来自：A Sportsman's Sketches
It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only occur when the weather has settled in for a long time. From the earliest morning the sky is clear; the morning dawn does not blaze like a fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun—not fiery, not scorching as during a sultry drought, not dully crimson as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant—peacefully rises beneath a narrow, elongated cloud, freshly shines, and sinks into its lilac mist. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud sparkles like serpents; their gleam is like the gleam of hammered silver... But then the playful rays stream forth again—and cheerfully and majestically, as if soaring, the mighty luminary rises. Around midday a multitude of round, high clouds usually appear, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered across an infinitely overflowing river, flowing around them in deeply transparent channels of even blueness, they scarcely move from their place; farther on, toward the horizon, they draw together, crowd, and the blueness between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly permeated with light and warmth. The color of the horizon, light, pale lilac, does not change all day and is the same all around; nowhere does it darken or thicken into a storm; only here and there bluish streaks stretch from top to bottom: barely noticeable rain is falling. Toward evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and indefinite as smoke, lie in rosy billows opposite the setting sun; at the place where it has set as calmly as it rose peacefully into the sky, a scarlet radiance stands for a short 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 gentleness. On such days the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even "steams" along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses and pushes aside the accumulated heat, and whirlwinds—an unmistakable sign of constant weather—walk in tall white columns along the roads across the plowland. In the dry and clean air there is the scent of wormwood, harvested rye, buckwheat; even an hour before night you feel no dampness. Such weather is what the farmer desires for gathering in the grain...
On just such a day I was once hunting black grouse in Chern District, Tula Province. I found and shot quite a lot of game; my filled game bag was mercilessly cutting into my shoulder; but already the evening glow was fading, 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 rapid steps I passed through a long "square" of bushes, climbed a hill, and, instead of the expected familiar plain with an oak grove on the right and a low white church in the distance, saw completely different places unknown to me. A narrow valley stretched at my feet; straight ahead, opposite me, a dense aspen grove rose like a steep wall. I stopped in perplexity and looked around... "Well!" I thought, "I've gone completely the wrong way: I've gone too far to the right"—and, myself marveling at my mistake, 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 out to the other side and walked, bearing to the left, along the aspen grove. Bats were already flitting above its slumbering tops, mysteriously circling and trembling against the vaguely clear sky; a belated hawk flew swiftly and straight above, hurrying to its nest. "As soon as I reach that corner," I thought to myself, "the road will be right there, and I've made a detour of about a verst!"
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 walked during the day... "Ah! These are the Parakhin bushes!" I finally exclaimed, "exactly! That must be Sindeyev Grove... But how did I get here? So far?... Strange!" Now I need to turn 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, together with the evening vapors. I came upon some unused, overgrown path; I set off along it, looking carefully ahead. Everything around quickly blackened and fell silent—only the quails occasionally cried. A small night bird, rushing silently and low on its soft wings, almost collided with me and timidly dove aside. I came out at the edge of the bushes and trudged along a field boundary. Already I could barely make out distant objects; the field showed white indistinctly around; beyond it, advancing with each moment, gloomy darkness swelled 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 flickered and stirred upon it.
What I had taken for a grove turned out to be a dark, round mound. "Where am I?" I repeated aloud, stopped for the third time, and looked questioningly at my English yellow-piebald dog Diana, decidedly the smartest of all four-legged creatures. But the smartest of four-legged creatures only wagged her tail, blinked her tired eyes mournfully, and gave me no sensible advice. I felt ashamed before her, and desperately rushed forward, as if I had suddenly guessed where I should go, went around the mound, and found myself in a shallow, plowed hollow all around. 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 in it, the sky hung so flatly, so dismally above it, that my heart contracted. Some little animal squeaked weakly and pitifully among the stones. I hastened to get back out onto the mound. Until now I had still not lost hope of finding my way 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, moving my legs with difficulty. It seemed I had never been in such empty places: nowhere did a light glimmer, no sound was heard. One gentle slope succeeded another, fields stretched endlessly beyond fields, bushes seemed to rise suddenly from the ground right before my nose. I kept walking and was about to lie down somewhere until morning, when I suddenly found myself above a terrible abyss.
