dream, they appeared to be) that I wished
for no more beautiful heaven than this that they had offered me; and
that I implored them to allow me to stay on for ever in the paradise
they had prepared for me, and never to pass me onward and upward to
attain further joys, however blessed!

And then, in my dream, those Mahatmas flashed their shining eyes at
me (there was very little _but_ eye and flowing cloak about them, I
remember), and said "Silence!" and frightened me thereby out of my
dream-dead wits.

That, they added, was not my affair nor theirs. All I had to do at
present was to make my choice of a place from among those I had best
loved during life, and to do so as quickly as I conveniently could,
because their hands were somewhat full of business this morning, and
they could not spare me more than, at most, five minutes.

I remember that I looked over my shoulder at this and perceived an
innumerable host of persons, all, presumably, in a similar position to
my own, and all ready to take their turns, in strict rotation, before
the committee of Mahatmas in room No. 2; and I could not help
reflecting that the middle-class sinner must indeed be a very large
class, and that I should do wisely to select some rather unfrequented
spot for my future home, lest my domain should be trespassed upon by
other spiritual essences, and my peace marred by--to use a mundane
expression--unseemly rows.

And then I became conscious of a great difficulty in the matter of
this choosing of a place to live in. Picture after picture came up
before my mind's eye, each more fascinatingly beautiful than the
other. There was a lovely little bit of Devonshire coast, and another
shore in Pembrokeshire; there were delicious spots in half the
counties of England--woods, and hedgerows, and rivers, and waving
fields wherein my spiritual being might disport itself in the
contemplation of the teeming secret life of Nature; there were
Kensington Gardens, a certain central glade of which I had loved well
enough, and which my spiritual essence might find a handy spot in case
the longing for human fellowship were to assail me--when I could so
easily perch myself unseen amid the branches of a tree overlooking
Bayswater Road, and drink in, to my heart's content, the familiar
sights and sounds of London, or even take a ride on the top of an
Acton 'bus; but at this point of my reflections one of the Mahatmas
wagged his head at me and said:

"Oh no! You can't do that, you know. No 'bus-driving. Twenty miles
from any town, if _you_ please!"

It did not strike me as curious that this Mahatma should have read my
thoughts, neither did it occur to me to wonder how he knew that I was
animadverting upon the delights of the twopenny 'bus. However, his
remark narrowed my field of selection, and I thought on as intensely
as I could. I crossed the seas and flew, in spirit, to Finland, to a
lovely island in the midst of a beautiful river--the Voksa--teeming
with trout, great and small, and with silver grayling; and then I
thought of Ostramanch, the home of the capercailzie, of the blackcock;
the scene of a hundred and one superb days with the gun, and of as
many nights spent in the perfect happiness of solitude and observation
beneath the tall pines and the bright stars of the northern sky, in
the hush and the solemn majesty of the darkness and silence. And I had
almost cried, "Give me Ostramanch!" when I remembered that this dearly
loved spot would not, after all, do. It had passed from English into
Russian hands, and my spiritual self could never be really happy there
under such circumstances. What if my essence were suddenly to happen
upon a Russian sportsman taking a family shot at a young covey of
blackgame or willow-grouse, huddled together upon a sand-dune, or
hiding behind a tuft of purple-fruited bilberry? Could my spiritual
voice cry out upon such a deed, or my spiritual fingers close upon
the throat of the delinquent, or my phantasmal toe perform a corporeal
function? Could I even spread bony arms before his eyes and play
the common vulgar ghost upon him, to punish him withal? Alas! I
thought, no. Ostramanch will not do. And then, at last, the picture
of Erinofka rose before my eyes, and I knew that I had found my Fate.
I pictured myself strolling year-long over the purple moors, through
the dark belts of forest, by bog and morass and snipe-haunted waste.
I remembered many trudges--days of delight--in those same woods,
gun-laden, full of ardour, unwearied by day-long tramping, oblivious
of hunger, impatient of oncoming darkness; and I imagined myself
repeating such delightful experiences _ad infinitum_, and laughed
aloud in the joy of my foolish dream-heart. The Mahatmas immediately
interfered; they flashed their great eyes and fluttered their long
black mantles at me, and cried:

"No guns, no guns!"

"And no fishing-rods!" added one of them.

"What! no guns and no rod?" I said, growing grave very suddenly. To be
at Erinofka and never to hear the popping of another cartridge seemed
a dreadful prospect.

"Oh, you can carry a gun if you please," said the presiding Mahatma,
who was growing strangely like a London police magistrate, "but you
must use smokeless and noiseless powder, and no shot."

"And a rod without a reel," said another Mahatma.

"And a line without a hook," added a third.

"And see that you have a license," put in a fourth.

"But, sirs," I began, "what am I to do with myself, if I may not----"

"Take life?" interrupted the Chairman. "Silence, prisoner at the bar,
and learn to be happy without killing! To Erinofka with him, gaoler!"

"How long, your worship?" said that functionary.

Four thousand five hundred years was, I think, the figure, but it may
have been four hundred thousand. I was still puzzling over the matter
when I awoke. Afterwards, when I thought upon this dream of mine, it
struck me that my sentence was, after all, a most enviable one.
Thousands of years at Erinofka, with no terrestrial cares to weigh me
down; face to face and heart to heart with Nature, learning her
secrets day long; a life-atom among myriads of others; a little part
of an infinite whole; harmless, free, careless, contented, in
fellowship with bird and beast and insect, and with every form of life
that has a vested interest in wood and moor and wet morass. For such
an existence I had chosen, I thought, the right place. At any rate my
spiritual essence, if weary of wandering about armed with a gun that
would not work, could amuse itself by recalling those dear,
unregenerate days when guns, unprohibited by stern Mahatmas, popped
freely, and reels craked, and when the glad voice of the sportsman was
heard upon these moors, and among them my own, together with the
popping of many terrestrial cartridges. One day, especially, and that
the day of my first acquaintance with the place, lingers more fondly
than others in the memory, and would afford material for much
spiritual contemplation, perhaps even unto forty-five thousand years,
if there were nothing better to do! And it is of that particular day
that I propose to tell, now that this somewhat extended preface has
been got through.

It was Jemmie, of course, who introduced me to Erinofka. Any one in
St. Petersburg will tell you who Jemmie is, for he is a popular
character there, and is known and loved by all. Well, it was Jemmie
who proposed a day at Erinofka, a day among the juveniles; the
younglings of the blackcock and of the willow-grouse, and perhaps a
peep at the princelings of his majesty king capercailzie. It was early
in the summer, perhaps too early; but shooting in the Tsar's domains
begins considerably earlier in the year than we, in this country, are
accustomed to take gun in hand, and the sportsman may there sally
forth on July 27, if it please him, and shoot young game without
breaking any laws. It was not quite so early as this when Jemmie
carried me--a willing captive--to Erinofka, but August was still very
young, and so were some of the coveys; though, thanks to a fine warm
season, many or most of these were marvellously well-grown; but of
this anon. Erinofka is blessed, or cursed, with a most marvellous
little railway of its very own, a kind of toy track from town, laid
down for the convenience of a peat-cutting establishment not very far
from the shooting-box which was our objective point. The railway is
very narrow, and the omnibus-like carriages, which the public are
allowed to occupy for a consideration and at their own risk, are very
top-heavy; and the driver of the little engine is generally very
drunk, all of which circumstances combine to make this Erinofka heaven
quite as difficult of attainment as the very highest of Mahomet's, and
the journey a matter not to be undertaken without deep thought, much
repentance, and a visit from the family lawyer. The line looks
something like the toy track at Chatham--that upon which youthful
officers of the Royal Engineers are or were wont to disport
themselves; a pastime devised, I believe, by the War Office, for the
twin purposes of teaching the British officer how to drive a
locomotive, and how best to fall off it with dignity when the engine
runs off the rails.

Jemmie tells me that before the peat-people built this line it had
been necessary to bump along to Erinofka as best one could, over the
most awful roads that human bones ever creaked upon, a distance of
forty or fifty miles; but that now, if only you can secure the sober,
the _comparatively_ sober driver, the journey is a sweet boon. It
appears that there are three drivers on this line--Matvey, who is
always very drunk indeed; Ivan, who is always rather drunk and
sometimes highly intoxicated; and Yegor, who has been known to be
sober. I have not seen the man who saw Yegor sober; but it is
confidently asserted that he has been observed in this unusual
condition, and that he is rarely more than half drunk.

Well, I seldom have much luck, and when I went with Jemmie to Erinofka
upon that little narrow railway, in a wide long carriage that might
have served as a portion of the G.W.R. rolling stock in its
unregenerate broad-gauge days, we had Matvey to drive our engine.
Matvey had, to put it mildly, been drinking, and he desired to drink
again. Now, Matvey knew very well that he could get no more vodka
until he reached Erinofka, and this is why we travelled at a pace
which was bound to end, and did shortly end, in disaster. In a word,
we ran off the line three miles or so from the start, and that we did
not also run down a steep embankment into a river was certainly not
Matvey's fault; we could not have gone much nearer the edge than we
did.

However, Erinofka was reached in safety at last, and--since our
accident had delayed us at least two hours--right ravenously did we
fall upon the good cheer set out for us by the head-keeper, Hermann,
and his wife. One item of this repast, at least, I remember vividly:
an enormous dish piled to the height of nearly a foot with luscious
wild strawberries. It would be unfair to give my friend away in the
matter of those strawberries; but I will say that Jemmie partook
with freedom of the fruit, and that I myself tasted, well, a few
berries. The armchairs in the Erinofka sitting-room were remarkably
comfortable, I remember, after that repast, and the conversation
languished. But we were to be up and away at half-past three A.M.;
for we must drive a matter of seven miles to the moor we intended to
work on the morrow, and the courteous Hermann--who had cleared away
the large empty dish which had contained so many strawberries with but
one convulsive movement of the facial muscles and a quick glance of
polite consternation in the direction of the reposing James--this
courteous Hermann very gently reminded us that it was now eleven, and
that between that hour and three was embraced the entire period
devotable by us to sleeping off the effects of railway accidents and
arctic strawberries, all of which was so very true that we sighed, and
rose from those blest armchairs and went to bed.

The baying and barking of four excited dogs (who knew as well as we
did that the first shoot of the season was to come off on this day)
rendered unnecessary Hermann's polite knockings at the bedroom doors,
and his gentlemanly intimation that the day was all that could be
expected of it, and the hour--three. When Shammie, and Carlow, and
Kaplya, and Bruce are performing a quartette at 3 A.M., even Jemmie
cannot sleep, and we were both wide-awake and discussing matters
when Hermann came to hound us to breakfast. Breakfast was somewhat
of a failure, I remember. Did I mention that we had taken a few
strawberries at 10.30 P.M.? Well, we had; and it was found that the
circumstance militated against a hearty British appetite at 3 A.M.
However, this being so, the less time was wasted before starting for
the moor. There is something, to me, peculiarly fascinating and
exhilarating about this starting out on the first day of shooting; but
oh! that seven mile drive to the moor. The roads were so absolutely
and utterly vile, and the cart so unspeakably uncomfortable, that no
reader would believe me were I to attempt to describe the misery of
driving under such conditions. But Jemmie, bless him! smiled on and
smiled ever; and I--not to be outdone in exuberance of spirits this
superb morning--pretended that I enjoyed being bumped about like a
hailstone on a hard lawn. All four dogs were with us. They lay, at the
start, quiescent enough at the bottom of the vehicle; but alas! not
for long. In the first fifty yards Shammie was on my lap, and Bruce
with his arms round Jemmie's neck; in the second I found, to my
surprise, that a cartridge-box had usurped Shammie's place on my knee,
and that Shammie's head and my shin were exchanging civilities at the
bottom of the cart. Occasionally the driver was sprawling on the back
of the shaft horse, and now and again he was shot violently upon the
top of Jemmie or me, or suddenly appeared, wrong way up, between us.
Occasionally also we found that the dogs and we had changed places,
and that we lay struggling on the floor of the cart while they stood
on their heads, or sat with surprised and pained expressions upon the
seat. Nothing mattered. Jemmie smiled, and I tried to. What though our
shins were black and blue with the misplaced attentions of cartridge
cases and gun stocks? What though the dogs whined and grew absurdly
angry with one another, showing signs of an imminent general
engagement? What though Jemmie bounded into air--bird-like--and nested
upon the top of my head, or I on his? Nothing matters on the first day
of shooting; disasters are a joke, and battered heads and limbs are
contributions to the hilarity of the proceedings. Ah, well! the dogs
limped ostentatiously when we arrived, and Jemmie and I were very,
very stiff, but oh! so happy, and I, at all events, grateful and
amazed to find myself all in one piece, and we paced slowly through
the first belt of thick, gameless pine-wood, thinking unutterable
things, and with a decided tendency to quote poetry when the tongue
would wag.

Half a mile of barren trudging and then the forest begins to lighten;
the young day sends golden smiles to greet us through the trees;
wherever there is room for a ray or two of his glory to pass, he
stretches a hand to us. "Come," he seems to say, "come out upon the
moor and bathe yourselves in my full favour; my good, gigantic smile
is over all this morning!" And here is the moor itself, a sight to set
the heart a-beating on this first day of the season; stretching wide
and rich before us; miles across; limitless, apparently, from end to
end; and, as we believe and hope, teeming with game if only we can hit
upon the coveys.

What a lot of trouble it would save, I suggest foolishly, if one had
a divining-rod that showed the whereabouts of the birds! "_Proh
pudor!_" says James, and rightly, "the dogs are our divining-rods."
As to these dogs, Shammie and Carlow are setters--Shammie a red Irish,
Carlow a blue Belton, and wild at that. The other two are Russian-bred
pointers of English parentage--good animals both, and well trained,
according to his lights, by Hermann. The setters both hail from a
Scottish moor, and are to-day on their trial in this unfamiliar
country. Their journey has lost them none of their keenness--look at
them now! Shammie, cool and collected, businesslike, making no false
move, but ardent and determined; Carlow, half a mile off, but back
again in no time and hundreds of yards away on the opposite tack, the
quickest and wildest dog, surely, that ever ranged. Kaplya and Bruce
hunt close to their trainer--we are giving all four of them a breather
just to settle their nerves; but presently two will be taken in while
two do the work.

Suddenly Shammie stops dead; so do, for an instant, my heart and
pulses. Kaplya and Bruce back instantly, stiff as marble. Carlow is
coming in at racing speed, but sees the others when fifty yards away,
and lies down automatically. Shammie's tail wags slightly, and we feel
that there may be a disappointment before us; but he turns and looks
at us; and observing that we are taking him seriously, stiffens into a
dead point. It must be business.

"You take first shot," says generous Jemmie; "if it's a covey, your
birds are on the right and mine on the left."

The first shot of the season! how absurdly my heart is beating. I
wonder the birds do not hear it and get up wild.

Suddenly, twenty yards from us, there is a rustle and a flutter of
strong wings, and a grey hen rises without clucking, and lifting
herself gracefully over the young birch saplings, floats away over the
moor.

"_Matka!_" (Hen!) shouts Hermann, and to the surprise and disgust
of the dogs, no cartridge explodes. Shammie smiles and pants, and
looks round at us in a pained though kindly manner; he hopes it is all
right, but reflects that they generally get their guns off in Scotland
when he shows them the game. Jemmie declares that, if it were lawful,
he would spare none of these old barren hens; he is convinced, he
says, that they do great damage by bullying the younger hens and
chasing them from the moor, in order themselves to monopolise the
attentions of the gentlemen of the family.

Oh! the jealousy of the female sex. Jemmie may be perfectly right; and
I fancy that he is; but what do the old blackcock, or (for the matter
of that) the young blackcock, think of such proceedings? What would
the marrying men of our branch of life think or do, if the old maids
should succeed in banishing all that was young and beautiful in order
to promote their own chances of mating?

But it is very hot, and Jemmie suggests that the birds will be lying
at the edge of the moor beneath the shade of the pines, and thither we
trudge through the heavy moss and heather. The going is always
terribly heavy until the first bird is grassed: after which event, I
have observed, the tramping loses much of its weariness and the
shooting-boots their weight, and when a dozen brace or so have been
secured, the feet that bear the delighted trudger are winged feet.

Nevertheless, we walk for a full hour and are still--as to our
game-bags--as empty as when we started. We see no beauty in the lovely
moor, at this period. The dogs, we feel, are failures, all four of
them. Hermann, too, is a fraud, for did he not declare that there were
eight fine coveys within a radius of a mile upon this very moor. Where
are those coveys, Hermann? Did we submit to be shuttlecocked over your
ghastly parody of a road in order to be humbugged by you at the end of
it? Where are these coveys? I say. Such, or to this effect, were the
remarks of Jemmie. I think during those first two hours of
unremunerative trudging, he vowed to shoot all four of his dogs, sell
his guns and his cartridges, give up shooting, and devote his entire
energies to gardening and lawn tennis, with a little fishing and a
trifle of archery; I rather think Hermann and the other keepers were
to share the fate of the dogs; I forget whether I was to die, I think
I was; but at the end of two hours the luck changed and Jemmie smiled,
and dogs and keepers and I all breathed again.

It was Kaplya that stumbled upon the first covey. Carlow was being led
just then and so was Bruce, and good Shammie had by this time formed
unflattering opinions as to the Russian moors in comparison with those
of Scotland; consequently he was cantering about scientifically
enough, but half-heartedly, ranging in an unconvinced and unconvincing
manner, ready to oblige by doing his share of this foolish work, but
feeling that in his case it was time and talent wasted. Probably he
was wondering when the next train started for Scotland, and deciding
to take it and go hence to places where the moors were not dummy
moors, but the bonâ fide habitations of grouse and blackgame, when he
suddenly caught sight of old Kaplya at a dead point in front of his
very nose, while perhaps that organ was at the same instant assailed
by the unexpected evidence of the proximity of something better than
heather and bilberry plants. At any rate, down went Shammie as if
shot, in as correct a pose as a "backing" setter can assume.

Instantly, also, Carlow and Bruce sat down, the former so suddenly
that Ivan, the under-keeper, who held him, tripped over him and
measured his length, letting Carlow go, chain and all, to join the
party of stiffened doghood at our knees.

This time there was no disappointment. After a moment or two of that
intense waiting which every sportsman knows and loves--while the
birds, hidden somewhere in the heather or greenery, are eyeing their
human and canine disturbers, and wondering what is best to be done,
whether to run or fly, or remain crouching--there came the usual
pulse-fluttering rustle, and up and away went three superb young
blackcock, nearly full grown, two to Jemmie's side, one to my own.

For all I know to the contrary, my blackcock may still be alive and
entertaining his friends with the narrative of how a foolish and
excitable Englishman once drew a bead upon him in his youth, and drew
it awry. In a word, my too agitated pulses blinded my eye and unnerved
my hand, and I missed that lordly youngling handsomely and entirely.
Not so James and his brace of beauties. Jemmie is a deadly shot, and I
would as soon sit on a fizzing bomb as play the blackcock to his
unerring barrel; he grassed both his birds; and I knew that the dogs
and keepers were now safe, and that the guns of my friend would not,
yet awhile, be put up for sale.

But trusty Kaplya and Shammie still stood on; there were more of this
interesting family to come. Recaptured Carlow pulled and strained at
his leash; Bruce softly whined and trembled spasmodically, sitting on
Stepan's foot.

Up started a fourth blackcock, accompanied by his mother; with
bewildering suddenness they rose and hurtled away, the old lady
dropping a last word of advice to the youngsters still remaining
vacillating behind. I imagined her clucks to mean, "Oh, you foolish
little creatures! why do you not fly when your mamma gives the lead?
Fly always after a shot, when the guns are empty."

This time black death darted from my right barrel, calling to his last
account a very beautiful young blackcock, nearly as large as his
mother, who of course escaped scot free, triumphing--as she
supposed--by reason of her wisdom. But the dogs still stood on.

This is the best, as it is the pitiful foolishness of the blackcock
younglings. Their fathers are birds of great wisdom and cunning; their
mothers are sagacious and experienced; but the little ones are
headstrong and foolish, and love to act independently of their elders.
Instead of flying altogether as grouse and partridges do, and thus
enjoying each a chance of escape as well as participating in the
common danger, they rise by ones and twos, and each bird becomes the
sole objective for the charge of the sportsman, thereby immensely
lessening his chance of flying between the pellets.

The first covey of the season was a grand one indeed, thirteen birds,
including the mother, and of these we slew, without leaving the
original spot, no less than nine. Jemmie beamed. He said sweet things
to Hermann, the lately abused and condemned; he patted the dogs and
"praised them to their face;" he declared that I had slain a full half
of the dead birds, whereas I knew well that three only had fallen to
my fire and six to his; he discovered that the walking was easy enough
when one grew used to it; he liked the sunshine; in a word, my friend
James had donned those spectacles whose glasses are of the colour of
the rose.

It was now seven o'clock; the heather and bilberry plants were still
"dew-pearled," and there were diamonds on every gossamer thread that
ran from leaf to leaf and from plant to plant; but the sun was hot
enough, by this, to dry up an ocean, and I knew these morn-gems would
not last much longer. I was glad when Jemmie proposed a short rest
(nominally for the dogs' sake), for there was all the beauty of the
morning to take in, and that is best done in a sitting or lying
posture. The panting of the dogs is almost the only sound--that and
the indescribable evidence of teeming life which you may hear in the
dead of the silence. Who makes that sound? What is it? Where is it? I
think it is Nature in travail; it is growth and development, the
never-resting activity of the spirit of life that moves upon the face
of the land.

Our nine little victims lie upon the heather before us, and Jemmie
weighs each in his hand and tries, very unnecessarily, their beaks
in order to be assured of their youth, and admires their growth,
and beams upon men and dogs in high good humour. I, too, criticise
the birds and am conscious of a stifling feeling of regret. Here
are nine beautiful little lives taken in as many minutes, taken
so easily--alas! but who could ever give back to these feathered
ruins the thing we have bereft them of? I know it is foolish to
sentimentalise thus over the dead creatures I came to destroy, and
will destroy again the very next time that I have an opportunity; but
the triumph of the sportsman is always a little marred, I think, by
this feeling of guilt--the guilt of having robbed mother Nature of
some of her beautiful children. She does very well without them, I
dare say, and if we had not secured them doubtless the kites and hawks
and foxes would have taken their share--probably as large a share as
this of ours; nevertheless, here they were an hour ago upon this moor,
alive and busy and beautiful; and now they are not, and _we_ did
it.

Nevertheless, again, we are up and about and ready to "do it" once
more after a quarter of an hour's repose; and the next thing we chance
upon is a covey of chirping and twittering little willow-grouse,
scarcely free of the egg-shells, a tiny, confiding flock that flit
chattering and scolding after their brown and white mother, annoyed to
be disturbed and made to use their lovely little mottled wings in
flight, and anxious to settle again before twenty yards have been
covered. We send a laugh after the little family, instead of a
hailstorm of No. 7, and leave them to grow and fatten; they shall
enjoy the delights of life on this moor for three good weeks, if not
four, ere the leaden death shall make Erinofka the poorer by their
perfectly marked little persons. Then an old blackcock, unaware that
Jemmie and his choked left barrel are about, foolishly lets us
approach within fifty yards of his sanctuary, and rising with a crow
of defiance, subsides instantly at the bidding of the unerring James,
with a groan and a gasp--dead.

Presently a superb covey of willow-grouse (who are the parents of our
own red variety of the family) rise with a whirr and a loud laugh from
the old cock, leave their tribute of four upon the heather--and
vanish. We see them flit like a white cloud over the open moorland,
rise like one being to top the bushes, flash their wings in the sun as
they wheel round in the traditional manner of their tribe before
settling, and then we suddenly lose sight of them and see them no
more.

"They are down among the aspens," said Jemmie. Hermann dissented.

"They wheeled right round the spinney," he says, "and settled well
beyond it."

Ivan takes the side of Jemmie, and Stepan sides with his chief. I am
neutral. I saw them up to a point but not beyond it; I saw the sun tip
their white feathers with fire as they wheeled and then lost them; but
I know how many there were--there were nineteen, no less, that
journeyed over the heather and into the spinney--a gigantic covey
indeed!

"Two coveys," says Jemmie; "the willow-grouse have a passion for
massing even in the chicken stage," which is perfectly true, while in
the autumn you may find a community of a hundred of them living
together.

Now were these birds little white ghosts, or real flesh and blood and
feathers? If not spectres, then where are they? This was the question
we asked of one another as, for a full hour, we paced and repaced, as
we believed, every inch of a square half mile of ground within which
the little wizards must inevitably be somewhere hidden. Hermann
explained the matter by declaring that they had settled altogether in
a huddled mass, and had not moved a muscle since; knowing, perhaps
instinctively, that by preserving absolute immobility they would give
no scent. We may, and so may the dogs, have passed within a yard of
the hole or tuft in which the beady-eyed little creatures lay
crouched, watching us, scarcely breathing for terror, their poor
hearts and pulses going very fast as we come near and pass by and see
no sign of them.

But Carlow has the luck to stumble upon them. I am watching the dog,
and I see him stop suddenly in his mad career (Carlow's career is
always mad!), and bend over in an extraordinary position. There is the
covey, under his very nose. Alarmed, indeed, they are now, and their
necks are held straight and high; they attempt no further concealment;
their only anxiety is how to take wing without falling into the jaws
of this ogre--fox or whatever he may be. Carlow would sooner perish
than touch one of them; but they do not know this, poor things, and
peer helplessly and timidly this way and that in the extremity of
terror and uncertainty. I can examine them now at leisure for a moment
or two, and oh! what beautiful creatures they are. Where was ever so
soft a brown as this of theirs, or so pure a white? What bird ever
matched the graceful poise of their heads? What--there! they are off,
and I have missed them with both barrels; this comes of moralising.
Jemmie did not moralise, and he has dropped two of the beauties; but
there is a chance for me yet, for the covey has settled in the open,
no doubt about the exact spot this time, and not more than one hundred
and fifty yards away.

So we take in all the dogs excepting old Kaplya, who is as safe and
steady as the Rock of Gibraltar, and head straight for the place in
which we believe the birds to be lying. Old Kaplya raises her nose,
half turns towards us, smiles and winks (she positively does both), as
though she would say, "All right, keep your eye upon Kaplya; I'm
_on_ these birds already--follow me!" and away she goes straight
as a line, first cantering easily, then trotting a few yards, then
cautiously walking as many more, then slowly stopping, stiffening,
turning her nose now slightly to this side, now to that, then finally
fixing herself into the very perfect picture of a sure point.

Up they go, and off go my two barrels, rather too rapidly and
excitedly; off go Jemmie's also, but with more deliberation. To my
first shot a bird falls in tatters; to my second two succumb. I have
shot three of them, and Jemmie his usual brace. But, alas! my first
bird is but a mangled mass of feathers and broken bones, and there
must be a burial. Hide him deep beneath the moss and heather, Hermann,
and for pity's sake say no more about the circumstance; for in truth
my heart is like wax within me by reason of this wasted life. It is
pardonable and right, though perhaps regrettable, to take these lives
when we intend to use the shot-riddled carcases for our food, but to
blow a beautiful creature to pieces and to be obliged to bury its
remains is unpardonable.

We decide to leave the rest of this covey; we have levied sufficient
tribute upon it. And now the day is growing into middle age, and
Jemmie says that we will find one more family of willow-grouse or
blackgame and then take our mid-day meal and our siesta. We will
diverge into the thick belt of forest on the right, he says, and see
if we can find a covey of capercailzies.

I long to see another capercailzie before I die. For many a year I
have been absent from those moors whereon the great king of game-birds
holds his high court. Oh! if I could but come face to face--but
once--with the royal family, I could return to far-off England
content.

But, alas! the king was not to be found. Deep in the sanctuary of
mid-forest, somewhere beyond those tall, dark pines--perhaps miles
away--he had listened in proud disdain to the popping of our
cartridges upon the moor, and had laughed at our impotent endeavours
to outwit himself and his family of princelings. To-morrow, likely
enough, he would stalk about the moor from end to end, he and the
long-legged princes and princesses, his sons and daughters, and the
haughty lady his queen; but to-day, no, thank you! Not while James and
his deadly Holland were about!

We stumbled, however, upon a covey of blackgame, and levied full
tribute upon them in default of their big cousins; but now the
splendid August sun had

    "Clomb up to heaven and kissed the golden feet of noon,"

and Jemmie declared that if we did not instantly settle down to our
legitimate lunch, he would not answer for it if he suddenly fell upon
me, or Hermann, or Shammie, or even perspiring Stepan and devoured
him. Accordingly, therefore, we selected our camp in a shady spot by a
moss-pool--for this bog-water was all that we should get to-day, and
we must use it or none for tea-making--and Hermann was instructed to
unpack the luncheon basket. Out came the good things, a profuse and
welcome procession of luxury--spring chickens, tongue, well-iced
butter, two bottles of claret, _Alexander Kuchen_ (oh! blessed
Alexander, whoever you may have been, to have invented so delicious a
dainty; may the sweet maidens of Valhalla feed you for ever with your
own Kuchen, oh Alexander! and may you eat heartily of it without
suffering or surfeiting), and arctic strawberries. For half an hour
we toyed, did James and I, with the viands, after which for two hours
we slept or rested; for during this time of high noon the birds
mysteriously disappear, and nor man nor dog may find them; and I lay
and dreamed dreams, a few sleeping and many waking ones; and the peace
and silence and restfulness of that mid-day in the forest entered into
my soul and abode there in a sense of infinite and lasting content,
which may be recalled--as through a phonograph--and reproduced at will
to this hour.

And then again, after a cup of tea concocted of bog-water, but
delicious notwithstanding, and after counting and recounting our
twelve or thirteen brace of victims, we pulled ourselves together and
trudged for four more hours, during which time we doubled our tale of
slaughter, or nearly so, and when the moment came that we must head
for the carts and return home to dine and catch the night train for
town, it was with sadness that we wended our way homewards. We had
spent twelve hours upon this pleasant moor indeed; but who would be
content with twelve? Twelve thousand were all too little of such
delight. On mature reflection I am quite determined that if my friends
the Mahatmas give me another dream-chance I shall jump at the offer of
Erinofka as a place of abode, however long the sentence be. What if
the spirit-gun will not go off? So long as I may tramp the heather and
see the game and carry over my shoulder the semblance of a gun to
point at it, even a dummy gun; so long as I may see the dew-pearled
gossamer, and feel the broad smile of the August sun, and hear the hum
and buzz and crackle and cluck of teeming life around me, I really do
not think I care so very much about the killing. And this is why I
declare that if the Mahatmas again offer me the Erinofka heaven I
shall accept it, ay, even unto forty-five thousand years!
Nevertheless, if they allow me a breechloader and cartridges instead
of that foolish spirit-gun of theirs, I shall certainly shoot.



CHAPTER II

IN AMBUSH AT THE LAKE-SIDE


It is spring--such spring as is vouchsafed to the high latitudes, and
I am in my night ambush, prepared to welcome any living thing that is
good enough to come forth from its sanctuary within reeds or forest,
and to parade itself in the open for my inspection. My ambush is a
pine-branch tent, or _shalashka_, the little edifice which has
been my refuge and centre of observation for many a cold northern
night--spring-time nights, indeed, but nights of more degrees of frost
than the sportsman or naturalist of temperate Britain has dreamed of
in his coldest excursions into the realms of imagination. My tent on
this occasion is not pitched upon one of those open spaces in
mid-forest, whereon the blackcock love to hold their nocturnal or
early-matutinal tournaments, where the laughing willow-grouse--that
faithful lover--sports with his pretty white mate, and the dark forest
trees form a romantic background to the proceedings of both. To-night
I am placed in the midst of the marshy approach to a wide sheet of
water--an annex, in fact, to the great Lake Ladoga. Fifty yards or
more in front of me the waters, but lately released from their entire
subjection to the yoke of winter, may be heard softly lapping the
shore in a series of gentle kisses, stolen in the darkness; for it is
but three in the morning--if that, and I can see nothing but the broad
wing of Night still stretched over land and lake. On either side of
the _shalashka_ there extends, I believe, a spur of moorland; behind
is the forest: never far away in a Russian landscape.

I am still in the dreamy, semi-conscious condition superinduced by the
long ride through gloom and silence which has intervened between
supper last evening, twenty miles away, and my arrival here. The
little ponies to whom we are indebted for our conveyance in perfect
safety, through darkness which even the marvellous eyes of a Finn pony
could hardly have penetrated, are some little way off behind us,
hidden among the pine trees, waiting with the philosophic content of
their tribe until it shall have pleased us to accomplish the object of
our nightly pilgrimage and return to them.

The Finn pony, good, faithful soul, accepts everything at his master's
hands with unquestioning docility and good temper; he is never
surprised or annoyed; never taken aback by an obstacle in his way, but
rather sets himself to seek out the best means to circumvent such
obstacle. If his master happens to be drunk or asleep, this is a
matter of supreme indifference to the little animal between the shafts
of the inebriate's cart or beneath his saddle, for he is perfectly
able and ready to manage the whole business of getting himself and his
master safely home, without the slightest interference from the
latter. One of the canniest and best of animals, one of the handiest
of the servants of mankind and the most faithful and reliable of his
friends, is the Finn pony; and I am glad indeed to be able to put this
fact forward, and thus do a good turn for a little-known hero among
those who are not personally acquainted with his claims to that title.

Asleep at my side is Ivan, and Ivan is--I am delighted to say--too
tired or too considerate to snore; I do not care which it is so long
as he does not play his usual nocturnal tunes and spoil this dreamy
unreality in which I am steeped. I am here to take notes; but what
notes can a man take when, not only is there nothing to be seen, and
nothing to be heard--save the gentle plash of the lake, but when he is
not even convinced of the fact that he is himself, or at all events
that he is awake and not dreaming? Such is my condition at present.
Everything seems far, far away. My old self, my own history, even the
point of time, three hours ago by the things we used to call watches,
when I left the lodge and started upon my long, dark, silent
ride--seems to be separated from me by an eternity of space and
tranquil, incidentless existence. What shall I do to pass away the
next hour or two? Sleep? Heaven forbid--the stillness is too good for
that! Review my past? Heaven forbid again--nothing half so unpleasant!
Whatever I do must be done in consciousness and must be connected with
the immediate present or the future; no ghostly past shall be admitted
into the sanctity of these hours. I shall recline and watch the dark
plumage of night, and listen to her soft sounds of peace, and
satisfaction, and maternity, as she broods over her nest and her
little ones, until the hunter Day shall come and chase her from it,
and drive her far away over the sea to her sanctuary beyond the
eastern gates of the world.

And, first, what a marvellous thing is this darkness! Far away at
home, in bed in one's own room, the darkness is nothing; because the
bearings of each object in the chamber are known to you whether in
light or darkness. You can, if you please, sit up in bed and point
with the hand and say: "There is the window, and there the door, and
there the wardrobe," and so on. But here, where I lie and stare out
into the blackness, I can determine nothing of the million animate or
inanimate objects around me; I may people the darkness with what
beings I please until the light arrives; it is an area in which
imagination may disport itself freely and there is none can contradict
its tales, for who knows what bantlings may not be concealed here
beneath the shelter of Mother Night's extended wings? How do I know
that a company of elves are not disporting themselves within a yard or
two of my tent--as ignorant of my proximity as I am of theirs? How can
I tell that some dreadful wild beast is not, at this instant, feeling
his way down to the waters of the lake, in order to allay his thirst
after having feasted upon our poor ponies, behind there in the wood? I
can imagine an interview between a ferocious bear or two gaunt wolves
and our faithful little quadrupeds, whose one idea in life is to do
their duty and eat the breakfast, each day, that the gods provide. I
can see the wolves arrive and find the ponies, and say:

"Good evening, my friends; we regret to say you are required for our
supper."

"That's impossible," the ponies reply; "we are needed to carry our
masters home to Dubrofka."

