De: A Sportsman's Sketches
It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that occur only when the weather has settled for a long time. From earliest morning the sky is clear; the morning dawn does not blaze like fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun—not fiery, not incandescent as during scorching drought, not dull crimson as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant—peacefully rises beneath a narrow, long cloud, freshly shines and plunges into its violet mist. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud sparkles like serpents; their gleam resembles the gleam of wrought silver... But now again the playful rays gush forth—and cheerfully and majestically, as if soaring, the mighty luminary rises. Around midday there usually appear many round, high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered across an endlessly overflowing river, which flows around them in deeply transparent channels of uniform blue, they almost do not move from their place; farther, toward the horizon, they draw together, crowd close, and the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all permeated through and through with light and warmth. The color of the horizon, light, pale-lilac, does not change all day and is uniform all around; nowhere does it darken or thicken with storm; only here and there bluish streaks stretch from top to bottom: it is barely perceptible rain falling. Toward evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and indefinite as smoke, lie in pink billows opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as peacefully as it peacefully rose in the sky, a scarlet radiance stands for a brief time over the darkened earth, and, quietly twinkling like a carefully carried candle, the evening star kindles upon it. On such days all colors are softened; bright, but not vivid; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even "steams" along the slopes of fields; but wind disperses and pushes apart the accumulated heat, and whirlwinds—an unmistakable sign of constant weather—walk in high white columns along the roads across the plowland. In the dry and clean air there is a smell of wormwood, mown rye, buckwheat; even an hour before nightfall you do not feel dampness. Such weather the farmer desires for harvesting grain... On just such a day I was once hunting black grouse in Chernsky district, Tula province. I had found and shot a fair amount of game; my filled game bag was mercilessly cutting into my shoulder; but the evening glow had already faded, and in the air, still light though no longer illuminated by the rays of the set sun, cold shadows were beginning to thicken and spread, when I finally resolved to return home. With quick steps I passed through a long "square" of bushes, climbed a hill and, instead of the expected familiar plain with an oak grove to the right and a low white church in the distance, saw completely different places unknown to me. At my feet stretched a narrow valley; directly opposite, a thick aspen grove rose like a steep wall. I stopped in bewilderment, looked around... "Aha!"—I thought—"I've gone completely the wrong way: I've veered too far to the right,"—and, myself marveling at my mistake, I quickly descended the hill. An unpleasant, motionless dampness immediately enveloped me, as if I had entered a cellar; the thick, tall grass at the bottom of the valley, all wet, showed white like a smooth tablecloth; walking on it was somehow eerie. I quickly scrambled to the other side and walked, bearing left, along the aspen grove. Bats were already flitting above its sleeping treetops, mysteriously circling and trembling against the vaguely-clear sky; a belated hawk flew swiftly and directly overhead, hurrying to its nest. "As soon as I reach that corner,"—I thought to myself—"there'll be the road right away, but I've made about a verst detour!" I finally reached the corner of the forest, but there was no road there: some unmown, low bushes spread widely before me, and beyond them, far, far away, a deserted field was visible. I stopped again. "What is this?.. Where am I?" I began to recall how and where I had gone during the day... "Eh! These must be Parakhin bushes!"