Selected Stories

He Understood

IT WAS A STIFLING JUNE MORNING; the air was sultry, the leaves drooped, and the dry ground was cracked. One felt a longing for a storm, for rain that would relieve nature’s distress. And a storm was brewing; in the west the clouds were growing dark. It would be welcome!

Along the outskirts of the forest a stooped, dwarflike little peasant moved stealthily. He wore mammoth gray-brown boots and blue trousers with white stripes; half the length of the boot tops had to be folded over. His completely threadbare, patched pants bagged over the knees and hung like coattails. A greasy rope belt had slid from his belly to his hips, and his shirt rode up to his shoulder blades.

He was carrying a gun that had a rusty barrel about two feet long with a sight resembling a good-sized bootnail. It was fitted with a white homemade butt, whittled out of pine and carved with stripes and flowers. Had it not been for the butt it would have borne no resemblance to a gun—and even so it looked more like something medieval than of our own time. The trigger was brown with rust and wound about with wire and thread. The most ludicrous part was the white, shiny ramrod that had been simply cut from a willow, and was fresh, damp, and much longer than the barrel.

The little peasant was pale, and his inflamed, crossed eyes darted in all directions. A wispy billy-goat beard quivered like a little rag under his lower lip. He took long strides, his torso bent forward; he was evidently in a hurry.

Behind him ran a large, shaggy mongrel, thin as a skeleton. Her long tongue hung out, gray with dust, and large patches of shed hair clung to her sides and tail. One hind leg was wrapped in a rag and had evidently been hurt. Every now and then the little peasant turned back to his companion. “Get out of here!” he kept saying, apprehensively. The mongrel would look around, and, having stood still for a moment, continue to follow her master.

The hunter wanted to slip into the forest, but it was impossible. Along the border there extended a dense, thorny wall of blackthorn bushes, and farther on a stretch of nettles. At last there was a path. The peasant again waved the dog off and darted along the path into the bushes. Here the ground had not yet dried; it made a sucking sound underfoot. The dampness made it easier to breathe. On both sides there was a mass of juniper and other shrubs, but the forest itself was about three hundred feet away.

Something made a sound like a wheel in need of greasing. The peasant started, then cocked an eye at a young alder tree in which he spied a moving black spot. He stepped nearer and made out a young starling sitting on a branch examining the under part of its lifted wing. The peasant stood still, dropped his cap, pressed the butt of the gun to his shoulder, and took aim; then he lifted the gun cock and held it to prevent its going off too soon. The spring was broken, the trigger did not work, and the gun cock failed to respond.

There was a whirring sound. The starling lowered his wing and looked with suspicion at the marksman. Another second and he would fly away. Again the hunter took aim and removed his finger from the cock, but to his disappointment it did not strike. He then cut a thread with his fingernail, bent a piece of wire, and gave the cock a fillip. A click was heard, then a shot. The marksman’s shoulder felt the strong kick of the gun; he had not been sparing with the powder. Dropping the gun, he ran to the alder tree and began fumbling about in the grass. Near a moldy, rotting branch he found a patch of blood and some down. Searching a little farther, he recognized his victim in the small, still warm body that lay near the tree trunk.

“Got him in the head!” he said delightedly to the mongrel. The dog sniffed at the starling and saw that his master had hit not only the head; on the breast was a gaping wound, one leg was broken, and a large drop of blood hung from the bill. The peasant quickly reached into his pocket, dropping rags, scraps of paper, and bits of thread, as he pulled out a new charge. He reloaded the gun, and, ready to continue the hunt, went on his way.

As if he had sprung from the ground, the Polish overseer, Krzewecki, appeared before him. The little peasant saw his arrogant, red-bearded face and grew cold with horror. His cap fell off as if by its own volition.

“What are you up to? Shooting?” asked the Pole in a mocking voice. “Very nice!”

The hunter timidly squinted to one side and saw a cart with brushwood and a group of peasants standing near it. He had been so carried away by the hunt that he had not even noticed anyone nearby.

“How dare you shoot?” Krzewecki asked, raising his voice. “So, this is your own forest? Or perhaps you think it’s past St. Peter’s Day? Who are you, anyway?”

“Pavel-the-Lame,” the peasant feebly replied. “From Kashilovka.”

“From Kashilovka! Damn it all, who gave you permission to shoot?” Krzewecki tried not to speak with the Polish inflection. “Hand over the gun!”

Pavel gave his gun to the Pole; he was thinking: “It would be better to get one in the snout than to be spoken to so curtly.”

