Fifty-Two Stories

THE SHEPHERD’S PIPE

SLUGGISH FROM THE SULTRINESS of the dense firs, covered with cobwebs and pine needles, the steward of the Dementyevs’ farmstead, Meliton Shishkin, carrying his gun, was making his way to the edge of the forest. His Damka—a cross between a mutt and a setter—extraordinarily skinny and pregnant, her wet tail between her legs, trudged after her master, trying her best not to prick her nose. The morning was unpleasant, overcast. From the trees, enveloped in light mist, and from the ferns heavy spatters fell, and the forest dampness gave off a pungent smell of rot.

Ahead, where the forest ended, stood birches, and through their trunks and branches the misty distance could be seen. Beyond the birches someone was playing a homemade shepherd’s pipe. The player hit no more than five or six notes, lazily drawing them out, not trying to connect them into a tune, but nonetheless something stern and extremely mournful could be heard in his piping.

When the forest thinned out and the firs mixed with young birches, Meliton saw the herd. Hobbled horses, cows, and sheep wandered among the bushes, making the twigs crackle, and sniffing at the forest grass. At the edge of the forest, leaning against a wet birch, stood an old shepherd, skinny, in tattered homespun and without a hat. He looked at the ground, thought about something, and played his pipe as if mechanically.

“Good day, grandpa! God be with you!” Meliton greeted him in a high, husky little voice, which was not at all suited to his enormous height and big, fleshy face. “And you play the pipe so nicely! Whose herd are you tending?”

“The Artamonovs’,” the shepherd replied reluctantly and put the pipe into his bosom.

“So the forest is also the Artamonovs’?” Meliton asked, looking around. “And in fact it is, mercy me…I was completely lost. My mug’s all scratched up from the brush.”

He sat down on the wet ground and began to roll a cigarette from a scrap of newspaper.

Like his feeble little voice, everything about this man was small and out of proportion with his height, breadth, and fleshy face: his smile, his eyes, his buttons, his little visored cap, which barely clung to his fat, close-cropped head. When he spoke and smiled, his plump, clean-shaven face and his whole figure had the feeling of something womanish, timid, and humble.

“What weather, God help us!” he said and shook his head. “The oats haven’t been harvested yet, and the rain’s like it’s been hired full time, God help it.”

The shepherd glanced at the sky, where the drizzle was coming from, at the forest, at the steward’s wet clothes, thought a moment, and said nothing.

“It’s been like this all summer…” Meliton sighed. “Bad for the peasants and no pleasure for the masters.”

The shepherd glanced once more at the sky, thought a moment, and said measuredly, as if chewing over each word:

“It’s all headed the same way…Don’t expect anything good.”

“How is it with you here?” Meliton asked, lighting up his cigarette. “Have you seen any coveys of black grouse in the Artamonovs’ clearing?”

The shepherd did not reply at once. He glanced again at the sky and to both sides, thought a moment, blinked his eyes…Apparently he attached no little significance to his words, and in order to increase their value, he tried to utter them in a drawn-out way, with a certain solemnity. The expression of his old face was keen, grave, and his nose, crossed by a saddle-shaped groove and with upturned nostrils, gave it a sly and mocking look.

“No, seems I haven’t,” he replied. “Our hunter, Eremka, did say he scared off a covey by Empty Lot on St. Elijah’s day,¹ but it must be he’s lying. There’s few birds.”

“Yes, brother, few…Few everywhere! Hunting, if we reason soberly, is insignificant and unprofitable. There’s almost no game, and whatever there is right now isn’t worth dirtying your hands for—it hasn’t grown yet. So small it’s shameful to look at!”

Meliton grinned and waved his hand.

“Such things go on in this world, it’s simply laughable, that’s all. Birds nowadays have become so inconsistent, they lay eggs late, and there’s some that are still sitting them on St. Peter’s day.² By God!”

“It’s all headed the same way,” said the shepherd, raising his face. “Last year there was little game, this year there’s still less, and in five years, most like, there won’t be any. As I see it, soon there’ll be, not just no game birds, but no birds left at all.”

“Yes,” Meliton agreed after some thought. “True enough.”

The shepherd smiled bitterly and shook his head.

“Astonishing!” he said. “Where has it all gone to? Some twenty years ago, I remember, there were geese, and cranes, and ducks, and black grouse—huge flocks! When the masters got together for the hunt, all you heard was poom-poom-poom! poom-poom-poom! Great snipe, common snipe, jack snipe all over, and little teal and sandpipers, the same as starlings, say, or sparrows—no end of them! And where has it all gone? Even the birds of prey are nowhere to be seen. Eagles, and falcons, and owls—all gone for naught…And there are fewer beasts. Nowadays, brother, wolves and foxes are rare, to say nothing of bears or minks. We even used to have elk! For forty years, year after year, I’ve been keeping an eye on God’s works, and my understanding is it’s all headed the same way.”

“Which way?”