—I finally exclaimed—"exactly! That must be Sindeyev grove over there... But how did I get here? So far?.. Strange!" Now I need to go right again." I went to the right, through the bushes. Meanwhile night was approaching and growing like a thundercloud; it seemed that darkness was rising from everywhere, even pouring from above, along with the evening vapors. I came upon some little-used, overgrown path; I set off along it, looking attentively ahead. Everything around was rapidly darkening and growing quiet—only quails cried out occasionally. A small night bird, silently and low rushing on its soft wings, almost collided with me and fearfully dove aside. I emerged at the edge of the bushes and wandered along the field by a boundary strip. Already I could barely distinguish distant objects; the field showed white unclearly around; beyond it, approaching with each moment, gloomy darkness heaved up in enormous billows. My steps echoed dully in the stiffening air. The paling sky began to turn blue again—but this was already the blue of night. Little stars twinkled and stirred upon it. What I had taken for a grove turned out to be a dark and round hillock. "Where am I?"—I repeated again aloud, stopped for the third time and looked questioningly at my English yellow-piebald dog Diana, decidedly the cleverest of all four-legged creatures. But the cleverest of four-legged creatures only wagged her tail, mournfully blinked her weary eyes and gave me no sensible advice. I felt ashamed before her, and I desperately rushed forward, as if I had suddenly guessed where I should go, went around the hillock and found myself in a shallow, plowed-all-around hollow. A strange feeling immediately seized me. This hollow had the appearance of an almost regular cauldron with sloping sides; at its bottom several large white stones stood upright—it seemed they had crawled there for a secret council—and it was so silent and muffled there, the sky hung so flatly, so dismally over it, that my heart contracted. Some little beast weakly and plaintively squeaked among the stones. I hastened to climb back out onto the hillock. Until now I had still not lost hope of finding the road home; but here I finally became convinced that I was completely lost, and, no longer trying at all to recognize the surrounding places, almost completely drowned in gloom, I walked straight ahead, by the stars—at random... For about half an hour I walked thus, barely moving my legs. It seemed I had never been in such empty places: nowhere did a light glimmer, no sound was heard. One gentle hill succeeded another, fields stretched endlessly after fields, bushes seemed to rise suddenly from the ground right before my nose. I kept walking and was already about to lie down somewhere until morning, when suddenly I found myself above a terrible abyss. I quickly pulled back my extended foot and, through the barely transparent twilight of night, saw far below me an enormous plain. A wide river encircled it in a semicircle receding from me; steely reflections of water, occasionally and dimly gleaming, marked its current. The hill on which I stood descended suddenly in an almost sheer precipice; its huge outlines stood out, darkening, against the bluish aerial void, and directly below me, in the corner formed by that precipice and the plain, near the river, which in this place stood like a motionless, dark mirror, beneath the very cliff of the hill, two little fires burned and smoked side by side with a red flame. Around them people bustled, shadows swayed, sometimes the front half of a small curly head was brightly illuminated... I finally recognized where I had wandered. This meadow is famous in our parts under the name of Bezhin Meadow... But returning home was utterly impossible, especially at night; my legs were giving way beneath me from fatigue. I resolved to approach the fires and, in the company of those people whom I took for drovers, to wait for dawn. I successfully descended, but had not yet released from my hands the last branch I had grasped when suddenly two large, white, shaggy dogs rushed at me with vicious barking. Children's ringing voices rang out around the fires; two or three boys quickly rose from the ground. I responded to their questioning shouts. They ran up to me, immediately called back the dogs, which were especially struck by the appearance of my Diana, and I approached them. I was mistaken in taking the people sitting around those fires for drovers. These were simply peasant children from neighboring villages, who were watching a herd. In the hot summer season horses are driven out to feed in the field at night with us: during the day flies and horseflies would give them no peace. Driving out before evening and driving back at morning dawn the herd is a great holiday for peasant boys. Sitting without caps and in old sheepskin coats on the liveliest nags, they rush with merry whooping and shouting, swinging their arms and legs, bouncing high, laughing loudly. Light dust rises in a yellow column and