“Hand over the cap, too.”

He gave him the cap.

“I’ll teach you to shoot! Damn it all! Come along.” Krzewecki turned his back on the peasant and marched after the squeaking cart. Pavel, feeling the game in his pocket, followed behind.

An hour later they entered a spacious, low-ceilinged room with faded blue walls. This was the landlord’s office. It was empty, but smelled strongly of life. In the middle of the room there was a large oak table on which were two or three ledgers, an inkstand, a sand glass, and a teapot with a broken spout. Everything was covered with a layer of gray dust. In one corner stood a large cupboard from which the paint had long since peeled; on it was a kerosene can and a bottle with some sort of mixture in it. In another corner there was a small ikon covered with cobwebs.

“A report of the case will have to be drawn up,” said Krzewecki. “I shall inform the master at once and send for the constable. Take off your boots.” Pavel sat down on the floor and silently, with trembling hands, pulled off his boots. “You won’t get away from me,” said the bailiff, yawning, “and if you do leave barefoot, it will be the worse for you. Sit here and wait till the constable comes.” The Pole locked the boots and gun in the cupboard and left the room.

When he had gone, the peasant began slowly scratching the back of his head; he kept it up for a long time, as if trying to solve the problem of where he was, all the while sighing and looking around apprehensively. The cupboard, the table, the ikon, and the broken teapot all seemed to look at him reproachfully, sadly. A multitude of flies buzzed overhead so mournfully it became unbearably distressing.

“B-z-z-z-z,” went the flies. “You got caught! You got caught!” A large wasp crawled across the windowpane. It wanted to fly out into the air, but the glass prevented it. It seemed to be tortured by its desire to get out. Pavel backed up to the door, took up his stand at the doorpost, dropped his arms to his sides and fell to musing.

An hour passed, then another, and still he stood at the doorpost, waiting and thinking. He squinted at the wasp and thought: “Why don’t it fly through the door, the fool?” Two more hours passed. All was quiet, silent, dead. He began to think they had forgotten him, and that he, like the wasp, which now and then fell from the windowpane, would not escape for a long time. By nightfall the insect would go to sleep, but what would become of him? “Just like with people,” he philosophized, looking at the wasp, “just like a person—there is a way it could get out, but it’s ignorant, it don’t know how.”

At last a door slammed somewhere. Hasty footsteps were heard, and in a moment a short, plump man, wearing wide trousers with suspenders, entered the office. He was without a jacket or vest; between his shoulder blades and across his chest were bands of sweat. This was the master, Pyotr Yegorych Volchkov, a retired lieutenant colonel. His fat red face and perspiring bald spot suggested he would have given a great deal if, in place of this heat, the January frosts were suddenly to set in. He was suffering from the sultriness as well as the heat, and it was apparent from his swollen, sleepy eyes that he had only just got up from a soft and stuffy feather bed.

He paced the length of the room several times, as if he had not noticed Pavel; then he stopped in front of the prisoner and stared intently into his face for some time. He stared with a contempt that at first showed only in his eyes, then spread by degrees across his fat face. Pavel could not bear that look and lowered his eyes. He was ashamed.

“Now, show me what you’ve killed,” whispered Volchkov. “Well, come on now, show it, you hero, you William Tell! Show it, you cretin!”

Pavel reached into his pocket and brought out the unfortunate starling; it had already lost its shape, was badly rumpled, and had begun to dry. Volchkov smiled scornfully and shrugged his shoulders. “Fool,” he said. “You simpleton! You blockhead! Isn’t that a sin? Aren’t you ashamed?”

“I am ashamed, master,” said the peasant, trying to control the swallowing movement that made it difficult for him to speak.

“Aside from the fact that—you robber, you Judas—you’re hunting in my woods without permission, you dare to go against the law! Don’t you know that the law forbids hunting out of season? The law says no one may hunt before St. Peter’s Day. You didn’t know this? Now, come here!” Volchkov went to the table and Pavel followed him. The landowner opened a book, leafed through it for some time, and then began to read in a high, drawling tenor, the statute prohibiting hunting before St. Peter’s Day.

“So, you didn’t know this?” he asked, when he had finished reading.

“Of course, we know it. We know it, Your Honor, but do we understand these things? Do we have such intelligence?”

“Ah? How does intelligence come into it if you senselessly destroy one of God’s creatures? Here you’ve killed this little bird. Why did you kill it? Can you resurrect it? Can you, I ask you?”