“The bad way, man. To ruin, I can only think…It’s come time for God’s world to perish.”

The old man put his cap on and started looking at the sky.

“It’s a pity!” he sighed after some silence. “God, such a pity! Of course, it’s God’s will, we didn’t make the world, but all the same, dear brother, it’s a pity. If one tree withers, or, say, one cow dies, you pity them, but how is it, my good man, to look on while the whole world goes to naught? So much that’s good, Lord Jesus! The sun, and the sky, and the forests, and the rivers, and the creatures—it’s all been created, arranged, fitted together. Each thing is suited to its task and knows its place. And it all has to perish!”

The shepherd’s face broke into a sad smile, and his eyelids blinked.

“You say the world is perishing,” Meliton said, pondering. “The end may even come soon, only you can’t judge by the birds. It’s unlikely that birds can signify anything.”

“It’s not just the birds,” said the shepherd. “It’s also the beasts, and the cattle, and the bees, and the fish…If you don’t believe me, ask the old folk; they’ll all tell you that the fish aren’t the same now as they used to be. In the seas, and in the lakes, and in the rivers there are fewer and fewer fish every year. I remember in our Peschanka there were three-foot pike to be caught, and burbot to be taken, and ide, and bream, and each fish was a fair sight. But now, thank God if you catch a little pike or perch a foot long. There aren’t even any real perch. It gets worse and worse every year, and if you wait a little, there won’t be any fish at all. And take today’s rivers…The rivers are drying up for sure!”

“True enough, they’re drying up.”

“So there it is. Every year they get shallower and shallower, and, dear brother, there are no more of those deep pools there used to be. See those bushes over there?” the old man asked, pointing to one side. “Beyond them there’s an old riverbed, known as the backwater; in my father’s day the Peschanka flowed there, but today look where the devil’s sent it! It keeps changing its bed, and, you’ll see, it’ll go on doing it till it dries up completely. Beyond Kurgasavo there were swamps and ponds, and now where are they? Where have the brooks gone to? Here in our forest a brook used to run, and in that brook peasants set nets and caught pike, wild duck wintered by it, and now, even in flood time, there’s no real water. Yes, brother, no matter where you look, it’s bad everywhere. Everywhere!”

Silence ensued. Meliton fell to thinking and fixed his eyes on one spot. He wanted to recall at least one place in nature that had not yet been touched by all-encompassing doom. Bright patches began to glide over the mist and the slanting streaks of rain, as if over frosted glass, and immediately faded away—it was the rising sun trying to break through the clouds and look down at the earth.

“And the forests as well…,” Meliton murmured.

“The forests as well…,” the shepherd repeated. “They get cut down, they burn, they dry up, and new ones don’t grow. What does grow gets cut down at once; today it’s there, and tomorrow, you’ll see, people cut it down—and it goes on endlessly, till there’s nothing left. I, my good man, have been tending the communal flock since the freedom,³ and before that I was a shepherd for my masters, tended in this same place, and in all my life I don’t remember a summer day when I wasn’t here. And all this while I’ve been observing God’s works. I’ve kept an eye out in my time, brother, and so now I understand that all plants are in decline. Take rye, or some vegetable, or some flower, it’s all headed the same way.”

“But people have become better,” the manager observed.

“Better how?”

“Smarter.”

“Smarter, maybe so, man, but what’s the good of it? What use is intelligence to people who are doomed? You can perish without any intelligence. What’s intelligence to a hunter if there’s no game? The way I reason, God gave man intelligence, but took away his strength. Folk have become weak, extremely weak. Take me, for instance…I’m barely worth a penny, I’m the lowest peasant in the whole village, but even so, man, I’ve got strength. Look, I’m past sixty, and I tend all day long, and I also look after horses during the night for twenty kopecks, and I don’t sleep and I don’t get cold. My son’s smarter than me, but put him in my place and tomorrow he’ll ask for a raise or go to the doctor. So there. I eat nothing but bread, because give us this day our daily bread, and my father ate nothing but bread, and the same with my grandfather, but today’s peasant wants tea, and vodka, and white rolls, and to sleep all night, and to go to the doctor, and all sorts of indulgence. And why? He’s grown weak, he’s got no strength to bear up. He’d be glad not to sleep, but his eyes stick shut—nothing to be done.”

“True enough,” Meliton agreed. “Today’s peasant is worthless.”

“Let’s say it straight out, it’s getting worse year by year. If we consider masters now, they’ve weakened worse than the peasants. The masters nowadays are ahead in everything, they know things that shouldn’t even be known, but what’s the good of it? You look at him and feel such pity…Skinny, puny, like some Hungarian or Frenchman, no importance in him, no look—a master in name only. The poor dear has no position, no work, and there’s no telling what he wants. Either it’s sitting with a rod fishing, or lying belly-up reading a book, or hanging around with peasants and saying all sorts of things, and then going hungry and getting hired as a clerk. So he lives a piddling life, and it doesn’t occur to him to set himself up in some real work. In the old days the masters were half of them generals, but nowadays—sheer trash!”