"Oh, _that's_ all right," say those wolves, to whom a lie is an
unconsidered trifle; "your masters sent us on to tell you it was all
arranged!" Whereupon the ponies believe the tale and are ready to be
eaten, because it is part of the day's work as ordained by their
master, which is another way of spelling God in their language.

I think I know pretty well, however, what I should see, or some of the
things I should see, if an electric light were suddenly switched on
and illuminated the ground around my tent. Close at hand, here, on the
shingly sand at the edge of the lake, there are seven or eight or more
little grey and white sandpipers, fast asleep--perhaps standing on one
leg apiece--among the stones, which are so like them in tint that it
is difficult to distinguish the one from the other, even by daylight.
Then, somewhere within eye-shot, though maybe half a mile off, there
is a flock of cranes standing, like a body of sentinels met to compare
notes, or relieve guard, also probably employing but one leg each to
balance themselves upon during the hours of repose. I wonder whether
they use a different leg on alternate nights, or whether the same one
is told off for night duty each time? If so, it is very hard indeed
for the one limb thus employed to receive no share of the repose
enjoyed by the rest of the body, but to be obliged to toil on night
after night, and day after day, while its lazy fellow-limb gets all
the rest and only half the work. But such is life. I am sure there are
cranes near, for I heard their outposts give the alarm when we
splashed through the marshy approach to this spot on our arrival here.
Luckily Ivan knew the password, which was the grunt of an elk, as
which animals--in search of a drink--we were permitted to come within
the precincts of craneland without alarming the big grey birds to the
departure point. In a very short time we shall hear them going through
the business of waking up, and complaining of the hardship involved in
keeping early hours. Then again, there are ducks, numbers of them, I
feel sure of it, though not one of them has yet uttered a sound,
because this place is a paradise for ducks, and Mother Night covers
many a fond couple of them--paired by this time, and tasting the
sweets of love and the lovely anticipations of nest-time and
prospective flappers. Perhaps there is a pretty pair of tiny painted
teal within a biscuit toss, little lovers nestling in a ridge of the
coarse moorland, or amid the yellow grass which waves all around me,
though I cannot see a blade. Perhaps they woke up when we came
tramping by, and peered with long glossy neck outstretched, and beady
eyes straining to pierce the gloom, on the very point of rising and
disappearing together into the sanctuary of the darkness, but quieted
down when we entered our _shalashka_, and ceased to approach their
nestling place. Or a pair of snipe, or a ruff and a reeve, the
former, at this season, a thing of exquisite beauty by reason of the
Elizabethan ruff which gives him his name. Each male member of his
family is furnished with one of these, and not one is like another in
hue, though all are beautiful. They are of every conceivable tint and
variety, and certainly metamorphose the bird completely, giving him
the handsomest possible appearance so long as they last; but alas!
when the courting days are over, and the fair one has capitulated to
the beautiful besieging party,--presto!--his principal beauty exists
no more, and he becomes without his noble collar, the dullest and
least interesting of birds. Hard on the hen bird, I call it, and
savouring of unfairness. How would Angelina like it were Edwin--the
luxuriance or rakishness of whose moustaches or beard had been
instrumental in captivating her affections--were Edwin, I say, to
shave off those appendages so soon as her fond heart was fairly his
own? If Angelina threw him over, under the circumstances, I am sure no
one could blame her. But if the darkness is mysterious and wonderful,
and full of subtle, hidden potentialities, what shall we say of the
marvellous silence? The repose of it is almost _too_ great. I feel at
every instant as though something or somebody _must_ suddenly break
out into sound. Either the heavens themselves must--this moment or the
next--burst forth into a great, grand chorus of divine music, or a
bird must sing, or a beast roar. There is something in the air which
_must_ out; any sound would do, but a loud hymn would be the most
satisfying at this instant. What a silence it is! The tension is
oppressive when you come to listen to it, yet, if you were in the
humour, how you could lean your very soul against it, and rest--and
rest! But to-night I must have sound soon--my nerves demand it--I
cannot bear this hush much longer; if no wolf howls within the next
few minutes or no crane gives tongue, if no sandpiper whistles or duck
quacks, I must wake Ivan and bid him talk. I am outside the beat of
the willow-grouse, else he would have broken the oppressive spell an
hour ago. Oh, for a chord of music! Oh, to hear on organ swell out,
but for a moment, and then die away again; or to listen, close at
hand, to the soul-deep song of the nightingale! Something is going to
sound forth in a moment; I feel it--now--now! there!... I knew it must
come just then, I had a presentiment of it. It is a snipe high up in
the air, tracing his embroidery upon the sky-line overhead, and
swooping at intervals with a sound as of a sheep's "baa;" this is the
male snipe's curious way of wooing his mate; the "baa" comes dropping
upon the ear at intervals of a few seconds. If that snipe had not come
to save my reason I believe I should have shouted like a lunatic the
next minute, which would assuredly have given Ivan a fit.

There goes a night-hawk, flitting by in the darkness like a ghost. Oh,
what a voice! When he gives tongue I wish the silence back again. Go
hence, noisy spirit of night, and hunt your moths elsewhere. No wonder
you can scream loudly with a mouth like that, for when you open it
your head seems to split in two pieces. There will be no more silence
now; the night-jar has murdered sleep. Listen to the sentinel
crane--or is it the boots or the chambermaid of the community
awakening the family? He screams loudly to them, but they answer
drowsily. "Have you not made a mistake in the time?" they are saying.
"It cannot, surely, be time to get up yet?" It is though, Madame
Crane, and you must quickly let down that other leg and see about the
breakfast. In a minute or two there will be such a clamour of
conversation among the crane community that any person within a radius
of five miles will be aware of their presence. I should say that the
cry of the crane is a better traveller than any other sound I have
heard. These birds require a good voice for communicating with one
another during flight, for a large flock will often separate into many
little bands of two or three while on the "march," and the straggling
units must be picked up by nightfall. They must have strayed far away
indeed if they cannot hear when their friends hail them at the full
pitch of the crane-voice!

Now comes another sound. Far away at first, but nearing at each
repetition. A sad, melancholy note, falling at intervals of a second
or two. I have heard it often before, and wondered what it could be. I
have heard it as they who produced it--whoever they might be--passed
at night far above the sleeping city, and have felt a great pity for
the sad wandering spirits flying and wailing through the
darkness--whither? Perhaps they were the souls of the unbaptized, I
have thought, which must wander, according to a Slavonic tradition,
over land and sea for seven years, seeking and entreating to be
baptized.

But Ivan does not allow my thoughts to wander into folk-lore this
night. The cranes have awakened him, and he has heard this last
mysterious sound also. It has excited him. His finger is at his lip,
and he is listening. "What is it, Ivan? Speak!"

"Hush!" says Ivan. "This is what we came for!" (There _was_ a _raison
d'être_ for our presence here; I forgot to mention this circumstance
before.) "It is the geese!"

So this is the wild geese arriving! Then beat, heart, and strain,
eyes, through the darkness, for this is an exciting moment. Not that
there is the remotest chance of a shot at them at present; but it is
enough if they alight close at hand and tarry, breakfasting, until
daylight doth appear. How close the sound seems in the still air, and
yet the birds may be a mile away! I can hear the slow, measured beat
of their great wings as they approach, a solid phalanx, conversing
quietly at short intervals. Surely they are very close indeed? They
are all talking at once now. Perhaps they have seen the water and are
excited, knowing that their journey is at an end. The beating of their
wings seems almost to brush now the topmost boughs of the _shalashka_.
I fancy I can feel a movement in the air, fanned by their big pinions.
Thud! There goes the leader; he has alighted. Thud again--and yet
again! It is true--they are here; they have come!

To judge from the noises which they are making, there must be a
considerable number arrived--thirty or forty. They are chattering to
one another happily and sociably, and uttering very different tones
from those weird, melancholy cries of theirs while on the wing. They
are no longer the lost spirits, the poor wandering unbaptized souls,
but a party of merry travellers just arrived, so to speak, at the
tavern where a comfortable breakfast is spread all ready for them.
They are sure to do justice to it, for this is their favourite
feeding-ground--all over this marsh, so Ivan says. It is growing
lighter. The conglomeration of sounds of life seems to have startled
the Night, and reminded her that she must hurry away and attend to her
duties in another hemisphere. She is gradually withdrawing her soft
wings--those dark and motherly wings which have guarded so well her
little ones for many a long silent hour. Go in peace, Mother Night,
for the broad Sun will take good care of your bantlings during your
absence. He will open upon them his "good gigantic smile," and they
shall laugh and sing and be merry. Already I can catch a pale, sickly
gleam of light, where the Waters look up to the grey sky and cry, "How
long, Sun, how long the gloom and the cold?"

Be silent, lake, for soon the bridegroom will arrive, and you shall
bedeck your waters with gems, and sparkle and glitter in leagues of
dancing delight.

The sandpipers are merry and active, and dart from place to place in
pairs and companies, whistling and rejoicing; they pass, now and
again, so close to me that I can see them, and their whistling seems
to come from the very air within the _shalashka_. And the snipe
overhead, he never tires of his lightning-flight and his wheeling; and
his "baa" is one of the sounds which continues without ceasing. There
is yet another voice--a croak and then a whistle, and the same
repeated farther away, and yet again in the distance: a woodcock, I
believe, but I cannot see him. He is taking his spring-flight,
followed or preceded by his spouse. They will flit across a given
space, then alight and dally awhile in pretty courtship, then return
the way they came; and so again, _da capo_.

What are those tall posts yonder, outlining themselves against the
paling sky? They are motionless, apparently--no, they move, as I stare
through the uncertain light; they shorten, and lengthen, and bend, and
dip, and glide slowly forward and bend again: it is the cranes, I am
sure of it, for the clamour seems to come from that very spot. But
where are the geese? I can hear them but they are still invisible, for
they are feeding head down, and show no outline against the sky.
Listen! another band of melancholy air-wanderers is approaching--how
weird, how pathetic is the sound of their coming! Do they then so hate
the trouble of travelling? or is it merely that they have discovered
which tone and note of the gamut carries furthest through the ether,
and that this happens to be the most doleful of all notes? They are
very close now--stay! What is this? are they not going to alight and
join the happy breakfast-party below there? Apparently not: they are
overhead, they have passed, they have gone on--I can see them; they
are travelling in wedge-like formation, a big triangle of beating
wings that flog the air with measured sound and slow. How deliberate
and yet how swift and powerful is their flight! Why did they not stop
here? Their cry was answered from below, and yet they did not pause
but continued on their course. Why was the invitation to breakfast not
accepted? Who can say what is the etiquette of the wild goose? Perhaps
it was not an invitation, but rather an intimation that this
place--this tavern--was already occupied by a rival community.

One or two of my former friends take wing and join the other party; no
doubt they have some reason for this step, but what that reason is no
man may conjecture. Perhaps they are scouts sent forward to find out
who these new arrivals are; perhaps they have been badly treated here
and have gone over to the enemy in order to "better themselves."
Luckily the bulk of the party remain behind, however; and now, in the
strengthening light, I can plainly see a body of stout grey fellows
waddling about among the yellow grasses and the soaked moss, and
feeding in the well-known manner of geese in any field in far-off
England. Forty yards, I reckon, separates my _shalashka_ from the
nearest goose: one of them may wander nearer--it is worth while to be
patient and to allow the light to intensify before hazarding a shot
which will disperse every living creature within hearing, and end the
delight with which this spring morning is stored.

Slowly the sky, due east, yellows and then reddens; it seems to be
shooting up pink cloudlets, and letting them fly over heaven in order
to herald the uprising of the King of Morning; for the Sun is
coming--there can be no doubt of it! Redder and redder are the clouds
that precede him; now the mists that veil his bed are growing golden
and radiant, and fly right and left as he pushes his head through them
and looks out upon the earth, and smiles in a broad pathway across the
lake. As though by magic a thousand song birds instantly fill the air
with hymns of praise; even the tall cranes cease their gabbling and
gobbling, and look for a moment at the apparition ere they resume the
business of the hour. They are splashing about in shallow water, and
each step they make throws a shower of bright gems around them. The
geese--hungry no doubt after a long journey, and being naturally
rather of a practical than of a romantic turn of mind, take but little
notice of the Sun-god; he's all right, they think, and is sure to turn
up at daybreak every morning, surely one need not interrupt one's
breakfast to look up at him? The pace is too good! Look at the
ducks--here a pair and there a pair--swimming out into the shining
water, dipping their heads as they go and sending diamond-baths over
the sheen of their necks and shoulders. They pursue one another, and
quack and court, and bathe, and are perfectly and entirely happy and
content, as who would not be in their place? A curlew sails by,
calling to its mate, who is circling over the lake further to the
left. And all the while the busy little company of sandpipers flit and
whistle, and alight and run, and are off again on the wing--life is
all movement and 'go' for them; they cannot be still.

There is an osprey! He is floating motionless in air, high over the
lake. He, too, is thinking of breakfast. Soon he will drop like a bolt
from heaven, disappear entirely or partially in the wave, and in a
moment reappear with his meal safely held in those business-like
talons of his. There he goes--splash! he has missed his mark. A cry of
rage, and a circle or two over the water, and he is aloft
again--hanging like an impending doom over the bright lake. He will
not miss again! But Ivan is touching my arm: I know what he means: he
means that I must blot out this picture of peace and life by sending a
message of grim death and noisy ruin into the very midst of it. Let me
wait awhile, Ivan, and watch. It is so little for you who live amid
all this and can see it at any time; but it is so much to me--a
dweller in towns, where there is no free, happy nature-life to watch
and feast upon, and no daybreak save that of the London cat and the
strident, brazen cock. Give me another hour of it, Ivan? No? Well,
half an hour? But Ivan says "No;" the geese may depart at any moment,
he whispers; shoot while you can! I have no doubt Ivan made a mental
addition, "and don't be a sentimental English idiot;" but the former
words were all I was permitted to hear. So there is nothing for it: I
must shoot; I must, with my own hand, blot out all this beauty, and
smudge the picture which Morning has painted for my delight--and all
to see a grey goose flutter and die who is now so busy and happy! The
game is not worth the candle; but it must be done! One shot as they
stand, says pitiless Ivan, and another as they rise--unless I prefer
to hazard a cartridge after one of yonder cranes. Crane me no cranes:
it is goose or nothing; give me the gun, Ivan!

There! the deed is done, for good or for evil. The goose who stood to
receive my shot lived on, and I trust still lives; his feathers are
thick and tough, and I hope in mercy that if he is hit at all his
plumage has turned aside or suffocated the shot, and that he is not
much hurt. He is gone, anyhow, flying strongly. The goose which rose
to receive fire will rise no more. He is dead; he will utter never
more his sad pilgrim-notes; he will feed no more in these pleasant
pastures. Go and pick him up, Ivan, and he shall be cooked and
tentatively eaten, and perhaps pronounced very nice, and perhaps
condemned as very nasty.

Now turn and see what we have done. The last crane has taken
wing--running a few yards and jumping clumsily into the air, rather
like a cyclist mounting his machine. He will fly a hundred yards
before those long legs of his are comfortably stowed away! What a slow
flight it seems, yet it carries him wonderfully far away from us in a
short time!

And the ducks? Gone also; circling high in air, taking stock of us.
When they have made up their minds that we are bad characters and not
to be trusted, they will head for a distant point and disappear. The
curlew is far away, so is the osprey; the sandpipers are still in the
neighbourhood, they are too inquisitive to go far from us; they must
needs watch us and find out all about us first. And away there in the
bright distance floats, receding, the triangle of geese--one less than
it came, and one, perhaps, in pain and suffering, though Heaven forbid
that this should be so.

All this we have done, friend Ivan, with our banging and bloodshed!
See what a transformation scene the act of man works, in an instant,
upon a lovely landscape? Of life he makes death; of busy, happy
places, full of colours and of sounds, and of song and of joy, he
makes a barren waste, with himself the sole living creature remaining
to look upon the face of it! Let us go home, Ivan, we shall see no
more of bird-life this morning; take up your poor grey victim and come
along--the place will be the better and the happier for our departure,
and perhaps, after a while, all its evicted tenants, save one, may
return again to their own.

But Ivan only remarks that I ought to have shot that first goose in
the head, and then we should have had two instead of one. Then he
scratches his own head, gazes long and intently over the sparkling
waters of the lake in the direction where the departed geese are now
but a dark smudge in the distant sky, spits on the ground in contempt
of muff-shots and lost opportunities, and strides away towards the
ponies. As we disappear in the forest I look back and see some ducks
returning, and hear the sandpipers whistle us a taunting farewell!
Amen! No one wants us here: they are all happier without us.



CHAPTER III

A DAY AFTER CRAWFISH


There are certain days of one's boyhood which have made so deep an
impression that they seem to stand out like mountain peaks in the
misty plains of the memory, clear and distinct against the sky-line,
when all else is dim and hazy and distorted by distance. One of these
landmarks in the early life of the writer is a certain day, long years
ago--though the recollection of every detail of it is as green as
though it all happened but yesterday--when, in company with two or
three kindred spirits, he made his first grand expedition after
crawfish. It was summer--the summer holidays: holidays long looked
forward to as to be among the most delightful that ever boy spent; for
they were to be passed in Mourino, the paradise of our youthful
imaginations, where the long Russian days were not half long enough
for the multitude of delights to be crammed into each, there being
"more to do" at Mourino, as we always thought, than anywhere in
England, seaside or otherwise. As a matter of fact, the northern haven
of our schoolboy desires was the very place for boys home from an
English public school, and fond of healthy outdoor pursuits and
recreations. There was a river at the bottom of the garden in which
fish of many kinds might be lured to their doom; there was shooting,
in a mild way; there was riding _ad lib._, if galloping about the
country on the spiky backs of the little Finn ponies of the place can
be dignified by that name; there was boating, of course, and canoeing,
at our very doors, as well as the usual English games which the true
Briton takes with him however far afield he may roam. No wonder then
that Mourino was the place in which we preferred, _par excellence_, to
pass our summer holidays; for, as I say, the days were not long enough
to contain all the joys to be crammed into them.

There were crawfish to be had at the bottom of the garden, but these
were neither sufficiently large nor sufficiently numerous to tempt us
to engage very frequently in their capture. When we wanted crawfish of
a size to do their captors credit, we knew well enough where to go for
them, just as well as the giant crawfish themselves knew which part of
the river suited them best as their headquarters. It was, however,
some little distance to the favourite haunt of the monsters, a matter
of ten miles or so; a journey not to be undertaken lightly over the
unspeakable roads of the neighbourhood, so that we did not very often
disturb the scaly warriors in the cool depths of their chosen
pleasure-grounds; when we did organise an excursion, therefore, in
their honour we fully intended to "do the thing in style," and to
create some considerable gaps among the ranks of their best and
mightiest. When a day was to be devoted to the capture of big crawfish
at Sairki, preparations were made over-night in order that no time
should be wasted on the morrow; the usual miscalculation was made as
to the number of sandwiches required--food sufficient for an entire
regiment was invariably provided for us, yet I cannot recall that we
ever brought any back. The stock-in-trade of the complete crawfisher,
a strong hand-net and a pound or two of slightly high meat, was in
readiness for each of us; our pike rods and tackle were seen to; the
most particular instructions were issued as to our awakening as soon
as daylight should appear; the vehicles, or rather their peasant
owners, were hunted up for the hundredth and last time and warned,
with all solemnity, as to the awful consequences that unpunctuality
would bring down upon their heads, and then we all four went to bed
and wished for day.

When morning came--the particular morning I am now recalling--things
were propitious. Two _telyegi_ stood awaiting our pleasure at the
door, each with its pair of small Finn ponies ready harnessed and
impatiently whisking away the horseflies with their long tails. The
_telyegi_, I may explain, are springless carts upon four wheels.
They are provided with so-called "cushions," which consist of a square
bag of sacking with a certain amount of hay inside it. The sensations
of the traveller who has once been bumped about in a _telyega_
over Russian roads are memorable--indeed, I have spent the rest of my
days since my boyhood in wondering how in the world I managed to
remain "all in one piece" throughout the awful joltings to which my
body was submitted during those _telyega_ days. Has the reader
ever seen a Russian country road? It is not a road at all, as we are
accustomed to understand the term, but a mere succession of deep and
wide holes worn in the natural sandy soil. The Finn ponies think
nothing of such trifling drawbacks, however, and pursue their headlong
course without regard to the feelings of the evil-entreated passengers
behind them. Perhaps the good-natured creatures experience a
mischievous delight in thus "taking it out" of those who weary their
flesh by causing them to drag a heavy load at breakneck speed through
all the heat and dust and breathlessness of a Russian summer day. The
pair are harnessed in an original manner; one, the better trotter of
the two, is between shafts, while his companion canters alongside,
attached, in a happy-go-lucky way, to the vehicle by means of a couple
of loose ropes, but otherwise free to do pretty much as he pleases,
consequently he is sometimes close enough to his comrade to make that
animal, if irritably inclined, put back his ears and snap at him as a
gentle reminder that he is taking liberties, and sometimes a yard or
two away, frisking over puddles or shying all over the road on his own
account. When a pit of more than the average depth is encountered,
both horses will jump it in preference to running down to the bottom
and up again, and at such a moment the fate of the passenger in the
cart behind is melancholy. He is tossed up into the air for all the
world like a spun coin, sharing also the uncertain destiny of that
coin as to the manner of his descent--whether "heads or tails." It
must not be for one moment supposed that we, in the exuberance of our
happiness, and in the all-accepting, unquestioning, all-enjoying
spirit of the British schoolboy, cared a farthing for the depth or
width of the very vilest hole that time and horseshoes ever wore in a
Russian road; on the contrary, we loved the sensation of being sent
flying up into the air every other minute, and if we came down upon
the top of one another or of the luckless driver on his hard box-seat,
or even into the six-inch dust of the road in the rear of the
_telyega_, why, I believe we liked it all the better. As every one
knows, a special Providence watches over drunken men and school-boys,
and I have often reflected that we must have caused our particular
bodyguard a terrible amount of anxiety, and kept it very hard at work
during these wild _telyega_ drives of ours at Mourino, for we were
racing, most of the time, with the wheels of the two carts interlaced,
the horses--all four of them--galloping _ventre à terre_, and the
demented Russian drivers--quite as far gone in lunacy as our British
selves--shouting at the top of their voices and bumping about half in
air and half in cart, like a couple of demon Jehus let loose for the
occasion, and for our especial and particularly complete destruction;
and yet I cannot remember that any one was ever hurt! Truly that
special Providence of ours was well up to its arduous duties, and
performed them admirably.

Sairki was reached at last, and the horses put up at the village. As
for us, we unpacked the carts before a group of admiring Finnish
children; for Sairki, like many a score of other villages within
twenty miles of the Tsar's capital, is inhabited exclusively by Finns,
who cannot speak a word of Russian. Hand-nets and rods were got out;
the crawfish meat was produced (extremely unsavoury by this time,
owing to the intense heat of the day, but all the better for that from
the point of view of the crawfish, who likes his dinner to be
attractive to his olfactory senses); huge fishing-baskets were
strapped upon our shoulders, containing our food at present, but to be
used for another purpose soon, and away we headed for the riverside.
The Ochta is a tributary of the Neva, into which it flows close to St.
Petersburg--a pretty little river as one would wish to see, if he
cares for the sort of scenery that Ruysdael loved to depict. Down by
the river there grew countless clusters of leafy young birches and
aspens, and to these our attention was first directed, for from them
we must draw one of the essential items of our stock-in-trade.
Provided with large knives as we were, we soon possessed ourselves of
the necessary number of long sticks, about a dozen each, and stripped
the leaves off to the end. In order to explain the exact object of
these sticks, I will now, with the reader's permission, make him
acquainted with the _modus operandi_ of the scientific crawfisher. I
have said already that a lump of meat is required. This is cut into
small sections of about an inch and a half square, one of which is
firmly tied to the end of each stick with a piece of string or
"machalka," the birch-bark ribbon known to gardeners. This is the
nastiest part of the proceedings, and it is better to get a friend to
do it for you if you can. The preliminaries being thus completed, the
next thing is to take the twelve baited sticks one by one and place
them in the water, the meat downwards and resting on the bottom, while
the top end of the stick is allowed to project a foot or so above the
surface and to rest against the bank. The sticks must not be placed
too close to one another. The proper distance is about ten yards
between each. It will be remarked by the intelligent reader that the
crawfisher thus requires a considerable portion of the stream to
himself, for no two sportsmen can find scope for their energies within
a hundred and fifty yards or so; while a party of four or five will
occupy the best part of half-a-mile of bank. When the sticks are all
placed scientifically, according to the fisher's knowledge of the
spots likely to be favoured of crawfish, the sportsman must possess
his soul in patience for a quarter of an hour at least, in order to
give time to the gentlemen of the claws to realise the good fortune
that has come their way in the shape of a lump of meat dropped
apparently from the skies. After the interval indicated, the hand-net
is taken and the sticks are visited one by one. Now comes the moment
when the skill and science of the performer is put to the test. The
water is not very clear. It is not muddy, but the colour is dark--a
brownish tint--caused, as we always believed, by the quantities of
iron in it, so that we cannot see to the bottom or near it. Hence, the
first part of the proceedings must be done in faith and hope, and with
an extremity of caution and lightness of hand not attainable without
considerable practice in the art of crawfishing. The stick is taken
firmly in the left hand, while the right grasps the handle of the net.
Then the stick is raised from the bottom, but so gradually and
imperceptibly that the movement is, presumably, unnoticeable down
below. The baited stick is thus slowly and carefully lifted inch by
inch, until the lump of meat at the end of it is visible. If a
crawfish is clinging on to the meat the stick is raised no higher, for
the hand-net now comes into play. This latter instrument is brought
cautiously up against the current, placed deftly underneath the
clinging feaster, the stick and the net are raised together, and as
the crawfish reaches the surface of the water, and at length realises
that he had better quit this perambulating breakfast, he lets go, only
to discover that he is too late and has been outwitted, and that his
place henceforth is in the fishing-basket, or a watering-pot half full
of water, until such time as he is taken out and boiled for the use of
man. It is very simple, and were the crawfish not the most criminally
greedy and careless creature in the world, he would never allow
himself to be captured in so ridiculously elementary a way. But it is
his nature to, and no amount of experience will teach him the
foolishness of his conduct, for you may, if you please, catch and
return to his element the self-same crawfish a dozen times in an
afternoon. In a good place, the fisher may find two or three, or even
more, of these hungry fellows clinging to the same piece of meat, and,
if clever enough, may easily capture the lot at one swoop.

Such, in brief, is the _modus operandi_ of the crawfisher. We all
knew the way to do it, we of the Sairki party; and the tying on of the
bait and the placing of the sticks were finished as quickly as these
operations could be performed with a due regard to efficiency, lots
having decided the portion of bank to be worked by each of us. Then
came the quarter of an hour during which it is the etiquette of the
crawfisher to allow his prey to discover and to enjoy undisturbed the
refreshments provided for him. I do not know whether schoolboys
possess souls--presumably they are provided with a special schoolboy
quality--but in any case we, at least, were entirely unable to possess
those souls in patience, and that little quarter of an hour was spent
by each of us upon his own portion of bank under a carking sense of
grievance. We felt that we were conceding too much to the crawfish.
Personally I passed my fifteen minutes at full length in the long
grass, within a yard or two of the water, and any one but a schoolboy
would have been glad enough of the opportunity to lie thus beneath the
brilliant northern August sky upon a bed of wild flowers, which, if
one chose to sit still and pick one specimen of each, would have
filled his hands with a hundred delicate stems without the necessity
to stretch beyond an easy arm-reach. I have never seen any place that
equalled the country about Mourino for the wealth and variety of its
wild flowers, or the luxuriance of the ground-berries in the
woods--Arctic strawberry, bilberry, cranberry, raspberry, and a berry
which I remember as making the most delicious bitter-sweet jam, called
brousnika. As for the flowers, the anemone is the only representative
of our familiar spring visitors, but the summer months are gorgeous
with every blossom that our own English fields can boast, with few
exceptions, besides lilies of the valley, linnæa borealis, a lovely
creeping plant with a tiny starry flower; "star of Bethlehem," and
other varieties not often seen in this country.

But the longest and most vexatious wait must come to an end in its
season, and at last the crawling minutes had sped by and we were at
liberty to commence the business of the day. Oh, the delightful
excitement of the first visit to each stick! How my heart beat, I
remember, as I grasped the first of them, and with somewhat trembling
fingers raised it cautiously a few inches towards the surface, peering
the while into the dark brown depths to catch the earliest possible
glimpse of the desired visitor. The water seemed extra dark in colour
to-day, to spite one, and the stick had to be slowly lifted to within
a foot or so of the keen eyes watching above it before the meat could
be distinguished at the end of it. There it is at last--now then! Is
that the claw of a crawfish sticking on to it, or not? It may be, but
if so it is a tiny one. Carefully the hand-net is drawn towards the
bait, up the stream, for otherwise the current bulges the network
inside out, and deftly the string-prison is placed underneath the end
of the stick--there! If it is a crawfish I have got him safe. Up comes
stick, and up comes net with it to the surface--alas, no! It was but
the split end of a piece of "machalka," and not the claw of a
crawfish. Down goes the stick again to its place at the bottom of the
stream, and away go I to the next one. Here a strong waggling at the
end of it when it is raised from the bottom tells me that undoubtedly
a guest is availing himself of my hospitality; caution must be
observed--yea, caution must be doubly cautious. It is a big fellow by
the feel, and he is still tugging away as I raise the stick with
breathless care towards the surface. Now I can see the bait, or rather
I can see the place where the meat may be supposed to be; for there is
nothing visible but a dark mass which hides the bait from view. Now
comes the tug of war. The current is rather strong, and the exertion
of bringing the broom-handled net against it is considerable; but this
is not a moment to think of difficulties. Down comes fate upon the
thoughtless reveller; a turn of the wrist with the right, and a swift
upward motion of the left arm, and anything there may chance to be
busying itself at the baited end of the stick is my own. What do I
see? A big crawfish? It is indeed a big crawfish, and with it a second
and yet a third, true Sairki monsters, all three of them, seething and
glistening in their dark brown armour at the bottom of the net, and
laying hold angrily of each other wherever they can fasten a claw, as
though each were chastising his companions for having brought him into
this mess. They must be taken up carefully, one by one, and held by
the back, else those cruel-looking claws will lay hold of one's
fingers and inflict a pinch which will be a memorable circumstance for
some little while. These three fellows, exactly like lobsters made in
a smaller mould, so far as the unscientific eye can judge, are about
six to seven inches in length from head to end of tail; one of them
has one large claw and the other quite a miniature member, as though
it had never emerged from its baby stage; the truth being that the
warrior has lost one of his natural weapons, probably in a fight with
a rival, and that a beneficent nature is providing him with a
substitute as quickly as can be managed. If I place one of these
creatures upon the ground, instead of in the watering-pot prepared for
his reception, he will instantly set off backwards in the direction of
the river. I have tried this at all distances from the water, placing
a crawfish as far as several hundred yards from his native element,
and pointing him in the wrong direction; yet in defiance of all
obstacles, the poor fellow invariably and without hesitation made
straight for that point of the compass in which instinct told him lay
the stream which was his home. And so was made the round of the
sticks; one producing nothing, another a single tiny victim, a third
four at once, and so on to the twelfth and last; the net results
of the first round being seventeen crawfish of a fair average size.
Then the proceedings began again, _da capo_. The sport generally
improved up to about the fifth round, while the inhabitants of the
stream were gradually becoming aware of the feast spread for them at
easy distances all down the river. After the sixth round the numbers
fell off again, until, eventually, a second portion of the bank had to
be worked, the original lie having been exhausted. The largest haul
that I ever made from one stick at one swoop was six crawfish, all
good ones, and one of them a giant. We had agreed to put back the
babies, the very tiniest, that is; though we invariably took a great
number home with us which we did not intend to eat, in order to let
them go at the bottom of the garden as stock for our own portion of
the river, and to afford us sport when they should have grown to more
respectable dimensions. They always accommodated themselves to
circumstances, and remained contentedly where they had been put in.

When we grew tired of capturing our crawfish in the orthodox manner we
adopted another plan; this involved, first, the finding of a shallow
place in which, when found, we waded about with a short stick in one
hand and a net in the other. When we caught sight of a crawfish
wandering along or trying to hide the too expansive volume of his tail
beneath a stone designed to conceal a junior member of the family
only, all we had to do was to suddenly place the stick in front of his
nose, at the same instant holding the net immediately behind him, when
the simple creature would promptly commit suicide by running backwards
into prison.

Then there was trolling for pike in the quiet pools when we were weary
of the crawfish. There were good pike to be had at Sairki, and their
favourite food was spoons--so, at least, one would suppose from the
voracity with which they endeavoured to devour those we offered for
their destruction. Many an exciting half-hour was afforded us by the
good-natured Sairki pike; they generally got away in the end, but
always thoroughly entered into the fun of the thing and obliged us,
while the game lasted, by pretending to be doing their best to escape
our unscientific attempts to bring them to book. Probably they could
have rid themselves of the bait and us at any moment if they had been
so disposed, but they were too good-natured. Now and then we caught
one, but very rarely.

And so the summer day would pass with its sport and its bathing and
its incalculable sandwiches, until the brilliant sunshine began to
wane and the time came to shoulder our nets and hoist our heavily
loaded watering-pots and mount the hill to the village. As for our
sticks, we hospitably left these in the water in order that the
crawfish remaining in the neighbourhood might enjoy themselves to the
full and learn to laugh at those of their fellows who were disposed to
look with suspicion at bits of meat attached to the ends of sticks.
They might now finish the food with absolute impunity, and would come
to the feast at our next visit without a thought of danger.

A memorable ceremony was the counting of the victims up at the
village. This was performed in the midst of a gaping and ejaculating
crowd of Finnish children, a score or so of scantily dressed,
fair-haired little maidens and their brothers, who expressed their
delight with the outcome of our prowess in a ceaseless chatter of
their own language, monosyllabic, but full of extremely expressive
inflections. We put ourselves upon the best of terms with these little
foreigners by letting loose a number of our scaly captives among their
naked toes, a move which caused them to jump about and scream in the
wildest delight. The distribution of a few copecks among them
completed our popularity thus easily acquired. The Finns are a
good-natured, inoffensive race, when properly treated; but proud and
stolid and somewhat lazy, and withal dignified and extremely jealous
of their personal independence. The commonest Finn peasant considers
himself the equal of any other man. Destiny may have put the Tsar in a
warmer corner than himself, perhaps, but that does not make the Tsar
the better man of the two. "The Tsar has a pair of legs exactly like
my own," a Finn peasant once remarked to the writer, and the saying
sums up very concisely the attitude of this quiet but dignified member
of the human family towards his fellow-men.

Six hundred and thirty-seven was the sum total of our day's netting,
besides many others caught and put back: not a bad tally! It was
sufficient to supply the whole of the British colony in Mourino, which
is a good large one, with crawfish enough to last them for some time.
These are most delicious eating, as highly flavoured as the lobster,
but much more tender and less stringy. A certain soup made of crawfish
is declared by gourmets to be simply unequalled by any other decoction
known under the name of _potage_.

And so, sped upon our way by the shouts of our admiring friends the
little Finnish maids and urchins, we set forth once more to brave the
perils and discomforts of the return journey. I know not what the
unfortunate creatures in the watering-pots and the fishing-baskets may
have thought of the bumpings and jars that marked our progress along
that terrible road, but I do know that the day's wading and netting
had not damped our own spirits in any appreciable degree. The ponies,
knowing that they were directed homewards, flew along like mad things;
breakneck races were once again the order of the day, and once again
did our special Providence preserve us from the destruction we
courted. Swiftly, too swiftly for us, the miles were left behind, and
the last rays of the setting sun had scarcely lighted up the green
cupola of Mourino church when, with whips cracking, drivers shouting,
dust flying in clouds, and six human beings (counting schoolboys as
coming under that category) and 637 crawfish bumping about like peas
on a drum-head, we raced up to the lodge gates--and the day was over.