“I cannot, master.”

“But you did kill it. And what you have to gain from it I don’t understand. A starling! It is neither meat nor feathers. So you killed it just like that, stupidly.” Volchkov narrowed his eyes and began to straighten the starling’s broken leg. The leg came off and fell onto the peasant’s bare foot. “Damn you, you greedy beast!” Volchkov went on. “You did this out of greed. You saw the little bird and it annoyed you that she was flying free, glorifying the Lord. ‘Here,’ you said to yourself, ‘let me kill it and devour it.’ Human greed!—I can’t look at you! And don’t look at me with those eyes. You cross-eyed good-for-nothing! You killed her, and she may have little ones. They may be peeping even now.” Volchkov made a tearful face and placed his hand close to the ground to indicate how small the birds would be.

“I didn’t do it from greed, Pyotr Yegorych. If I have a sin on my soul, it is not greed or profit, Pyotr Yegorych. The devil tempted me—-”

“You, tempted by the devil? Why, you could tempt the devil yourself! All you Kashilovka fellows are thieves.” Volchkov noisily blew out a stream of air, took a deep breath, and continued in a low voice. “What am I to do with you, eh? Considering how stupid you are, I should let you go; but considering your action and your impudence, I should give it to you. I should, without fail! I’ve coddled you fellows enough. E-nough! I’ve sent for the constable; we’ll draw up a report; I’ve sent for him! The evidence is at hand. You have only yourself to blame. It’s not I who am punishing you—your sins punish you. You know how to sin, so you’ll know how to bear the punishment. O-o-h, Lord, forgive us sinners! Those Kashilovka fellows … Well, and how are your spring crops?”

“All right, by the grace of God!”

“Why do you keep blinking?”

Pavel coughed into his fist with embarrassment and adjusted his belt.

“Why are you blinking?” repeated Volchkov. “You killed the starling yourself, so why are you crying?”

“Your Honor,” said Pavel, in a jarring falsetto, and loudly, as if gathering his strength, “you, in your kindness, are offended because I, let us say, killed the little bird. You scold me, not because you are the master, but because your feelings are hurt—because you’re so kind. And do you think my feelings aren’t hurt? I’m a stupid man, without any understanding, but even I have feelings. May the Lord strike me——”

“Why did you shoot it if you have feelings?”

“The devil tempted me. Let me tell you, Pyotr Yegorych, sir. I’ll tell you the whole truth, as before God! Let the constable come—it’s my sin, and I’ll answer for it before God and the judge. And to you I’ll tell the whole truth, like at confession. Please—permit me, Your Honor!”

“What do you mean, ‘permit you’? Whether I permit you or not, you won’t say anything intelligent. What’s it to me? It isn’t I who am going to make out the report. Go ahead, talk! Why remain silent? Speak, William Tell!”

Pavel passed his sleeve over his trembling lips; his eyes grew even smaller and more crossed. “I don’t get anything out of this starling,” he said. “Even if there were a thousand of them, what good are they? You can’t sell them, you can’t eat them. They are nothing. You understand——”

“No, don’t say that—here you are a hunter and you don’t know—a starling, if roasted with a buckwheat gruel, is quite a morsel—or with a sauce—it’s just like hazel hen. Almost the same taste.” Then regretting the tone he had taken, he frowned and added, “You’ll find out now what sort of taste it has—you’ll see!”

“Taste means nothing to me, as long as there’s bread, Pyotr Yegorych, you know that. But I killed the starling because I just couldn’t help it. I had to.”

“What do you mean?”

“God only knows! Please let me explain. It began to torment me right from the start of Holy Week, this feeling. Let me explain, sir. I went out that morning, after matins, after the Easter cakes were blessed. There I was on my way, with the women walking ahead and me behind them, I walked and walked, then I stopped by the dam. I stood there looking at God’s world, seeing how everything happens in it, how every creature and every little blade of grass, you might say, knows its place. The day breaks, and the sun rises—I see all this—and there is joy in my heart. I look at the birds, Pyotr Yegorych, and all of a sudden my heart thumps!”

“Why was that?”