“They’ve grown really poor,” said Meliton.

“They’ve grown poor because God took their strength away. You can’t go against God.”

Meliton again fixed his eyes on one spot. Having thought a little, he sighed, the way staid, reasonable people sigh, shook his head, and said:

“And why so? We’ve sinned a lot, we’ve forgotten God…and it means the time has come for everything to end. That is to say, the world can’t last forever—enough’s enough.”

The shepherd sighed and, as if wishing to break off the unpleasant conversation, stepped away from the birch and began to count the cows with his eyes.

“Hyah-yah-yah!” he shouted. “Hyah-yah-yah! Ah, there’s no keeping you back! The fiend’s driven you into the gorse! Hoo-loo-loo!”

He made an angry face and went into the bushes to gather the herd. Meliton got up and walked slowly along the edge of the forest. He looked under his feet and thought; he still wanted to recall at least something that had not been touched by death. Bright patches again glided along the slanted streaks of rain; they leaped up to the treetops and faded among the wet leaves. Damka found a hedgehog under a bush and, wishing to draw her master’s attention, raised a whiny barking.

“Did you have the eclipse or not?” the shepherd cried from the bushes.

“We did!” replied Meliton.

“So. Folk everywhere are complaining that it happened. Meaning, dear brother, that there’s disorder in the heavens, too! It’s not for nothing…Hyah-yah-yah! Hyah!”

Having driven the herd to the edge of the forest, the shepherd leaned on the birch tree, looked at the sky, unhurriedly took the pipe from his bosom, and began to play. He played mechanically, as before, no more than five or six notes; as if he were holding the pipe for the first time, the sounds flew out of it irresolutely, in disorder, not merging into a melody, but Meliton, thinking about the world perishing, heard something very anguished and repugnant in his playing, which he would prefer not to listen to. The highest squeaky notes trembled and broke off and seemed to weep inconsolably, as if the pipe were sick and frightened, and the lowest notes for some reason were reminiscent of the mist, the dreary trees, the gray sky. Such music seemed suited to the weather, and the old man, and his talk.

Meliton felt like complaining. He went up to the old man and, looking at his sad, mocking face, and at his pipe, began to mutter:

“Life’s grown worse, too, grandpa. It’s totally unbearable to live. Bad harvests, poverty…cattle plague time and again, diseases…Overwhelmed by need.”

The manager’s plump face turned purple and acquired an anguished, womanish expression. He moved his fingers, as if searching for words to convey his indefinite feeling, and went on:

“Eight children, a wife…a mother still living, and a salary of a mere ten roubles a month without grub. My wife’s gone frenzied from poverty…and me, I drink. I’m a sensible, staid man, I’ve got education. I’d like to sit at home, in peace and quiet, but I’m out all day like a dog, with my rifle, because I just can’t do it: I hate my home!”

Sensing that what his tongue was muttering was not at all what he meant to express, the manager waved his hand and said bitterly:

“If the world is to perish, then let it be soon! There’s no use dragging it out and making people suffer uselessly…”

The old man took the pipe from his lips and, narrowing one eye, looked into its small mouth hole. His face was sad and covered with big drops like tears. He smiled and said:

“It’s a pity, dear brother! God, such a pity! The earth, the forest, the sky…every creature—all of it was created, arranged, there’s reasonableness in it all. It will all perish for nothing. And it’s a pity about people most of all.”

From a distance, moving towards the edge of the forest, came the sound of heavy rain. Meliton glanced in the direction of the sound, buttoned up his coat, and said:

“I’ll head for the village. Goodbye, grandpa. What’s your name?”

“Luka the Poor.”

“Well, goodbye, Luka! Thanks for your kind words. Damka, ici!”

Having taken leave of the shepherd, Meliton trudged along the edge of the forest, then down across the meadow, which gradually turned into a swamp. Water squelched under his feet, and rusty sedge, still green and lush, bent towards the ground, as if in fear of being trampled underfoot. Beyond the swamp, on the bank of the Peschanka, of which the old man had spoken, stood willows, and beyond the willows a threshing barn showed blue in the mist. One could sense the nearness of that miserable, in no way avertable time when the fields become dark, the earth dirty and cold, when the weeping willow looks still more sorrowful and tears flow down its trunk, and only cranes escape the general disaster, and even they, as if fearing to offend dreary nature by expressing their happiness, fill the sky with their sad, melancholy song.

Meliton trudged towards the river and listened to the sounds of the pipe gradually dying away behind him. He still felt like complaining. He glanced sorrowfully around and felt an unbearable pity for the sky, and the earth, and the sun, and the forest, and his Damka, and when the highest drawn-out note of the pipe swept through the air and trembled like the voice of a weeping man, he felt extremely bitter and upset at the disorder he observed in nature.

The high note trembled, broke off, and the pipe fell silent.

1887