races along the road; the friendly tramping carries far; the horses run with ears pricked; ahead of them all, tail raised and constantly changing legs, gallops some reddish shaggy horse with burrs in its tangled mane. I told the boys that I was lost and sat down with them. They asked me where I was from, fell silent, made room. We talked a little. I lay down under a gnawed bush and began looking around. The picture was wonderful: around the fires a round, reddish reflection trembled and seemed to fade, resting against the darkness; flame, flaring up, occasionally cast quick reflections beyond the line of that circle; a thin tongue of light would lick the bare branches of willows and immediately vanish; sharp, long shadows, rushing in for a moment, in their turn ran right up to the little fires: darkness struggled with light. Sometimes, when the flame burned weaker and the circle of light narrowed, from the advancing darkness a horse's head would suddenly emerge, bay with a winding blaze, or all white, attentively and dully looking at us, briskly chewing long grass, and, lowering again, would immediately hide. Only one could hear how it continued chewing and snorting. From the illuminated place it was difficult to make out what was happening in the darkness, and therefore close by everything seemed curtained with an almost black veil; but farther toward the horizon hills and forests were vaguely visible in long patches. The dark, clear sky stood solemnly and immeasurably high above us with all its mysterious splendor. The chest sweetly tightened, breathing in that special, languid and fresh smell—the smell of a Russian summer night. Almost no noise was heard around... Only occasionally in the nearby river a large fish would splash with sudden resonance and the riverside reeds would rustle weakly, barely stirred by the running wave... Only the little fires crackled quietly. The boys sat around them; the two dogs that had so wanted to eat me also sat there. For a long time yet they could not reconcile themselves to my presence and, drowsily squinting and glancing sidelong at the fire, occasionally growled with an extraordinary sense of their own dignity; first they growled, then whined slightly, as if regretting the impossibility of fulfilling their desire. There were five boys in all: Fedya, Pavlusha, Ilyusha, Kostya and Vanya. (From their conversations I learned their names and intend now to acquaint the reader with them.) The first, the eldest of them all, Fedya, you would give fourteen years. This was a well-built boy with handsome and delicate, somewhat small features, curly blond hair, bright eyes and a constant half-cheerful, half-distracted smile. He belonged, by all signs, to a wealthy family and had ridden out to the field not from need, but just for amusement. He wore a colorful calico shirt with a yellow border; a small new peasant coat, thrown over his shoulders, barely held on his narrow little shoulders; a comb hung on his light-blue belt. His boots with low tops were exactly his boots—not his father's. The second boy, Pavlusha, had tousled black hair, gray eyes, broad cheekbones, a pale, pockmarked face, a large but regular mouth, a huge head, as they say, like a beer kettle, and a squat, awkward body. The lad was homely—what can you say!—but still I liked him: he looked very intelligent and direct, and there was strength sounding in his voice. He could not show off with his clothing: it all consisted of a simple homespun shirt and patched trousers. The face of the third, Ilyusha, was rather insignificant: hook-nosed, elongated, near-sighted, it expressed some dull, sickly solicitude; his compressed lips did not move, his knit brows did not part—he seemed to be constantly squinting from the fire. His yellow, almost white hair stuck out in sharp tufts from under a low felt cap, which he kept pushing onto his ears with both hands. He wore new bast shoes and leg wrappings; a thick rope, wound three times around his waist, carefully cinched his neat black coat. Both he and Pavlusha appeared to be no more than twelve years old. The fourth, Kostya, a boy of about ten, aroused my curiosity with his thoughtful and sad gaze. His whole face was small, thin, freckled, pointed at the bottom like a squirrel's; his lips could barely be distinguished; but his large, black eyes, gleaming with liquid shine, produced a strange impression: they seemed to want to say something for which there were no words in language—in his language at least. He was small in stature, of frail build and dressed rather poorly. The last, Vanya, I did not notice at first: he lay on the