CHAPTER IV

A FINLAND PARADISE


Finland, or Fen-land: the land of fens, "the country of a thousand
lakes"; in Finnish Suomen-maa: "the swampy region." The root _suom_,
if not related to our own _swamp_--which is a matter upon which the
present writer can give no opinion worth having--at all events appears
to have the same meaning, and is quite similar enough in sound to
please the ear of plain people with a neat, amateur appreciation for
roots. It is indeed the country of a thousand lakes--ten thousand.
Glance at the map; it almost makes a man's eyes water to look at it!
As represented there, the entire country appears to be more water than
dry land; the inhabitants must surely be obliged to get about the
place in boats--or goloshes, you will think--and, oh! what a place for
the fishermen! Not the people in smacks and trawlers, I mean; but for
men with rods, and lines, and reels, and flies, and phantoms, and
landing nets, and so on: think of it--all these fresh-water lakes--a
network of ideal corners for the _Salmonidæ_, communicating one with
another and with Ladoga and the Gulfs of Finland and Bothnia by means
of glorious fishing rivers! A place for fishermen indeed.

Look at the map, my dear reader, and consider the province from the
point of view of the fish and their habits; it is the fishes' heaven,
and being so it is certainly the paradise of anglers. A glance at the
map will show that between Uleaborg in the north and Wiborg in the
south there must be many spots which, to the keen fishing man, would
in all probability present such piscatorial attractions as would
entitle them to be called, as I have called one particular spot about
to be described, "A Finland Paradise." I believe that the salmon
fishing on the Ulea at Uleaborg, for instance, is so excellent that
those who have deserted Norway or Scotland in favour of this remote
Finnish spot are inclined to go no more a-roving, but to cry "Eureka,"
and spend the rest of their days by Bothnia's placid waters. But of
this I can only speak from hearsay and from the printed reports of
others, and will only add that I have been informed that fishing
rights are easily obtainable at Uleaborg; that such rights are
absurdly inexpensive; and that there is some one in that distant city
who can speak English, and who can put the traveller in the way of
getting an introduction into the best salmon society.

But my Finland Paradise is not in far Uleaborg, nor yet in any of the
thousand or ten thousand other places which on the testimony of the
map of Finland must be equally worthy of the title. I must warn my
readers that there is no admission to my paradise, excepting by favour
of those happy ones who possess the right to inhabit it. In other
words it is not, like Uleaborg and hundreds of other places,
accessible to the ordinary travelling man and the itinerant sportsman.
Its doors are closed to the public; the fishing is preserved, rightly
and jealously preserved.

There is a railway, the Finnish Railway, as it is called, which runs
from St. Petersburg to Hango, at the mouth of the Gulf of Finland. On
this railway, at a distance of four hours from St. Petersburg, is
Wiborg, the very ancient capital and castle of the Karelian Finns, who
were conquered by Torkel C'nutson in 1293. From Wiborg there is a
branch line to Imatra, built for the accommodation of tourists anxious
to visit the wonderful rapids or falls at the last-named place. Imatra
is on a river known variously as the Vuoksen, or the Voksa, which
connects the great Saima Lake with the still greater Ladoga; which,
again, is connected with the open sea, as all the world knows, by the
Neva. The Voksa is, I should think, one of the most beautiful rivers
in the world. Wide, and clear as crystal, we have nothing like it in
England; it has no tide to yellow it, no navigation to stir and
distress its calm depths; the fish--grayling and trout--love it, and
so does every human creature who has ever set eyes upon it, and who
knows how to appreciate a big, free, clean, noble river when he sees
it.

Lake Saima is a long sheet of water measuring from end to end one
hundred and fifty miles or more, being quite as long as Ladoga itself,
though much narrower and studded all over with islands. Saima is full
of fish--great lake trout and others of the _Salmonidæ_, together
with numberless other finny creatures of less exalted birth and
parentage. Now all these fish occasionally pine, if not for actual sea
travel, at least for such change of air and diet as a little wandering
in running water can afford them. This they can only obtain by
visiting the sole existing outlet (excepting the Saima Canal, leading
to the Gulf of Finland, which cannot count as a river) to the entire
hundred and fifty miles of lake, the Voksa.

Now, just where the Voksa takes its departure from the Saima upon its
journey of fifty-or-so miles to the Ladoga, the Saima Lake narrows
into a round basin of about one-third of a mile in diameter, which
basin forms a kind of ante-room to the river, which starts out bravely
from the western end thereof in a glorious rapid, the descent being
considerable, and the consequent draw of current throughout the basin
very strong, though not very perceptible at the surface. Through this
basin, or ante-room, known as Harraka, every single fish which desires
to visit the river from the lake, or _vice versâ_, must pass as
through a turnpike gate; and many are the fish that have had to pay
blood-toll for the privilege. The basin is at all times crammed with
fish; it is their recognised rendezvous; it is Harraka, the paradise
_par excellence_ of the Voksa; the place to which all good
fishermen should go when they die, unless they know of a better. I
don't.

This paradise was, until a few years ago, in the hands of a few
Englishmen, residents in St. Petersburg, who discovered it and
acquired the rights of enjoying it as a fishing club. They built unto
themselves a comfortable and most convenient lodge, just at the very
spot where Voksa, in froth and delicious chatter of bounding rapids,
bids farewell of Saima and starts exuberantly on his race to Ladoga,
little dreaming of the fearful gauntlet to be run, a few miles away,
at Imatra. These thrice happy Britishers, I repeat, acquired Paradise:
they planted their feet in the Garden of Eden; they tasted of the
delights of Harraka for several seasons, and then by misfortune they
lost it. By some most deplorable accident or misunderstanding the
letting of the place went past them, and Harraka, the paradise of
anglers, became a beautiful memory and nothing more. The flaming sword
of jealous proprietorship stood for ever between them and the lost
Eden of their happiness.

Then those men did the next best thing open to them. They secured a
small island a few miles lower down the river, together with the
fishing rights around it for a space of a mile or so, and upon that
island, known as Varpa-Saari, they pitched their tent, building a
charming house, engaging fishermen well acquainted with every inch of
the newly acquired water, and, in a word, making the best of what was
distinctly a "bad job."

Varpa-Saari is not Harraka. But since, according to some learned
commentators, there are seven heavens, and since Harraka is certainly
the seventh or highest of these, Varpa may surely lay claim to be
called one of the remaining six. It is, in truth, a very delightful
place. The river is here some three hundred yards in width, and is
divided by the island into two channels, both of which show their
teeth as they angrily pass the obstruction in a tumult of noisily
chattering and scolding rapids on either side. Around the island
platforms have been built jutting out into the turbulent water for the
convenience of those who wish to try for the favours of grayling or
trout with fly, in preference to spinning for them with a minnow from
a boat.

It was the delightful privilege of the writer to spend a portion of
the summer of 1894 in the land of the Tsar; and to me, ready and
anxious for every kind of exploit, whether with rod or gun, came my
friend C. G., whilom a member of the Paradise Lost of Harraka, now one
of the proprietors of Varpa-Saari, with hospitable proposals, which
ended in the speedy getting together of our respective gladstones, and
the collection, on my part, of a great number of borrowed rods and
reels and flies and minnows and other piscatorial paraphernalia, and
our prompt departure upon a three days' sojourn in the delicious
retreats of Varpa Island. It cannot, I should think, be much more than
sixty miles from St. Petersburg to Wiborg, but the trains of the
Finnish line are imbued with all the dignity and deliberation which
are inherent in the Finnish character, and they do not hurry
themselves. A good English express would do the journey in an hour;
the Wiborg express occupies the best part of four. But the carriages
are certainly comfortable and run very smoothly.

There is a custom-house somewhere between the two great cities
named--I think it is at Tereyoki--but we are not asked to disclose the
secrets of our gladstones or to reveal the riches of our superbly
appointed commissariat, for C. G. is the most hospitable of hosts as
well as the most talented of caterers, and his arrangements for our
three days' exile in the wilds of Finland are such as to strangle in
the birth any vague ideas of prospective "roughing it."

So we glide slowly and smoothly through the south-eastern portion of
the Land of Fens, which, so far, greatly resembles the Russia we have
just left; and if we look out for one of the thousand lakes we do not
see it, and shall not until Wiborg itself is reached; though, as it
happens, I know of several further inland--old familiar places where
in former days I have angled for many large perch and pike, killed
many a duck, missed many a snipe, enjoyed many a happy hour. It is hot
with all the closeness of the Russian July; but, fortunately, this is
the Finnish and not a Russian railway, and though we manufacture a
delightful draught by opening the windows on both sides of the
carriage, we are not threatened for this reason with the terrors and
tortures to which those are subjected who infringe the bye-laws of the
company. It was but a few days before that, travelling upon a Russian
line, and feeling asphyxiated by the heat of the carriage, I had, in
my innocence, let down the windows on both sides. Instantly a guard
rushed up and closed one, that on the side from which the
infinitesimal air that existed happened to be blowing. I protested.
The guard expressed horror: there would be a draught, he explained. I
hastened to assure him that that was exactly what I most wished to
bring about, and made as though to reopen the window which he had
closed. But this the guard would not permit. I should catch cold, he
said, and the company could not dream of allowing their passengers to
catch cold. I argued, I entreated, but in vain, and eventually I went
to stand upon the balcony outside. But, alas! this also, it appeared,
was not permissible just at present, and that for a peculiar reason: a
train conveying some member of the Imperial family was to meet us
presently, and no man might stand outside until it had safely passed.
In the end I was compelled to return to the stifling carriage, wherein
I was cooked to a turn by the time I reached my destination.

But if the train from St. Petersburg to Wiborg is slow, what shall be
said of that from the latter place to Imatra? Yet why, after all,
should anything be said? There was no hardship in travelling now, for
it was evening and cooler, and the country had grown more
characteristically Finnish. Here and there were small lakes, the
outposts of the thousand, the ten thousand, that lay calm and majestic
somewhere beyond. We were in Finland now beyond a doubt.

But C. G. has a surprise for me--for me who have never been in this
part of the world before--have never even seen Imatra. We shall be at
a station called St. Andrea soon, he tells me, and then I shall see
something which will interest me. What? I am to wait; it shall burst
upon my sight.

It does. It bursts upon my sight in all the calm beauty of its wide,
white, gleaming, rippling majesty--the Voksa. At this distant spot,
dedicated to the first Englishman probably who ever set foot in
Finland, St. Henry,[1] my delighted English eyes catch their first
glimpse of the ideal river--a river any Englishman would love at first
sight. And what a spot for the fisherman! As I live, there is one at
it down there. I can see him from the train whipping merrily at the
rapids beneath the railway bridge! Instantly all the apathy of the
long, slow journey is swallowed up in the enthusiasm of the angler; I
feel inclined to wave my cap from the window and cry, like Xenophon's
men, "Thalatta, thalatta!" Happy Bishop Henry, friend of Eric IX. of
Sweden, who, about 1120, an Englishman, though Bishop of Upsala,
brought Bible and sword and conquered and converted this pleasant land
for his master, and became patron saint thereof. St. Andrea is
delightfully situated indeed. I wonder whether our canonised
countryman who gave his name to it was ever here? St. Andrea sounds
and reads more like St. Andrew than St. Henry, but I may explain that
Henrys are always Andrews in Russia, just as William is changed to
Basil, Edward to Dmitry, Bernard to Boris, and so on, because where
names do not exist in the Saints' calendar, substitutes have had to be
found. In the case of Henry, the Finns appear to have followed the
example of their neighbours, and to have changed Henry into Andrea.
St. Andrew himself is connected with Russia, but in no way, I believe,
with Finland. This saint is said to have travelled, preaching the
Gospel, from the Holy Land to Byzantium, and thence along the Black
Sea to the Danube, crossing that river and reaching eventually the
Dnieper. Here he went up country as far as the spot where Kief was
afterwards built, and in this place, before turning to retrace his
steps to Byzantium, he uttered a long prophecy as to the size and
importance of the city which should one day stand in that site, and
which should be dedicated to the faith which he had then come to
preach. So much for the Saints Andrew and Henry, either of whom may
claim, as far as names go, the honour of affording one to the remote
Finnish village close to which the beautiful Voksa is first seen by
the tourist.

          [1] Finland has been a Christian country since the early
          part of the twelfth century, when Eric IX. of Sweden,
          accompanied by Henry, Bishop of Upsala, an Englishman,
          planted Christianity together with the Swedish flag in the
          hitherto heathen province. In the thirteenth century another
          English divine, Bishop Thomas, did his best to teach the
          Finns to shake off the Swedish yoke and become subject to
          the Pope alone, but in this he failed. The Finns have been
          Protestants since about 1530.

Thence to Imatra is not far, and from Imatra to Varpa-Saari is a short
drive of three miles or so, past the renowned "falls," about which I
shall have more to say later. My friend and I accomplish this distance
luxuriously in a spring cart, the commissariat following in a second
vehicle. The roads in Finland are not like the roads in Russia. The
Finnish roads are civilised, and may be driven upon without fatal
results.

It was past eleven now, of a glorious July night, and in the white
northern twilight, which is nearly daylight, we cantered up to the
riverside and drew up at the spot where a landing stage has been made,
communicating by means of an overhead wire over the Voksa with the
island in mid-stream. The house is upon the island, and from the wire,
at the island end, depends a bell. A tug at our end sets this bell
clanging and a dog barking, destroying the calm majesty of the night
in an instant, and causing dogs in all directions, far and near, to
respond to the canine voice from mid-river in sleepy, querulous
accents, as though barking were a terrible bore, but must be done out
of conscientious motives. While we wait for the boat which is to take
us across we hear ourselves hailed in English from some point hidden
in the midnight mystery of the river, and when our eyes have located
the sound we discover two boats swimming silently side by side,
looking all one piece with the water, mystic, wonderful! It is J. H.
and E. H., who have driven over from their lovely summer home a few
miles below Imatra for a night's fishing in the Varpa waters. Slowly
the two boats approach--it seems a sin to murder the marvel of the
stillness by speaking--like two swans they swim towards us in the
white twilight. Are we awake, and is all this really happening, or are
these the creatures of a sleep-picture, and the witchery of the
midnight Voksa a mere dream of unreal delight? The winding of two
reels and C. G.'s hearty enquiry as to "what sport" has been enjoyed
by these two midnight fishers put to flight all ideas of the unreality
of things, and in a very few minutes we are each seated in a boat and
crossing the gleaming, rippling, hurrying Voksa towards the little
island which is to be our home for the next three days. As we reach
the landing-stage at the island we find a sleepy Finn fisherman just
preparing a boat, in response to our bell-summons, to take us across;
but our friends have saved him this trouble. They land us, and away
they float again, the two light craft moving noiselessly over the
broad river propelled by the fisherman-Finn in the bows, and in the
dim and mysterious distance we can hear the soft _crake_, _crake_ of
their reels as the lines are let out once more after having been wound
in in compliment to ourselves. Before we are out of hearing there is a
_whirr_, and we know that the phantom of one of them has found a
billet.

Then up through leafy paths to the house, with only the murmur of
water audible, but that from every side; with here a gleam and there a
gleam between the trees, and everything else silence and shady
darkness and mystery, and one's very soul feeling half numbed with the
wonder of being in such a place and at such a time.

As for the house, it is the ideal of what a fishing lodge should be,
with its racks for rods outside and in; its glorious roomy balcony
dining-room, its large central sitting-room and its half-dozen or more
of most excellent bedrooms, each commanding a more fascinating view
over trees and river than its next neighbour, and each with the
perpetual sing-song of the gentle mother Voksa to sing the tired
angler to sleep with her eternal lullaby.

And now, as C. G. most appropriately observes, a little supper. The
night and the place and the circumstances are about as full of poetry
as such things can be; my very soul seems steeped in mysticism, and
the witchery of the surroundings has made a poet of me to my very
backbone; but--well, they did not give us time to eat at Wiborg, nor
at St. Andrea, nor anywhere else, and the very word "supper" is
sufficient to send poetry to the winds and to convert the poet into
the ravening wolf until the leeway of the appetite has been made up.
Luckily there is plenty to eat and it is ready to hand. Julia, the
Finn cook, a neat, clean-looking person who cannot speak or understand
a single word of Russian or anything else but Finnish--Julia has baked
some quite delicious bread; and there is Finnish butter--none of your
"Dosset" this!--and C. G.'s baskets contain town-bought dainties of
the very best: it is pleasant to sit and enjoy such a supper with the
white gleam of the midnight Voksa visible to us wherever we choose to
peep for it between the ghostly trees that would screen it from us;
and with the soft babble of her waters for ever in our ears, as though
they were constantly telling of the wonders in trout and silver
grayling that lurk and hide from us in the secret depths beneath; as
though each wavelet had such a secret to tell us and were murmuring to
us as it passed, "Down below--just here--oh, such a trout! oh, such a
trout! Quick, or he will be off and away!"

There can be no question of sleeping this night. We must fix up our
rods and choose our phantom minnows, and go out in boats that are
phantoms also, like those ghostly fellows, J. and E. H., there, who
can be seen occasionally passing slowly across the white water in the
distance, silent, mysterious, intent upon their spinning, two
phantoms, in phantom boats and with phantom boatmen, fishing with
phantom minnows, rightly so-called--all phantoms together! What matter
if we catch anything or nothing? We must go, if it be only to steep
our souls in the wonderful silence and beauty of this July night on
the water, and to drink in the intoxicating delight and novelty of the
whole thing.

And in an hour we are there, floating on Voksa's white bosom,
propelled softly hither and thither as our boatmen think best; for
these men know where the huge silver Voksa and Saima trout most do
congregate, and the charm and wonder of the river and of the night are
nothing to them so long as some big ten or fifteen pounder can be
induced to accept the invitation our cruel blue minnows hold out to
them. These superb fish are, so far as I can make out, of three kinds.
First, great silvery fellows with bright red spots, for all the world
like overgrown brothers of the little river trout. Then there are
darker coloured fish, of a golden brown hue, with spots less brightly
accentuated, and, I think, larger heads. Of these two kinds the former
is the handsomer fish, but both are splendid specimens, and are caught
up to twenty-four pounds in weight, C. G. having taken the record in
this respect. The third specimen I saw was a fish which I should have
called a salmon, but, I believe, erroneously. The Finns have a simple
rule. To them all fish over five pounds in weight are "Lochi," salmon
(German, Lachs; Russian, Lososino). Now there are plenty of salmon in
the Neva, and therefore in Lake Ladoga also; and the reader might
suppose that, since the Voksa flows into the Ladoga, there may be
salmon in the Voksa just as well as in Ladoga itself. So there may, in
the lower parts of the river, but between Ladoga and Saima Lakes there
is a barrier, known as the Imatra Falls, which must surely be an
insurmountable obstacle to the most enterprising of salmon. The Voksa
is a broad, generous, full-flowing river, of three hundred yards in
width, which is suddenly compelled at Imatra to compress itself into a
narrow gorge of scarcely twenty yards across, and to pass through this
as best it can for a distance of a couple of hundred yards or so,
after which it is free once more to open itself out to its former
wealth of elbow-room. The reader may imagine with how much protest and
clamour the surprised and tortured waters of the proud river perform
this sudden act of self-compression. Roaring and hissing with rage,
they pile themselves mountain high in an instant, and sweep down the
moderate incline in a furious phalanx of angry wave-warriors, dashing
from one rocky side of the gorge to the other, diving, rearing,
whirling, plunging, hurling angry hisses of spray to this side and
that, and at the foot of the narrow torture-chamber standing up in
mighty water-columns and twisting round to face the rock-walls that
have confined them, as though they half thought of turning again and
rending them ere they depart once more upon their course in unimpeded
freedom and gradually regained calm and majesty. The very idea of any
salmon mounting in safety such a whirling, battling, irresistible fury
of waters as Imatra is surely outrageous. There cannot be salmon above
Imatra. The salmon-like lochi must be a salmon trout, or a lake trout,
or some one of the non-seagoing families of _Salmonidæ_.

Full as the Voksa is of fish, and hard as my friend C. G. and I
worked, both from the platforms with fly and from boat with phantoms
of every shape and size likely to attract the monsters down in the
depths beneath us, it was all in vain--or nearly in vain. We did,
indeed, catch a few fish, but nothing very large, and hardly more than
enough to keep us well supplied with toothsome, dainty fare for our
own table. We offered those fish the choicest delicacies that London
makers could produce; we tempted them with phantoms so fascinating
that one would suppose any fish of decently discriminative powers
would rise from its moist bed and come out, at night, to feed upon
them as they lay on the table within the very house. We dangled these
tempting morsels over the very spots where they were known to lie; but
for two days did these Voksa monsters sulk and turn their faces
steadfastly from us. There was thunder in the air; that, we concluded,
was the mischief; perhaps during Sunday the storm would break. We
would try them again on Monday, and meanwhile we would accept J. H.'s
hospitable invitation and drive over to spend Sunday with him at his
lovely home at Lappin-Haru (the Ridge, or the District, of the Lapps).
Those Lapps who chose this spot for their habitation showed a wise
discrimination and a taste for natural beauty of scene and site which
one would scarcely look for in that unromantic tribe. Lappin-Haru
overlooks the Voksa at one of its loveliest bends; a truly noble
river, flowing through dense forests and by the side of tidy,
cultivated fields; deep and majestic and silent at this corner, and
bursting into rippling laughter at that; a river that bears up the
swimmer as buoyantly and as securely as the sea, so strong and so full
and ample is the beautiful, bright, clear flood of it. My friend J.
H.--the representative in St. Petersburg of a family as well known and
as widely respected in Russia as it is in England--has built him a
house in this corner of the Voksa Paradise, and a splendid house it
is. And though in the very wilds of Finland, yet he is in
communication with all centres of civilisation by means of the
telephone; indeed, you can even speak to him from the island club at
Varpa-Saari, a dozen miles away; while the Imatra trains stop for
passengers within a mile of his front door. So quickly do the
enlightened Finns avail themselves of the discoveries of science that
the southern portion of their province is covered with a network of
telephones, and no one in town or country dreams of being without this
useful adjunct to civilised comfort.

Delightful indeed was it to come into a bit of England that Sunday
morning at Lappin-Haru; delightful to hear English voices and to see
English ladies and English children so far away from the madding
crowd. And so Sunday passed very delightfully; and now Monday, our
last day, has come round. I think it is at lunch this Monday afternoon
that C. G. has an inspiration.

"I am going," he says, "to drive to Imatra and telephone over to
Harraka for leave to fish there to-night." At this I laugh the laugh
of the scornful, for it is well known that Harraka is the Paradise
Lost of the English fishers, and that the present proprietors stand,
figuratively, at the gate armed with the flaming sword of jealousy in
order to keep out, with the utmost strictness, every would-be angler
in their unique and incomparable waters.

Nevertheless, C. G. insists that he will try. "Who knows?" he says. "A
kind and indulgent spirit may be animating for this day only the heart
of Count Arnoff!" (which is not the proprietor's real name); "and,
after all, he can but refuse."

This last proposition is so evidently true that I scoff no more, but
allow my sanguine C. G. to proceed upon his way, though secretly
remaining of the opinion that Count Arnoff would sooner perish than
allow us upon his sacred waters.

Now, C. G. is undoubtedly personally fascinating, but how he contrived
to exercise his fascination through the telephone I really cannot
imagine; yet it is certain that he returned home in a very short time,
and that, as I could see by the sunshine of his countenance long
before the boat bore him to the landing stage on the island, where I
awaited him, he had been successful. The Count himself was away, but
his steward had taken upon himself to grant C. G.'s request for an
evening's fishing, and this very night was to see us afloat in the
magic basin of Harraka. Paradise was to be regained, for one night
only!

Oh! the care with which we dried and attended to our lines and reels;
the loving discrimination with which we looked over phantom and totnes
and whisky-bobbie, and selected the most fascinating that our tin
reservoirs could supply. Oh! the anxiety with which we watched the
weather during the afternoon, and the deep satisfaction with which we
noted that all things tended towards the development of a fine fishing
evening.

Then we took boat, at about eight o'clock, and rowed across to a spot
where a trap awaited us--and such a trap!--and drove away through the
drooping day towards the Count's wonderful water. The trap was a
square iron cage on wheels, and the road--when it left the main track
and branched off into the pine forest which jealously guards the upper
reaches of the Voksa--was not a road at all, but a series of terrible
abysses with no bottom excepting the native rock, which is granite in
those parts, and painful to jolt against. Had the Count so arranged
matters in order to keep intruders from his sacred precincts? We, at
all events, were not deterred from pressing forward, and oh! the sight
that rewarded us--a sight I shall never forget, and such as I had
never thought to see. Try to picture it. When we reached Harraka and
the basin or ante-room between Saima Lake and Voksa opened out before
us, the entire surface of that basin of a third of a mile diameter was
boiling and seething, and positively alive with leaping, gambolling
monsters, so that it looked for all the world as though a shower of
gigantic, long-shaped hailstones were falling over the entire surface
of the water. There was not a square yard of the whole within which,
if you watched it for a second or two, you would not see a mighty
trout jump. Had it been possible to suddenly intercept a huge net
between air and water you would have caught a million.

Even C. G., who has fished this marvellous basin in olden days, before
Paradise was lost, has never seen anything like this. Our fingers, as
we put up our rods, tremble with the mere excitement of seeing such a
sight; we can hardly frame words of wonder and admiration. The feeling
is almost awe----

But the two Finnish fishermen appointed to row us about shake their
heads discouragingly. When the fish are playing in this way, they give
us to understand, they will not take the bait. They are, it appears,
not feeding at all, but merely enjoying life, and endeavouring to rid
themselves of certain parasites which cling to them at this season.
Probably in an hour or two they will feed. This is discouraging, but
we intend to try all the same.

And for an hour we slowly float up and down and across the little
lagoon, and the monster fish leap and play all round us, so that we
might, if we pleased, touch them with our hands; they almost jump into
the very boat at our feet, but neither minnow, nor fly, nor
whisky-bobbie will tempt them.

We must leave the place at midnight, alas! for the Count's huge
establishment--he has built a palace in this once beautiful place,
beautiful in the fullest loveliness of prodigal nature--the Count's
many servants and officers and stewards and clerks will not retire
until we depart, and we cannot decently keep them all up later than
twelve. Nevertheless, we will rest for half-an-hour, no more, and then
try again for an hour or three-quarters of an hour; perhaps we may yet
tempt at least one of these million monsters from his element. At
present it is too tantalising to bear; we must turn our backs upon the
seething basin and walk inland for the half-hour of enforced
idleness--and then----

C. G. tells me that his fisherman has recognised him as an old friend,
and declares that he, C. G., in the old club days, gave him, Mikki, a
pair of trousers. C. G. does not remember the circumstance, but feels
that the trousers were garments well bestowed, for Mikki will
certainly take him to the best places by virtue of the gift. Cast your
bread, says C. G., upon the waters, or in other words, freely
distribute old pairs of trousers, and you shall reap the benefit of
your liberality after many days.

Then we returned and settled ourselves once more in our luxurious,
red-velvet cushioned boats, selected our biggest and most fascinating
phantoms, and started. It was now past eleven o'clock. The fish had
nearly finished their tantalising antics at the surface and had
disappeared into the secret depths; the swirling water was scarcely
broken by a single leaping monster. Night had fallen at last: it was
as still, as silent, as mysterious, as bewitching as a dream-river.
You could hear the roar and turmoil of the Voksa breaking away in
rapids at the far end of the basin, but here in the smooth water there
was no sound--only a strong, silent draw of deep current towards the
place where lake and river parted. Where were the fish? What had
become of the thousands of sportive giants of half-an-hour ago? I
tried to imagine them at the bottom, each lying behind stone or
snag--lying with moving gill and bright silver body waving in the
current, on the look-out for prey. Did they watch my blue phantom as
it passed, and half rush out at it, but hold back at the last moment,
noticing something which aroused suspicion in the cut of tail, or
fin, or red marks on the white belly? There is something fearfully
sacrilegious about all this. How dare I float with impunity out
here, at night, above these millions of scaly beings, intent on
their destruction and fearing nothing for myself? What about the
water-spirits--the _Vodyannui_ of Sclavonic folklore? This is
their own place: it is probably a sacred retreat of theirs. At any
moment they might----

Away go thoughts of water-folk and of everything else, for there is a
great jerk. My heart goes off at a hand gallop; my rod instinctively
stands upright. Fifty yards away there is a rush and the sudden flash
of a silver streak of light--I lower the point for an instant, an act
of courtesy always to be paid to a leaping fish--then there is a whirr
and a few moments of delirious, delicious agitation. Yohann, my man,
is making for the land where the Count has built him a wonderful
granite embankment for the convenient landing of fish; we reach it and
I step out; but my captive has not the smallest intention of giving in
yet; he is closer in now, but repeatedly he bolts away and increases
the distance again. Suddenly I perceive that C. G. is beside me: he,
too, is playing a fish--a big one he tells me. It is a race who will
requisition the huge landing-net first. Up and down the embankment we
go, and the fish are leaping and struggling close in now; but C. G.
gets his home first, a beauty of nearly twenty pounds; and mine, tired
out, is ready to be landed as soon as the net is free. A truly lovely
fish, too, but smaller than his by several pounds--no time to weigh
either of them now.

Back we go, and in three minutes both are on land once more, and each
is busy in the deliriously fascinating occupation of battling with
another giant. Oh! this is life indeed. Better half-an-hour of Harraka
than a cycle of Cathay! Quick, C. G.; land your fish and give me the
net, and let us both start again; this is too splendid to waste a
minute!

And again we put forth our fatal phantoms, and two more beauties are
presently transferred from the secret places of this wonder-tank to
the hot granite of the Count's quay--and then, alas! it is midnight,
and we must go. Seventy-five pounds, in six fish, in little more than
half-an-hour; it is good enough, C. G. Furthermore, we are the richer
by more than these mere seventy-five pounds of trout-flesh, for we
have seen a great sight to-night; we have been in Paradise; we have
burst, this day, into the secret places of the trout people, the very
sanctuary and central rendezvous of the tribe.

What should we have caught had we been able to continue our fishing on
that marvellous night? Who can tell? If the fish are on the feed,
really on the feed, in that wonderful basin, I believe you might catch
any number while the appetite of the community lasted; there is no
lack of them. No possible amount of angling could produce the smallest
visible effect upon the numbers of the thousands we saw that night,
when the basin boiled and splashed again with the play of them. A
paradise indeed for anglers is this Finland paradise of the Voksa,
and, alas! a paradise lost.



CHAPTER V

AFTER DUCKS ON LADOGA


Once upon a time when Autumn was holding sway, and Winter was within
hail, a Russian friend, knowing my weakness for making acquaintance
with every kind of creature to be seen in the Land of the Tsars, very
kindly proposed to me to journey with him up the Neva to
Schlüsselburg, or near it, where he owned a large house and much land;
and there to embark in his steam-launch for a duck-shooting cruise on
Lake Ladoga.

Duck-shooting from a steam-launch! This would be quite a novel
experience to me, and I jumped gladly at the proposal. But how were we
going to get within range of ducks in a puffing and smoking
steam-launch? I asked. Were they tame ducks?

"Tame ducks!" repeated my outraged host; "no, indeed; on the contrary,
the ducks on Ladoga are the very wildest things in creation."

"Then how are we going to get at them in the open?" I persisted, with
true British pertinacity. But my host only said, "Wait and see." His
manner was full of conviction; it was impossible to doubt his good
faith; clearly he was the proprietor of a secret, which, in time, I
too should learn! Delightful! I am for it; I shall see that there is
something new under heaven!

My friend Prohoroff is a capital fellow and a good sportsman. I have
shot with him over moor and forest more than once, and found him
possessed of a chivalrous generosity and sportsmanlike nature rare
among the so-called sportsmen of his country. Prohoroff has a soul
above family pot-shots at young coveys huddled beneath their mother's
wing; he would scorn to break the egg of a grey hen in order to add
its unfledged contents to that of his game-bag; that is not
Prohoroff's style, which is robust, and broad, and British. He lets
his birds fly, does Prohoroff, and misses them like a man; moreover,
he does not encourage his dog to catch the young game. Prohoroff has
rubbed shoulders with Britishers, and has eaten of the tree of the
knowledge of good and evil in matters appertaining to fair dealing
between man and the brute creation. I shall be quite safe in
Prohoroff's hands.

From St. Petersburg to Schlüsselburg, up the Neva, is a trip of some
six or seven hours by the deliberate steamer in which the journey is
made; it is, after all, the whole length of the Neva, from source to
sea. And a beautiful river it is, as far as the stream itself is
concerned. But the banks are the reverse of interesting. Flat and
dull, with here a belt of pine forest, and there a tumble-down
village--all Russian villages present a tumble-down appearance--and
stubble and potatoes and waste land: there is not much to look at, and
no towns of any size and importance are passed. But the water is
beautiful--clear and white, and, at this season--early October--well
stocked with salmon on the wander between lake and sea. These may be
caught, rarely, with a minnow, _one_ has been taken with a fly, I
have heard, but only one in the memory of man. For the rest, the
fishermen who ply for them with big nets worked by a windlass from
wooden jetties, appear to make good hauls, and the quality of the fish
is excellent. I should dearly love to stop and have a cast or two for
one of them; but this is impossible. Prohoroff tells me that one of
the favourite pastimes of St. Petersburgers, with a taste for gentle
gambling, is to be conveyed out to one of these fishing stations, and
to speculate in "hauls" before the event. The cost of a "haul" about
to be made and of course absolutely fortuitous as to its results, is
from three to five roubles--six to ten shillings. The speculator may
find himself possessor of salmon enough, as the result of but one
cast, to feed a regiment for a week, or--if not one of the favoured of
Fortune--may purchase a dozen "hauls" of the net and go away
empty-handed. If so, he is sure to see, as he floats dejectedly away,
a vast quantity of fish landed at the very next haul after his
departure; he will see their silver sides gleaming in the sun from a
distance, and he will give his opinion as to the reliability of the
goddess who holds the scales.

But here we are at Schlüsselburg, and here is Prohoroff's house--a
huge, rambling structure with bedrooms like barracks, but unprovided
with the commonest of comforts, excepting beds, and having no
apparatus for washing. Russians are quite free from that insular
faddiness as to cold water which is a characteristic of us Britishers;
they see no necessity for, and no virtue in, a washing-stand. As for
a cold bath--_proh pudor_! What a dirty race they must be, think
the Muscovites, who require a bath every morning! There was once a
_savant_ who gave the following definition of water: "A colourless
liquid which turns black when the human hands are placed in it." Was
this learned man a joker? I cannot think a _savant_ would so demean
himself; he must have been of Russian extraction and perfectly
serious. However, I have lived long enough to learn the virtue of the
saying, "_À la guerre, comme à la guerre!_" Therefore, in a foreign
land, and in a strange house, when there are no facilities for
washing, I philosophically go unwashed until an opportunity offers to
repair the omission. So I went to bed and wished for day.

In the morning a servant brought in a brown pudding dish and a tumbler
of water. I sat down, in order to reflect calmly upon the possible
uses of these articles. Was I expected to seat myself in the dish and
pour the contents of the tumbler over me? I rejected the idea.
Eventually I placed the pudding dish upon a chair, armed myself with
the tumbler--and, by rigid economy, and the exercise of superhuman
patience, succeeded in getting my face and neck wet and the palms of
both hands damp. Enough; I am washed--now for breakfast and the ducks
of Ladoga!