I quickly drew back my raised foot and, through the barely transparent twilight of night, saw far below me an enormous plain. A wide river curved around it in a semicircle receding from me; steel reflections of water, occasionally and dimly shimmering, marked its course. The hill on which I stood descended suddenly in an almost sheer precipice; its huge outlines separated, blackening, from the bluish aerial void, and directly below me, in the corner formed by that precipice and the plain, beside the river, which in this place stood like a motionless, dark mirror, under the very steepness of the hill, two fires burned and smoked side by side with red flame. People were bustling around them, 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 Bezhin Meadow... But to return 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 to be drovers, await the dawn. I descended successfully, 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 angry barking. Children's ringing voices rang out around the fires; two or three boys quickly rose from the ground. I responded to their questioning cries. They ran up to me, immediately called off 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 over a herd. In the hot summer season our horses are driven out at night to feed in the field: during the day flies and gadflies would give them no peace. Driving the herd out before evening and bringing it back at dawn 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, waving their arms and legs, bouncing high, laughing sonorously. Light dust rises in a yellow column and rushes along the road; the friendly tramping carries far; the horses run with pricked ears; ahead of them all, with tail raised and constantly changing legs, gallops some red shaggy horse with burdock 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, moved aside. We talked a little. I lay down under a gnawed bush and began to look around. The picture was wonderful: around the fires trembled and seemed to fade, resting against the darkness, a round reddish reflection; the flame, flaring up, occasionally cast beyond the boundary of that circle quick glints; a thin tongue of light would lick the bare branches of willow and disappear at once; sharp, long shadows, bursting in for a moment, in their turn ran right up to the little fires: darkness struggled with light. Sometimes, when the flame burned more weakly and the circle of light narrowed, from the advancing darkness a horse's head would suddenly appear, bay, with a winding blaze, or all white, looking at us attentively and dully, briskly chewing long grass, and, lowering again, would immediately hide. Only the sound of its continued chewing and snorting could be heard. From an illuminated place it is difficult to make out what is happening in the darkness, and therefore everything nearby 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. One's chest sweetly constricted, breathing in that special, languorous 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 shore reeds would rustle faintly, barely stirred by the arriving wave... The fires alone crackled quietly.
The boys sat around them; the two dogs that had so wanted to eat me also sat there. They could not reconcile themselves to my presence for a long time and, sleepily squinting and looking askance at the fire, occasionally growled with an extraordinary sense of their own dignity; first they would growl, and then whimper 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 now intend to acquaint the reader with them.)
You would have given the first, the eldest of them all, Fedya, about fourteen years. This was a slender boy, with handsome and delicate, somewhat small features, curly blond hair, light 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 necessity, but for amusement. He wore a colorful calico shirt with a yellow border; a small new homespun coat, thrown on loosely, barely held on his narrow little shoulders; a comb hung on his light blue belt. His boots with low tops were certainly his boots—not his father's. The second boy, Pavlusha, had tousled black hair, gray eyes, wide cheekbones, a pale, pockmarked face, a large but regular mouth, a huge head, as they say, like a beer pot, and a squat, awkward body. The lad was plain—what can you say!—but still I liked him: he looked very intelligent and direct, and there was strength in his voice. He could not boast of his clothing: it consisted entirely of a simple homespun shirt and patched trousers. The face of the third, Ilyusha, was rather insignificant: hook-nosed, elongated, half-blind, it expressed a kind of dull, sickly anxiety; his compressed lips did not move, his drawn brows did not part—he seemed constantly to squint from the fire. His yellow, almost white hair stuck out in sharp tufts from under a low felt cap, which he kept pulling down over his ears with both hands. He wore new bast shoes and foot wrappings; a thick rope, wound three times around his waist, carefully tightened his neat black jacket. 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, shining with a liquid gleam, 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 a frail build, and dressed rather poorly. The last, Vanya, I did not notice at first: he lay on the ground, quietly huddled under an angular mat, and only occasionally stuck out his fair curly head from under it. This boy was only about seven years old.
So I lay under a little bush to one 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, kneeling, was poking a stick into the boiling water. Fedya lay propped on his elbow with the flaps of his coat spread out. Ilyusha sat beside Kostya, still squinting tensely. Kostya had lowered his head slightly 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 horses; but suddenly Fedya turned to Ilyusha and, as if renewing an interrupted conversation, asked him:
"Well, so did you actually see the house spirit?"
"No, I didn't see him, and you can't see him," Ilyusha answered in a hoarse, weak voice, the sound of which perfectly matched the expression of his face, "but I heard him... And I wasn't the only one."
"Where does he live at your place?" asked Pavlusha.
"In the old rolling room." ["Rolling room" or "scooping room" is what they call the building on paper mills where they scoop paper in vats. It is located right at the dam, under the wheel. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)]
"Do you work at the factory?"