ground, quietly nestled under an angular mat, and only occasionally stuck out his light-brown curly head from under it. This boy was only about seven years old. So, I lay under a bush to the side and glanced at the boys. A small pot hung over one of the fires; potatoes were boiling in it. Pavlusha was watching it and, standing on his knees, was poking a splinter into the boiling water. Fedya lay propped on his elbow with the skirts of his coat spread out. Ilyusha sat next to Kostya and still squinted just as intently. Kostya had lowered his head a little and was looking somewhere into the distance. Vanya did not stir under his mat. I pretended to be sleeping. Gradually the boys began talking again. At first they chatted about this and that, about tomorrow's work, about the horses; but suddenly Fedya turned to Ilyusha and, as if renewing an interrupted conversation, asked him: "Well, and so you actually saw the house spirit?" "No, I didn't see him, and you can't see him,"—answered Ilyusha in a hoarse and weak voice, the sound of which corresponded perfectly to the expression of his face—"but I heard... And I'm not the only one." "And where does he live at your place?"—asked Pavlusha. "In the old rolling room." ["Rolling room" or "scooping room" at paper mills is the name for the building where they scoop paper in vats. It is located right at the dam, under the wheel. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "Do you go to the factory then?" "Of course we do. My brother and I, Avdyushka and I, work as smoothers." ["Smoothers" smooth and scrape paper. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "Well, look at that—factory workers!.." "Well, so how did you hear it?"—asked Fedya. "Well, here's how. My brother Avdyushka and I had to stay, along with Fyodor Mikheyevsky, and Ivashka Kosoy, and another Ivashka from Krasnye Kholmy, and also Ivashka Sukhorukov, and there were other kids there too; there were about ten of us kids in all—the whole shift; but we had to spend the night in the rolling room, that is, it wasn't exactly that we had to, but Nazarov, the overseer, forbade us; he says: 'Why,' he says, 'should you kids drag yourselves home; there's a lot of work tomorrow, so you kids don't go home.' So we stayed and were all lying together, and Avdyushka started saying, like, 'Well, boys, what if the house spirit comes?'.." "And as soon as he, Avdey, said this, suddenly someone above our heads started walking; but we were lying down below, and he was walking above, by the wheel. We hear: he's walking, the boards under him are bending and creaking; then he passed over our heads; the water suddenly started making noise at the wheel, making noise; the wheel started knocking, knocking and turning; but the sluice gates at the race were lowered." ["Race" is what we call the place where water runs onto the wheel. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "We're amazed: who raised them so the water started flowing; however, the wheel turned and turned and stopped. That one went again to the door above and started descending the stairs, and you could hear he wasn't hurrying; the steps under him were actually groaning... Well, that one approached our door, waited, waited—the door suddenly opened wide just like that. We were scared, we look—nothing... Suddenly, look, at one of the vats a mold started moving," [The screen with which they scoop paper. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "lifted up, dipped, walked around, walked around in the air like someone was rinsing it, and back in place. Then at another vat a hook came off a nail and back on the nail; then it was like someone went to the door and suddenly started coughing, choking, like some sheep or something, and so loudly... We all just fell in a heap, climbed under each other... How frightened we were at that time!" "Well, look at that!"—said Pavel. "Why did he cough?" "Don't know; maybe from the dampness." Everyone fell silent. "Well,"—asked Fedya—"are the potatoes cooked?" Pavlusha felt them. "No, still raw... Look, splashed,"—he added, turning his face toward the river—"must be a pike... And there a little star fell." "No, I'll tell you something, brothers,"—began Kostya in a thin voice—"listen, the other day what my father told me when I was there." "Well, we're listening,"—said Fedya with a patronizing air. "You know Gavrila, the village carpenter?" "Well yes; we know him." "And do you know why he's always so gloomy, always silent, you know? Here's why he's so gloomy. He went once, my father was saying—he went, my brothers, to the forest for nuts. Well, he went to the forest