When we sallied forth to embark upon the steam-launch and arrived at
the water's edge, I did not see the vessel, and inquired of Prohoroff
where it was. This was my good host's moment of triumph. "Why, there,
just in front of your nose!" he said, laughing loudly and delightedly;
"can't you see it?" He pointed to what I had imagined was a grove of
young pine cover fringing a small island or promontory. Then I
understood the mystery, and was glad that good-natured Prohoroff had
succeeded so well in bringing off his great surprise. It was indeed
the steam-launch; but so covered and hidden by pine boughs, and small
pine trees fastened to the boat's side upright from the water's edge,
that it really looked, as I have intimated, for all the world like a
pine-grown island. Undoubtedly it was well done, and the ducks might
easily be deluded by it, even as I had been.

The skipper and the engineer were both aboard, grinning with delight
from behind the cover. My host's successful deception was regarded by
them as a compliment to themselves, for they had built up the
fir-grove; consequently their joy was unfeigned. These good fellows
were armed with old muzzle-loading English guns, always capped and at
full cock, and always held aimed, it seemed, at my head; Prohoroff and
I had our more modern weapons and lots of cartridges; the party meant
business!

Steam was up, however, and we must lose no more time, but be off
towards the lake. Past the old Swedish castle we glide and the English
cotton mills, and now we are in Ladoga, and hastening, a moving
island, towards the middle of the great lake, to the waters wherein
the big ducks most do congregate. Very soon Prohoroff sights the first
duck community--a hundred of them--peacefully floating and diving a
quarter of a mile away. "Ease her!" is the word; then, "Easy ahead;"
and slowly and cautiously we glide forward towards our hitherto
unsuspecting quarry. It is an exciting moment. I do not know the name
of this duck now before us; but he is a huge black fellow, a diver,
with white feathers in his wings. And now two hundred yards have been
covered, and still we creep on unobserved. Then a very old duck lifts
her head and looks at us. "My dears," says she, "did you notice an
island about here? I didn't." One or two younger members of the family
glance casually at us, their mouths full of food. One says the island
has been there all the time; the other rudely enquires who on earth
cares whether the old lady noticed the island or not; the island is
certainly there now!

After this, the old lady settles down to her usual morning avocations,
until the island is within a hundred yards, or less, of the party.
Then she gives us another and a longer look--her neck very straight
and long, and her face at right angles to our advance--the one eye
which is thus deputed to scan us looking concerned and agitated. "I'll
tell you what it is, my dears," says she, "I don't like that island;
the current is setting the other way, and yet we are nearer to it than
we were. I'm off, for one!" and in the twinkling of an eye her black
head has dipped beneath the surface; her white-flecked tail for an
instant shows itself, then disappears, and Grandmother Duck is next
seen fifty yards further away. Fortunately for us, her example is
followed by one or two very old stagers only--perhaps they have seen
this game played before; but the youngsters are not going to listen to
the fears and fancies of the old fogies. What youngster ever did?
Consequently, in another minute, judgment, swift and sure, has
overtaken them. Four barrelsful of flame and lead belch out upon them
as they float, two more as they rise, and seven or eight young
unbelievers are lying dead upon the water, or endeavouring madly,
broken winged and in touch with grim death, to dive out of range. All
are picked up, by degrees. Meanwhile, the community is wheeling around
over our heads high in air; they see us now, plainly enough, ensconced
behind our pine-tree ambuscade, and are forming their own conclusions
as to the morality of our proceedings. Having settled this point, and,
we trust, complimented the old lady, their grandmother, upon her
sagacity, they fly away, and are no more seen. They will exercise a
wise caution with regard to islands henceforth.

And so the day passes; with each duck community it is the same tale.
There are a few wise ducks and many unwise, and the deck of our launch
is strewn with the bodies of these latter; great northern divers--who
look as though no foolishness could possibly, under any circumstances,
find napping that stern wisdom which sits for ever in the expression
of their most serious countenances--and divers and ducks of every sort
and kind, and to which my unlearned pen can give no certain names.
Some of these proved very delicious when they afterwards made their
positively last appearance in public; some were very much the reverse,
though that sporting skipper and the cannonading engineer (who once
nearly blew my head off in the excitement of the chase!) liked them
all equally well. And so ended what was, to me, a novel and delightful
experience. It was one of many days to which my soul cries out
"encore!" and cries in vain, for Destiny says, "Oh no! your cake is
eaten! you must wait your chance at next baking day!"



CHAPTER VI

ABOUT BEARS: BY ONE OF THEM


I

I come of what those conceited creatures, the humans, would probably
call humble parentage. In other words, I belong to the great Ursine
family: I am a bear. I may as well say at once, in order that there
may be no misunderstandings between the humans and myself, in case my
life story should ever come into their hands, that I do not in the
slightest degree share their opinion as to the relative position in
the scale of existence occupied respectively by them and by me.
Indeed, if they will excuse my saying so, in my humble judgment I am
at least as good as they are, and perhaps a little better. For
instance, to compare us physically, I am taller than many, and
broader, stronger, braver, fleeter, more majestic than the best of
them. A human is a mere toy in my hands, as I have proved over and
over again--why, there was old Ivan the keeper, only last month,
he--but I am digressing. Ha ha! I can't help laughing, though, when I
recall poor Ivan's face as I hugged him--my! how his tongue did stick
out!

Again, if we are compared intellectually, I very much doubt whether
we bears are so inferior as my friends the humans suppose. We do not
talk their language--true! but, do they talk ours? I think not. On
the other hand, we _understand_ theirs--while they are ignorant
altogether of ours!

As for their sciences, their education, their 'ologies (which they
think so much of), their arts, their wars, their politics, their
freedom--freedom! ha ha! it is not _our_ notion of freedom!--do all
these things render them the happier? What has all this "civilisation,"
so called, done for them? Are they freer than I am? Do they get more
to eat and drink, and pay less for their victuals?

Well, well! I must not continue in this strain, airing my pet ideas
instead of proceeding with what I intended to be a mere record of my
own personal career; I could say much in support of the opinion
expressed at the beginning of this chapter: namely, that we bears are
just as good, if not a little better, than the human race; but then,
after all, I shall never succeed in convincing the conceited--the
_most_ conceited of all creatures--man, of his inferiority: as for
my ursine readers;--well, we know what we know!

My earliest recollections are among the most painful of all those
scenes of my life which have impressed themselves upon my memory; for
they are connected with the murder of my dear mother--the base and
barbarous murder of as good and indulgent a mother as ever brought
into the world and nourished a promising little Bruin family, for
such, I think, my small brothers and sisters and I may fairly be
called. I will record the shocking circumstances of our great domestic
tragedy exactly as they occurred. My earliest recollections are of
life in a dark and confined space in which my two brothers and my two
sisters and I had but little room for our juvenile recreations. I
remember a dear old mother who divided her time in sleeping, and
admonishing and educating us. We were born in this place, she told us;
it was called a "_berloga_," and was the den she had prepared for
herself as a shelter during the long months of a cold and cruel
Russian winter. It was not cold inside this den of ours, on the
contrary it was very warm indeed. We had been born in December, and
between that month and March we had had plenty of time to grow--we
little ones--so that the _berloga_, which had been amply large
enough for my mother alone, had become what I may describe as a tight
fit for the six of us. It was lucky, mother used to say, that father
was not with us at the time. He was away--she did not seem to know
where, exactly, but she had arranged to meet him near a certain
village, whose name she mentioned, some time in spring. I remember our
mother used often to say, "_Do_ let me go to sleep now, my dears;
when you are older you will understand how difficult it is to keep
awake in the winter time after the fatigues of a long season!" and,
indeed, the good soul used frequently to fall fast asleep in the very
midst of our lesson time--much to our joy, for we were always ready
for a game of romps in that heyday time of childhood. Mother would
have slept the whole winter but for us brats, she used to tell us!
Well, one day about the end of March, when the other children and I
were busily engaged in rolling over one another, and pretending to
worry each other's ears, which was a favourite game of ours, we heard
a terrible noise outside. Up to this time we had never heard any sound
at all excepting such as we made ourselves. There were shouts and
barking of dogs, and a creature--whom I afterwards discovered to be a
human--was knocking at the sides of our house with a long pole--we
could see all this through a small peephole which we kept open. We
also saw other human creatures standing near. These last held in their
hands steel sticks clubbed at one end, and were looking straight into
the mouth of the den. Mother was fast asleep and we were obliged to
awake her, for we felt alarmed at the aspect of these human creatures,
puny beings though they seemed when compared with our beloved parent,
who was so very much larger and stronger than they.

Mother started up and rubbed her eyes: "What is it, you tiresome
children?" she asked. Just at this moment she caught sight of the man
who, with his pole, was pushing and striking at the snowed-up mouth of
the _berloga_. Immediately mother's face and form changed. I had
never seen her look as she now did. Her beautiful brown coat stood out
and her ears went back. Red blood came into her eyes, and her claws
stretched out to their full length. She growled savagely, and for a
moment or two glared at the human disturber of her peace as though she
would every instant rush out and tear him limb from limb. At last she
spoke to us: "Children," she said, "we are in great danger, and I know
not what best to do: you are so young to take care of yourselves!"

"Take care of ourselves, mother?" we said--"what do you mean! you are
not going to leave us?"

"Not if I can help it, dears," said my mother, licking and caressing
us each in turn, as she spoke: "but do you see the sticks which yonder
men hold in their hands? those are called guns; they are terrible
things, and spit fire and smoke at us bears. But for them, I should
fall upon these human miscreants and we should sup upon their
flesh--which is very good eating, and some bears prefer it to a
vegetable diet. As it is, I shall spring first at this man with the
pole--he cannot hurt me. Then I shall attack the others; but, dear
children, it is very dangerous, for the contest is unequal; those
fire-sticks may kill me before I reach them. If they do, you must all
stay as still as mice in here--perhaps they will not see you. Should
they see you, you must run for it; keep behind the trees, and don't
run across the snow patches, of which there are still some about, for
that will leaves traces of the direction you have taken, and you may
be followed. If you escape, find some lair for yourselves and keep
together for warmth. Eat what you can find. And now, dear children, we
must part: if I escape with my life I shall soon return and find you;
if not, good-bye--don't forget your mother and all her advice!"

With these words our dear mother suddenly sprang out of the _berloga_,
and in an instant had knocked down the human who was the nearest to
us--him with the pole. Then without waiting a second she hurled
herself upon the other two creatures, those which held the
fire-sticks, or guns. Instantly there was a terrific noise, like a
clap of thunder, but shorter and louder; followed by a second and a
third. But mother had reached the nearer of the two humans and had
risen on her hind feet with such a roar that even we, her children,
were startled and frightened. She seemed to reach and claw at him--oh!
how majestic and grand she looked compared with her puny antagonist.
Then she and he fell over together, and I saw the second creature
point his fire-stick at them as they rolled on the ground; it spat out
its fire again, and mother rose and disappeared among the trees! Dear,
brave mother! what a glorious fight she made of it--and she had
escaped after all, then! good, brave mother! Very soon we saw the
pole-man rise and rub his head, and he and the third man creature went
together to look at the second, who was lying as mother had left him,
upon the ground. They did not seem to be able to mend him, however,
for he still lay on and took no notice of them. But all this time a
horrid little white creature who was with them, a thing called a dog,
had been poking around our den with its tail tucked tightly between
its hind legs--an ugly and silly habit of these creatures when they
feel alarmed. He was sniffing about the mouth of the lair, and
suddenly--entering a foot or two further than he had ventured
before--caught sight of one of my sisters. He instantly turned and
ran out of the _berloga_ as fast as he could lay his wretched thin
legs to the ground, barking and yelping, and my silly little sister,
unable to resist the temptation, must needs run after him. Immediately
there was another explosion from the man with the fire-stick, and poor
little Katia, my sister, rolled over and over and then lay quite
still--dead; murdered!

"Here! Ivan!" cried the man, "go into the _berloga_ and see if
there are more of the little brutes--try and catch one or two alive
for the Zoo!"

It was all up! Ivan came blundering into our house, groping about with
his hands, for it was too dark to see anything. We all lay still, for
we were too small to hurt him, and we hoped to escape. But his hand
came in contact with little Mishka's coat and Ivan held on tight, in
spite of poor Mishka's struggles and snarls and bites. The rest of us,
not wishing to lose our freedom, rushed out of the lair, leaving
Mishka in Ivan's hands, a captive. As we darted out and made for the
shelter of the trees, remembering mother's advice, the dreadful
fire-stick spat out its fire and smoke at us, but none of us were hurt
by it, and Vainka, Natasha, and I got safely away and huddled
ourselves together inside the trunk of an old dead pine tree. Here we
stayed for hours, not daring to move for fear of being found by the
cruel humans and their fire-sticks. When it began to grow dark we
ventured out and crept back to the _berloga_. There was no sign
of the humans; poor dead Katia had been taken away and little prisoner
Mishka also; but where was mother? We wandered about calling for her
in all directions; at last--just as we were giving up the search for
the night--Natasha heard a sound which she said she was sure was our
dear mother crying. Then we all listened and heard it, and proceeding
in the direction from which it seemed to come, we found poor dear
mother lying stretched upon the ground, bleeding and weak. She had
three horrible wounds, all given by those detestable fire-spitting
sticks called guns, and her life-blood was fast oozing from them.

"I am dying, my children," she said--"are you all safe?" She looked
around at us, with her poor glazing eyes, and noticed that some were
missing.

"Where are Katia and Mishka?" she asked. We were obliged to tell the
sad truth.

Again we saw that dreadful look of savage hatred come over mother's
face. For a few moments she could say nothing; then at last she
muttered:

"Promise me, children, that throughout your lives you will hate and
fight mankind, wherever you meet his detested offspring! promise me
this, and I shall die happy!"

We all promised faithfully to do as she wished. These were dear
mother's last words to us, and a few moments later she died and her
soul flew away to those happy hunting-grounds where, as we bears are
taught to believe, it is our part to handle the fire-sticks, and that
of the human beings to be hunted!

Thus we lost our dear mother, together with a small sister and brother
whom we could better spare. Considering the circumstances of our
deprivation, by means of the foulest murder, of a parent's care and
authority, and of our last promise to a beloved and dying mother, is
it to be wondered at that I can never cherish any other feeling
towards that arch-enemy of my family--_man_, than hatred, and that of
the deepest? My brother Mishka, from whom I hear occasionally, in a
manner utterly unsuspected by his "Keepers" in the Zoological Gardens
at St. Petersburg, frequently does his best to persuade me to modify
my opinion of and conduct towards mankind. He says the humans are not
nearly so bad as one thinks, and that he has a very good time in his
perpetual _berloga_ (from which the poor fellow cannot escape), and
gets plenty of victuals of the best quality. He says he likes children
the best--they are so very generous with their buns and cakes. Ha ha!
I agree with him about the youngsters! I like the children best, too!
they are so deliciously tender and flaky. I have enjoyed several, and
sincerely hope I have not tasted my last.

But I must proceed with my narrative. This then was to be the pivot
upon which my future career was to turn: hatred of and animosity
towards the human race. If I could at any time injure their persons or
damage their property it should be done; I had vowed it; that very
night as we three children lay huddled and trembling, poor orphans of
a murdered mother, within our desolate _berloga_, we all vowed it. Man
was henceforth our enemy.

We were all reduced to great straits just at this time, for a living.
Poor little creatures that we were, it puzzles me now, when I think of
it, how we managed to pull through that dreadful period. The fact of
the matter is, we were obliged to eat all sorts of things which we
should otherwise have left alone; it was now April, and we contrived
to live upon the young leaves and grass blades and shoots of various
trees and bushes, together with--I blush to record it--field-mice,
squirrels, an occasional hare, and sometimes a partridge or grey hen,
when one could be found obligingly sitting on a nestful of eggs and
dreaming of the joys of maternity. We ate the eggs also.

So we dragged along until July came. But each day life became easier
and more enjoyable, for the rye and oats soon began to grow tall in
the fields surrounding the villages; the bees were up and about, and
furnished us with the perfectly delicious results of their labours;
and the woods gradually filled themselves with berries and luxuries of
all sorts. When the oats were ripe we fared magnificently.

One day we met a splendid specimen of our family whom we soon
discovered to be none other than our father--the consort of our dear
mother, now deceased. He received us fairly well; but my veneration
for the paternal relative suffered a rude shock when he informed my
brother and sister and myself that, with every desire to be a good
father to us, he could not permit us to trespass upon a certain
oat-field which he declared did not contain any more than he
absolutely required for his own subsistence. He made some sympathetic
remarks as to mother's death, with his mouth full of delicious ripe
oats, and then bade farewell of us (meaning _us_ to go--he evidently
had no intention of leaving the field!), remarking, cordially enough,
that he would always be glad to see us, and to hear of any favourable
feeding-grounds we might come across, if large enough for all, "but
never mind your old father if rations are scarce!" he added. I never
saw my parent again. Very shortly after the day upon which he warned
us off that oat-field, which--by the way--_we_ had discovered, he
actually permitted himself to be driven away from its precincts by a
mere peasant-human armed with an axe. I fancy my father must be a very
inferior person compared with my good brave mother. _She_ would have
behaved very differently towards that peasant--we should undoubtedly
have had him for supper: oats, peasant, and honey; a supper of three
courses fit for the gods. But for a member of the family of Ursidæ to
be ignominiously chased away from an oat-field by a peasant--oh! dear
me--disgraceful! disgraceful!


II

Well, it was a grand time for us, that first summer. How we grew and
fattened! By the early part of the autumn, we were really quite
respectable-sized members of the community. About this time we lost
our brother Vainka. It was an exciting thing, rather, and I will note
down the story in full. It was like this.

We were all three busily engaged in breakfasting among the tall stems
of a rye-field, near a village, when we observed several human
children playing about in an adjoining belt of pasture-land. There
were no grown men present, so far as we were aware, and we determined
to amuse ourselves, and at the same time to piously observe the
injunctions of our dear mother deceased, by doing our best to frighten
the brats out of their wits, and, if possible, injure them besides; we
were too small, as yet, to do them any very serious harm; in fact,
they were rather bigger, I think, than we.

So we crept towards them, hidden from view by the beautiful thick
rye-stalks, until we were close to the edge of the pasture-field.
Then, at a signal from Natasha, we all three pounced out upon them,
growling and open-mouthed. Oh dear, oh dear! it was a funny sight to
see those children! The silly creatures were too startled to move
until we were upon them. They stood staring and shrieking, with eyes
and mouth open, and turned to run only when it was too late. How we
laughed as we rolled them over and over in the grass and scratched
their faces, and tore their dresses off their backs! and how they
screamed! The whole population of the village rushed out to see what
all the noise was about, big men and women with axes and long things
called scythes, and then we thought it was time to retire among our
rye-stalks. There we hid ourselves and laughed, and ate the delicious
cool, juicy grasses, and the luscious rye-grains, until we could eat
and laugh no more, and determined to make a move into the woods, in
order to have a good drink in a moss pool we knew of and then lie down
a bit and sleep off the excitement. But to our horror we found that
those mean wretches, the humans belonging to the village, were waiting
for us outside the cover. They had sneaked up and surrounded us, and
were sitting silently all along the edge of the field, armed with
their axes and scythes and nets; luckily they had no fire-sticks!

Well, Vainka was, as it happened, the first to step out from among
the rye-stalks, and he was immediately confronted by two women and a
man who ran after him--one getting in front and one on each side.
While they were busy with him, however, Natasha and I escaped
unnoticed and were able to watch the pursuit of poor Vainka from a
position of safety. One of the women had a crawfish net with a long
wooden handle. This creature kept calling to the others, "Don't kill
him, don't kill him! we'll take him alive!" The others seemed to
agree, for they closed in upon poor little Vainka and placed the
crawfish net tightly over his head and face, so that, though he fought
fiercely and bravely for liberty, he was quite powerless to hurt them.
Then they led him away to the village and we saw him no more.

I have seen him often since, however, for his "master" (!) still lives
in this village and brings him down from town at certain seasons.
Vainka goes to town (St. Petersburg) in order to amuse the people by
dancing on his hind legs, pretending to wrestle with his master, and
other foolery, and with--I blush to record it--with a ring through his
nostrils, to which a chain is attached. Poor dear old Vainka--his
spirit is completely broken; he has actually learned to tolerate
human-kind, and declares that they only require to be known in order
to be appreciated, and that he does not think he could exist now
without the applause which his performances call forth from the vulgar
brutes of humans who have degraded him. Ugh! it is shameful! He has
twice escaped from the village and joined me--but I will, I think,
relate these episodes in full, in their proper place in this
narrative; for my ursine friends may learn much by a careful
consideration of the events, and I should not like to deprive them of
the advantage of considering this matter in the light of a thorough
and intimate knowledge of the circumstances. Meanwhile, I must relate
the sad story of how Natasha and I separated--after, alas! a quarrel.
It was after our first winter alone--without mother and the rest, I
mean. Natasha and I spent that winter together, in one _berloga_,
for warmth. It was a very uneventful time, for we were not disturbed
from November to April, and slept steadily on through all those
months. It was then that we realised how dreadfully we must have
worried poor dear mother in the preceding year by keeping her awake
during that long period when we bears feel as though it were
impossible, whatever happened, to rouse ourselves, and would almost
sooner die than move. But to continue: when spring came and we sallied
forth from our winter quarters, we were both so hungry that positively
we could almost have eaten one another. Just outside a village close
by, as we were prowling around, hoping to find some sort of food,
Natasha taking one side of the village and I the other, I had made my
half round without success and was awaiting my sister with some degree
of impatience, when I saw a dog issue from one of the huts and trot
away across a field. The next instant I heard a yelping and observed
Natasha in full pursuit, and scarcely a yard away from the dog's tail.
Then they both disappeared behind a hedge, and for a moment the
yelping was redoubled, and then ceased altogether. I hurried along to
join and congratulate Natasha, as well as to take my share in a dinner
which I felt that I required very badly, when suddenly I met Natasha
returning.

"Well, where's the dog?" I said--feeling, I know not why, a strange
sinking at the heart.

"What dog?" said Natasha, drooping her head a little and averting her
face.

"Why, the dog you were hunting a moment ago!" I said.

"Oh, it escaped," said Natasha, who had some whitish fur, which was
not her own, sticking to the corner of her mouth.

"Oh--you _nearly_ caught it, I see!" said I.

"Yes, I very nearly caught it," said my sister, her voice dying away
to nothing at the end of the sentence.

Well--I believed her, for we had never, as yet, deceived one another
to any great extent.

Half an hour afterwards, as we were roaming the woods looking for
something solid to eat, I suddenly missed Natasha. I called for her
and searched the wood, but all in vain. I therefore left the forest
and retraced my steps towards the open fields close, to the village.
There, after considerable hunting and much waste of time and temper, I
at last came upon my sister, who was just polishing off the last
remnants of the carcase of a dog. I fell upon her without a word, for
she had deceived me and was unworthy of courtesy at my hands. Up to
this time I had always been polite and kind and--in its best
sense--brotherly towards Natasha; therefore she was astonished and
indignant when I attacked her. I must confess I punished her savagely,
for I was very angry and very hungry as well; indeed, I did not leave
her alone until I had pretty nearly worried the breath out of her
body. When she picked herself up from the grass she made off
immediately, without making any remark either of abuse or excuse, and,
as I have never set eyes on her since that morning, I conclude that
she emigrated to a distant part of the country. I cannot say I was
sorry, for I should never have regained that confidence in her which
her deceitful conduct on this occasion entirely destroyed, and the
relations between us would have been so strained as to render life
unpleasant.

So there was an end of family life for me--as a bachelor, of course.
My father--well, the less said about my poor old selfish pater, the
better. My mother, bless her, dead; my sister Katia dead also; Mishka
and Vainka both prisoners, one at the Zoo, in St. Petersburg, the
other in a village not far away from my own domain; and Natasha, as I
have explained, an exile--a discredited fugitive from her native
woods!

Soon after Natasha's disappearance, however, at least in the autumn of
the same year, just before I had chosen the spot in which I should
winter, something happened which filled me with true joy and
thankfulness: for I have a tender heart in spite of what I have just
recorded of my conduct towards Natasha.

I was wandering about the forest feeling very weary, and longing for
the first fall of snow to herald in the approaching winter and allow
of my retiring for the season. Hearing a noise behind me--a puffing,
grunting noise which seemed to indicate the presence of one of my own
species,--I turned quickly round to see who this could possibly be;
and, if a stranger, to warn him that he was trespassing upon land
which already belonged to me by the sacred rights summed up in the
ancient Roman law which all bears excepting extremely large ones still
recognise as binding: "_beati possidentes_." What was my delight
to see my dear old brother Vainka puffing and blowing after me as fast
as his poor old legs and lungs--both sadly out of condition,--could
bring him. He had a ring through his nose, and from this there dangled
a piece of chain, and from the end of the chain a torn portion of a
halter.

We rushed towards one another:

"Why, Vainka!" I exclaimed: "where in fortune's name do _you_ come
from, and how did you escape?"

"It's a long story!" said Vainka--"never mind the details--here I am!
I bit through the rope, as you see, and escaped from the barn at night
by breaking down the door: now let's have some food! when we are in
the _berloga_, which I suppose will be to-morrow--I hope so, for
I'm dead tired" (here he yawned twice and I followed suit)--"I'll tell
you all about it."

I gave him a capital dinner considering the time of year, including
some honey--of which I knew of a good store, and showed him the spot I
had chosen for the _berloga_, which he quite approved of.

During the course of conversation, Vainka informed me that he had
grown quite fond of his "master," and would not care to do him an
injury; but at the same time he wished to mention that there were six
young sheep grazing in the field behind the house he (Vainka)
inhabited, and that he should imagine these sheep would make a
delightful meal for any one liking mutton. Personally, he said, he
would rather not touch them, and he hoped, for his master's sake, that
no one else would; but that they were in such and such a field, and
the humans never left the house before 6 A.M. A really good feed, he
remarked, was considered by some people to be an advantage just before
retiring for a sleep of several months.

He was perfectly right. Those young sheep were quite delicious; and
while we gaily consumed them for dinner next day old Vainka gave me
many hints as to the exact disposal, by humans, of their time,--hints
which have ever since been extremely useful to me in various ways. Did
I mention that Vainka consumed his share of the two sheep which found
their way to our larder? well, he did--anyhow; and enjoyed them very
much, but was deeply put out (after he had dined) to remember that the
mutton had belonged to his master. He would not, he said, for anything
have touched it had he recalled that fact in time.

That day the snow came, and, after performing those maze-like
evolutions in which our family invariably indulge at this time of
year, and which are designed to bewilder any human being who might
wander our way and wish to track us, with sinister purpose, to our
lair, we lay down, and overcome by fatigue and--well, mutton--fell
asleep almost immediately. I had endeavoured, but in vain, to remove
the badge of servitude and disgrace which poor Vainka was condemned to
wear in the shape of the ring and chain, but could do nothing with
it--Vainka had been obliged to settle down with the cruel, detestable
thing still attached to his nose--bah!

The next thing either of us was conscious of was a knocking at the
sides of our snowy, or icy house. The noise immediately aroused us,
for it recalled a similar sound which we had good cause to remember,
and carried us back to that dreadful day when our poor mother had been
done to death, together with little Katia. On peeping through the hole
we soon perceived that we were besieged by two men--both of whom were
peasants. One of these held a fire-stick, and the sight of it put my
heart all of a quake; for I confess, though I fear nothing else in the
world, I am terribly frightened of that dreadful, death-spitting
stick, called gun. But Vainka touched my shoulder: "The one with the
gun," he whispered, "is my master: what's to be done?"

I didn't know. Then Vainka rose to the emergency and did that for
which I shall always feel reverently and admiringly grateful to him.
He undertook to see me safely out of the difficulty by giving himself
up.

"They'll never dream that _you_ are here as well as I," he said;
"all you have to do is to stay snugly inside and let me go out: they
won't shoot me; I am too valuable to them!"

I protested that this sacrifice was too noble; that I could not permit
such self-abnegation on my account!

"Self-abnegation?" said Vainka; "nonsense! it's nothing of the sort. I
declare to you that I would rather go back to the humans than earn my
living in the woods; I came away because I pined for the winter sleep
for which my nature yearns--I should have had to work, with them;
_now_, I have had my rest and am as fresh as a daisy!"

I really believe the good fellow meant it. At all events, since I
should certainly be killed or wounded if I went out and he would as
certainly only be captured, it was clearly better that he should go
than I; for he might always escape again; while I, if once killed,
should appear upon the scene no more. So I embraced my dear Vainka,
thanked him heartily for saving my life at the expense of his liberty
(at which he smiled and said he didn't believe in liberty), and let
him go--lying very close myself, and watching the development of
circumstances through the peephole.

I must say that, in spite of all my hatred for mankind, I was a little
softened towards Vainka's friends, on this occasion, by the events
which now took place.

Vainka broke through the wall of our _berloga_ and deliberately
stepped out. The man with the pole quickly got out of the way, while
the other raised his gun. For an instant I was in dread lest he should
not recognise my dear brother in time, and was on the point of rushing
forth to strike him dead before he should have slaughtered poor
confiding Vainka, when, luckily for us all (for I should not have been
in time), he dropped his arm, raised his hand to shade his eyes,
stared, and broke into a roar of laughter: "Why!" he cried, "strike me
blind if it isn't dear old Mishka himself!" (The humans, for reasons
best known to themselves, call us all "Mishka.")

With these words, he rushed up to Vainka, caught hold of the chain
(the wrench to V.'s nose must have been exceedingly painful!) put both
arms round my brother's neck, and commenced to kiss and to hug him in
the most comical manner. He really appeared to be quite fond of
Vainka, and Vainka himself seemed almost as glad to greet _him_.
Then the peasant took some lumps of the cooked rye, which my brother
says is so delicious (and which, I may mention, I believe in my heart
to be one of the chief causes of Vainka's marvellous attachment to the
debased life he leads!), and fed his new-found and long-lost friend.
Vainka dropped a large piece of it on the ground, and I imagine the
good fellow meant it for me; but the frugal peasant picked it up and
pocketed it, so that I was not able to taste the vaunted stuff--bah!
I'm sure it isn't up to July oats or honey, or even baby--which is
delicious when one happens to be of a carnivorous turn of mind, as one
is sometimes.

Then they all went away and left me, never dreaming--as Vainka rightly
anticipated--that another bear lay concealed within the _berloga_, and
that Master Mishka, as they called him, was but my guest. Ha! ha! I
should have liked to have dashed out and smashed them both--the men, I
mean, when their backs were turned! I burned to do it--but discretion
gained the day: there was that accursed fire-stick to be reckoned
with: I have been told that guns can be made to spit their fire in an
instant even when a man has been knocked down and is lying upon the
ground. So I refrained and stayed where I was, and in a while fell
asleep once more, sleeping safely and comfortably until April, when I
left the den and went out once again upon my travels.

I had one other visit from Vainka, a few months later.

I had been hunting near his village, when of a sudden I became aware
of Master V. approaching me through a thin birch spinney which lay
between me and the fields around the hamlet. He looked very
dejected--not at all as one would expect a bear to look who had just
regained his liberty! He brightened up a little when he saw me.

"Is anything the matter, brother?" I inquired, as I went to meet him.

"Nothing whatever," he said, "excepting that, curiously enough, I do
not feel inclined to escape, and yet here I am, in the act of
escaping!"

"But how can that be?" I said; "in the first place you _must_ be
glad to escape--no bear of any self-respect could help feeling glad;
and besides, how could you possibly escape against your will?"

"Well," he said, "perhaps I have no self-respect; anyhow I only came
because they left the door of the stable wide open and my chain was
off at the time. All I had to do was to walk out, and now I wish I
hadn't! This is just the time when little Masha brings me my lunch of
delicious bread" (that's the cooked rye I mentioned), "and--and--upon
my word I think I shall go back--what's the use of being free--I am no
longer fitted for a wild life."

And sure enough the poor-spirited creature, whose once keen, free
spirit had been entirely deadened by contact with the humans and their
debasing life, would have made off then and there!

But I stopped him. "You shall do nothing of the kind, my friend!" I
said firmly. "You shall come into the woods with me and have a good
time, and when you've enjoyed a run and some fresh air and natural
food, you shall do as you like! Come on!" So I got him away, and for
three days we had the grandest fun in the world. He cheered up and
agreed to join me in a little hunting close to a neighbouring
village--he would do nothing near his own. We killed two dogs, a young
cow, and some sheep, old Vainka thoroughly entering into the spirit of
the fun, and even enjoying the wild fury of the humans, who could not
find us--there being no snow.

But after three days of freedom and real life Vainka grew home-sick.
He yawned frequently, and said how sad little Masha would be without
him, and wondered what she was doing now--and now, and whether his
master--whom, in spite of his solemn vows to our mother, he had
evidently learned to love--was quite well--and so on. He became so
melancholy and maudlin, that I perceived it was no use fighting
against destiny, and I recommended him to be off to his dancing and
skipping and his Masha and his confounded man-worship--and away he
went--poor fellow! as clear a case of a good bear gone wrong as it has
ever been my lot to come across.


III

The foregoing episode is a narrative of my last visit from Vainka. I
have seen the poor old fellow now and again and communicated with him
by signs, the nature of which my ursine readers will at once
comprehend, but which--in case any artful human should happen to
decipher these memoirs--I will not describe in detail. Both Vainka and
Mishka are--much as I deplore the fact--now quite gone over to the
enemy; they are, both of them, more man than bear, and this in spite
of the tragic and bloody reasons which they, in common with myself,
should cherish in their deepest hearts for loathing the very creatures
whom they have learned to love--bah! it is unnatural, it is
unbear-like, it is sickening.

I, for my part, have kept my vow as made to our murdered mother. I
think I may fairly boast that this is so. Perhaps if I relate one or
two of my principal adventures with mankind, my readers will do me the
justice to admit that I have done my best. I hope they will do
_themselves_ the justice to follow my example. Mankind should be
suppressed, wherever found.

The first human being I successfully attacked and killed was a grown
man, a peasant; the second was a baby. The latter was delicious, and I
can safely recommend such of my relatives as have adhered, hitherto,
to vegetarian principles, to relax them in favour, at least, of this
dish.

Babies are not always easily procured; but a little excitement adds, I
consider, zest to the pursuit. I may say at once that babies, in spite
of the terrible noise which they are undoubtedly capable of producing,
are perfectly harmless. They may be found occasionally lying on the
grass close to rye or oat fields in which human beings are busy
cutting down the food which naturally belongs to us, not to them. This
is an act of burglary, and is punishable with singular propriety;
because while these thieving humans are intent upon depriving us of
our property it is the easiest matter in the world to creep up and
make oneself master of _theirs_, in the shape of the babies which
they leave in the adjoining field, ostensibly to take care of the food
and drink which is packed in baskets for their dinner--though I must
say it is just like human stupidity to place a helpless thing like a
baby in charge of valuable property. I have never yet seen one raise a
hand to protect its mother's dinner. But, as usual, I am wandering
from my immediate subject, which is--a description of my first man.

It was towards evening one summer day, and I was wandering slowly
through the wood. I was not in the best of humours, for a field of
oats upon which I had been supporting myself for several days was this
afternoon in the hands of the "reapers," as they call themselves:
_thieves_, as I call them! I had come there for my dinner and found
the gang of humans busy at the oats with scythe and reaping-hook. What
could I do? there was nothing to be done, excepting to show my teeth
and bristle up my coat at them--and since they did not see me that was
not of much practical use! So I went away again, cross and revengeful,
and as I roamed about the woods, fuming and hungry, whom should I meet
of a sudden but a tall peasant, wearing an axe in his belt but
otherwise unarmed.