"Of course we do. My brother Avdyushka and I work as glazers." ["Glazers" smooth and scrape paper. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)]
"Well, well—factory workers!..."
"Well, so how did you hear him?" asked Fedya.
"Well, here's how. My brother Avdyushka and I, and Fyodor Mikheyevsky, and Ivashka the Cross-eyed, and another Ivashka from Red Hills, and Ivashka Sukhorukov, and there were other boys there too; there were about ten of us boys in all—the whole shift; and we had to spend the night in the rolling room, that is, not that we exactly had to, but Nazarov, the overseer, forbade us; he says: 'What's the point, boys, of trudging home; there's a lot of work tomorrow, so you boys don't go home.' So we stayed and all lay down together, and Avdyushka started saying, 'Well, boys, what if the house spirit comes?...' And he, Avdey, had barely spoken these words when suddenly someone started walking above our heads; but we were lying below, and he was walking above, by the wheel. We hear him: he's walking, the boards under him bending and creaking; then he passed over our heads; the water suddenly started roaring, roaring over the wheel; the wheel started knocking, knocking, 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 wondered: who raised them so the water started flowing; but the wheel turned, turned, and stopped. That one went again to the door upstairs and started coming down the stairs, and you could hear he wasn't hurrying; the steps under him even groaned... Well, he came to our door, waited, waited—and the door suddenly flew wide open. We were startled, we looked—nothing... Suddenly, look, at one vat the mold started moving," [The sieve with which they scoop paper. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "rose, dipped, moved, moved through the air, as if someone were rinsing it, and then back in place. Then at another vat a hook came off a nail and back on the nail; then it was as if someone went to the door and suddenly started coughing, choking, like some sheep, and so loudly... We all just fell in a heap, crawling under each other... How frightened we were at that time!"
"Well, I never!" said Pavel. "Why did he start coughing?"
"Don't know; maybe from the dampness."
Everyone fell silent.
"Well," asked Fedya, "are the potatoes cooked?"
Pavlusha felt them.
"No, still raw... Listen, it splashed," he added, turning his face toward the river, "must be a pike... And there's a little star falling."
"No, I'll tell you something, brothers," Kostya began in a thin voice, "listen to what my father told me the other day, and I was right there."
"Well, we're listening," Fedya said with a patronizing air.
"You know Gavrila, the village carpenter?"
"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, into the forest for nuts. So he went into the forest for nuts and got lost; he wandered—God knows where he wandered. He walked and walked, brothers—no! he couldn't find the road; and it was already night. So he sat down under a tree; 'I'll wait,' he thought, 'till morning'—he sat down and dozed off. So he dozed off and suddenly hears someone calling him. He looks—nobody. He dozed off again—they call again. He looks, looks again: and before him on a branch sits a rusalka, swinging 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, so white sitting on the branch, like some dace or minnow—or there's carp that's so whitish, silvery... Gavrila the carpenter just froze, my brothers, but she kept laughing and kept beckoning him to her with her hand. Gavrila was about to get up, was about to obey the rusalka, my brothers, but—the Lord must have put it in his mind: he made the sign of the cross over himself... And how hard it was for him to make that sign of the cross, my brothers; he says his hand was simply like stone, wouldn't move... Oh, you devil!... So as soon as he made the cross, my brothers, the rusalka stopped laughing and suddenly started crying... She's crying, my brothers, wiping her eyes with her hair, and her hair is green, like hemp. So Gavrila looked, looked at her, and started asking her: 'Why are you crying, forest witch?' And the rusalka says to him: 'If you hadn't crossed yourself,' she says, 'you man, you would have lived with me in merriment till the end of your days; and I'm crying, I'm grieving because you crossed yourself; but I won't be the only one grieving: you grieve too till the end of your days.' Then she, my brothers, vanished, and Gavrila immediately understood how to get out of the forest, that is... But since then he always goes about gloomy."
"Well!" said Fedya after a short silence, "but how can such forest evil spoil a Christian soul—he didn't obey her?"
"Well, there you go!" said Kostya. "And Gavrila said that her little voice was so thin, plaintive, like a toad's."
"Did your father tell this himself?" Fedya continued.
"Himself. I was lying on the sleeping shelf, heard everything."
"Strange business! Why should he be gloomy?... Well, I guess he must have pleased her, since she called him."