“Because I saw the birds. Right off the thought came into my head. It would be good, I thought, to do some shooting, but, worse luck, the law doesn’t allow it! And just then two ducks flew across the sky and a woodcock cried out somewhere beyond the river. I had a fierce craving to hunt! With this in mind I went home. I broke fast with the women, but the birds were there before my eyes! There I was eating, but the noise of the forest was in my ears, and the bird cries—‘cheep! cheep!’ Oh, Lord! I was dying to hunt, and that’s all. And when I had some vodka with the Easter cakes, I was plumb crazy. I started hearing voices! I heard a kind of thin, as it were, angelic voice ringing in my ears and saying: ‘Go on, Pashka, shoot!’ It’s as if I was under a spell! I can only suppose, Your Excellency, Pyotr Yegorych, that this was the devil’s doing, and no one else’s. And such a sweet, thin voice, like a baby’s! From that morning on I was taken with this craving. I sat around outside, in a daze, my hands hanging, and I thought. I thought and I thought. And all the time your departed brother was in my mind, that is Sergei Yegorych, may he rest in peace. I remember how I used to go hunting with him. His Honor thought that as a hunter I was the best. He thought it was touching and amusing—me, cross-eyed, and a crack shot. He wanted to take me to a doctor in town to show him how skillful I was in spite of my trouble. It was wonderful and touching, Pyotr Yegorych. We used to go out at the crack of dawn, call the dogs, Kara and Ledka, and… a-a-h … twenty miles a day we’d cover! But what can I say? Pyotr Yegorych, I tell you honestly, that, excepting your brother, there is not, and there never was in this whole world, a real man! Cruel he was, harsh and quarrelsome, but as a hunter—nobody could stand up to him. His Excellency, Count Tierborg, tried and tried to outdo him with his hounds, but he went to his death envying him. How could he do it? He wasn’t built for it. And he didn’t have the gun your brother had, a double-barreled one, you know, from Marseilles, made by Lepelier and Company. At two hundred feet—a duck! No joke!” Pavel quickly wiped his lips, blinked, and went on: “I got this craving from him. When there’s no shooting, I’m miserable, I can’t breathe.”

“Foolishness!”

“No, sir, Pyotr Yegorych! All Easter Week I went around like a madman—I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t drink! During St. Thomas’s Week I cleaned my gun and mended it, then I felt a little better. But soon after that again I felt sick. I was drawn—pulled to it. I nearly burst! I tried vodka, but it didn’t help, it made it worse. It isn’t foolishness. After the blessing of the waters I got drunk. Next day it was worse than ever—as if I were being pulled out of the house. Pulled! A mighty thing! I took my gun and went to the vegetable garden. I started shooting blackbirds. I shot about ten, but I didn’t feel any better. I was drawn to the forest, to the marsh. The old woman began scolding. ‘How can you shoot a blackbird? That’s not a noble bird. It’s a sin before the Lord! The crops will fail if you kill a blackbird.’… Pyotr Yegorych, I took and smashed my gun. The hell with it! I felt better.”

“Foolishness.”

“No, sir! I tell you true, it isn’t, Pyotr Yegorych! Let me explain it to you. Last night I woke up and I lay there thinking and thinking. My old woman was sleeping, and I had no one to say a word to. Could I fix my gun now or couldn’t I? I thought. I got up and set to mending it.”

“Well?”

“Well. … I mended it and ran out with it like a madman.

And now I got caught. Serves me right. You ought to take this same bird and give me one across the snout—to teach me a lesson.”

“The constable is coming right away. Go into the entry.”

“I’m going, sir…. I even owned up to it at confession. Father Pyotr, too, said it was foolishness, but, according to my stupid way of thinking, as I understand this thing, it’s not foolishness, it’s a sickness—just like drinking. Same thing. You don’t want to, but you can’t help it. You would be happy not to—you make a vow before the ikon—but it forces you: ‘Drink! Drink!’ … I used to drink, I know.”

Volchkov’s red nose turned purple. “Drinking is another matter,” he said.

“The same, sir. May God strike me! I tell you true!” A silence fell; they stood looking at each other. Volchkov’s nose turned dark blue. “In a word, sir, drinking—as you are so kind, you understand what a weakness it is——”

The lieutenant colonel did understand—not from kindness, but from experience. “Off with you,” he said to the peasant. Pavel was puzzled. “And don’t get underfoot again.”

“My boots, if you please, sir.” The little peasant understood now, and was beaming.

“Where are they?”

“In the cupboard, sir.”

He got his boots, cap, and gun, and went out of the office with a light heart. He cocked an eye at the dark clouds overhead. The wind played over the grass and the trees; the first spatter of rain was tapping on the hot roof; the heavy air grew lighter.

Volchkov pushed open the window; Pavel turned at the sound and saw the wasp fly out. Air! Pavel and the wasp celebrated their freedom.

—1883