For an instant we both stopped, surprised and startled. Then, full of
the hatred for his kind which I always felt but which had received an
additional stimulus in the oat-field this afternoon, I raised myself
upon my hind feet and caught hold of him. He tried to reach his axe,
but I had gripped his arm and he could not. His face was a study: he
had become very pale and his eyes were protruding: froth came from his
mouth together with spluttering words--bad language, of course; those
disgusting peasant creatures never open their lips without using
language such as a bear would be shocked to employ. I leant upon him,
bending my whole weight forward, growling fiercely, and reaching for
his throat with my teeth. I felt a strong lust for blood, and my rage
increased with every second. I knew that I must kill this man, and
that he could not escape me or injure me. My fury knew no bounds; I
seemed to hate him all the more for being in my power, and I bore him
pitilessly down to the earth--I was far heavier than he. Then I seized
his throat in my teeth and his head with my claws and enjoyed myself.
How he kicked and struggled for a few seconds--only a few--I wish it
had been more!--then he lay perfectly still, and I knew that I had
slain my first man. I was not anxious to eat him: I had not as yet
learned that human flesh is good, especially that of babies; therefore
I mauled him savagely for several minutes in order to make sure there
should be no mistake about his incapacity for future mischief and
treachery, which is all that his kind live for--and then I left him to
the crows. But as I raised myself from his body I muttered to myself,
"There, mother! Though thousands of executions could never avenge your
assassination, here lies one, at least, of the hated family which
murdered you!" I felt more or less appeased after the pious act of
filial vengeance which I have just recorded, and ate my supper that
night with a light heart--the supper consisting of some of the very
oats which the peasants had thought to deprive me of! The silly
creatures had cut the oats and tied them in bundles, which was
extremely convenient for me, and saved me the trouble of picking the
ears of grain for myself.

As for my first baby meal, that was a very simple affair: the small
creature was lying, rolling about, in the grass while her mother (I
suppose they have mothers, such as they are) was reaping together with
a host of other humans in the adjoining field. The forest was the
common boundary of the two fields, and all I had to do was to creep a
few yards from the wood, take the goods the gods provided, and retire
to enjoy them. I did this with entire success, catching hold of the
imp with one arm and hobbling along on three feet. But that baby made
such a terrific caterwauling that positively I nearly dropped him out
of pure anxiety for the drums of my ears. His mother rushed out from
among the oat stalks and ran after me, though she did not see me, in
the direction of the baby's cries, but she soon returned: I think one
of her companions called to her that it was only the child, was gone
and that her dinner was all right, wrapped up in a red pocket
handkerchief. Well, that baby was the most delightful thing I had ever
tasted, and I then and there determined that this dainty should form
an item of my diet whenever obtainable. It is in season all the year
round; but difficult to obtain at any time except summer.

I must just add to the above narrative, that as I lay enjoying my
dinner within the pine forest, scarcely fifty yards from those
peasants, I could distinctly overhear their remarks as to the
disappearance of the young human at that moment forming the staple
item of my dinner. It appeared that I was not suspected. The whole
odium of the affair was laid upon certain people who, however
disreputable and disagreeable they may be (and they certainly are
_both_), were at all events innocent of this "crime." I mean those
impostors and cads, the wolves. Many of my most successful enterprises
in and about villages have been laid to the charge of wolves: so be
it! this cannot injure me. True, I should like to have the credit of
certain of my exploits! those in which mankind have been destroyed,
especially; but it is very amusing when you have successfully robbed
an enemy, to hear some one else blamed and vengeance vowed upon
persons who have had nothing whatever to do with the affair. So it was
in the matter of my first baby. Not a man, woman, or child present but
endeavoured to console the weeping mother by vowing vengeance upon the
thieving "wolf," for she really did weep, though, as I have already
declared, I did not touch her dinner but only a useless, squealing
baby. That she did not really regret the loss of the tiny creature was
abundantly proved by her own assertions at the time; for she several
times repeated that it was, after all, "better so;" that the baby
would never be hungry again (that it certainly would not!), or feel
pain or worry of any sort, with more to the same effect, and all, of
course, perfectly true. For all that, she cried steadily on, as she
worked, and many of the other women cried also, though they all agreed
as to the fact that things were better as they were, and repeated this
a hundred times. Of course things were better as they were. What
better or worthier thing could a human baby do than provide a dinner
for one of the Ursidæ? All I desired was that they should so
thoroughly feel the force of the truism, as to bring me another tender
morsel without delay. This, however, they did not do. On the contrary,
they brought dogs instead of babies, and I felt that, though dog is
tasty enough when nothing better is obtainable, I would transfer my
custom, for the present, to another parish.

And now I propose to dismiss for a while the disagreeable subject of
the human race, and to give my readers a glimpse into some of the
dangers and difficulties which I have at different times of my life
encountered while living the free and, on the whole, happy life of the
woods.

I have incidentally referred to certain persons for whom I have the
supremest contempt, as for animals of an altogether inferior rank in
the scale of life: that is, inferior to our own; I would not go so far
as to say that they are not superior to humans, for the latter, when
without their detestable fire-sticks, are contemptibly weak and
defenceless: their teeth are ridiculously inefficient, and as for
their claws--well, they have none, so far as I can ascertain. The
creatures I refer to are _wolves_, as they call themselves. These
are the very plebeians of the forest. They are hated by every
resident, great or small; for they are mean and cowardly creatures,
hunting in companies of three or four--they dare not show themselves
singly--and sometimes in packs of a dozen or more. A wolf, if
unaccompanied by his friends, would probably run away from a hare, and
hide himself from a little red fox. They are thieves of the first
water, besides, and have no respect whatever for the rights of
property. Many a time have I left a portion of some choice repast
which I was not capable of consuming at one sitting, expecting to find
and enjoy the remains on the following night. What I actually found
was a few white bones and the vision of two grey tails stuffed tightly
between four hind legs just in the act of disappearing into the
cover--ugh! they are cads--_cads_, that is just the word, the
only word for them.

Well, one fine evening, about September a year or two ago, as I was
strolling through the wood thinking of--well, I'll tell you all about
that presently--enough that I was thinking of _someone_ and feeling
rather love-sick and depressed--when I suddenly heard a cantering
noise behind me, and turning round I beheld seven very large wolves
coming up on my scent. The instant that I turned round the whole party
stopped, sat down on their haunches, and stared at me. They looked
hungry and wicked, but would not meet my eye. I darted at the nearest,
but in a moment he and his companions had disappeared--in the
marvellous way which these cowards understand so well. Oh ho! I
thought, if you are afraid to stand up to me you will certainly not
dare to pursue me! So I made off towards that portion of the forest in
which I generally took my night's rest. But I was mistaken in my
conclusions, for no sooner was I well on my way, than the cantering
sound recommenced, and the wolves were after me again. It was useless
to stop and attack them, for they are too active to be caught in this
way; I therefore decided to push along and take no notice. But before
many minutes had elapsed, the leading wolf began to set up that
loathsome howling of theirs, and was immediately imitated by the rest.
I hate noise, so I hurried on, hoping to shake them off--for I had not
as yet realised that these plebeians were actually organising a
pursuit with the ultimate object of tiring me out and pulling me down.
After all it takes some little while for the very idea of such an
unexampled insult as this to take root in the patrician mind: _me_ to
be pursued and pulled down by wolves! the thing was outrageous,
impossible! But I confess I was somewhat disconcerted when I realised
that the wolves were howling with a purpose; for in a very few minutes
I was aware of new arrivals among my pursuers: grey forms with bright,
hungry eyes, appeared in the moonlight to right and left of me; one or
two cantered on ahead--it was really growing a little exciting. I
stopped once more and turned to survey the pack and count the new
arrivals. As if by magic each wolf stopped dead and sat down, some
concealing themselves behind trees, others looking away; none ventured
to assume a threatening aspect As far as I could ascertain there were
now nearly twenty wolves present: the situation was not altogether a
pleasant one. Then I played a successful little ruse upon them. I
turned as though to fly, taking a few rapid strides forward; then I
suddenly stopped, and, as I had expected, the leader shot up to my
side before he could control the impetus which he had already gained.

Well--I had him in a moment, and I have reason to believe his own
mother would not have recognised him a minute or two afterwards, for I
made a very complete wreck of him, and left him literally torn to
pieces. During the operation, which did not occupy me very long, his
companions had totally disappeared: there was neither sound nor sight
of them. But, shall I be believed? no sooner did I leave him and
continue my journey than the unnatural creatures, instantly
reappearing from every side, fell upon their mangled brother and
consumed his body, quarrelling and snarling and fighting over him like
so many devils, which I believe they are under an assumed name!

I thought, for awhile, that I had shaken off the thieving brutes, but
this was not the case. I soon found that they were after me once more,
howling and snarling, every devil's son of them! I own that at this
point I suddenly lost heart and, to use a familiar expression, took to
my heels. I make this confession in all humility and with shame. Why I
lost heart I cannot explain. I have mentioned the depression of
spirits from which I was suffering this night, and I can only suppose
that it was the pandemonium of noise made by my pursuers which, acting
upon a state of mind already somewhat enfeebled by the depression
referred to, had relaxed my nerve-power and caused me to disgrace
myself in the manner indicated.

So I fled, I own it with shame; I fled at the top of my speed, pursued
by the howling pack of miserable plebs, which dared not come very
close, but followed me some ten yards behind and at each side,
trusting to my bulk and weight, which they hoped would prove so
cumbrous that I should be unable to run far without collapsing into a
defenceless condition of breathlessness and weakness, when they would,
they imagined, pull me down.

Well, so far as the breathlessness was concerned they proved perfectly
right. Not being accustomed to much running, I was naturally out of
condition; and consequently before I had run many miles I felt that
this sort of thing could not continue: I must devise some scheme by
which to put to flight or to evade the enemy. Then this idea suddenly
struck me: Why not climb a tree? Wolves are notoriously incapable of
climbing (after all, what _can_ a wolf do?). I should thus at least
gain time enough to recover my breath and consider my position.

No sooner thought of than done. I had not enjoyed much climbing of
late, so that I anticipated some little trouble and exertion in
reaching the required altitude; therefore I pushed along until I saw a
tree which looked easy to climb; then I ran to its foot, stopped, and
turned round.

As before, the wolves instantly, paused and sat down; while some, as
usual, disappeared. I immediately commenced the ascent of my tree
refuge. But no sooner did the wolves realise that this was my
intention than they seemed to gather courage from the prospect of
losing me, and with redoubled howls and noise they surrounded the tree
and actually dared to grab at my hind legs as I swarmed up the trunk.
I sustained one or two nasty bites during that degrading moment, but
those bites did for me what perhaps nothing else would have done. They
restored me to myself, and in addition inspired me with so terrible
and righteous a fury (and when we bears _do_ lose our tempers we
certainly are _properly_ angry!) that in an instant I was down
and among my pursuers--tearing, hugging, crushing!--oh, when I
remember that triumphant moment of crushing bones and ripping flesh my
heart fills with the emotion of pride and thankfulness to reflect that
I was born a bear and no other meaner creature! True, I have never
seen a lion, or tiger--both of which animals, tradition says, are
capable of slaying a bear; but with all deference to tradition I
prefer to think otherwise. I am told that lions and tigers are both
_cats_--cats!! I have seen, and I may add _eaten_, many cats, and
howsoever large and fierce these traditional members of the family may
be, I beg leave to state that, speaking for the Ursidæ generally, we
shall be delighted to see any number of lions, or tigers, or any other
form of cats in these parts, and to try conclusions with them. My
brother Mishka has seen, in the distance, specimens of the creatures
referred to in his home at the Zoological Gardens, and does not think
much of them, though, he says, they are large. Well, size is nothing;
a cow is big enough, in all conscience, but I have never had the
slightest difficulty in negotiating a cow, however large.

But to continue: it was a real pleasure to me--though I have seldom
been so angry--to rend and crush those too enterprising wolves who had
presumed to attack my person. When I had done with them, three lay
stiff and stark, while two others were limping and howling somewhere
out of sight among the bushes. As for me, I had a scratch or two, but
nothing to matter. I need hardly say that I was not molested again as
I deliberately climbed that tree and settled myself for the rest of
the night in a cosy corner among the branches. But no sooner was I out
of their reach than a dozen wolves came howling around the trunk and
leaping up in pretended anxiety to get at me. They were but playing a
part in order to deceive one another, of course; but this is the way
of wolves, who have no dignity and self-respect. Had I shown so much
as one tooth they would have instantly disappeared!


IV

So the night passed away, in perfect comfort for me and with quite as
much actual repose as could be expected, having regard to the
pandemonium going on below, where the wolves quarrelled and fought
over the bodies of their relatives, entirely consuming them among
themselves in a wonderfully short space of time. I was much amused to
watch their dealings with the wounded heroes who turned up to claim a
share in the feast. Not being in a condition to fight for the
disgusting food, they were themselves promptly set upon, slain by
their unwounded brethren, and eaten with the greatest gusto.

Whether my besiegers were satiated with the feast I had thus provided
for them, or whether--like all malefactors--they were afraid of the
daylight, I know not; but it is certain that soon after the last bone
had been picked, and just as the began to show signs in the east of
his intentions with regard to another day, they all departed. Had they
remained I should have attacked them, presently; and they would have
run like sheep!

Wolves, as I have already remarked, are dreadful cowards. I shall
scarcely be believed, perhaps, but it is a positive fact, that I have
seen three of them sitting in the snow around a dying man who was
unarmed and perfectly helpless, waiting until he should have breathed
his last breath before they dared pounce upon him. I came upon the
party accidentally. The man had lost himself in the snow and was
slowly dying of fatigue and cold and hunger. It was rather amusing,
for it must have been a considerable trial to him to have those wolves
sitting there, and to know that they did but await his death or
stupor. Now, I had no great desire to eat that man: I don't care much
for tough, grown-up humans; but I gave him a touch sufficient to knock
the breath out of his body, and ate him all the same. I always take
the opportunity to pay off old scores; and here was a double one.

However, taking one thing with another, I am really not quite sure
that I do not dislike wolves even more than men: I certainly despise
them more. A man will, as a rule, stand up to an enemy, even to a
superior creature like myself; whereas a wolf will never fight until
he is wounded so badly that he cannot run away. Since my little
adventure with the pack of wolves I have never felt the slightest
vestige of respect for their class. I cannot forget the sickening
spectacle of those cowardly humbugs jumping up around the tree in
which I sat, as though they were anxious to get at me--bah!

Now I am going to tell of the most terrible adventure I ever met with,
and one which very nearly proved the last experience for me this side
of the grave.

It was autumn--the autumn of the year before last. I had had a
splendid season: the crops had been good all over my district, which
is a pretty large one. Oats, rye, wheat, and buckwheat were to be had
in any quantity and no one to eat them excepting myself and of course,
those thieves the humans who invariably dispute possession with me,
and hasten to cut down any field of ripe grain which I have claimed as
my own by virtue of having the first feed off it. Well, I was as fat
and strong as I had ever been, stronger; and I felt gloriously
well--ready for anything. I had enjoyed my usual sumptuous breakfast,
and was now indulging in a siesta within a dense portion of the forest
which lay at a distance of about three miles from one of my villages.
I was lying in a charming spot. Pines rustled above my head, peopled
with tree partridges and fieldfares. Beautiful purple bilberries grew
around me in profusion, and heather too; and close at hand was a small
pool of water at the foot of a tree. There was always water in this
spot in the driest season. If none appeared on the surface, all I had
to do was to tread the moss for a minute or two and I soon had the
cool liquid flowing about my feet. It was a hot day, one of the last
we should see, for this was what, Vainka says, the humans call "old
woman's summer," which comes after the real summer and lasts but a few
days. Perhaps I was asleep: I may have been taking forty winks, for
about this time we bears begin to do a trifle of yawning and napping
at odd moments, in preparation for the winter function; but suddenly a
truly awe-inspiring noise startled the delicious silence of the forest
and brought me out of the land of dreams and upon my feet in a moment.
The noise was produced by humans or devils, that much was certain. I
could recognise human voices; but there were strange sounds besides,
like rattles and gongs and bell-ringings, which seemed to come from
all sides at once. I stood still, irresolute, for upon my word I did
not know what to do. Had the humans organised a chase after me?
Impossible, for they could not know my whereabouts without snow to
show them my tracks. What could it all mean? I quickly concluded that
whatever might be the object of these humans in making so barbarous a
din, that object was at all events not my destruction, or capture;
there was no thought of me in the matter. Presently the dreaded sound
of exploding fire-sticks reached my ears. I am not ashamed to confess
that this particular noise always causes me to lose my head for
awhile. Before it rang out I had already determined to remain quietly
hidden where I then was and allow the storm to go by; but at the
banging of the guns my deliberate resolves--together with my good
sense and my presence of mind--were, for the time, cast to the four
winds. I jumped up and careered wildly from end to end of the wood.
This gradually sobered me, and at the same time I discovered in which
precise direction the real danger lay. There were shouts and din from
three sides, while from the fourth side came no sound at all,
excepting the occasional bang of a gun. It therefore became clear to
me that this was a deliberate attempt to so frighten any animals which
might be within the limits of the four sides which were lined by
everybody's enemy, man, as to cause them to run towards the only side
where safety appeared to lie, and which was in effect the only
dangerous quarter. This plan must of a surety have been the invention
of the devil, who is, of course, a man, for it is full of the most
diabolical cunning. It was pitiful to see numbers of silly hares and
even a red fox--who certainly ought to have known better!--rushing
past me to their destruction. No sooner did a hare run by towards the
corner whence no shoutings came, than, a moment later, I would hear
the bang of a gun and I knew that the poor innocent creature had been
done to death by a concealed human. Birds flew over my head--I do not
know their names, for we do not associate with birds excepting in so
far as to pull one off its nest now and again, about luncheon time;
but there were birds of all sizes; and each one, as it reached the
concealed lane of armed humanity, was greeted with an explosion and
fell dead: it was always the same story--blood, blood, blood; the
arch-enemy man was there to kill anything he could lay hands upon.

Meanwhile, my position became uncomfortable; for I soon discovered
that the shouting creatures were fast approaching me, closing in their
circle; still, no one had any idea, as yet, that I was in the ring. I
determined to convey the knowledge of my presence with some emphasis,
but to keep out of reach of the accursed fire-sticks. So I crept
through the thickest of the brushwood in the direction of the shouts.
As I came nearer I perceived that the noise proceeded from a line of
men--peasants, women, and even children, which last were furnished
with rattles and drums and small trumpets. These were stationed about
twenty paces apart one from another, and I saw at once that by rushing
between two of these I should easily escape. I felt that such a
proceeding was altogether beneath my dignity; but then I hate a scene
and publicity of any sort, and I did not wish to become the centre of
a shouting, swearing (for these humans occasionally demean themselves
by using very disgraceful language), and perhaps hatchet-wielding mob,
with the possibility of a fire ball into the bargain. So I waited
until the peasants approached my ambush, and then selected the pair
between which I should make my rush. I chose a quiet-looking old
she-human and a small boy who was making the most terrible noise with
a tin trumpet. Now all these creatures had been making noise enough,
in all conscience, before; but when I suddenly showed my somewhat
bulky person in their midst the noise instantly became doubly, nay,
ten times as loud as it was before, each creature shrieking out my
name with imprecations and personalities of every kind, in execrable
taste. Well, the din and the abuse and all aggravated me to such an
extent that I did a very foolish thing: I lost my temper, as we bears
are rather too apt to do, and hurled myself at the boy nearest me.
Just as I caught and crunched him, the stupid old woman next to him,
who turned out to be his mother, flung herself at me and, by beating
me with a stick she carried, endeavoured to force me to drop the
child, whom I suppose she required for some purpose of her own. Her
stupidity and the coarseness of her language enraged me still more,
and--giving the cub a last scrunch (I heard his bones go!)--I rushed
at his idiotic parent and mauled her nicely. But by this time half a
hundred of the yelling creatures had surrounded me and were punching
at me with every kind of stick, throwing tin cans and rattles at me,
and doing everything they could to induce me to let go of the old
woman--though what they could want with an old creature like that I
cannot imagine! But my blood was up, and I preferred to have my will
with her first; so I tore and crunched her until she ceased to scold
and swear, and lay as still as the boy; then I looked around and
paused, for I began to think I had better be making off into the thick
cover: I had had enough of the din and publicity. But just at this
moment something happened to me. I did not realise at first what it
was, but I know now. In a word, I suddenly fell head over heels, my
legs giving way under me for no apparent reason. But as I raised
myself I became aware of a slight pain in the thick part of my hind
leg, which increased and seemed to numb my limb. Looking over my
shoulder I saw the cause of this: a man stood near with a smoking
fire-stick in his hand: I had been shot. Oh! if I could have got at
that human, how I should have crunched his bones and gripped his
throat with my strong teeth till the life went out of him! I rose to
my full height as I came near and threw myself upon him. At the same
moment there was a crash from his fire-stick, I staggered forward
towards him and fell again; my strength was failing--I must fly for
the time, and hide myself while I had the power--quick!--was I wounded
to death, like mother, I wondered, as I stepped blindly away. I knew
not whither my steps were tending; I was but half conscious--still I
rushed madly forwards--the pain was excruciating; there was another
place that hurt me, one of my shoulders, besides my leg,--on and on I
fled; the shouts were far away behind me now and the cover was
thick--now the sounds had died away altogether; a little farther and I
might lie down and rest--but oh! the pain--it was maddening. Then,
through my dimming eyes I perceived a pool of water in mid-forest, and
staggering forward I fell prone into the midst of it, and for some
little while remembered no more.

When I became conscious I was still lying in the shallow pool, which
was red with my blood. But my pain was less; in fact, beyond being
exceedingly stiff I did not at this time feel my wounds to any great
extent. What I did feel was the most bitter hatred towards human
beings and their most accursed weapons, and a consuming desire for
revenge upon the tribe. I had always hated man: I hated him tenfold
now: I think it was this passion for vengeance which kept me alive
through that dreadful time of suffering and privation. I could barely
crawl for several weeks, and it was with the greatest difficulty that
I managed to obtain sufficient food to support me. Ah me! it was a
trying time! But for the proximity of a village I know not how I
should have lived. The wolves--who were not within a hundred
miles--got all the credit, or abuse, for my depredations. I am glad to
say that by the end of the autumn season that village was the poorer
by two small children--who foolishly went mushroom hunting in the
woods one Sunday afternoon, and were prevented by "the wolves" from
returning home to their tea (an exceedingly welcome contribution,
these, to my impoverished larder)--besides sundry dogs and other
comestibles which kindly wandered my way at meal times.

I have already hinted that at one period of my life I--even I--have
fallen, like weaker persons, beneath the spell of the tender passion.
Now that all this is long since over and done with I cannot help
laughing to think how I can have been so foolish as to permit myself
to indulge in such feeble frivolity as love. I declare, I hardly like
to confess it, but it is nevertheless true that during the time of my
bedazzlement, or whatever you like to call it, I was actually in the
habit of hunting for the benefit of another and of watching while the
object of my adoration consumed provisions which _I_ had found. How
completely does one's nature change during the undignified process of
befoolment which some member of the opposite and greatly inferior
sex--goodness only knows how!--exercises over a creature infinitely
her superior! How, at such a time, all that is excellent deteriorates
into that which is weak and despicable and unworthy! Here was I,
perhaps the biggest and bravest of my grand race--ever independent and
intolerant of interference--suddenly bewitched into the most slavish,
inoffensive, insignificant person that ever disgraced the family of
Ursidæ. I am glad to say--indeed, it is a great comfort to me to be
able to reflect--that the spell which was cast over me did not enslave
me for any great length of time; and I like to think that but for my
wounds and the condition of collapse into which they brought me, I
might never have fallen so low. Ha ha! what a despicable, mean-spirited
creature I was, to be sure, at that time. Let me explain how it all
happened. The day, or two days after my dreadful experience at the
hands of the doubly accursed human brute who twice wounded me with his
fire-weapon, I lay dozing restlessly beneath a tall pine in the
forest. As I reclined, dreaming uncomfortable dreams and conscious all
the while of severe pain and of the worse than pain of fevered veins
and parched throat, I suddenly became aware of a delicious sensation
of relief in the region of one of my wounds. A feeling of soothing
rest began to take the place of the racking pain of a few moments
before; at the same time I was conscious of a sound close to my ear--a
sort of crooning, inarticulate murmur of sympathy which fell very
delightfully upon my suffering senses. I scarcely had sufficient
energy to open my eyes, but with an effort I did so, and then I
beheld a sight which--at that moment of weakness and consequent
softness--filled me with an emotion to which I had hitherto been a
stranger.

Stretched upon the earth beside me, softly licking my wound and
crooning as she did so, was the most beautiful creature (she certainly
was beautiful, I admit that much even now, though I must also admit
that I was an abject fool to allow myself to be captivated by mere
good looks) that ever eye beheld. Her fur was the darkest of browns,
and had not a spot or taint of mange to disfigure it. Her claws and
teeth were perfect--as good as my own, and that is saying not a
little! She was large and strong, beyond the size and strength of most
persons of her sex. Her eyes looked languishing and gentle, but their
expression was belied by the formation of her snout, which was
slightly upturned--an unfailing indication of ferocity of disposition
amongst us Ursidæ. She was, as I have said, licking my wounds; I shall
never forget the delicious sensation of peace and ease from pain that
her action thus instilled into my being. I did not dare betray the
fact that I was awake, lest she should cease to caress me. I felt that
I could lie on thus for ever, contentedly, and let her soothe me, if
she would, into a sleep that had no end. As a matter of fact she did
lull me to sleep, a delicious, long restful sleep from which I awoke,
after several hours, a different bear. She had disappeared, when I
opened my eyes, and at the first instant I feared that I might have
merely dreamed of the beautiful ministering creature; at which
thought--so weak and ill was I--I declare I actually whined aloud! But
she soon returned, and then, seeing that I was awake, rushed to my
side once more, and licked and caressed me with a thousand
blandishments.... Ah me! well, well; perhaps I should never have
recovered at all but for her! I must in justice confess that she
helped me very much through the trying time of my illness, and I
believe she was very fond of me. I allowed her to share in all the
good things that she or I found or caught, and I am bound to say she
made very free with the ripe oats in my fields, and enjoyed a good
half of every dog and baby that fell to our lot. I am glad to say that
I taught her to appreciate (internally) the human race: baby is now
(if she is still alive) her favourite dish, and she will go miles to
surprise and choke a human of any description; so that, if only for
this reason, my period of fooling and softness was not altogether time
wasted. We plighted our troth, of course, and were bear and wife for
the time being--until nearly hibernating-time, in fact; but before
November we had quarrelled and parted. As my health and strength
returned I became increasingly conscious of the degradation of my
present mode of life. That I should permit any one, even so beautiful
a creature as she undoubtedly was, to feed in my pastures and treat me
as an equal, was a standing disgrace to my bearhood, and I felt that
this shocking condition of things must cease. I had hoped to bring
about an understanding with my wife without the use of violence; but
when she continued to assert her right to share with me that which was
mine after I had pointed out to her that love had had his season and
that there was now a distinction between the words _thine_ and _mine_
which during my infatuation I had been unable to discern, why--to my
regret--I was obliged to despatch her about her business with, as the
saying goes, a flea in her ear! She made a good fight of it--ha ha! I
declare, I never loved her so well as that day! Never shall I forget
the ugly look in her eyes and the wicked curl of her turn-up snout as
she limped away from the field of battle. She certainly looked about
as deliciously ferocious as I ever saw a member of our somewhat
quick-tempered family, and as for her language--oh! dear me--it was
enough to cause a blight, and I was quite glad that it was not the
season for such a disaster.

Thus ended my one and only experience of the inglorious delights of
love: it was quite enough for me!

Well, my narrative is drawing to a close now. I have had many
adventures, sufficient to keep my tongue employed for many a long day,
if I were to tell them all; but I think I really must, before
finishing my autobiography, relate one little incident which has kept
me in merriment for months: indeed, however low my spirits may fall at
any time, it is sufficient for me to recall this little episode and I
feel at once that life is, after all, worth living in spite of its ups
and downs, which would just about balance one another but for the
occasional gleams of mirth which shine in upon our dreary existence
and enable the balance, on the whole, to kick the beam on the up side.
This is how it happened. I was wandering about the woods one night in
April, shortly after my winter sleep. I was more than hungry, I was
ravenous. Consequently, when my nostrils were suddenly assailed by the
delicious odour of what I quickly recognised as dead horse, I felt
that I had wandered for once into luck's way. There is something very
soothing about horse when one is famished, and I made such a meal that
night as I have seldom eaten before or since. Towards morning I left
the banqueting-place resolved to revisit it on the following night.
Now comes the fun. Sauntering merrily along next evening I had
approached within a short distance of my feasting-ground, quite
ready--in spite of yesterday's somewhat generous repast--to repeat the
delightful experience, when my faithful nostrils apprised me of the
presence of an enemy. Besides the strong--very strong--smell of dead
horse, there was another scent in the air, that of a human being.
Fifty yards or so from me lay the remains of the horse: I could just
make out its outlines in the darkness; but peer about as I would I
could not discern the presence of a man. However, I always prefer to
trust to my nose rather than to my eyes, and therefore, convinced that
a human being either had been, recently, on the spot or was even now
present within a short distance of me, I decided to keep very quiet
and listen and watch. I may explain that I was well concealed from the
sight of any human, supposing that one of these creatures should be
busy over my supper. I had not thought that raw horse was an article
much valued by men as a delicacy--indeed, my dear brother once told me
that his "master" never ate any flesh which had not been previously
_burned_ (disgusting idea!)--but it was likely enough that the greedy
and ill-natured creatures would be glad enough to eat anything
whatever if by doing so they successfully deprived a fellow-creature
of the food.

How long I lay and waited thus I cannot say, but it was a weary time
and I grew very tired of it, and, naturally enough, horribly hungry
and proportionately wrathful. Yet the longer I waited the more certain
I became not only that a human had been about the place but that he
was actually there now. My ursidine readers will perhaps
wonder--knowing by this time something of my character and sentiments
towards the human race--that I did not stake all upon an attack. To
such I would reply that I am no fool even in my moments of blind but
righteous ferocity, and this human might be armed with a fire-stick.
Besides, I could not detect the sound of eating: what then could he be
about? men have no sense of smell, therefore he could not be aware
that I was near at hand: he was, clearly, not on the look-out for me.
If not on the look-out for me he might possibly be without his
fire-stick--grand Bruin! if so--well, to say "a man without his
fire-stick" is another way of saying "a meal": I should have two
courses for my supper to-night--man with horse to follow--glorious!
The idea revived me and caused my hunger to grow so keen that I could
no longer resist running the risk of approaching, cautiously, a little
closer in order to have a good survey around.

So I crept noiselessly towards the open space where lay my last
night's repast and commenced to peer about; but strain my eyes as I
would I could see nothing. Suddenly a soft sound broke the silence. It
was like a grunt, or a deep breath; I remembered that I had heard a
young peasant whom I found asleep under a tree (and subsequently ate)
make a similar sound. Could the human be asleep? The noise appeared to
proceed from among the pine boughs over my head, and I now peered
about with redoubled diligence in the direction whence it came. After
a while, I saw him--at least I saw a dark and motionless mass up in
the branches of a tree some twenty paces away. Now what in the name of
all that is wonderful did the creature mean by choosing such a place
to pass the night in? I had seen a man in a tree before this (I have
chased many a one up--they always forget that I can follow!), but I
never yet saw a human fast asleep among the branches. Then, of a
sudden, the true explanation of the mystery occurred to me. This
creature had placed the dead horse where I had found it with the
deliberate intention of using it as a bait to attract me. Having thus,
as it were, invited me to supper, he intended to lie in wait for me
and basely slay me from his ambush up in the tree as I feasted below.
Oh! the vile, human, petty meanness of the device; the hideous perfidy
to be enacted under the mask of hospitality--bah! it sickens me to
think of it.

However, it appeared that the tables were about to be turned upon my
friend. I was not long making up my mind as to a plan of attack; he
had his fire-stick with him, of course, so I must be careful. He was
grunting away merrily, and as fast asleep as though it were
mid-winter, and the tree his _berloga_! Well, I crept cautiously
along until I reached the foot of his pine tree: I could see him
plainly now sitting up in the fork of the lowest branches; his head
was sunk forward on his chest and he held his fire-weapon in one hand,
one end of it resting against his foot--ha, ha! I can see him now,
fool that he was--dreaming there in a fool's paradise: he little knew
whom he had to deal with, or he would have remained wide enough awake,
I warrant him!

Then I commenced to climb very carefully and silently. But, cautious
as I was, I suppose I must have made some sound, for when I was within
a foot or two of his perch, the human suddenly awoke with a start, and
stared out into the open space where the dead horse lay. Even then he
did not see me. It was a critical moment. Just then he lowered his
foot--I suppose it was stiff and required stretching. Luckily for me
it came close to my paw and I clutched at it. In doing so I lost my
hold of the tree trunk, without, however, letting go of the human
creature's foot. Never in all my life did I hear anything so piercing
as the yell that human gave as he and I fell to the earth together. To
make matters still more startling the fire-stick spat out its fire at
the same moment, dropping out of his hand as it did so. The flame did
not touch me, luckily, though for a moment I was deafened and scared,
as well as blinded, by the discharge. I am proud to say, however, that
I did not loose my grip, and as we touched the earth together, I was
upon him, and squeezing his deceitful, perfidious life out of his body
before he well knew what had happened.

Oh! it was glorious! To think that a crafty human being should have
taken the trouble to cater for me, lie in wait for me--gun and
all--actually beguile me within easy range of his fire-spitter, and
then fall asleep as I lay absolutely at his mercy there--well, it was
too rich for words! My supper that night was superlative--two
courses--for even man tastes delicious when stolen, so to say, in this
manner! Upon my word I find it difficult to say which was the more
delicious; the only drawback to it was that I could positively
scarcely eat for laughing. Well, well; I laid the rest of the sleepy
individual beside the remains of the horse which he had provided for
my entertainment, intending to finish him on the morrow; but,
unfortunately, his friends found him, and carried him away--I cannot
say what they wanted him for: I only hope he was not wasted; and so
ended the very merriest adventure I ever experienced. It has proved an
unfailing source of mirth to me from that day to this, and I am
exceedingly grateful to the sportsman who so obligingly fell asleep
and furnished me with an unexpected second course, instead of, as he
had anticipated, procuring for himself a valuable bear-skin;
for--shall I be believed?--these insolent creatures, if by perfidy or
stratagem they manage to do one of us to death, actually presume to
wear our fur over their own unworthy carcases, being entirely without
any natural covering to protect them from the cold.

But there! I must not allow my tongue to wag any longer; I am getting
old, I suppose, and garrulous, but I do love to fight over again those
countless battles with my enemies, which have made of me the
far-renowned champion that I am. Up to now my teeth are as sharp, my
arms as powerful, and my heart as sound as in the days of my youth;
but there will come a time, I suppose, when teeth and claws will
become blunt, and sight dim; when a grouse rising suddenly from the
thicket will startle me, and a hare crossing my path will make my
heart to beat--ah, well! when that time arrives, may the end come
soon, for I could never bear to support a feeble existence! When I
feel that I am no longer a match for my enemies, I am determined what
to do: I shall seek out a human who is armed. With his fire-stick he
shall free my soul from my body; but with my last strength I shall
grip his throat and tear his life from him, so that our two souls
shall journey together to those happy hunting-grounds where _we_
are to handle the fire-weapon, and the men to do the running: I shall
like to have a human soul handy to start upon as soon as I arrive in
those blessed regions; and oh! if I happen to meet my dear mother, how
she will enjoy taking a share in the hunt!

However, I am all right here for the present, and life is pleasant
enough while one's teeth are sharp!



CHAPTER VII

THE FOLK-LORE OF THE MOUJIK


The Russian peasant, or moujik, is an individual who has never
received his fair share of respect and admiration from us in this
country. We know all about his faults: his laziness, his drunkenness,
his uncleanliness, his superstition, his persistent wanderings from
the narrow ways of truth and honesty; but few of us are prepared to
concede to him certain excellent qualities which he undoubtedly
possesses: strong religious feeling, unquestioning obedience towards
those in authority over him, filial love and reverence towards his
father, the Tsar, devotion to his country, reverence for age, the most
pious veneration for the memory of his fathers; patience, docility,
courage, strangely developed humour, hospitality, and a host of
virtues and lovable qualities which only those who know him intimately
are able to detect and appreciate.