"Yes, pleased!" Ilyusha picked up. "Of course! She wanted to tickle him to death, that's what she wanted. That's their business, those rusalkas."
"And there must be rusalkas here too," Fedya noted.
"No," Kostya answered, "this is a clean place, free. Except—the river is near."
Everyone fell silent. Suddenly, somewhere in the distance, a prolonged, ringing, almost moaning sound rang out, one of those incomprehensible night sounds that sometimes arise amid deep silence, rise, hang 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 that someone had cried out for a long, long time under the very horizon, someone else seemed to respond to him in the forest with thin, sharp laughter, and a weak, hissing whistle rushed along the river. The boys exchanged glances, shuddered...
"May the holy cross protect us!" Ilya whispered.
"Eh, you crows!" Pavel shouted. "What are you startled about? Look, the potatoes are cooked." (Everyone moved closer to the pot and began eating the steaming potatoes; only Vanya didn't move.) "What about you?" Pavel said.
But he didn't come out from under his mat. The pot was soon completely emptied.
"Did you hear, boys," Ilyusha began, "what happened the other day at our Varnavitsy?"
"At the dam?" asked Fedya.
"Yes, yes, at the dam, the broken one. That's really an unclean place, so unclean, and so wild. All around 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. Maybe you 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 visible: just a little mound... So the other day the steward calls the dog-keeper Ermil; he says: 'Go,' he says, 'Ermil, to get the post.' Ermil always goes for the post with us; he's killed off all his dogs: they won't live with him for some reason, they just never have, but he's a good dog-keeper, knows his business. So Ermil went for the post and lingered in town, and was riding back already drunk. And it was night, and a bright night: the moon was shining... So Ermil is riding across the dam: that's the way his road went. So he's riding along, this dog-keeper Ermil, and sees: at the drowned man's grave a little lamb, white, curly, pretty, is walking about. So Ermil thinks: 'I'll take him—why should he just go to waste,' and he got down and took him in his arms... But the lamb—nothing. So Ermil goes to his horse, but the horse shies away from him, snorts, shakes its head; however, he calmed it down, sat on it with the lamb, and rode on again: he holds the lamb in front of him. He looks at it, and the lamb looks him straight in the eyes. Ermil the dog-keeper got scared: 'I don't remember,' he thought, 'that rams look people in the eyes like that'; but never mind; he started stroking its wool—says: 'Baa, baa!' And the ram suddenly bared its teeth and said to him too: 'Baa, baa!...'
The storyteller had barely uttered this last word when 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 after the dogs with a shout. Their barking quickly receded... The anxious running of the startled herd could be heard. Pavlusha was shouting loudly: "Gray! Zhuchka!..." 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 looks, as if waiting to see what would happen... Suddenly the tramping of a galloping horse sounded; it stopped short right at the fire, and, clutching the mane, Pavlusha nimbly jumped off. Both dogs also jumped into the circle of light and immediately sat down, tongues hanging out red.
"What was it? What happened?" the boys asked.
"Nothing," Pavel answered, waving his hand at the horse, "the dogs just caught a scent of something. I thought it was a wolf," he added in an indifferent voice, breathing quickly with his whole chest.
I involuntarily admired Pavlusha. He was very fine at that moment. His plain face, animated by the fast ride, glowed with bold daring and firm resolve. Without even a stick in his hand, at night, he had galloped alone after a wolf without the slightest hesitation... "What a splendid boy!" I thought, looking at him.
"Did you see them, the wolves?" asked the timid Kostya.
"There are always plenty of them here," Pavel answered, "but they're only troublesome in winter."
He settled down again before the fire. Sitting on the ground, he dropped his hand onto the shaggy neck of one of the dogs, and for a long time the delighted animal did not turn its head, looking sideways at Pavlusha with grateful pride.
Vanya buried himself under the mat again.
"What scary stories you've been telling us, Ilyushka," Fedya began, 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 devils made the dogs start barking... But it's true, I've heard that your place is unclean."
"Varnavitsy?... I should say so! Really unclean! They say they've seen the old master many times—the late master. They say he walks in a long-skirted coat and keeps moaning, looking for something on the ground. Once Grandfather Trofimych met him: 'What,' he says, 'father, Ivan Ivanovich, are you pleased to be looking for on the ground?'"
"He asked him?" the amazed Fedya interrupted.
"Yes, he asked."
"Well, Trofimych is a brave man after that... Well, and what did he say?"