for nuts and got lost; wandered—God knows where he wandered. He walked and walked, brothers—no! can't find the road; and it's already night. So he sat down under a tree; 'I'll,' he says, 'wait till morning,'—sat down and dozed off. So he dozed off and suddenly hears someone calling him. He looks—nobody. He dozed off again—called again. He looks again, looks: and before him on a branch a mermaid sits, swaying and calling him to her, and she's dying of laughter, laughing... And the moon is shining strongly, so strongly, clearly the moon is shining—everything, my brothers, is visible. So she's calling him, and she herself is all so bright, white sitting on the branch, like some roach or minnow—or sometimes there's a crucian carp like that, whitish, silvery... Gavrila the carpenter just froze, my brothers, and she just keeps laughing and calling him to her with her hand like this. Gavrila was about to get up, was about to obey the mermaid, my brothers, but—must be the Lord instructed him: he put the sign of the cross on himself... And how hard it was for him to make the sign of the cross, my brothers; he says his hand was just like stone, wouldn't move... Ah, what the!.. So when he made the sign of the cross, my brothers, the mermaid stopped laughing, and suddenly started crying... She's crying, my brothers, wiping her eyes with her hair, and her hair is green as hemp. So Gavrila looked and looked at her, and started asking her: 'Why are you crying, forest evil?' And the mermaid said to him: 'If you hadn't crossed yourself,' she says, 'man, you would have lived with me in merriment to the end of your days; but I'm crying, I'm grieving because you crossed yourself; but I won't be the only one grieving: grieve yourself to the end of your days.' Then she, my brothers, disappeared, and Gavrila immediately understood how to get out of the forest, that is... But since then he always walks around gloomy." "Well!"—said Fedya after a short silence—"but how can such forest uncleanness spoil a Christian soul—he didn't obey her after all?" "But there you go!"—said Kostya. "And Gavrila said that her voice, they say, was so thin, plaintive, like a toad's." "Your father told this himself?"—continued Fedya. "Himself. I was lying on the sleeping platform, heard everything." "A wondrous thing! Why should he be gloomy?.. But, must be, he pleased her, since she called him." "Yes, pleased her!"—Ilyusha picked up. "How so! She wanted to tickle him to death, that's what she wanted. That's their business, these mermaids." "And here there must be mermaids too,"—Fedya remarked. "No,"—answered Kostya—"here the place is clean, open. Only thing—the river's close." Everyone fell silent. Suddenly, somewhere in the distance, there rang out a prolonged, ringing, almost moaning sound, one of those incomprehensible night sounds that sometimes arise amid deep silence, rise, stand in the air and slowly spread at last, as if dying away. You listen—and it's as if there's nothing, but it rings. It seemed someone had cried out for a long, long time under the very horizon, someone else seemed to have answered him in the forest with thin, sharp laughter, and a weak, hissing whistle rushed along the river. The boys exchanged glances, shuddered... "The cross be with us!"—whispered Ilya. "Eh, you ravens!"—shouted Pavel. "What are you scared of? Look, the potatoes are cooked." (Everyone moved toward the pot and began eating the steaming potatoes; only Vanya didn't move.) "What about you?"—said Pavel. But he didn't come out from under his mat. The pot was soon completely emptied. "But have you heard, boys,"—began Ilyusha—"what happened the other day at our Varnavitsy?" "At the dam?"—asked Fedya. "Yes, yes, at the dam, at the broken one. That's really an unclean place, so unclean, and so desolate. All around there are ravines, gullies, and in the gullies snakes live." [In Oryol dialect: serpents. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "Well, what happened? Tell us..." "Well, here's what happened. You maybe don't know, Fedya, but there's a drowned man buried there; and he drowned a long, long time ago, when the pond was still deep; but his grave is still visible, though barely: just a little mound... So, the other day, the steward calls the dog-keeper Ermil; he says: 'Go,' he says, 'Ermil, to the post.' Ermil always goes to the post; all his dogs have died on him: they don't live with him for some reason, never have, but he's a good dog-keeper, got everything. So Ermil went for the post, and dawdled in town, but he's riding back already drunk. And it's night, and a bright night: the moon is shining... So