In the matter of their belief in and dealings with those Beings with
which they have peopled the spiritual world, the Slavs are probably
the most superstitious of all the European families, or at least they
have clung with more pertinacity than any of their neighbours to the
old-world traditions and beliefs which were the common property,
centuries ago, of all. During these centuries the Church, hand-in-hand
with education and civilisation, has done its best to stamp out and
destroy the innumerable relics of purely Pagan and Christianised Pagan
traditions which abound in the country; but neither priest nor
schoolmaster, nor yet the common-sense of the community, have made
much appreciable headway against the ineradicable superstition of the
Russian moujik:--and the air, the forests, the waters, the very houses
are as full of their spiritual inhabitants to-day as they ever were in
the days when men looked to the elements and the forces of nature for
the gods whom they must worship, and before whose irresistible power
they realised their own insignificance. When St. Vladimir, in the zeal
of his recent conversion to Christianity, cast into the waters of the
Dnieper at Kief the huge wooden, silver-headed, golden-bearded idol of
Perun the Thunderer, and in baptizing his twelve sons set an example
which was quickly followed by the rest of the population of his grand
duchy, he was very far from convincing his people that thunderings in
the future were to be regarded as merely impersonal manifestations of
the forces of nature. It might not be Perun who thundered, they
argued--and since Perun had gone to the bottom of the Dnieper this was
probably the case--but if it were not Perun it clearly must be some
one else, for the thunder could not roar by itself! Elijah fitted into
the gap very neatly. Did not the Church teach that Elijah the prophet
went up in a chariot to heaven? The thundering then was undoubtedly
the rumbling of Elijah's chariot-wheels, and that, to this day, is the
explanation which any Russian peasant will give if asked to account
for the noise of the thunder. This is one of many examples of the
manner in which Pagan beliefs have survived in Christianised forms. In
certain parts of Russia, however, even the name of Perun or Perkun is
still preserved in connection with the roar of the thunder. When the
familiar rumbling and crashing noise is heard overhead, the peasants
in some of the Baltic provinces still remark, "There is Perun
thundering again!"

Hand-in-hand with the worship, in Russian Pagan days, of the elements
and the forces of nature, went the adoration of the dead; and while
Perun and his fellow deities of that age have practically become
extinct, or have been Christianised out of all recognition, the
superstitious regard of the Russian peasant for the spirits of his
departed ancestors has withstood the attacks of time as well as the
teachings of Christianity, and is as marked now in some of the remoter
districts of the empire as it ever was in the days of heathenism.
Sometimes it is actually the spirits of the _rodítyelui_, or
forefathers, themselves, who are cherished and invoked by the
peasants; sometimes the _rodítyelui_ have become merged in the
personality of the _domovoy_, or house-spirit, of whom I shall
presently have much to say. It is a comparatively common belief that
the soul, after leaving the body, remains for a period of six weeks
about the house, or at all events in the neighbourhood of its old
home, watching the mourning of its relatives, and seeing that its
memory is receiving at their hands fitting veneration. During the time
that the body remains in the house the soul sits upon the upper
portion of the coffin. As it has a long journey to perform before
reaching its final home, money is frequently placed in the coffin in
order that the departed spirit may be enabled to defray possible
charges for being ferried across rivers and seas; food is also
provided, to sustain the _rodítyel_ upon his way, together with small
ladders made of dough, in seven rungs, for scaling the seven heavens.
In case the steep should be slippery and difficult to climb, the
parings from the nails of the dead man, if these should have been cut
shortly before death, are placed close to the folded hands--the talons
of some bird of prey being occasionally added, in order to render the
business of climbing as easy as possible to the traveller. The coffin
itself is sometimes made in the shape of a boat, in order that if
Charon or his representative should refuse to convey the traveller
across the dark river, or should charge an exorbitant price for so
doing, the latter may be independent of the services of the ferryman.
All these ancient customs are observed in the letter in many of the
remoter villages throughout the empire; but it is doubtful whether the
significance of the observances is realised by the peasants who thus
perpetuate the ancient traditional customs of their forefathers, as
handed down to them, probably, without explanation. It is certain that
the belief is very general that numbers of _rodítyelui_, _i.e._, the
spirits of the fathers of the family, still reside in and watch over
the establishments of their posterity not yet quit of the infirmities
of the flesh. These spirits are supposed to have their abode in the
wall behind the _ikon_, and food for their use is occasionally placed
on certain days close to the holy picture. The spirits may, very
rarely, be seen in the form of a fly, sipping sugar-water or honey
from a plate; or in the guise of a sparrow or other small bird,
gobbling up crumbs upon the window-sill. In the case of a witch, the
soul may occasionally take an airing during the lifetime of the hag,
choosing the time when the latter is asleep to assume the form of a
moth, which issues from the mouth of the witch and flutters about the
room. This offers an excellent opportunity to get rid of the _vyedma_
altogether. To this end all that has to be done is to conceal the
mouth of the hag, so that the moth, when it returns to the body,
cannot find its way home again. Repulsed in this fashion, the
moth-soul easily becomes discouraged, and giving up the idea of
returning to its prison-house, flies out of the window and disappears,
and the witch is no more. It should be mentioned with regard to the
_rodítyelui_ who live behind the _ikon_, that when the time approaches
for a member of the family to be gathered to his fathers the spirits
gently tap-tap within the wall, as a signal to the living members of
the household that it is necessary for one of them to come and join
his friends behind the _ikon_. This is, of course, the "death-watch,"
as we know it: and the wonder is that the entire household does not
succumb to the terror which must be caused to a family in which the
little tapping creature responsible for these summonses to the next
world may have taken up its abode.

As for the _domovoy_, or house-spirit, it seems uncertain whether this
strongly marked individuality is the embodiment, in one person, of
the entire company of the _rodítyelui_, or a separate and distinct
personality. He is named, together with the spirits of the air, water,
and forests, as one of those who accompanied the evil one on the
expulsion of the latter from heaven, and as such he would appear to be
a distinct individual. But, on the other hand, there exist certain
ceremonies in connection with the _domovoy_, and to which I shall
refer again later on, which seem to associate him with the spirits of
the departed. However this may be, it is quite certain that the
_domovoy_ is a recognised and permanent inhabitant of every peasant
household throughout Russia, and it is doubtful whether there exists
from end to end of the realm a single such household which would
venture to express a doubt of his personal existence among them.
Nevertheless, he is rarely seen, though his appearance is accurately
known according to the particular notions with regard to that
appearance as held in the different portions of the empire. In these
he is variously described as a tiny old man--he is always a man, not a
woman, and always old--no larger than a five-year-old child; as very
tall and large; as having long hair; as hairy all over, even to the
palms of his hands and the soles of his feet; and as having the
extremely disagreeable habit of passing his hands over the faces of
sleepers. If his touch is soft and warm all will go well for some time
with the establishment over which he presides; but if, on the
contrary, his hand is cold, like ice, and rough to the touch, then woe
will betide the sleeper or his household in the near future. The
_domovoy_ lives within the _pechka_, or stove, and is, when properly
treated, benignantly disposed towards the members of his own
particular family, protecting these from all harm and from the evil
machinations of the neighbours, with whose _domovoys_ he is always at
enmity, quarrels between himself and these latter being of very
frequent occurrence, and resulting in great damage to the crockery and
other wreckable property of both establishments. The natural
consequence of this rivalry between the guardian spirits of
neighbouring families is that the reputation of the _domovoy_ outside
his own family circle is always very bad; for only one's own _domovoy_
is admittedly a benevolent spirit, every one else's is a demon. Thus
the _domovoy_ presents the unusual spectacle of a being who is an
angel at home and a devil out of doors, in direct contradistinction to
members of the human race, who are, as I have been informed,
frequently angelic in the presence of strangers, though quite "the
other thing" at home.

But in spite of this zeal on behalf of his own folks--zeal which so
sadly often gets him into trouble with the neighbours--the _domovoy_
must be kept in good humour by the members of his own family, or he is
liable to show in whose company he was obliged to hurriedly leave
the Realms of Light, which are asserted to have been his original
habitation--in other words, he may become mischievous and troublesome
even at home. At such times he will take to throwing the furniture
about during the night, breaking the crockery, ill-treating the
domestic pets, and so on. Under these circumstances it is best to be
bold and upbraid the invisible offender loudly, when he will generally
recognise the error of his ways, and desist, on the following night,
from throwing the dog and the tea-cups about: he is generous enough to
cherish no malice or ill-will against those who have thus been
courageous enough to remonstrate with him, which proves that the
_domovoy_, in spite of his antecedents, is more or less in a state of
grace. The tastes and peculiarities of the _domovoy_ may with
advantage be studied by those desirous of ingratiating themselves with
him. Especially in the matter of the colouring of his surroundings it
is easy and well worth while to study his idiosyncrasies, and to carry
out his ideas in this respect by adapting the hue of the feathered and
furred animals about the establishment to his known tastes in that
direction. The way to find out the favourite colour of the _domovoy_
is so very simple that it would be almost an insult to the guardian
spirit to neglect to pay him this little compliment. All that need be
done is to hang a small piece of meat by a string to a nail and to
leave it (well out of range of the family nose, let us hope), for a
month. At the expiration of that period it will be found to be covered
with maggots, and the colour of these maggots is the favourite tint of
the _domovoy_. If the cows and the horses, the cocks and the hens, are
not of the particular colour indicated by the above test, they had
better be sold at once, and others bought which correspond with the
ideas of the _domovoy_ in this respect.

The ceremony to be performed by a peasant family removing from one
house to another is full of significance, and is, or was, universally
recognised as a most important function. In this ceremony there seems
to occur that confusion between the _domovoy_ and the spirits of the
departed to which I have already made allusion in the course of this
chapter. The whole function centres in the stove, or rather in the
embers burning within it. When the family have packed up and are ready
to go, the old grandmother, if there be one, or the oldest woman of
the establishment, carefully rakes up the red-hot embers still glowing
within the stove at the moment of departure, depositing these in a pan
which is then quickly covered up. That these embers are supposed to be
in some way connected with the spirits of the departed is evident,
because the tradition specially enjoins that the greatest care must be
observed lest any of them slip through the aperture and into the
grate; for if this calamity should happen, it would signify that
certain of the _rodítyelui_ had slipped through the barrier and fallen
into the fires of hell. When the whole of the glowing coals have been
raked out and collected, the old woman carries the pan across to the
new house, chanting over and over again as she goes, the words,
"Welcome, little grandsire, to the new home." Arrived at the house,
the old woman knocks three times upon the wall, and is admitted. The
whole family have assembled meanwhile and are ready to greet the old
woman and her pan and embers. "Welcome, little grandsire, to the new
home" is the cry, repeated over and over again, while the embers are
taken out one by one, and placed, still alight, within the new stove.
Thus the _rodítyelui_ perform their "flitting," after which they are
as much at home in the new abode as they were in the old haunts. I
should mention, before leaving the subject, that previously to the
occupation of a new house, a cock and hen are let loose in the living
room, which is not entered until after the cock has crowed. No evil
spirit can bear to hear a cock crow, and the rite is doubtless
performed with a view to ridding the house of any evil spirits which
may have previously taken possession of the edifice. _Domovoys_ do not
object to the crowing of cocks--another proof that the _domovoy_ is in
a state of grace.

Holy Church has stepped in and substituted for the ceremonies which I
have just described, special services for those about to occupy new
premises, and these Christian functions now largely take the place of
the Pagan rites; but the change of ceremony has not dethroned either
the _domovoy_ or the _rodítyelui_, who still reign, and will doubtless
reign for the next thousand years, over the imagination of Ivan
Ivanovitch, as the personal and permanent and undoubted guests and
guardians of his establishment. There is a special _domovoy_ in charge
of the bath-house which forms a feature in every Russian village. This
_domovoy_ has a strong objection to the villagers bathing themselves
late at night, specially if they do so without having first prayed
aloud. It is not very clear what form his displeasure takes when his
wishes in this connection are disregarded; but it is known that he
dislikes the practice of late bathing. Probably it keeps him up.
However, if the moujik be impious enough to disregard his objections
and to take a bath at an unseasonable hour of the night, when all good
moujiks, and _banniks_ also, should be asleep, a can of warm water and
a birch-rod-swisher should be left by the untimely "ablutioner" in
propitiation of the _bannik_ (who is the _domovoy_ of the bath-house)
thus kept from his rest by the thoughtless and unselfish conduct of
the former. Whether the _bannik_ ever utilises the opportunity thus
offered him of enjoying a comfortable scrub, tradition does not say.
If the bath _domovoy_ is a good Russian, and has imbibed anything of
the nature of the moujik during his long connection with that
unsavoury member of society, probably he does _not_ use the warm water
and the swish; for he will not wash himself unless he is forced to do
so by circumstances over which he has no control, such as popular
opinion, or the customs or the bye-laws of the village in which he has
his habitation.

I have already mentioned that when the Prince of the Spirits of Evil
descended from the abode of light and took up his dwelling in the
realms of darkness, which are his habitation to this very hour, there
accompanied him certain other spirits, inferiors and followers. Among
these, according to Slavonic folk-lore, were the _vodyánnuie_, or
water-spirits; the _vozdúshnuie_, or spirits of the air; and the
_liéshuie_, or wood-demons. There were many others in his train--such
as the _karliki_, or gnomes--beings of little or no interest in the
everyday life of the peasant because they rarely interfere in human
affairs, if they can avoid it, and have no special connection with
humanity; whereas the _domovuie_, as I have shown, and the water and
wood spirits, as I intend now to describe, are constantly in contact
with members of our race, either for good or for evil. Many of the
followers of the Chief demon accompanied their leader into his new
home and there remain with him to this day; but it will be better to
leave these bad characters where they are, and to concern ourselves
solely with those whom common interests have brought into connection
with our race. The spirits which I have named did indeed accompany
their former leader as far as the portals of his new realm, the nether
regions; but they did not actually enter its confines, or if they did
do so, did not stay longer than just so much time as was required to
arrive at the conclusion that the atmosphere of the place was not such
as to suit their private ideas of comfort--which did not take them
long--after which they quickly turned their backs upon the front gates
and made off as rapidly as possible; the _liéshuie_ hiding themselves
in the forests, the _karliki_ burying themselves in the earth, while
the _vozdúshnuie_ remained in the cool air--finding it refreshing
after the heated atmosphere to which they had been lately introduced;
and the _vodyánnuie_, who had perhaps stayed a moment or two longer
beside their chief, or who were possibly more sensitive to the
discomfort of a warm temperature, plunged headlong into the water
in order to cool their parched frames, and have remained in the
pleasant depths ever since--taking over the management of all springs
and rivers and pools upon the surface of the dry land. These same
_vodyánnuie_ are a tricky race of beings and require much propitiation
at the hands of millers, fishermen, and others who have dealings with
them or with the waters within their jurisdiction. Millers, especially,
require to be careful to keep in touch with the _vodyánnuie_; for each
mill-race possesses its own particular water-spirit, and the miller
will have no luck, and deserve none, if he does not cast into the race
at least one black pig per annum as a gift to the spirit which has its
habitation in his waters. The ordinary annual offering to the
water-spirits is, however, a horse, whose legs have been previously
tied together with red ribbons, and who has been smeared for the
sacrifice with honey. A heavy stone is attached to the unfortunate
animal's neck and he is thrown into a deep pool. The _vodyánnuie_, who
have in all probability shown their displeasure for some time before
the sacrifice by causing the river to overflow its banks, or the ice
to carry away the bridge, having now received their rights as by
custom established, at once settle down in peace and quietness for a
whole year. But they are, as I have said, a tricky lot, and they must
not be depended upon by bathers, or by peasants who would fain cool
their horses' heated flanks in the deep pool after a hard day of work
in the fields. The _vodyánnui_ of the place may be of a malicious
disposition, and though everything may have been done in order to
secure his benevolent neutrality towards bathers, yet he is just as
likely as not to pull down by the leg his very warmest admirer, or the
horse of his most sincere follower.

Here, again, the Church, anxious to substitute for the Pagan observances
which I have mentioned in connection with the _vodyánnuie_ her own
orthodox functions, has ordained for the use of the faithful solemn
services for the "blessing of the waters." These services are now
performed twice each year all over Russia, and have largely ousted
the ancient rites and sacrifices which were considered necessary in
honour, or in propitiation of the water-spirits; but though the
sacrificial observances are discontinued, the belief in the existence
of the _vodyánnuie_, as active and malevolent beings whose
dwelling-place is in the pools and streams, still retains its hold
upon the minds of the people with much of its ancient intensity.
Before quitting the subject of water-spirits, I should mention that
the nymphs and mermaids of our own and universal folk-lore are
represented in that of the Slavs by beings known as _rusalki_, an
entirely distinct species from the surly and malicious _vodyánnuie_.
The latter are of the male sex, while the _rusalki_ are all females,
and frequently very beautiful. They employ their good looks
unfortunately to the ruin of our race, too frequently luring young men
to their doom, by enticing them into the deep waters and there either
tickling them to death or else drowning them; for the _rusalki_ are of
a mischievous and frivolous nature and have very little good feeling
about them. Many of the _rusalki_ are supposed to be the spirits of
stillborn or of unbaptized children, or of women who have committed
suicide or who have been for some other reason deprived of the
privilege of Christian burial. When a child dies unbaptized, its
spirit is said to wander through the world for seven years, longing
and entreating to be baptized. If any person sufficiently pure in
spirit to discern the pleading soul-voice has the presence of mind, on
hearing it, to pronounce the words, "I baptize thee in the Name of
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," then the forlorn soul is
satisfied and flits away to Paradise; but if the seven years go by and
the soul remains unbaptized, it becomes a _rusalka_. Annual prayers
are offered in Russian churches for the unbaptized, and if the
wandering spirit is fortunate enough to be close at hand and to
overhear the words of the priest during one of these services, its
object is attained: it is considered to have come within actual range
of the working of the baptismal rite, and Paradise is won for that
soul. There are some who believe that the spirits of the unbaptized,
in their wanderings through the world, assume the form of a cuckoo;
and these make a point for this reason of baptizing every cuckoo they
hear, or even of performing the rite in effigy if no living cuckoo
should be available. The fishermen of the Caspian have a pretty legend
with regard to the _rusalki_. They declare that these water-maidens
are frequently greatly troubled as to the nature of the future state
and their own probable destiny therein. The mermaids, to give them a
familiar name, are represented as occasionally appearing at the
surface of the water to inquire whether the fishermen can tell them
whether the end of the world is still far off?

The _rusalki_ vary in size, as do all the spirit forms of Russian
folk-lore. Sometimes they are spoken of as tiny beings floating in the
cup of the water-lily; sometimes as huge female forms which haunt the
cornfields and steal the grain of the peasants. When caught thus
misbehaving themselves the _rusalki_ are punished in effigy, straw
figures, representing the robbers, being tossed about by companies of
girls, who eventually cast them into the water. When this has been
done the cornfield is safe from further plunderings at the hands of
the beautiful but dishonest water-maidens.

The _vozdúshnuie_, or spirits of the air, have but little to do with
man, their realm being outside his usual "beat." There are no doubt as
many spirits dwelling in the air as inhabit the waters, woods, and
houses, but until man shall have taken to journeying in balloons or
shall have mastered the science of flying, it is probable that he will
not be molested to any great extent by this branch of the spirit
family. I will therefore pass on to consider the wood-goblins, whom I
have left until the last, because, with the sole exception of the
_domovoy_, the _liéshui_ is by far the most important of the spirits
who engage in dealings with mankind, as well as the most picturesque.
In a country whose woods and forests cover thousands of miles of
territory, it is only natural that the spirits whose home is in the
fastnesses of those pine-grown regions should play a great part in the
imagination of a poetic and superstitious people living beneath the
shadow of the pine trees. The _liéshuie_ are, without doubt, by nature
evil spirits, or demons; but, like their brethren of the waters and of
the air, they may be propitiated by the observance of certain rites
and ceremonies, and by this means rendered friendly or at least
neutral towards those who are desirous of living in their good
graces--a most necessary condition of existence for those whose flocks
and herds wander day-long in the wilds and moors and woodlands of the
interior of Russia. The _liéshui_ is, in the estimation of his friend
Ivan Ivanovitch, a shocking bad character. He is generally an old man,
very hairy and wild in appearance, as might be expected. He is a
terrible drunkard, and is frequently quite incapacitated and helpless
after his bacchanalian excesses; on such occasions he is watched over
and protected from the assaults of his enemies by his chief friend and
henchman, the bear. But not only is he a drunkard, he is equally a
slave to another vice, the indulgence of which seems to strike one as
unexpectedly sophisticated in a denizen of the forest: he is a gambler
and a card-player, speculating to a tremendous extent, and staking all
his possessions frequently enough at a single _coup_. When the village
_ochotnik_, or sportsman, finds to his annoyance that the hares, the
blackcock, or the tree partridges within his district have become so
scarce that it is no longer worth his while to tramp the woods after
them, the apparently unaccountable circumstance is plain enough to his
enlightened intelligence: the _liéshui_ of the place has gambled them
away to his next-door neighbour. The same explanation accounts for the
migration of squirrels and birds from one part of the country to
another--they are in the act of going over to swell the possessions of
the fortunate _liéshui_ who has won them from their former owner. I
should mention, however, that clubs are never used in the packs of
cards with which the _liéshuie_ carry on their games of speculation,
since these, to a certain extent, resemble the shape of a cross, an
emblem which neither wood-goblins, nor any other evil spirit dares to
look upon. But besides these gamblings with one another, and perhaps
as the outcome of these very transactions and the ill-feeling and bad
blood which operations of this kind so frequently engender, terrific
encounters occasionally take place between the rival _liéshuie_ of a
district, when the forest is devastated for hundreds of yards around,
the pines lying prone and uprooted in every conceivable position and
in every direction, just as though a hurricane of wind had passed by
and torn them up, hurling them right and left as it went. Many a time
have I encountered such a scene of desolation in mid-forest, and have
found the greatest difficulty in forcing a way through the chaos
formed by this _lom_, as it is called. Ignorant as I was in those days
of the true origin of these patches of devastation, I used fondly to
imagine that the ruin I saw had indeed been wrought by the agency of
the tempest, though it was always a puzzle to me to account for the
limited sphere in which the whirlwind had conducted its destructive
operations; the theory of a wood-goblin duel, of course, satisfactorily
accounts for the circumstance. When a _liéshui_ marries--for he does
take to himself a wife in his own good time--his bridal feasts and
processions create terrible disorder in the forest; birds and beasts
rush frightened and screaming from the neighbourhood, trees are
knocked down and strewn about the ground, and the place becomes a
pandemonium. It is not very apparent whom this unprincipled goblin
finds to marry him. Perhaps the Erl-King has an unlimited supply of
those deceitful daughters of his! The peasants naturally have much to
do with the spirits whose habitation is in the forests which surround
their dwellings, for their flocks and herds must wander free over the
outlying pasture-lands, and if the goblin of the district has not been
propitiated, the position of such herds, entirely at the mercy of
every marauding wolf or bear, is wretched indeed. When the favour of
the _liéshui_ has been gained over, then neither bear nor wolf will be
permitted by that all-powerful sylvan authority to injure cow or
horse, let it wander where it will, even within the actual confines of
the forest. In these days there is a special church function, known as
the "blessing of the herd," for use on the first occasion, in each
spring, on which the village cattle are allowed to go forth to
pasture, this service being designed to take the place of more ancient
ceremonies for the propitiation of the wood-goblins.

Occasionally a peasant, after a walk in the woods, feels himself
indisposed without any apparent reason for his indisposition. When
this is the case it may be assumed with practical certainty that he
has crossed the path of a _liéshui_. The sick man must immediately
return to the wood, bearing an offering of bread, salt, and a clean
napkin. Over these goods he must pronounce a prayer, afterwards
leaving them behind him for the use of the goblin, and returning to
his home, when the sickness will quickly pass from him. If any favour
is to be asked of the _liéshui_, he may be invoked for this purpose by
the following process: Cut down a number of young birches and place
them in a circle, taking care that the tops all converge towards the
centre. Then stand in the middle, take the cross from your neck--every
Russian wears this--and pocket it, and call out "Grandpapa!" The
spirit will instantly appear. There is "another way," as the cookery
books would say: Go into the wood on St. John's Eve and fell a tree,
taking care that it falls towards the west. Stand on the stump, facing
east, and look down at your toes; then invoke the _liéshui_ thus: "Oh!
grandfather, come, but not in the form of a grey wolf, nor of a black
raven; but come in the shape I myself wear!" Whereupon the spirit
appears immediately in the form of a human being, and, like a man,
prepared to make a bargain, if favours are asked. The _liéshui_ has
quite a strong sense of the great modern principle of _quid pro quo_,
and generally gets the best of it in his dealings with mankind.

Yet another peculiarity of the wood-goblin is his love for startling
and frightening those whose business compels them to journey through
his domain. He will take up a position among the boughs of a tree
under which the traveller must pass, suddenly giving vent, on the
approach of the latter, to all manner of terrifying sounds--loud
frenzied laughter, barking, neighing, bellowing, howling as of a wolf,
anything that will startle or alarm the intruder.

Undoubtedly the wood-goblin is the cause of a vast amount of trouble
to poor Ivan Ivanovitch; and he is, therefore, far from occupying the
snug place which his cousin, the _domovoy_, enjoys in the national
imagination. On the other hand, he might be very much worse than he
is, and he is undoubtedly, with all his faults and shocking vices,
infinitely preferable to that mean and skulking and treacherous
relative of his, the _vodyánnui_.



CHAPTER VIII

THE BEAR THAT DIED OF CURSES


The village folk of Spask were a good-natured lot, as most Russian
villagers are, and old Tatiana Danilovna was a popular character in
the community for many sufficient reasons. In the first place she was
a widow with several children, whom she did her best to support
without begging, which is in itself a great distinction for any
widow in a Russian village; and Tatiana, her special talents and
qualifications apart, had but her late husband's little allotment of
land, the portion of one soul (and oh, what a drunken soul was Yashka
Shagin, while still under bondage to the flesh!), wherewith to feed
the whole five of her brats. But then, as I have just hinted, Tatiana
had talents of her own, which enabled her to supplement the meagre
income producible from her bit of the communal land, which, but for
this fortunate provision of nature in her favour, would have been just
about enough to starve upon handsomely. The fact of the matter is, old
Tatiana was a _znaharka_. If the reader were to look out this word in
the dictionary he would probably find the English equivalent given as
"a sorceress"; but this is not exactly the meaning of the name, which
is derived from the root _zna_, and signifies rather "a woman who
knows her way about." This much old Tatiana certainly did know, as
well as most people, although I am sorry to say that her education
in the usual fields of even elementary learning had been entirely
overlooked. As _znaharka_ she did a considerable business, however, in
all of the following useful departments of that avocation. She gave
her blessing to couples about to be married; and bold indeed would
that couple have been who presumed to approach the hymeneal altar
without having previously insured themselves against the onslaughts of
the evil eye by undergoing the ceremony indicated. Besides this she
did a fairish bit of exorcising, for there were always plenty of evil
spirits knocking about near Spask, and the priest of the nearest
church could not always be got at very conveniently; besides her fee
was, naturally, lower than that of his reverence, who could not be
expected to come all that distance and bring a large _ikon_ with him
into the bargain, for nothing; also, the priest had to be refreshed,
while Tatiana was frugal to a fault in her habits, and was far
too wise a woman to go near the village beer-shop at any time for
drinking purposes. She would use the resort as a convenient place
for haranguing the assembled souls, indeed, and visited it also
occasionally in a benevolent way, to haul some boosing moujik out of
the den before he should have drunk his soul out of his body. Then,
again, Tatiana was the _sage femme_ of the district, and ushered into
the world every little squalling moujik that was unfortunate enough to
be born into this vale of tears and poverty. Lastly, for even the tale
of Tatiana's accomplishments must end somewhere, she was the medico of
the place. Tatiana did not attempt surgery, but she knew a number of
incantations and charms, which, of course, are the same thing without
the vivisection. Faith and Tatiana together effected many a cure in
Spask; and it is marvellous, when one thinks of it, how very simple a
matter will set right our suffering bodies if we only know how to "do
the trick." Tatiana knew how to do the trick, and had herbs and potent
decoctions which were able to remove every disease, unless, indeed, it
was God's will that the patient should die, in which case, of course,
neither Tatiana, nor Professor Virchow, nor any one else, would have
kept the poor creature alive. When Providence was willing that the
sick person should enjoy a further lease of life, then Tatiana and her
herbs and her occasional blood-letting were safe things to resort to,
as all Spask well knew, and were as sure as anything could be to pull
the patient through with flying colours. She also dealt in charms for
the use of lovers, mothers (or would-be mothers), hunters, farmers,
&c.; and could doctor horses and cows and dogs and poultry with
wonderful success, always, of course, under the saving clause as to
_force majeure_, in the way of interferences from Providence. I will
merely add that Tatiana was dear to all children, whom she regaled
with _prianniki_ (biscuits) after a good stroke of business, and that
the whole village feared as well as respected the old woman.

Such being Tatiana's position in the community, it is not surprising
that the entire population of Spask were ready and willing to lend a
hand whenever the word went round that the _znaharka_ was about
to mow her field of grass, or to dig up her potatoes, or whatever may
have been the particular nature of the work to be done upon her bit of
land. On the occasion which we have to consider to-day there was hay
to be made, and as Tatiana's allotment adjoined others upon which a
similar work had to be performed, nearly all the "souls," or
ratepayers, of the village were present and busy with their scythes,
while there was assuredly no single child in the place absent; all
were there, tossing Tatiana's hay about ("tedding" is the word, I
believe), and making themselves more or less useful and entirely happy
over the job. The field was a large one, for it comprised the whole of
the hay allotments of the souls of the community, about twenty-five in
all; hence Tatiana's strip, which was but one twenty-fifth of the
whole, was soon mown by so large a body of workers, who then passed on
to the next strip, and thence to a third and a fourth, until all was
mown. The field lay close up to the very edge of the pine forest,
Tatiana's strip being actually the nearest to the wood, so that, as
the work went on, the whole body of workers gradually drew further and
further from the cover, until towards evening the busy, noisy crowd
were at quite a considerable distance from the spot at the edge of the
forest where work had commenced in early morning. On such occasions as
mowing day at Spask there is no question of returning to the village
during working hours; for once in a way Ivan Ivanich sticks to
business, and meals, as well as any little refreshers of a liquid
nature, are partaken of upon the spot; hunks of black bread tied up in
red handkerchiefs, salted herrings in grimy bits of newspaper, and
_kvass_, in dirty-looking bottles, forming the principal items of
the food and drink brought by the moujiks to be consumed upon the
ground. _Kvass_ is a drink to which I should recommend every reader
to give a very wide berth, for it is without exception the nastiest
decoction that ever the perverted ingenuity of mankind invented, and
is calculated to nauseate the toughest British palate to such an
extent that the said Britisher will flee the country rather than taste
the noxious stuff a second time.

On this occasion there was quite an array of red handkerchiefs left at
the edge of the field, together with sundry loose hunks of black bread
and other comestibles, and half-a-dozen tiny children of a
non-perambulating age, which latter had been brought to the field by
their mothers for the excellent reason that there was no one left in
the village to look after them, and were now peacefully sleeping, like
so many little bundles of rags, each under the tree selected by its
parent for the office of shade-giver. Assuredly not one of the
red-shirted souls so busily wielding their scythes, or of the
gaily-kerchiefed women tossing and drying the grass, ever bethought
herself of the possibility of danger to the little ones thus left a
hundred or so of yards away: for who would hurt them? There were no
gipsies to carry them away, or brigands--they had never heard of such
gentry; it was perfectly safe, and nobody bothered his head about the
babies. Therefore it came as a terrible shock to every person present
when of a sudden some one raised the cry: "Medvyed, medvyed!" (a bear,
a bear!) There was no mistake about it, it was indeed a bear, and a
big one, too--"the tsar of the bears," as a moujik expressed it
afterwards. The brute was apparently busy searching among the red
handkerchiefs for something to eat, when first seen; but at the
general shout or howl of fear and surprise which immediately arose
from the whole body of peasants in the field, he raised his nose and
deliberately scanned the assembled villagers, showing his teeth and
growling unpleasantly.

The villagers were too frightened, at first, to either move or utter a
sound. The spectacle of a bear in their midst was too unusual in that
portion of Russia in which Spask lay to be other than intensely
horrifying. Spask did not even boast of an _ochotnik_, or hunter,
among its inhabitants; the population, one and all, were as ignorant
of the best course to pursue under the circumstances as though the
foul fiend himself had suddenly appeared among them, and their
tongues, as well as their arms, were absolutely paralysed with
amazement and terror.

Meanwhile the bear, seeing that none seemed anxious to dispute his
presence, turned his attention to the red bundles which contained the
food whose good smell had probably attracted him, visiting several of
these in turn and rolling them about in his attempts to get at their
contents. Then he visited a bundle which contained a baby. The child
was, fortunately, fast asleep; neither did it awake when Bruin rolled
it over to sniff at it; if it had moved the consequences might perhaps
have been fatal. But, as matters turned out, the child slept on, and
the bear, satisfied that it was dead, left it. Then at length the
spirit of the assembled population returned to them, and, as though
with one accord, the entire crowd gave vent to a shriek of relief and
rage; men began to finger their scythes and women their rakes, and the
whole assembly moved a step or two towards the intruder. Then Bruin
began to think that discretion was, perhaps, after all, the better
part of valour, and, with a few savage snarls and grunts, he retired
into the forest, stepping upon a sleeping baby as he withdrew, and
causing the child to wake and scream with pain or fright. Then he
disappeared among the dark pines, moaning and grunting so as to be
heard for a considerable distance.

The villagers lost no time in rushing to the assistance of the
screaming child, now that danger was over; when it was seen that the
baby was quite uninjured, and, further, that the child was a relative
and goddaughter of old Tatiana, whose bundle of black bread the bear
had also honoured with particular attention. These facts amounted, in
the minds of the good people of Spask, to a coincidence. Why had the
brute thus chosen out the _znaharka_ for special and deliberate
insult? Undoubtedly he was an evil spirit, and these acts of hostility
on his part directed against the chief local enemy of evil spirits
must be regarded as something in the nature of a challenge. Tatiana's
bread was all eaten or spoiled, and Tatiana's godchild still lay
screaming, though unhurt, in her mother's arms. There was more in this
than appeared on the surface.

All eyes were now upon the _znaharka_, for it was evident that
something must be said or done under the circumstances; the reputation
of the wise woman of the village was, in a way, at stake.

Tatiana did not disappoint her admirers. She first crossed herself,
and then spat; then she fixed her eyes upon the spot where the bear's
retreating form had last been seen, and commenced a speech, half a
formula of exorcisation and half pure (or rather very impure) abuse,
which certainly did the greatest credit both to her inventive
faculties and to her knowledge of the intricacies of the Russian
language as arranged specially for the use of vituperative peasants.
If one fractional portion of the old woman's curse had taken effect
upon its object, the rest of the days of that bear upon this earth
would indeed have been days of blighting and misery both for himself
and for those who called him son or cousin or husband; his female
relatives especially came under condemnation, and most of all she who
had brought him into the world; her fate was to be shocking indeed, so
much so that I shrink from entering into the matter in detail for fear
of wounding the feelings of my readers, who are not perhaps accustomed
to the beauties of the Russian peasant's vocabulary, which is
exceedingly rich in certain forms of speech. Tatiana's curse, however,
produced a great effect upon her fellow villagers, who felt that it
was all that the occasion demanded, and that they had for the present
obtained satisfaction for the insults heaped upon them by the
uninvited stranger; the baby was also, presumably, of this opinion,
for it now stopped crying, and began to look about it with eyes full
of the last few unshed tears, as though it expected to find the corpse
of the bear lying somewhere about as the immediate result of Tatiana's
heroics. After this, the souls, accompanied by their female relatives
and the children, returned to the village, where the rest of the
evening was spent by the majority of the gentlemen in the refinements
of _vodka_-drinking and wrangling at the beer-shop.