"'Razryv-grass,' he says, 'I'm looking for.'" [A magical herb in folklore.] "And in such a muffled voice, muffled: 'Razryv-grass.' 'And what do you want, father Ivan Ivanovich, with razryv-grass?' 'The grave,' he says, 'is pressing, Trofimych: I want out, I want out...'"
"Well, I never!" Fedya remarked, "he must not have lived long enough."
"What a marvel!" Kostya said. "I thought you could only see the dead on Parents' Saturday."
"You can see the dead at any hour," Ilyusha picked up with assurance, who, as far as I could tell, knew all the village superstitions better than the others... "But on Parents' Saturday you can also see the living person whose turn it is to die that year. You just have to sit on the church porch at night and keep looking at the road. Those who are to die that year will walk past you on the road. Last year our woman Ulyana went to the porch."
"Well, did she see anyone?" Kostya asked with curiosity.
"Of course. First she sat for a long, long time, didn't see or hear anyone... except it was as if a little dog kept barking, barking somewhere... Suddenly she looks: a boy is walking along the path in just a shirt. She looked close—Ivashka Fedoseyev is walking..."
"The one who died in the spring?" Fedya interrupted.
"The very same. He's walking and doesn't raise his little head... And Ulyana recognized him... But then she looks: a woman is walking. She looked and looked—oh, Lord!—she herself is walking along the road, Ulyana herself."
"Really, herself?" asked Fedya.
"By God, herself."
"Well, what of it, she hasn't died yet?"
"But the year hasn't passed yet. Just look at her: barely alive."
Everyone fell silent again. Pavel threw a handful of dry twigs onto the fire. They turned sharply black against the suddenly flaring flame, crackled, smoked, and began to warp, lifting their scorched 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 about fearfully in one place, all bathed in hot brilliance, and disappeared, wings ringing.
"Must have strayed from home," Pavel remarked. "Now it will fly until it bumps into something, and wherever it bumps, that's where it will spend the night till dawn."
"Well, Pavlusha," Kostya said, "wasn't that a righteous soul flying to heaven, eh?"
Pavel threw another handful of twigs on the fire.
"Maybe," he said at last.
"But tell me, please, Pavlusha," Fedya began, "did you also see the heavenly presaging in your Shalamovo?" [This is what our peasants call a solar eclipse. (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'd explained to us beforehand that there would be a presaging, when it got dark, they say he got so scared himself—just terrible. And in the servants' hut the cook woman, as soon as it got dark, listen to this, she took the poker and smashed all the pots in the stove: '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, brother, such rumors were going around that white wolves would run across the earth, would eat people, a bird of prey would fly, or they'd even see Trishka himself." [The belief about "Trishka" probably echoes the legend of the Antichrist. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)]
"What is this Trishka?" asked Kostya.
"You don't know?" Ilyusha picked up eagerly. "Well, brother, where are you from that you don't know about Trishka? Real stay-at-homes you've got in your village, real stay-at-homes! Trishka—this will be such an amazing person who will come; and he'll come when the last times arrive. And he'll be such an amazing person that they won't be able to catch him, and they won't be able to do anything to him: he'll be such an amazing person. For example, the peasants will want to catch him; they'll come out after him with clubs, surround him, but he'll deceive their eyes—he'll deceive their eyes so that they'll beat each other up. They'll put him in jail, for example—he'll ask for a drink of water in a ladle: they'll bring him a ladle, and he'll dive into it and vanish without a trace. They'll put chains on him, but he'll just clap his hands—and they'll fall right off him. Well, and this Trishka will go through villages and towns; and this Trishka, the cunning man, will tempt the Christian people... well, but they won't be able to do anything to him... He'll be such an amazing, cunning man."
"Well, yes," Pavel continued in his unhurried voice, "that's him. That's who they were expecting at our place. The old folks said that as soon as the heavenly presaging begins, Trishka will come. So it began. All the people poured out into the street, into the field, waiting for what would happen. And you know our place is open, spacious. They look—suddenly from the hamlet, from the hill, comes some person, such a strange one, head so amazing... Everyone started shouting: 'Oh, Trishka's coming! Oh, Trishka's coming!'—and scattered every which way! Our elder dove into a ditch; the elder's wife got stuck in the gateway, screaming her head off, frightened her own yard dog so much that it broke off its chain, 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 thought, 'the enemy, the murderer, will at least spare a bird.' That's how panicked everyone got!... But the person walking there was our cooper Vavila: he'd bought himself a new tub and had 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: night stood solemnly and majestically; the damp freshness of lat