Ermil is riding across the dam: that's the way his road went. So he's riding like this, the dog-keeper Ermil, and he sees: on the drowned man's grave a lamb, white, curly, pretty, is walking. So Ermil thinks: 'I'll take him—why should he go to waste,' and he got down and took him in his arms... But the lamb—nothing. So Ermil goes to his horse, and the horse shies away from him, snorts, shakes her head; however, he calmed her down, got on her with the lamb and rode again: holding the lamb in front of him. He looks at it, and the lamb looks him right in the eyes. Ermil the dog-keeper felt eerie: 'I don't remember,' he thinks, 'rams looking people in the eyes like that'; however, nothing; he started stroking its wool like this—says: 'Baa, baa!' And the ram suddenly bares its teeth and says back to him: 'Baa, baa!'.." No sooner had the storyteller uttered this last word than suddenly both dogs rose at once, rushed away from the fire with convulsive barking and disappeared into the darkness. All the boys were frightened. Vanya jumped out from under his mat. Pavlusha rushed with a shout after the dogs. Their barking quickly receded... The anxious running of the alarmed herd was heard. Pavlusha shouted loudly: "Gray! Beetle!.." In a few moments the barking fell silent; Pavel's voice already came from far away... A little more time passed; the boys exchanged puzzled glances, as if waiting to see what would happen... Suddenly the tramping of a galloping horse rang out; it stopped sharply right at the fire, and, clutching the mane, Pavlusha nimbly jumped off it. Both dogs also jumped into the circle of light and immediately sat down with their red tongues hanging out. "What's there? What is it?"—asked the boys. "Nothing,"—answered Pavel, waving his hand at the horse—"just something the dogs caught scent of. I thought it was a wolf,"—he added in an indifferent voice, breathing rapidly with his whole chest. I involuntarily admired Pavlusha. He was very fine at that moment. His homely face, animated by the quick ride, glowed with bold daring and firm resolve. Without a twig in his hand, at night, he had galloped alone at a wolf without the slightest hesitation... "What a splendid boy!"—I thought, looking at him. "Did you see them, the wolves?"—asked the coward Kostya. "There are always lots of them here,"—answered Pavel—"but they're only troublesome in winter." He again settled down before the fire. Sitting on the ground, he dropped his hand on the shaggy nape of one of the dogs, and for a long time the delighted animal did not turn its head, looking sidelong at Pavlusha with grateful pride. Vanya buried himself under the mat again. "What frights you were telling us, Ilyushka,"—began Fedya, who, as the son of a wealthy peasant, had to be the leader (though he himself spoke little, as if afraid of lowering his dignity). "And the unclean one made the dogs start barking here... But it's true, I've heard that place is unclean where you are." "Varnavitsy?.. I should say so! Really unclean! They say the old master has been seen there more than once—the late master. He walks, they say, in a long-skirted caftan and keeps moaning like this, looking for something on the ground. Grandfather Trofimych met him once: 'What,' he says, 'sir, Ivan Ivanovich, are you pleased to be looking for on the ground?'" "He asked him?"—interrupted the amazed Fedya. "Yes, he asked." "Well, Trofimych is quite something after that... Well, and what did he say?" "'Herb-of-bursting,' he says, 'I'm looking for.' And he speaks so hollowly, hollowly: 'Herb-of-bursting.' 'And what do you need, sir Ivan Ivanovich, herb-of-bursting for?' 'The grave,' he says, 'presses, Trofimych: it presses... I want out, out...'" "Well, look at that!"—remarked Fedya—"didn't live long enough, must be." "What a marvel!"—said Kostya. "I thought you could only see the dead on Parents' Saturday." "You can see the dead any time,"—Ilyusha picked up with confidence, who, as far as I could notice, knew all the village superstitions best... "But on Parents' Saturday you can see even the living one, whose turn it is to die that year, that is. You just have to sit at night on the church porch and keep looking at the road. Those will walk past you on the road who are to die that year, that is. Last year our woman Ulyana went to the porch." "Well, and did she see anyone?"—asked Kostya with curiosity. "Of course. First she sat for a long, long time, didn't see or hear anyone... only it was all like a little dog kept barking, barking somewhere... Suddenly she looks: a boy is walking along the path in just a shirt. She looked closer—Ivashka Fedoseyev is walking..." "The one who died in spring?"