But, alas! shocking though the curse of Tatiana had sounded, and dire
as the results ought to have been in the way of utter confusion and
annihilation in this world and the next for that bear and all his
relations, it soon appeared that somehow or other the malediction had
missed its mark. The very next day the creature was seen by a villager
who chanced to penetrate somewhat deep into the forest in search of
mushrooms; and so far from being any the worse for the liberal cursing
it had had, the bear had appeared--so the moujik declared--to be all
the better, or rather fiercer for it; it had actually chased him for
some little distance, and would have caught him if he had not, most
providentially, reached a wide expanse of open ground which the bear
had hesitated to cross in daylight.

This was serious news, and Tatiana was observed that morning, after
hearing it, to grow very thoughtful; she made her hay diligently, but
silently, exchanging neither word nor salutation with man, woman, or
child during the whole of the day. The peasant women eyed the old
_znaharka_ with unquiet minds; was this evil spirit destined to prove
more mighty than she, and to defy with impunity the very clearly
expressed maledictions of their all-powerful _znaharka_? Surely not.
It would be a bad day for Spask if the confidence which the village
had so long reposed in the mystic powers of the sagacious Tatiana were
now to be shaken! This was the very reflection which was disturbing
the mind of the _znaharka_ herself, with the corollary that it would
be an uncommonly bad thing for her business also. Things however, went
from bad to worse. Far from feeling any ill effects from the curses of
Tatiana, these seemed to have inspired the offending animal with
greater courage and ferocity than had ever hitherto been the portion
of mortal bruin. He chased the villagers at every opportunity: he
entered the village at night and stole--alas! poor _znaharka_!--Tatiana's
own dog; he grew bolder day by day, and at last his daring culminated
in the pursuit and capture of a poor little child. The unfortunate
baby, for she was scarcely more, had strayed beyond the edge of the
wood while her people were busy in the hayfield, had been caught,
carried away, and eaten. This was the climax. Tatiana's reputation was
tottering. Already several sick persons had presumed to get well
without her assistance; another had done an even worse thing, he had
ridden over to the neighbouring _selo_, which means the chief of a
group of villages, in order to consult the local _feldscher_, an
insult to the medical genius of Tatiana which had never before been
offered to that lady--who, to do her justice, little as she knew about
medicine or human bodies and their ailments, nevertheless knew a great
deal more than her professional rival upon these subjects, for he was
as absolutely ignorant of one as he was of the other.

And now Tatiana began to feel her influence in the village, and
therefore her very livelihood, slipping away, not gradually, but, if I
may use the expression, with a run. If something did not happen to
re-establish her reputation, and that very soon, both position and
emoluments as wise-woman of the district would inevitably go by the
board! Folks began to eye her askance when they met her; some even
openly mocked at her as she passed, delighting to tell her each new
tale of the appearance of the demon bear, that thrived on curses; in a
word, the position became insupportable. The discredited wise-woman
now took to roaming the woods, armed with her sickle, in hopes of
meeting and, by some fortunate combination of circumstances in which
cursing and cunning and violence were all to play a part, compassing
the death of her arch-enemy, the ruiner of her position and prospects,
the hated, the accursed, the demoniac bear. Strangely enough, Tatiana
still believed in herself though the rest of the village had learned
to doubt her powers, and she was not without hope that a second curse,
if personally applied, might yet prove efficacious. All Tatiana's
wanderings in the forest seemed, however, to be doomed to end in
disappointment; the enemy would not show himself, and matters were
growing extremely critical when at last one afternoon the unexpected
happened. As the old woman was busily employed washing her children's
clothes in the river, on chancing to raise her head she espied for the
first time since the memorable evening of her first abortive cursing,
the very identical object of that curse and of very many others since
lavished upon him in the secret recesses of her being--Bruin himself.
The bear, unaware of her proximity, was standing at the edge of the
steepish bank which at that spot overhung the water, endeavouring to
reach the stream for a drink. Unsuccessful in his efforts to effect
this, the brute was softly whining and grunting, growing excited and
passionate the while, as baulked bears will, over his failure to get
at the water. Seeing that his whole attention was absorbed in the
interest of the moment, Tatiana, who, brave as she was, had at first
forgotten everything in the terror of this sudden _rencontre_ with the
savage brute, determined to seize the opportunity to escape. But when
she had crept a very few paces away, a thought struck her. She was
discredited and disgraced at the village; her reputation, which meant
her livelihood, had gone from her; what was life worth to her under
the circumstances? Why not make one bold stroke for reputation and
fortune, and succeed or perish in the attempt? Here was this bear
busily engaged in balancing himself over the surface of the swift
stream, endeavouring to get at the water which he could not possibly
reach, but, bear-like, persisting in the attempt; now, why not creep
quietly up, and--yes, she would do it! Tatiana stole softly behind her
enemy--it was a matter of life and death, she quite understood that,
so she was careful enough to make no sound--approached within a yard
or two of the monster's broad stern, then, as he bent himself further
than ever over the water, gave one loud shout and one big rush, and in
an instant had thrown the whole weight of her body against that of the
already almost overbalanced animal at the brink. The next moment
_znaharka_ and bear were both rising to the surface of the river Neva,
beneath whose cool waters they had plunged in company. Old Tatiana
could swim like a duck and soon struck out for the best landing place;
the bear, like a sensible creature, following her lead. But the old
woman, trained to swim in these waters from childhood, quickly
outstripped her companion, and was ready, with her sickle in her hand,
when that half-drowned individual arrived. The river was deep to the
very bank, so that Tatiana had no great difficulty in beating off her
enemy, who, placing two huge paws upon the edge of the bank, received
a cut from the sickle upon each, which soon compelled him to snatch
away those members with a roar of pain and rage.

Then commenced an unequal battle. The bear splashed about endeavouring
to gain a footing; but whenever he came to the bank, there was Tatiana
awaiting him with her deadly sickle, and in addition to many cuts over
paw and forearm the unfortunate brute had soon to bewail sundry gashes
over face and head, which first enraged and then stupefied him, the
old woman accompanying her blows with volleys of abuse and
imprecations which, I am convinced, must have made that bear feel
exceedingly ashamed of himself had he not had other matters to engage
his attention at the moment!

The result of all this was a foregone conclusion. The poor brute could
not land; his efforts to gain a foothold waxed feeble; his roars of
pain and rage grew weaker, thinned themselves into pitiful whines and
bubbling moans, and then died away altogether. His head went under
water, reappeared once and a second time, and sank again. He was
drowned.

Then the old _znaharka_ crossed herself, spat towards her defunct
enemy, and fainted.

An hour afterwards, as the Souls of Spask were engaged, _more suo_,
in wrangling over their midday _vodka_, at the beer-house, to them
entered the pale and dishevelled figure of the discredited wise-woman.

"Well, little mother," said one, "what are you asking for curses this
afternoon? I'm told they are a drug in the market!"

Rude laughter followed this sally.

"Curses have gone up since the morning," said the old woman. "I have
seen a vision----"

"If your visions are as nourishing as your maledictions," interrupted
a second moujik, "you'd better feed the demon bear with them. He may
thrive on them, and it will save our oats!"

"The bear is dead," said Tatiana "I have seen him in a vision. You
will find his body at the shallow rapids near Gouriefka. My curse has
fallen upon him. He will eat no more oats!"

With which solemn words Tatiana made an effective exit before her
hearers had decided what to make of them.

When the dripping body of that ill-used bear was brought in triumph to
the village and laid in the street in front of Tatiana's cottage, it
would be difficult to say which of two parties, all the members of
which talked at once, were the loudest--those who applauded and
extolled the marvellous triumph of the _znaharka_ over the powers
of darkness, or those who raised their voices in denunciation upon the
prostrate enemy of mankind. The two parties changed places continually,
those who cursed the bear taking a turn at extolling the woman of the
hour, and _vice versâ_. Suffice it to say that never was bear better
cursed, and never was praise more lavished upon human being. For
several years after this, if there was a wise woman in all Russia
whose blessings and cursings were esteemed absolutely effective in all
emergencies, and carried their own steady market value for miles
around Spask, that woman was Tatiana. Her cures were marvellous after
this, for so great was the faith reposed in her powers that she might
have saved her herbs and still the patients would have recovered. As
for the death of the bear, St. Sergius, on whose name-day the brute
perished, got the credit of that, after deduction had been made for
the glory fairly earned by Tatiana, but for whose maledictions the
good saint might never have been moved to interfere for the relief of
the Spask peasantry. Tatiana knew exactly how much St. Sergius had to
do with the killing of the bear; but, in her opinion, it paid her far
better to pose as the successful curser than as the intrepid hunter,
and no doubt she knew best about that, as about most things, being a
_znaharka_.

Moreover, the bear, whether he died of curses or of cold water,
provided an excellent fur to clothe Tatiana withal when winter frosts
came on, for the widow's ancient mantle had worn out with her
reputation.



CHAPTER IX

AMONG THE WOOD-GOBLINS


Summer was "a comin' in," and a certain serious matter began to weigh
upon the mind of the peasants of Kushlefka, which is a prosperous
village in a grain-growing district of Archangel; for its settlement
could not much longer be delayed. The fact is, that early in the
winter Kushlefka had been so unfortunate as to lose the services of
its _pastuch_, or cowherd, death having carried off the old man
during the slack time--when the cows were all at home, that is, and
needed no one to look after them. But now that summer was at hand, and
the cows would soon be wanting to be up and about, wandering over
communal pasture and moorland in search of the fresh young blades of
grass, it was very awkward to feel that there was no pastuch to
personally conduct them in their wanderings, and that no single
candidate had been near the place to apply for the post. None of the
villagers would so much as think of accepting the office, for it was
but a poorly-paid billet, and was generally held by some one
unconnected with the place--some outsider who had wandered into the
village in search of a job and was appointed pastuch for as long as he
would keep the situation.

Hence when, one Sunday afternoon, as the assembly of the Heads of
Families or Souls composing the Mir or Commune of Kushlefka were met
to consider matters of local interest, and to settle certain business
questions appertaining to their jurisdiction, it was considered rather
a stroke of good luck for the community when a ragged moujik of middle
age suddenly appeared at the door of the council-hall, doffed his cap
and crossed himself towards the _ikon_ in the corner of the room,
made a bow to those present, grinned, scratched his head, and said:

"Good day, brothers; don't leave me!"

The reader must not suppose that the new-comer in thus addressing the
Souls of Kushlefka was seized with a sudden misgiving that those
gentlemen might all arise and depart just as he had arrived; the
Russian expression "Don't leave me!" merely indicates a desire to be
heard, and if possible assisted, and is a common mode for an inferior
to commence a conversation with a superior.

"What do you want?" asked the starost, or president.

"Why--work," said the man; "some job--bread to eat--any kind of work
will do for me." This seemed most providential, and the starost looked
meaningly around at his lieutenants.

"What do you know--what can you do?" he asked.

"Better ask me what I _can't_ do!" replied the new man; "I can do
a bit of anything and everything!"

"You can drink _vodka_, _I_ warrant!" said one of the Souls, "or you'd
have pockets in your clothes and something inside them!" This was in
rude allusion to the attire of the new-comer.

"Well, if you come to that, brother," said that ragged individual,
"the moujik who doesn't take kindly to _vodka_ is like a fish who
can't swim; I can drink _vodka_ as well as most--try me, if you
don't believe it."

"Do you understand the duties of a pastuch?" the starost inquired. The
man laughed scornfully.

"You give me a pastuch's pipe, starost, and I'll show you what I can
do! I can blow the pipe so that not only the cows of my own village
follow me home, but the cattle from the next village as well! Why, all
the _liéshuie_ (wood-spirits) come flying up from miles around when I
play, and settle on the trees like _riabchiks_ (tree partridges) to
listen! Wolves come and fawn at my feet! You won't find a pastuch like
me in all Russia!"

The fact is, the stranger was exceedingly anxious to obtain the
situation of pastuch; it was just the sort of loafing work to suit
him; hence his eloquence.

Now, when the patron of a situation is no less anxious to give away
the office at his disposal than the candidate is to obtain it, there
is not much need to waste words over the appointment; accordingly,
Radion Vasilitch was speedily engaged as the village pastuch, at a
salary of four roubles per month, and entered at once upon his duties.

The appointment was made none too soon; for the very next day was that
on which the cattle were annually allowed to make their first
excursion beyond their own yard gates. Radion appeared in full pastuch
costume at earliest morn, and blew his long horn or pipe in a manner
which proved that he was no novice in the accomplishment. Out came the
cows into the street, a noisy, happy herd, lowing and gambolling in
exuberant but ungainly joy, for they were very naturally delighted to
learn that their long captivity was over. Each house contributed its
one or two or four cows to the herd as Radion passed trumpeting down
the street, and at last the starost's house was reached.

"Starost!" shouted Radion, "aren't you going to do what is necessary
for the safety of the herd before I take them into the woods?"

"What do you mean?" asked the chief Soul, who was standing in
_déshabille_ at his own yard gate, watching the pastuch and his
charge.

"Why, about the wood-goblins. It is better to propitiate them--we
always did so on the first day of the season at Kirilova!"

"This is not Kirilova, my brother," said the starost, "but Kushlefka.
We have no wood-spirits here. A good pastuch is better than charms and
ceremonies."

"Very well; but don't blame me if anything happens!" said Radion; and
blowing a mighty blast upon his strident instrument, he accompanied
his cows down the road. Presently the whole party branched off to the
left across the ditch--the cows jumping it, most of them, in the
inimitable manner of their tribe--struck across a patch of sandy
common, reached a stretch of green pasture-land beyond, distributed
themselves over this natural banqueting-hall in picturesque blotches
of whites and reds and blacks, and so gradually passed out of sight
and went their happy way until the evening. The villagers meanwhile
would see no more of them, but left them in perfect confidence to the
care of the pastuch, who received, or was to receive, the sum of four
roubles per month for thus taking the cows "off their minds."

Radion performed his work with perfect success, and brought his herd
home safely, in spite of the danger to be apprehended from _liéshuie_
and their chosen agents for destruction, the wolves and bears.

Days passed, and still all went well. Radion's playing of the blatant
cowhorn was all that he had described it, and his success as pastuch
was complete. He occasionally brought back with him a hare which he
had managed, somehow, to capture; or a greyhen, whom he had discovered
upon her nest with nine little cheeping blackcock beneath her. Radion
had none of the chivalry of the sportsman, and thought nothing of
taking the "matka," or mother-bird, from her helpless fledglings,
leaving them to starvation, or to the foxes and the grey-hooded crows.
The game thus acquired he would distribute as gifts to those of the
wives of the moujiks who had the most cows, for Radion's aim in life,
as is the aim and object of every true Russian peasant, was "_na
chaiok_," or tea money, so called because tea would be the very last
thing upon which any moujik would think of laying out a gratuity.
Radion hoped, then, for substantial _na chaioks_ at the end of the
season from those whose large property in cattle he had safeguarded
successfully. But one fine evening, while the summer was yet young and
Radion still more or less of a novelty in the village, a terrible
thing happened, of a sort to make those in the community who had
laughed at the superstitious pastuch and his fears of the wood-goblins
to look grave, and ask themselves whether there was not, after all,
more in this question of old-time superstitions than appeared at first
sight. True, the villagers had never hitherto had any reason to fear
the _liéshuie_, or indeed to regard them as anything more than mere
story-book beings, having no existence save in the pages of nursery
literature and in the brains of loafers like Radion; but now....

The facts of the matter were as follows. Radion brought home the herd
of cows on a certain evening _one short_. The pastuch arrived from the
pasture looking pale and haggard, escorted the herd as far as the
village street, and himself turned aside into the house of the
starost, whom he found lying asleep upon the top of his stove. Radion
spent a considerable time bowing and crossing himself before the
_ikon_, prostrating himself several times and touching with his
forehead the bare boards of the floor. Then he turned his wild eyes
towards the chief peasant of the village.

"Starost," he said, "a fearful thing has happened. The _liéshuie_
are against us. We have offended the Spirits of the Forest, in whose
service are the bears and the wolves. Let us propitiate them before it
is too late, or a worse thing may happen!"

"Worse than what?" asked the starost. "It appears to me, my brother,
that you are drunk."

"I may be a little drunk, brother Ivan Ivanich," replied Radion, "but
who would not take a little drop if he had been chased by two enormous
wolves and laughed at by the king of the _liéshuie_ himself?"

"Are you sure it was not a _bielaya kooropatka_ (willow grouse)?"
said the unbelieving starost. "Even sober men have ere now mistaken
the cry of the _kooropatka_ for the laugh of a wood-goblin."

"And what of the wolves, your charitableness, and the cow that is
eaten up together with her bones and skin?" retorted the offended
pastuch.

"What!" cried Ivan Ivanich, starting to his feet; "not one of
_my_ cows, Radion Vasilitch?" The starost was serious enough now!

"Yes, Ivan Ivanich; and the best cow in the village, and the fattest.
Do you think the wolf-hunters of the _liéshuie_ do not know which is
the pick of the herd? As for me, though I blew my horn--yes, and
cracked my long whip at them and shouted--all I could do was to
attract their attention to myself instead of to the cow. Starost, I
would not again go through that fearful chase for ten times four
roubles a month. They pursued me to the foot of a tree, Ivan
Ivanich--it is a true word" (here Radion turned towards the _ikon_
and crossed himself); "and had I not remembered to call upon the holy
saint and equal to the Apostles, my patron, they would have eaten me
as well as the cow Masha! As it was, from the top of a tree I saw
the furious beasts fall upon poor Masha, tear her to pieces, and eat
her entirely up, so that not a trace remained, while an invisible
_liéshui_ spirit laughed aloud until every particle was consumed.
Then the wolves came licking their lips, to the foot of my tree, and,
looking up at me, howled three times and vanished. It was with
difficulty that I succeeded in reaching the village, for my knees
have no strength, and my heart is as the heart of a lamb or of a
sucking-pig after this terrible day."

The starost looked grave and troubled. That these wolves should have
appeared after Radion's warning as to _liéshuie_ was curious. That
they should have selected his cow would surely indicate a deliberate
intention on the part of the spirits--if, indeed, the spirits were at
the bottom of the trouble--to accentuate the significance of their
action; for they had eaten Masha, and that cow represented the
starost; therefore the _liéshuie_ had struck their blow at the
starost, who, again, was the representative man of the community. This
surely would mean that the spirits desired to demonstrate their
displeasure with the community through their representative, the
starost. A meeting of the Mir was held that very evening in order to
discuss the situation, and a Soul was sent on horseback to the priest
of the district, five miles away, to ask for guidance in the emergency
which had arisen. Late at night the deputy returned to the village
bearing a message from the priest. The message was extremely to the
point, though very short, and ran thus: "Tell the starost and his
moujiks and the pastuch that they are a set of drivelling fools. The
only spirits they have to keep clear of are _vodka_ and cognac."

This was encouraging, if somewhat lacking in courtesy. But a
difficulty arose. The pastuch professed to be so terrified with his
experiences of the preceding day that he really could not bring
himself to enter the woods again unless the usual ceremonies were
first performed to protect the herd from the perils of the forest.
However, a _na chaiok_ of a rouble from the public funds proved a
strong argument, and Radion was persuaded to convoy his cows as usual
into their pastures.

All went well on this occasion and the day after, but on the evening
of the third day another catastrophe happened. Radion returned _minus_
two more of the cattle placed under his care--a second cow and the
only bull of the herd. Radion himself was in a terrible state. He
raved and laughed and cried and cursed like one demented. To the
ordinary observer he would have appeared to be merely rather far gone
in alcoholic poisoning; but this, of course, could not be the case:
the _znaharka_, the wise woman of the village, said so. It was the
simple and natural result of great terror, she explained. In all
probability he had seen the _liéshuie_ or, at least, their
wolf-slaves, and the terror of it had maddened him.

This proved to be the case; for after a night's rest Radion was so far
recovered that he gave a history of the events of the preceding day.
These were, it appeared, almost a repetition of those of last week,
excepting that, in addition to the horrors before experienced, a huge
bear had come out of the forest, as well as the two wolves, and had
eaten an entire cow to itself. After the meal it had climbed the tree
upon which the affrighted Radion had taken refuge, seated itself
beside him, growled and roared three times in his face, and climbed
down again, tearing his trousers as it did so. Radion showed a long
slit in the leg of his nether garments, which, of course, proved the
truth of his story.

After this there could be no further shilly-shallying. The _znaharka_
called upon the starost, and spoke to that official very seriously
upon the subject. She knew, she explained, the details of the proper
function to be performed before a herd can be considered safe from
interference by the _liéshuie_, and would be pleased to take the
management of the affair into her hands. Her fee was three roubles.
The cattle could not possibly be sent to pasture again before this
most necessary function had been performed. No one would send their
cows out under the circumstances--how could they? It was tempting
Providence; or, at all events, insulting the wood-spirits, which came
to the same thing. Besides, the pastuch had declared he would not go
out again, and who was to take his place?

A meeting of the Mir was convened without further delay, and it was
determined to allow the wise woman to proceed with her preparations.
On the morrow, early in the morning, the ceremony should be performed.
On this particular day the cows remained at home. Radion could not
think of risking his life a third time, and as for the owners of the
cows, there was hardly one who would have been foolhardy enough to
allow his cattle to wander through the woods under present
circumstances.

When the morrow came the _znaharka_ was at hand as the herd moved
down the street in order to watch which of the cows took the lead, for
her first ceremony was dependent upon that circumstance. Having fixed
upon the leader she tied a bit of red wool round its neck. This was a
symbol that thus henceforth were the throats of the wild beasts bound,
lest they should swallow the cows. Next the _znaharka_ walked
solemnly three times round the entire herd, locking and unlocking a
padlock the while, in token that thus were the jaws of the grey wolves
locked, lest they should rend the cattle. After the third time the
padlock was finally locked and buried.

Then came a sort of liturgy which the wise woman pronounced standing
in front of the herd, the meek animals being much surprised at the
proceedings, and at the unusual delay in allowing them to get away to
their pasture.

"Deaf man, canst thou hear us? No. Then pray God the grey wolf may not
hear our cattle in the forest.

"Lame man, canst thou overtake us? Nay, I cannot. Then pray God that
the grey wolves overtake not these cows.

"Blind man, canst thou see us? No. Then pray God the grey wolf may not
perceive our cattle in the woods."

This was the end of the function, and the poor cows, who had been
somewhat impatiently whisking away the mosquitoes and horseflies for
the last half hour, were at length allowed to proceed. Radion
expressed himself satisfied and went after them; he was no longer
afraid of the wood-spirits, he declared; they were now powerless to
harm him.

After this, matters went quietly enough at Kushlefka. Nothing happened
to the herd or to the pastuch himself, for both were protected by the
solemnities conducted as above by the _znaharka_. But the bull which
had formed a meal for the two demon wolves on the occasion of their
second attack upon the herd was still unreplaced, and it was necessary
to buy one somewhere. The starost, therefore, allowed it to be known
far and wide that Kushlefka was in need of a bull and open to offers.

In a few days bulls began to come in, bulls of every kind; but for
some little while the right bull could not be found: one was too
savage, another too big, a third too small. A week went by and still
Kushlefka remained without the head and ornament to its herd of cows.
Then a most curious and astonishing circumstance happened. One
morning, not long after the pastuch had set out with his cattle for
the day's wandering over moor and grass-land, a man arrived from a
village distant some seven or eight miles through the forest,
accompanied by a bull whose appearance filled the minds of those who
witnessed its arrival with astonishment and some awe. If they had not
already known that old Vasilice, the late lord of the herd, was in his
grave, or rather in the stomachs of two grey demon-wolves of the
forest, they would have said that this new bull was Vasilice
_redivivus_. He was strangely like. From the brown stocking on
his off hind-leg to the one black ear and browny-black patch on his
nose--big white body and all--he was the very image of Vasilice. What
made it the more astonishing was that no sooner did the animal arrive
in the village street than he walked straight to the lodgings of the
late lamented Vasilice, and would take no denial, but must needs be
let into the yard, and thence to the cowshed, where he immediately
sniffed about as one who knows the lie of the land, helping himself,
presently, to hay and other delicacies which he found to hand, as
though it were his own of right. In vain his owner tried to turn him
out of shed and yard; he would not budge; indeed, he surveyed the man
with a look of mild surprise, as who should say, "What on earth is the
matter with _you_? Go back to Drevnik if you like, but as for me,
I stay here!"

Deep was the astonishment of Kushlefka. This thing was a mystery.
Could the bull be the spirit of the departed Vasilice? Some of the
spectators spat on the ground, some crossed themselves; it depended
upon how the thing suggested took them.

But stay; the starost has an idea. Vasilice used to have a faint mark
of an old brand, a mere scar on the off hindquarter. Ivan Ivanich
entered the shed and made a close inspection of the animal.

When he came out his face was grave; but his glance was serene and
high, as of one who has triumphed over mysteries, and has discerned
light through the darkness.

"It is Vasilice," he said. "Where did you buy him, brother?"

"At Drevnik, your mercifulness," replied the seller.

"And from whom?"

"From a stranger, a pastuch, who drove him, with a fine cow, into
Drevnik--oh--a fortnight ago nearly; he said he had been commissioned
to sell the pair by a moujik in Koltusha, which your mercifulness
knows is twenty miles away, and that----"

"Should you know the man again?" interrupted the starost.

"Certainly, for we drank together for half an hour at the _kabak_,
after the bargain for the bull and cow. A ragged pastuch--lantern-jawed,
and red-hair--and with a scrag beard----"

"Good," said the starost. "You shall have back the money you paid for
Vasilice, and a three-rouble note for your trouble! Now leave him here
and come back to-morrow with the cow. Brothers," he continued, "not a
word to Radion about the bull Vasilice when he returns! I will settle
with Radion to-morrow."

Then the starost paid a long visit to Yegor, the _ochotnik_ (sportsman)
of the village, and made certain arrangements. Yegor was a great hunter
and had slain many bears and wolves, making a good living by the sale
of their skins.

                     *      *      *      *      *

On the following day, while Radion was loafing the morning away amid
his cows, counting his ill-gotten gains and meditating as to how he
should spend them as soon as he got safely out of Kushlefka and back
home again, he suddenly perceived something which sent his lazy blood,
for once, coursing through his veins at a speed which made the beating
of his heart a painful function. Issuing from the dark fringe of the
forest, which lay but a short fifty yards away, came a procession
alarming enough to frighten, out of his very wits, a man with five
times the courage of Radion; first a bear--a big one--and at his heels
two wolves. Behind the wolves came a wild shape--half human, but with
the head of a bear. The procession moved slowly in Radion's direction,
who, his limbs being fixed and rigid with terror, was entirely unable
to move. Not so the herd. Snorting and bellowing, with tails up and
heads down, every cow was instantly in motion, and galloping for dear
life across the moor. Radion would have shrieked in the anguish of his
fright, but his tongue clave to his palate, and he could utter no
sound but a hoarse rattle. He tried to pray and to cross himself, but
could not raise his arm.

By this time the awful procession had reached him and stood motionless
around him. If Radion had not been half dead with fear he must have
noticed something strange about the style of locomotion of the
terrible beasts, as well as a certain fixedness of expression about
the eyes of all four. But he was too far gone to observe anything. At
last the figure, half man and half beast, spoke:

"Radion--Radion," it said sepulchrally, "liar! Where are the bull
Vasilice and the cows Masha and Katia?"

Radion's dry lips moved, but he could utter never a word.

"Radion--liar!" the voice continued, "you have lied in the village to
the dishonour of the liéshuie, of whom I am king. Where is the money
you received for Vasilice and the two cows?" Radion's hand made a
movement towards his wallet, but had not strength to carry itself so
far.

"Radion--liar and thief," continued the king of the _liéshuie_ "you
are doomed--you must die! Advance wolves, tear and destroy; rend,
bear!"

But before the terrific animals could obey the injunctions of their
leader, Radion's tongue had freed itself, and with a fearful yell the
unfortunate pastuch fell senseless upon the heather.

Then that mercenary _liéshui_ king relieved Radion of his wallet,
after which he retired quickly into the forest followed by his three
slaves, carrying their heads under their arms, the weather being hot.

When Radion returned to the village at night, his face was as the
countenance of those who have been through great tribulation; and when
the herd awaited the sound of his horn next morning, and wandered
aimlessly about the village street, headed by Vasilice _redivivus_
(whom they were very glad to see back again among them), they were
doomed to a sad disappointment; for it was discovered that their
faithful pastuch had departed, leaving no address.



CHAPTER X

AN UNBAPTIZED SPIRIT


I have already referred to a pretty tradition still existing among the
peasantry of the Slavonic families that the soul of a child who dies
unbaptized must wander for seven years, beseeching, at the hands of
each Christian person it sees, that precious privilege of which it has
been deprived. If the little soul should fail, during its term of
seven years, to find a Christian man or woman who will hear its cry
and give it the baptism it craves, that soul must forfeit its
soulship, and the being becomes a member of a lower race, assuming
thenceforth the form and character of a river-spirit, and taking up
its abode among the members of that frivolous and somewhat mischievous
family.

                     *      *      *      *      *

There was grief in the house of Pavel Shirkof, a peasant of the
village of Chudyesin, near Perm, beneath the shadow of the dark Urals.
Pavel was unlike most of his kind, for his ideas of happiness were
not as theirs, bounded by the narrow limits of the interior of the
_kabak_ or drinking-shop. Pavel was gifted with an earnestness of
disposition rare enough among men of his standing; he took life
seriously, and had been a good husband to his wife. He had married but
a short year ago, and now, alas! the buxom girl of twelve months since
lay, a young mother, sighing out the last moments of her stricken
life. Unattended by doctor or nurse, far from all skilled assistance,
and watched only by her terrified and ignorant though loving husband,
the poor wife tossed upon her so-called bed, while her tiny child lay
helpless and neglected upon a nest of old potato-sacks and coats and
rags in the corner by the stove--a thing of feeble, struggling
existence as near to its end had Pavel known it, as it was to its
beginning, and this was but a matter of half-an-hour or so. The baby
lay and wailed unnoticed, for her poor father had his dying wife to
attend to, and the sick woman, but half conscious, had not as yet
caught that sound so dear to every mother's ear--her own child's
voice. But suddenly she paused in the restless side-to-side movements
of her head upon the pillow, and appeared to listen.

"Pavel," she said, and her pale cheek flushed, "it is the child. Let
me see it before I die. Hold it near me. Let me take it in my arms!"
Pavel brought the little wailing thing and laid it in the mother's
arms, which scarcely had strength to clasp themselves round their
precious burden.

A beautiful smile went, like a sunset, over poor dying Doonya's
face--the last gleam before nightfall; then she looked anxiously at
the tiny bundle at her breast. "Pavel, my poor man," she said, "the
child has death in its face; it will accompany me into the Unknown; we
shall both leave you together, my soul. God comfort you at this time
of tribulation! But now you shall do her the only service you can ever
render her. Fetch the good priest from Volkova; take Shoora, the best
horse, and the lightest cart, and fetch him quickly, my Pavel, for the
child must be baptized."

But Pavel refused to leave his wife in her present condition. The
child must wait, he said; and in case of emergency any one could
pronounce the baptismal formula. He would do it himself. Meanwhile,
what was the child to him, body or soul, in comparison with his
beloved Doonya?

A very few minutes after this the soul of Doonya passed peacefully
away, and poor Pavel was a widower. In his anguish of mind during that
saddest hour, he had no thought for the tiny bundle of sickly humanity
lying neglected upon its bed of rags and sacking. No neighbours were
at hand. All were at work in the fields. For none had known of poor
Doonya's sudden and immediate need of their services. When at length
Pavel remembered to look at the child, therefore, it was cold and
dead, and might have been so for an hour for all he knew. Pavel was
not so ignorant as to be unaware that the fate of a child dying
unbaptized is most melancholy. He knew, as every Slavonic peasant
knows, that the unbaptized soul, whether of child or grown person, is
doomed to wander over earth and sea and air for seven long years,
seeking for some one sufficiently pure of spirit to hear its
spirit-voice appealing to be baptized. If such an one should hear it
and pronounce the orthodox formula, all would be well with the soul,
and it might depart in peace into those blessed realms where waiting
souls, as Christians believe, rest until the great day of their
resurrection. If, however, none should hear the wanderer (and, alas!
how few are those qualified to catch the tone of a spirit-voice!), and
the seven years should expire, then that poor unbaptized soul must
lose its soulship, and descend among the mortal _rusalki_, or water
nymphs, to be a _rusalka_ for the remainder of her life, cut off
for ever from the blessed privileges of Christianity. Then Pavel was
overcome with sudden remorse, and, in the hope that the soul of little
Liuba (for so the parents had agreed to call her) was still within
hearing, he pronounced aloud the words, "Liuba, I baptize thee in the
name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost." But, alas!
it was too late. The little neglected soul had fled away in its
distress and despair, and was already far from the place of its birth,
wandering over sea and land, and crying aloud to every human being
whom it saw: "Have pity, Christian brother (or sister). Hear my cry
and baptize me, or my soulship is lost, lost!"

                     *      *      *      *      *

When the spirit of little Liuba first left the tiny body in which it
had commenced its career, and fled away, it knew not whither to direct
its flight. One central idea was all the consciousness it possessed as
yet, and this was the knowledge--half hope and half despair--which is
given to each infant unbaptized soul for its heritage, namely, that it
has been deprived by misfortune of something which should have been
its dearest possession, the sweet privilege of Christian baptism, and
that it must wander and weep and entreat until such time as it shall
find a baptized Christian into whose own pure soul the cry of the
wandering spirit may enter; from him it may then receive the precious
gift which is its own by right, but of which it had been unfortunately
deprived.

So Liuba's infant soul fled wailing over valley and hill and sea, and
was far away when her widowed father pronounced the baptismal formula
over the poor little wasted body which had once been her earthly
tenement. Liuba knew nothing of the fate predestinated for those whose
seven years expire and find them still without the pale of
blessedness; all this she should learn in good time; at present she
only knew that she must wander and chant her monotonous sorrowful
prayer that she might be heard and baptized.

Red-shirted peasants were busy at work in the fields, together with
gaily-clad women and a few children. It was the time of the cutting of
the corn, and there was much laughter and merriness, while each
peasant did as much work as he felt was good for him, which was not
much; the women worked harder than the men and sang in a light-hearted
manner as they laboured. The men were glad to allow the women to work
as hard as they were willing to; it saved them much trouble.

"Brothers and sisters--Christian people," wailed the child-spirit,
"baptize me and save my soul alive!" But not one of all the
chattering, toiling throng could hear the spirit-voice, for the sounds
of the world were loud in their ears and no other voice could reach
them by reason of the noises which deafened them. So Liuba left them
and fled away over hill and dale, wailing and weeping, for she had
experienced her first taste of failure and disappointment; and
by-and-by she came to the banks of a large river, and here she rested
herself upon the shore, strange and lost and lonely. It was a
beautiful sunny morning in August, and little Liuba could not resist
the charm of the sunshine and the sparkle of the clear water about
her; she saw it with delight, and the rustle of the leaves and the
songs and twittering of the happy birds amid the leaflets overhead
filled her with wondrous joy and content. "How beautiful it all is,"
she cried; "if only it were to be always like this I should not so
much mind my misfortune."

To Liuba's surprise, at the sound of her voice a very beautiful form
suddenly appeared rising out of the water. The shape was that of a
human girl, but indistinct, and with wavy outlines that quivered and
shifted, instead of the fixed lines of a human body. Masses of golden
flowing hair fell over bosom and shoulders and lay floating upon the
ripples of the water, of which it seemed to form a part; and though it
had proceeded from the stream and still lay upon the surface of the
river, yet the hair was not wet and draggled but wavy and dry and
lovely to look upon. Liuba looked at the new-comer with admiration and
joy. "How beautiful you are!" she cried, "and you have heard my voice
and will baptize me!"