—interrupted Fedya. "The very one. Walking and doesn't raise his little head... And Ulyana recognized him... But then she looks: a woman is walking. She peered and peered—oh Lord!—she herself is walking along the road, Ulyana herself." "Really herself?"—asked Fedya. "God's truth, herself." "Well what, she hasn't died yet, has she?" "But the year hasn't passed yet. And you just look at her: how her soul is holding on." Everyone fell silent again. Pavel threw a handful of dry branches on the fire. They turned sharply black against the suddenly flaring flame, crackled, began smoking and curling, raising their burnt ends. The reflection of light struck out, trembling jerkily in all directions, especially upward. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a white dove flew in—right into this reflection, turned fearfully in one place, all drenched in hot shine, and disappeared, with wings ringing. "Must have strayed from home,"—remarked Pavel. "Now it will fly until it runs into something, and where it bumps, there it will spend the night till dawn." "Well, Pavlusha,"—said Kostya—"wasn't that a righteous soul flying to heaven, eh?" Pavel threw another handful of branches on the fire. "Maybe,"—he finally said. "But tell me, please, Pavlusha,"—began Fedya—"what, did you also see the heavenly portent in Shalamovo?" [This is what peasants call a solar eclipse with us. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "When the sun disappeared? Of course." "I bet you were frightened too?" "Well, not just us. Our master, even though he explained to us beforehand that there would be, he said, a portent for you, but when it got dark, he himself, they say, got so scared that—my goodness. And in the servants' hut the cook woman, as soon as it got dark, listen, she took and broke all the pots in the oven with the poker: 'Who's going to eat now,' she says, 'the end of the world has come.' So the cabbage soup just poured out. And in our village such rumors were going around, brother, that white wolves would run across the earth, would eat people, a bird of prey would fly, and they would even see Trishka himself." [The belief about "Trishka" probably echoes the legend of the Antichrist. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "What Trishka is that?"—asked Kostya. "Don't you know?"—Ilyusha eagerly picked up. "Well, brother, where are you from that you don't know Trishka? Real stay-at-homes in your village, real stay-at-homes! Trishka—that will be such a marvelous man who will come; and he will come when the last times arrive. And he will be such a marvelous man that it will be impossible to catch him, and nothing can be done to him: he'll be such a marvelous man. The peasants will want, for example, to catch him; they'll go out at him with clubs, surround him, but he'll deceive their eyes—so deceive their eyes that they'll beat each other up. They'll put him in prison, for example—he'll ask for water to drink in a dipper: they'll bring him a dipper, and he'll dive into it and be gone. They'll put chains on him, but he'll just clap his hands—and they'll just fall off him. Well, and this Trishka will walk among villages and towns; and this Trishka, the cunning man, will tempt Christian people... but nothing can be done to him... That's how marvelous, cunning a man he'll be." "Well yes,"—continued Pavel in his unhurried voice—"that's the kind. So they were waiting for him at our place. The old folks said that as soon as the heavenly portent begins, Trishka will come. So it began. All the people poured out into the street, into the field, waiting to see what would happen. And our place, you know, is a visible, open spot. They look—suddenly from the settlement down the hill comes some man, such a strange one, such a marvelous head... Everyone shouted: 'Oh, Trishka's coming! Oh, Trishka's coming!'—and scattered! Our elder dove into a ditch; the elder's wife got stuck in the gateway, screaming bloody murder, frightened her own yard dog so much that it broke off the chain and over the fence and into the forest; and Kuzka's father, Dorofeich, jumped into the oats, squatted down and started crying like a quail: 'Maybe,' he says, 'the enemy, the murderer, will spare at least a bird.' That's how panicked everyone was!.. But the man was our cooper, Vavila: he'd bought himself a new tub and put the empty tub on his head." All the boys laughed and fell silent again for a moment, as often happens with people conversing in the open air. I looked around: the night stood solemnly and majestically; the damp freshness of late