The beautiful creature laughed aloud, and the sound of her voice was
like the flowing of shallow waters over the rapids.

"Oh, no!" she cried, "I cannot baptize you, and I would not if I
could! You must be very young or you would know that I am a
river-spirit, a _rusalka_, such as you yourself will be one day,
unless you find some one to baptize you, which is very unlikely. I can
hear your voice for I am a spirit, but mortal men cannot distinguish
your speech, and if they hear anything they say, 'Listen to the
whispering of the wind in the tree-top!' or, 'Do you hear how the
breeze sighs this evening among the reeds in the stream?' Do you not
know that you have but seven years in which to perform your hopeless
task, and that after that you are at liberty to come down among us
here in the cool waters? It were far better to save yourself these
years of disappointment and toiling and to become one of us at once."

But the soul of Liuba thirsted for baptism as the new-born plant longs
for the touch of the sun-god, and she was not satisfied with the words
of the _rusalka_.

"But who _are_ you? and are you baptized? and what do you do down
there in the cool waters?" she asked. The _rusalka_ looked grave
for an instant, and then quickly laughed once more.

"No," she said, "we are not baptized; we are spirits now, but when the
world comes to an end and the rivers are poured out and dried up, we
shall exist no longer. We are the Water Folk, and our ancestors fell
with Lucifer from heaven; at which time we took up our abode here,
instead of following our captain to his home. As for what we do, we
dance and sport amid the shining stones and caves, and chase the
brilliant fishes, and scare the greedy otters; we fascinate silly
humans, and when they follow us into the waves we strangle them or
torture them to death because we hate them."

"Why do you hate them?" asked Liuba.

"Because they have souls and we have none; you will know why in seven
years. And now, good-bye till then, for my sisters await me yonder;
they are ready for the dance, while I tarry chattering here." With
these words the beautiful nymph seemed to fade from the sight, growing
every instant more and more indistinct. Liuba saw her wave her arms
and heard her silvery laugh, and then she quite disappeared. From the
spot where she had stood upon the bank a tiny stream of crystal water
trickled through the grass and flowers and found its way back to the
parent river.

"How terrible!" said Liuba. "Oh, _how_ I hope I shall never be a
_rusalka_!" and a great rush of longing came over the little bankrupt
soul for that baptism of which it knew nothing save its own great need
and desire for the gift, and away she floated once more over woods,
meadows, and rivers, wailing and crying, "Oh, who will baptize me,
baptize me! Christian men, have pity upon a soul that wanders and
weeps, and baptize me!"

But the merchant was too busy over his money-making, or too
preoccupied with his money-losing to have a thought to spare for a
lost soul. And the ships riding upon the bosom of the sea, many of
which Liuba passed in her flight, were filled with sailors who thought
of their dear wives and children at home on shore, and of the loved
cliffs of their native country, but not of the poor bereft spirit
passing in distress and beseeching over the deck of their vessel. Now
and again one would say to his comrade, "What sound was that amid the
rigging like the sighing of wind and the whirring of the wings of a
bird that flies from land to land?" and the other would reply: "I
heard no sound, and it is too dark to follow the flight of a bird
to-night." Even the worshippers in the churches were unable to hear the
spirit-voice; they were busy praying for themselves or for their dear
ones; some thought of worldly matters in spite of themselves, some
were sad for their sins, some were full of petty jealousies because of
the grand clothes of their fellow-worshippers, or of pride for their
own; none heard the wailing spirit-voice, and Liuba, the saddest soul
in all that churchful of souls, went weeping upon her journey, ever
weeping and ever beseeching, but never obtaining that sweet gift for
which she longed with a longing that increased with each day and with
every disappointment.

Once, when she had wandered thus for months enough to make two whole
years, Liuba met with an adventure. Passing over the streets of a
large city she was surprised to hear a voice, which at first she took
for an echo of hers, for it spoke the same words, and the tone was
that of distress and entreaty, as sorrowful as her own. Then she saw
that the sound proceeded from a little form like hers, which slowly
and sadly winged its way through the dusky air, close above the roofs
of the human habitations below, and ever as it went it chanted its
melancholy refrain: "Christian men and women, hear my voice, and
baptize me ere it is too late, and my soulship is lost, lost!" Liuba
accosted the little wandering soul, which was, she found, sadder even
than herself because it had less of hope. This soul was that of a
little human boy who had died unbaptized nearly seven years ago. For
six long years and as many months it had wandered, entreating for
baptism and finding none that could hear its voice; now there remained
but a few months wherein to gain the blessed privilege, and hope had
grown faint and weak. Liuba's companion had been over the world, he
said, and over it a second time; but all in vain--none would hear him.
He had met many lost souls like himself, and all were sad and
disappointed; and for some, he knew, the term had expired and they had
fallen to the status of water-spirits. Some had taken the form of
cuckoos, and in the shape of that bird had wandered over the world
crying "cuckoo" instead of the usual entreaty for baptism, because
there are many, he said, upon the earth, who believe that each
unbaptized soul assumes the form and voice of this bird in order to be
seen and heard by Christian men. Those who believe thus are in the
habit of pronouncing the formula of baptism over each cuckoo whose
voice they hear, in the hope of thus saving some lost human soul.[2]

          [2] This belief is far from uncommon.

"And are some saved in this way," asked Liuba.

"I have heard so from others," said the newcomer, "but I know not
whether it is true. For myself, I have been content to preserve my own
likeness and voice, for surely, surely some day, though the time is
now short, I shall yet be heard and saved!"

So Liuba and her companion journeyed together henceforth, and together
they chanted their monotonous song, which none of all the Christian
men and women they saw might hear: "Brothers, Christians, hear us and
baptize us, or our soulship is lost!"

Then there came a sad day when the elder wanderer knew that his time
for hoping was past, and that his soulship was indeed lost for ever.
By the bank of a lovely river he and Liuba parted, and Liuba wept
bitterly, and said: "Farewell, poor lost brother, in pity and love I
greet you a last time, and even as your lot is so shall mine be; for,
alas, there remain but a few more years!" But the other said, "Nay,
hope on, Liuba, for, perhaps, by the mercy of the Highest, you may yet
be saved." Then he drooped his wings and plunged beneath the waters,
and when the cool element touched him he forgot for ever that he had
belonged to a higher race of beings, and went among the river-spirits,
and was with them and of them, and knew of nothing better.

But Liuba wandered on and on, and wearied not of wrestling with
Christian men and women for that which they alone could give her if
they would. Once--a year from the end of her term--she passed through
a church in which prayers were continually offered for those who die
unbaptized, and in which the form of baptism is gone through annually
once for the benefit of these, in case one should be within hearing;
but the service was just finished as Liuba passed over the church, and
she was too late to hear those longed-for words which should give her
the priceless boon she desired. In another place she came where a
certain good man pronounced every morning and every evening the
baptismal formula, in case some poor wandering soul should be passing
within hearing and should hear and live. But though she saw him, she
knew not of his benevolent daily action, and passed on unaware;
neither did he hear her spirit-voice, for his soul was full of many
worldly matters, and when at evening he performed the pious rite which
was his daily custom, Liuba was far away.

And it happened that a few months before the expiration of her time,
Liuba passed once again by that stream where, on her first day of
wandering, she had seen the river-spirit; and now again, as she
rested upon the bank of the stream, that beautiful nymph-form rose,
glistening and undulating, from the waters, and waved her arms and
laughed and beckoned to Liuba, and said, "Aha! little lost soul, a few
more days or weeks and you are ours. We shall be kind to you, never
fear, and you shall dance and sport your time away instead of
wandering and whining over land and sea, and all for the sake of
something which may not be worth the finding! And you shall learn to
captivate the hated human beings who would not listen to your voice,
and you shall entice them down and strangle them--strangle them!" But
Liuba fled away in horror and dread, and would not listen to what the
_rusalka_ had to say. But her last few months were at hand, and the
poor wanderer toiled on, beseeching and entreating wherever she went,
and weeping and wailing more pitifully as hope receded further and
further.

                     *      *      *      *      *

Far away in the east of Europe there is a great city which is full of
large shops, and immense houses, and busy streets, and of rich and
poor, and of good and evil, as is every other large city everywhere.
It was Christmas eve, and the last hour of work had come for bank and
shop and factory. After this there should be holiday-time for all. The
factory hands poured in a great stream from the open doors of a
cotton-mill--pale men and women, happy enough in the prospect of a day
or two to be spent far away from the stuffiness and the heat and the
toil of the mill. All chatted and laughed and made plans, and told one
another of what they would do at Christmas and on Boxing Day. And many
went away to dance and to sing and enjoy themselves; and some went to
the inns and public-houses, and were rowdily happy in their own way;
and many went to the brilliant shops and bought materials for their
Christmas dinner or presents for their friends. And one man of all the
crowd did not join those who were bent on merrymaking. Yet he, too,
was full of plans of happiness for the season. He was not rich, this
man, but he spent little, and the wages of the factory were good; and
each year he contrived to save a sum of money in preparation for that
which he had in his mind for Christmas time. He had brought his
savings with him this evening--a fair sum for a man in his
position--and with the money he proceeded from shop to shop, buying
here a pot of sweet flowers, there a book, here a doll, and there a
toy, until his large basket was full and as heavy as he could carry.
Then he went to the children's hospital, where for seven years his
kind face had been well known; and here he was received with
acclamation by the little suffering inmates, for they knew well the
meaning of his appearance in company with the basket; and there were
some who had been in that building, alas! for years, and had learned
to consider the visit of this man and his basket as an established
thing, as certain and as regular as Christmas itself. Many little
hearts beat higher with joy when Paul Shirkof's round was finished and
the basket was empty, and Paul's own heart was joyful and happy indeed
as he returned to his home that night and knelt to say his Christmas
prayer. His was no conventional prayer, nor did he pray in the words
of any formula; but he thought of the Christ-child born as on this
night in its helplessness and innocence, and he prayed for simplicity
and for innocence, that his heart might be as the heart of a child,
and his spirit pure, so that he might discern God in all His works.

And even as he prayed there was borne in upon him--though he could see
nothing--as the sound of the voice of a tiny child, and it
said--entreating and wailing--"Oh, Christian man, pity me; hear my
voice--and baptize me, or my soulship is lost!"

And a great fear fell upon the man, so that he could scarcely frame
words to ask:

"Who are you that address me?" Then the answer came: "An unbaptized
soul--Liuba; baptize me before it is too late, and save me!"

And the man delayed no longer, but made the sign of the Cross and
said, "I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and
of the Holy Ghost, Amen." Then at the words the soul of Liuba rejoiced
with a great joy, and departed, whither I know not; but this is
certain, that it wandered no longer wailing over land and sea, for it
was henceforth at rest for ever, and, by Divine mercy, in possession
of that sweet privilege which for a while had been lost to it.

And the father knew not that he had baptized his own child's soul; but
he shall know it one day, perhaps, when those who are pure in spirit
shall see God.



CHAPTER XI

A WITCH! A WITCH!


In this year of grace, close to the end of the nineteenth century,
many of the villages in the Tsar's dominions are almost up to date in
the science of cholera-fighting, thanks to the energy of the Zemstvo,
which is a species of County Council. They set apart, some of them,
a hut or house as a hospital for suspicious cases; the villagers
occasionally boil their drinking water; they drink their _vodka_--well,
perhaps the merest trifle more discreetly, in times of scare, than in
the piping days of health and security. I would not go so far as to
say that they waste much water in personal ablutions, because I wish
my readers to take me seriously; and as for the drainage and sanitation
of the villages, there is none from end to end of the realm.

Nevertheless, matters are very much more satisfactory now than was the
case forty or fifty years ago; when, at the appearance of the terrible
scourge of cholera, most of the inhabitants at once gave themselves up
for lost, and, resolving to make the most of the short time remaining
to them for indulgence in the pleasures of terrestrial existence,
drank themselves into alcoholic coma every day, until the disease
fastened itself upon their _vodka_-sodden bodies, and carried them
away where no _vodka_ is to be had for love or money.

Tirnova, in the government of Vologda, was one of the villages most
sorely attacked by the cholera-fiend during the outbreak of 1861.

The peasants of this village had many and many a time received good
advice from the priest of the nearest parish village, Shishkina, who,
being a man of sense, had recommended them, before the outbreak
(having driven over on purpose to warn them), to do their best to
stave off the threatened attack of "the plague," as they called it, by
prayer and personal cleanliness. But since the cholera had not as yet
made its appearance in the place it was clearly unnecessary, the
peasants decided, to put themselves out, and no notice was taken of
the priest's warning. Now, however, that the plague had come, a
deputation headed by the starost, or head-peasant, waited upon the
priest in order to receive further counsel, for, as a matter of fact,
they had forgotten all he told them. "Fools that you are and sons of
dogs," said the good man, who well knew how the moujik must be
addressed if it is desired that he should listen, "did I not tell you
long ago to pray to the Almighty, first; and secondly, to clean your
filthy houses and your own bodies with soap and hot water? Go home,
and pray and wash!" At this, all present removed their caps and
scratched their heads, implying thereby that there was a difficulty
still unexplained.

"If," said the starost, stepping out to speak, "if it be the will of
the Almighty that cholera should visit our village, then surely it
would be impious to do anything, such as the cleansing of our houses,
to keep it off? We can pray, of course, that it may please the
Almighty to modify His will in this matter, and, no doubt, your
reverence would come over with the large and holy _ikon_ of St.
Luke the Physician, with whom for intercessor we might hold a solemn
procession; but----"

"Did not I tell you you were a set of brainless idiots?" said the
priest; "the saints only help those who help themselves. Pray, by all
means; but when you have done praying, go out and wash yourselves, and
your clothes, and your houses; and don't afterwards drink yourselves
into the likeness of swine at the beer-house--oh, it's no use wagging
your head at me, Matvéi Stepanitch; I know you well enough! There,
that's my advice; now go!"

"And the _ikon_?" said the moujiks, giving their matted locks a
final scratching before departure.

"You shall have the _ikon_, and a special litany, as soon as you
have cleaned up the village, and washed yourselves, but not before,"
said the firm ecclesiastic, and with this ultimatum he slammed the
door in their faces.

The deputation felt that this was business-like and savoured of
authority, which is a thing the Russian peasant invariably respects,
especially if the authority is abusive and has a loud voice, and does
not mince matters. They greatly approved of the strong language of
their spiritual adviser, and of his vigorous way of presenting his
views; but the advice as to cleanliness was extremely unpopular,
while, as for his allusion to the beer-shop--well, the "little father"
might have known better; he must be well aware that life without
_vodka_ is an impossibility, cholera or no cholera. Therefore the
deputation proceeded straight to the village drinking-shop and there
drank the priest's health times enough to secure _his_ immunity
from cholera anyhow, unless the fates persistently disregarded the
vows of the pious intoxicated. Afterwards some of them took a bath in
the streamlet which ran like a silver ribbon through the village;
being but eighteen inches deep or so, this rivulet could scarcely
afford scope for the malice of a _vodyannui_, or water-demon, so
they were safe enough; but they did not like the feel of the water,
it was unfamiliar and uncanny, and gave them the shivers. Others
patronised the bath-house and employed hot steam to take off as
much of the outer coating of griminess as each considered safe or
desirable; for there is nothing so certain to give one cold as the
sudden leaving off of clothes or other coverings to which the body has
become accustomed. As for prayers in church, the "little father's"
remark was surely uncalled for; did not the women attend to this
department, and was not the priest aware of the fact? They had,
indeed, been specially devout during the cholera scare, and the stands
before the _ikons_ in church were simply overburdened with candles
devoted to the favourite saints. Was all this not enough to satisfy
him? He could hardly expect the moujiks themselves to attend on
ordinary Sundays! After the toil of the week (toil of which the
women took _more_ than their full share, though no mention of the
circumstance was made by their lords in council), surely the men were
entitled to a day of undisturbed rest! It was a long walk to the
church, five miles at least, while the beer-shop was so very handy. So
far as cleansing the houses was concerned, since the priest seemed to
desire it, the _babui_ (women) should be told to use their brooms a
bit, for it was just as well that the "little father" should come over
and bring his _ikon_ with him, the big one; and the moujiks knew him
well enough to be quite sure that he would keep his word and come so
soon as they had made a fair show of performing their part of the
agreement. The starost's house, where the priest would put up for the
afternoon, accordingly received such a cleaning as it had not enjoyed
for years; but portions of the village which he would not visit, or
would see only when the procession was half-way round its course,
remained untouched by broom or scrubbing-brush.

Thus did the moujiks of Tirnova observe the counsels of their priest;
their obedience went as far as their convenience, and no further. They
succeeded, however, in making so good a show as to justify the pastor
in coming over with the big _ikon_ and holding the religious function
proper to the occasion, namely, that designed to stay the ravages of
the demon of cholera.

But, alas! the plague seemed to ignore all attempts to quash or turn
it aside. In spite of processions and _ikons_ and the chanting of
priest and deacons, in spite of everything, the cholera raged on just
as furiously as ever, if not more furiously.

It was at this critical stage of affairs that Marfa Kapústina came to
the fore. Marfa was the _znaharka_, or "wise woman," of the place.
Learned to a degree was Marfa in all manner of spells and
incantations, and in the virtues of herbs and of charms; moreover, she
was a firm believer in her own wisdom, and in the potency of the
spells and mummeries of which she held the secret, though no whit the
less an excellent churchwoman according to the orthodox faith of the
country, in spite of her dealings with matters upon which Holy Church
would certainly look with suspicion and dislike. The fact is, Marfa,
like the great majority of her countrymen and women throughout rural
Russia, was a little mixed as to what constituted religion and what
was meant by "superstition," and where one ended and the other began.
If she had been informed that some of those rites and ceremonies, the
minutest details of which she carried in her memory for use in all
emergencies, were nothing more nor less than mere survivals of the
paganism which had flourished in Russia but a few centuries ago, she
would have been immensely surprised, but not in the least convinced.
Up to the present time, however, Marfa had enjoyed but little
opportunity of demonstrating her talents and knowledge in all kinds
of exorcisms and spells; indeed, she was far better known as one
eminently skilful in the more mundane art of escorting little
Christians into this world of trouble, and of looking after their
mothers in the time of tribulation and sickness.

But now at last Marfa felt that the great opportunity of her life had
arrived. Shortly after the painful fact became apparent to all in the
village that the orthodox ceremonies for the "laying" of the cholera
ghost had entirely failed in their object, the starost received a
visit from the _znaharka_, who looked preoccupied and feverish.

"Matvéi Ivanich," she began abruptly, "the cholera is very bad--worse
than ever. Only last night Avdotia Timofeyevna and her child were
carried away, and this morning Feodor Zaitzoff has followed them. Old
Vainka, the _ooriadnik_ (sub-policeman) is very bad too!"

"It is God's will!" said the starost.

"That is certain," the _znaharka_ assented; "but what, Matvéi Ivanich,
if it is also God's will that we should at least do our best to rid
ourselves of the scourge He has permitted to fall upon our backs, or
rather of the devils which have come among us? Our _rodityelui_
(forefathers) were accustomed to fight the plague-demon by means of
certain ceremonies--simple ceremonies and very effectual. It is at
least possible that the Almighty is angry that we neglect to employ
those simple weapons which a little knowledge places in our hands."
The wise woman paused.

"Well," said the starost, "go on. What are you referring to? Were they
Christian ceremonies that the _rodityelui_ employed?"

"Assuredly!" said the _znaharka_; "there were prayers, and an _ikon_
was carried about."

"But the priest has already been amongst us with his _ikon_, and you
see how much we have gained by it," observed the starost impatiently.

"The function was incomplete, Matvéi Ivanich," the wise woman hastened
to explain. "The prayers were good and the _ikon_ was good, but there
were other things, good also, omitted. There is but one individual
within a thirty-mile ride who knows of the true ceremony, and that is
myself. Pay me ten roubles from the funds and the ceremony shall be
performed, and the plague, perhaps, shall be stayed--who knows?" The
_znaharka_ glanced at the sacred picture in the corner and crossed
herself.

The starost, feeling unable to decide the question single-handed,
resolved to convoke a special meeting of the Souls of the Village in
order to give full consideration to the proposal of the wise woman.
The gaps among the ranks of the Souls were already distressingly
numerous; and the Souls being the heads of houses, this fact told a
sad tale of families deprived of the bread-winner, stricken down and
lost to the community by the terrible ravages of the cholera-demon. It
was in itself a silent but sufficient _primâ facie_ argument in favour
of adopting the proposal of the _znaharka_.

Of the moujiks still remaining alive, however, some few were found
presumptuous enough to laugh to scorn the very idea of holding a pagan
function in order to complete that which the Christian ceremony had
omitted or failed to perform! Better to keep the ten roubles, they
said, for the relief of the widows and children of those who had
already fallen victims to the plague. But the great majority were
strongly in favour of adopting the _znaharka's_ suggestion; it was
at least a straw to grasp at, and certainly nothing could be more
desperate than the situation of affairs in the village at the present
moment. As for the ten roubles, it was pointed out by some that if
"this sort of thing" were to continue much longer, there would be no
one left alive to enjoy "the funds;" far wiser were it to spend the
money in an endeavour to strike a blow at the insidious enemy, who
threatened to depopulate the village within a measurable period of
time!

Accordingly the _znaharka_ was informed that her proposal was to be
adopted, and Marfa was instructed to make her arrangements as quickly
as possible, and to proceed with the function exactly as the
_rodityelui_ had been accustomed in former ages to perform it.

Marfa showed herself to be not only perfectly at home in the minutest
details of the ceremony about to be gone through, but also determined
to lose not a single moment in pushing forward the necessary
preparations. The very next morning an order went out from the
starost, at Marfa's request, that all the mankind of the village,
young and old, should remain within doors until after the conclusion
of the proceedings. They might lie on their stoves and sleep out the
morning hours, if they chose; but--for certain good reasons--they
must not look out of the windows or watch the ceremony about to be
performed. The girls and women of the community, on the other hand,
as the actors and participants in the function, were instructed to
assemble at an appointed place at an early hour. Each was to be clad
in the scanty costume enjoined by tradition for the occasion--that is,
in a short, thin shirt or chemise, and that only. Attired in this airy
costume, all the females of the village, from the oldest to the
youngest, assembled at the rendezvous at the appointed hour, when a
procession was formed in the following order:--In front went the
oldest woman in Tirnova carrying an _ikon_. Next to her walked the
_znaharka_ herself, astride of a broom-handle, and bearing under her
arm a cock of a black or dark colour. Behind the _znaharka_ followed
the rest of the girls and women, ranged in pairs. A huge bonfire had
previously been built up and lighted at one end of the village street,
while a similar one blazed at the opposite extremity of the village.
The procession having marched towards the first of these bonfires, all
solemnly walked three times round it, chanting and praying, taking the
words from the _znaharka_, who knew the correct liturgy by heart.
After the completion of the third circle, Marfa suddenly--as though
struck with an idea--clasped the cock in her two hands and with it
rushed down the street shrieking loudly, followed and imitated by the
rest of the women. As soon as the second bonfire was reached the
unfortunate cock was thrown into the flames, while the procession
marched three times round, singing and praying as before. Lastly, the
procession was reformed and an entire circuit of the village was made,
the line of march passing outside of each and every house; for no
cholera-devil could afterwards cross the line thus determined.

As the army of wailing and chanting females passed close to an
outlying cottage a black cat was unfortunate enough to select that
moment for rushing out of the yard and crossing the path of the
procession. Instantly the _znaharka_ caught it, and seizing it by the
hind legs dashed its head against a stone, killing it on the spot.
This incident delighted beyond measure the _znaharka_, and through her
the rest of the women, for, as she quickly explained, within the mangy
person of the black cat, now deceased, had undoubtedly been located
the demon of cholera, which was now, consequently, "done for" in so
far as concerned the village of Tirnova, and no fresh case of the
plague would occur in the place from this hour forward.

Then the entire company returned to their homes and dressed
themselves, and proudly informed their male relatives of the wonderful
success which had attended the mysteries in which they had been
engaged.

It was certainly a remarkable circumstance that, from that day on, the
cholera actually ceased its ravages among the inhabitants of the
village. Whether the black cat deceased had really been the desperate
character which it was accused of being, or whether faith in the
methods of the _znaharka_ had cast out fear, and with it the principal
element of danger in a cholera epidemic, when, as every one knows, it
is scare that carries off half the victims who succumb to the disease,
or whether, again, the epidemic had already worn itself out and had
taken all the victims it meant to claim, I know not; but, as a matter
of fact, there perished no more moujiks on this occasion with the
exception of one man, who, as it happened, had scoffed and derided the
_znaharka_ and her procession, and had even made rude remarks about
the ladies in their airy costumes as they had passed his house full of
their solemn undertaking. Probably this man was afterwards seized with
doubt as to the wisdom of his conduct, then with panic, and lastly--as
so frequently happens--took the plague out of sheer nervousness.
However this may have been, all these things immensely added to the
prestige of the _znaharka_, who now found herself famous, and in
possession of a reputation which placed her upon a pinnacle far higher
than that of any wise woman or wise man for miles around.

It must not be supposed that by the marvellous success of the pagan
ceremony just described any sort of a blow was dealt to the orthodox
beliefs of the villagers--nothing of the kind. The prestige of the
priest may have suffered, but not the cause of religion. It was merely
concluded by these simple-minded people that their _znaharka_ knew the
priest's business better than the _bátuishka_ did himself, that was
all!

For many a long day after these events belief in the _znaharka_ was
the supreme motive-power of the peasants of the district. If any
cursing had to be done, Marfa was invited to do it. Had the evil eye
fallen upon a moujik or woman of the place? Marfa defeated the
sinister effects of that deplorable circumstance. Her benedictions
were equally effective and in request; so were her spells, her charms,
her incantations and mummeries of every kind. As the faith of the
people in her powers was absolute, so her success was naturally
marvellous in proportion, and for many a long year Marfa's reputation
was unquestioned and her position assured. Nevertheless, a great
reputation carries great responsibilities and great risks, and once a
hole is found or picked in that flimsy material prestige, a rent is
inevitable, and the fabric will easily and quickly go to rags and
ruin! Even Marfa's glory was destined to end at last, and the
beginning of the end came in the miscarriage of a certain benediction.
Young Vainka Shahgin, a peasant of the village, had wooed and won the
attractive Masha Sotsky; or, perhaps, the friends of Vainka had wooed
the friends of Masha and won _them_. Anyhow, the pair were married and
had been duly blessed by the _znaharka_, now an old woman; for without
her benediction no married couple in the district would have dreamed
of going forth to battle with the world and its tribulations. But ever
since the _znaharka's_ blessing had been accorded to this particular
union the pair had led a cat-and-dog life. Vainka had taken to
drinking immediately, while Masha had proved herself a slovenly
slattern at home and the worst of housekeepers. No children came to
cement the union; the marriage was a failure all round. It was rather
hard on Marfa that all this should be laid to her account; but such is
life! It was; and this was the first of her serious misfires. Shortly
after this there came troubles with wolves. During the coldest period
of a certain very severe winter, those famished animals became so
tamed by starvation as to lose some of their natural aversion to the
near presence of mankind. They took to making daring raids upon the
village of Tirnova during the gloom of night, carrying away dogs and
other domestic creatures. Soon they waxed bolder still, and, arriving
in force, succeeded in killing and getting safe away with a cow and
two horses. The _znaharka_, after this climax, was requested to
solemnly curse the offenders, which she promptly did, using the _ikon_
and the prayers of the Church as well as certain traditional
incantations of a pagan character.

But the wolves were none the worse for this mixed dose--on the
contrary, they seemed to be all the better for it; the treatment did
them good and improved their appetite. Where, up to this time, they
had been content to steal a cat, they now carried off a grown pig; the
horses and cows were invaded in their very stables and outhouses;
things went from bad to worse. All the world recognised that the
curses of the _znaharka_ agreed with the wolves, they grew fat upon
her maledictions and the Tirnova cattle: Marfa had made another
lamentable failure!

Thus, gradually, the immense prestige of the old woman waned and
drooped and disappeared. One thing after another failed with her.
Now that faith had gone, success went also. Those who, but yesterday,
had believed in and honoured her, scoffed to-day as she passed them;
nor was this all. As failures multiplied, ill-feeling towards her
increased. Where she had been feared and loved, she was now ridiculed
and hated. Men no longer accorded to her her former honourable
appellation of "the wise woman"; they took to calling her _vyedma_ and
_bába yagá_, both of which terms mean witch, or sorceress, and carry a
weight of abusive meaning, for a witch is always malignant, while a
_znaharka_ is invariably a useful and benevolent member of society.

The idea once started that poor Marfa was a _vyedma_, the unfortunate
woman was--like the proverbial dog to whom a bad name has been
given--practically already hanged. She rapidly grew in the ill-favour
of the inconstant villagers, by whom she was accused of all manner of
monstrosities of which she was entirely innocent. There was no
misfortune or calamity that happened at this time within the district
but it was quickly laid to the charge of Marfa. In a short while she
was cursed and hated by the entire population. At last matters
culminated in an accusation brought against the poor woman by the
pastuch, or cowherd, of the community. The _znaharka_, this man
declared, had taken to milking the cows of the villagers by means of
witchcraft, while the animals were away at the pasture. There were two
circumstances which lent colour to this statement. In the first place,
the milking of cows by magical means was known to be a favourite
accomplishment of _vyedmui_, who, from all times, have been addicted
to this dishonest and wicked practice--a practice exercised by them
not out of mere mischief, but for profit--for witches must live as
well as any one else. In the second place, many of the cows had, of
late, been unaccountably short of milk; good milkers, too, who had
never hitherto disappointed their owners. Day after day these animals
were found, at milking time, to be absolutely without their frothy
produce. At a hastily convened meeting of the heads of houses the
pastuch was instructed to watch the herd while at pasture, to watch
carefully from a convenient spot, he himself remaining, if possible,
unseen; and then to return and report. This the cowherd did, and with
so much success that on the third day after he had received his
instructions he returned from the pasture lands with full particulars
as to how the _vyedma_ Marfa had proceeded in order to effect the
robbery of which she was accused. Her method proved to be an old and
favourite device among witches. The herd described his experience
thus: He had taken up a position, he said, in the topmost branches of
a birch tree, whence he could see for miles around, while the herd
browsed peacefully about the foot. At about midday he observed the
_vyedma_ (at whose name--for it had come to this--the pastuch and all
his audience spat upon the ground in token of their disgust!), he
observed, he said, the _vyedma_ approaching from the direction of the
village, bearing a basket which was full of empty bottles, each bottle
having a separate compartment in the basket. She stopped in the middle
of the communal grass-field, at a spot where lay the old plough which
Ivan Tussoff had left there since last autumn to save himself the
trouble of throwing it away. Then she raised her arms and waved her
hands, and pronounced some incantations, the nature of which, being so
far away, he could not hear, but which, he said, must have been very
potent, for the entire herd, as with one accord, began to show signs
of great restlessness and to low softly and mournfully. He himself
also felt the effects, which were such as to give him a sensation of
nervousness and great depression, and a creepy feeling all down his
back, while he distinctly recognised a strong smell of sulphur filling
the air. Then the _vyedma_, after more incantations, stuck what
appeared to be a penknife into the woodwork of the old plough, when
immediately drops of milk began to, first, drip from the knife, then
to slowly trickle, and lastly to flow. Marfa placed her bottles one
after the other beneath this singular milk-tap until all these were
filled, then she departed, carrying the basket, as though it were a
thing of no weight at all. When she had disappeared, the pastuch
descended from his perch and tested some of the best of the cows. They
proved to be as dry as bones; not a single drop of milk did their
udders afford! The herdsman concluded his tale amid exclamations of
horror and dismay. The peasants crossed themselves and spat. What need
of further evidence? Undoubtedly there was a _vyedma_ among them;
suspicion must give place to certainty. Undoubtedly also it was the
duty of those in authority in the village to rid themselves of the
shame and horror of harbouring such a creature in their midst.

Russian peasants, when they have made up their minds in times of
excitement to any outrageous proceeding, rarely delay long before
putting their ideas into execution. Within an hour of the conclusion
of the meeting the unfortunate Marfa had been arrested, accused, found
guilty, sentenced, and executed. The manner of her execution was in
accordance with the traditional end of convicted witches: she was
placed in a large wheat sack, together with a dog, a cat, and a
cock--all as innocent of conscious offence as she was herself--and
thrown into the village pond, where the whole company went down to the
bottom together, as a warning to other witches and evildoers, of which
poor Marfa was neither the one nor the other.

Two days after this tragedy a strange moujik sauntered into the
village of Tirnova and called to see the starost, who, as it happened,
was at home and received him.

"Starost, brother," said the stranger, going straight to business,
"why do you send your pastuch with milk to sell in our district? Have
you no market of your own that you must needs spoil ours by
overstocking it, and sending prices down for us?"

"Ah, my brother, forgive us this time," said the starost; "it can
never occur again. It was our misfortune to harbour among us a
_vyedma_, who stole the milk from us and no doubt sold it in your
district. She is now at the bottom of the village pond, and will steal
no more milk. May her purchasers escape poisoning if they have drunk
the milk of the witch."

"Was your _vyedma_, then, in the likeness of a pastuch?" inquired
the stranger.

"She must have assumed his likeness," said the starost, who felt,
nevertheless, a spasm of uncomfortable surmise dart through his brain.
"What was this pastuch like?"

The stranger described the Tirnova herdsman to the life. The starost,
in spite of himself, now grew very grave with unpleasant reflections.
When the strange moujik had departed he confided the story to a
friend, who was, like the starost, immediately assailed by similar
uncomfortable thoughts, which played havoc with the repose of his
inmost soul. The pair decided to speak with the pastuch on this matter
so soon as that functionary should have returned from the pasture.

But that wily herdsman never did return to Tirnova. When the herd
trooped into the village street at night, its meekly lowing members
were without the guidance of their authorised protector. Moreover, the
herd was short of a good horse which had belonged to the starost
himself. Furthermore, when the proprietors of each cow came forward to
make the usual demand upon the udders of the patient creatures, it was
found that not one of them had a single pint of milk to present to its
lawful and indignant owner.

Then those villagers realised that poor Marfa had been a victim to the
guile of the herdsman, and they fished her up from the bottom of the
pond. But, alas! she was quite dead--both she and her companions; and
this it was agreed was conclusive evidence that poor Marfa had been
all the while an innocent _znaharka_ and not a witch. Had she been
a _vyedma_ she might still have been alive, for--the starost
declared--she had only been under water eight-and-forty hours, and a
_vyedma_ must soak for fully ten days or a fortnight before she can be
got to drown.

As for the herdsman, the direct cause of the flagrant miscarriage of
justice which ended in the drowning of poor old Marfa, he escaped scot
free.

The Souls of Tirnova did, indeed, hold a specially convened meeting in
order to decide what steps could or should be taken to find and bring
the rascal to justice, but it was unanimously decided that it would
save trouble to take no steps at all. This decision was arrived at
partly as the result of the starost's eloquence, and partly because it
was in perfect agreement with the disposition of the councillors, who,
being Russian peasants, were naturally unwilling to take any
unnecessary trouble or to do anything that could with equal ease be
left undone.

As for the starost's speech, it was short but very much to the point.
Here it is:

"Brothers," he said, "God is in heaven and the Tsar is far away; also
Russia is very large and the pastuch is very small. How should we set
about to find one little herdsman?"

Clearly the thing was ridiculous.


THE END

    _Printed by_ BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
    _Edinburgh and London_


Transcriber's Note:

Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.

Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as
printed.

Words printed in italics are marked with underlines: _italics_.





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