The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

Panpipes

Exhausted by the stifling air in the fir plantation and covered in cobwebs and fir-needles, Meliton Shishkin, the bailiff from Dementyev’s farm, was wearily making his way, rifle in hand, to the edge of the wood. His dog, Lady, a cross between mongrel and setter, unusually thin and heavy with young, her wet tail between her legs, was plodding behind her master and trying her hardest not to get her nose pricked. The morning was dreary and overcast. A heavy spray fell from the trees that were thinly veiled in mist, and from the bracken, and the damp wood gave off a sharp odour of decay.

Ahead, where the plantation ended, stood silver birches and between their trunks and branches the misty horizon was visible. Beyond the birches someone was playing a rustic shepherd’s pipe. The player produced no more than five or six notes, lazily dragging them out with no attempt at a tune – and yet in that shrill piping there was something utterly joyless and mournful.

When the plantation thinned out and small firs mingled with young birches, Meliton caught sight of the herd. Hobbled horses, cows and sheep wandered among the bushes, making the twigs crackle underfoot as they sniffed the grass in the wood. At the edge of the wood, leaning against a wet birch tree, stood an old shepherd, gaunt, bareheaded and wearing a coarse tattered smock. Deep in thought, he was gazing at the ground and to all appearances was playing his pipe quite mechanically.

‘Good morning, gaffer! God be with you,’ Meliton greeted him in a thin, hoarse voice which did not in the least match his enormous stature and large fleshy face. ‘You’re pretty good on those pipes, aren’t you! Whose herd are you minding?’

‘The Artamonovs,’ the shepherd replied grudgingly and tucked the pipes away in the bosom of his smock.

‘Then this wood belongs to the Artamonovs, too?’ Meliton asked, looking around. ‘Well, how about that – so it does! I almost got lost… Scratched my face all over on those brambles, I did.’

He sat down on the damp earth and started rolling a cigarette from a scrap of newspaper.

Like his thin reedy voice everything about this man was small – his smile, his tiny eyes, his little buttons and his cap perilously perched on his greasy, close-cropped head – and clashed with his height, his girth and his fleshy face. When he spoke and smiled there was something womanish, timid, submissive about his smooth-shaven podgy face and his whole appearance.

‘Lord save us – what weather!’ he said, rolling his head. ‘They haven’t got the oats in yet and this darned rain seems to have hired itself out for the autumn!’

The shepherd looked up at the drizzling sky, the wood and the bailiff’s sodden clothes, thought for a moment and didn’t reply.

‘It’s been like it all summer,’ Meliton sighed. ‘Bad for the peasants – and no joy for the masters either!’

Again the shepherd looked up at the sky, pondered and then said, slowly and deliberately, as if chewing every word, ‘Everything’s going one way… we must expect the worst.’

‘And how are things here?’ Meliton asked, lighting his cigarette. ‘Seen any coveys of grouse on Artamonov Heath?’

The shepherd did not answer immediately. Again he glanced at the sky and to both sides, reflected for a moment and blinked. Evidently he attached no small importance to his words and to reinforce them tried to stretch them out with a certain degree of solemnity. His face displayed all the angularity and gravity of old age, and the saddle-shaped furrow running across it and his upwardly curling nostrils gave it a cunning, mocking look.

‘No, can’t say that I ’ave,’ he replied. ‘Yeryomka, our gamekeeper, said he sent up a covey on Elijah’s Day¹ near Pustoshye, but I dare say he was lying. Ain’t many birds about…’

‘No, my friend, not many at all… it’s the same everywhere! If you look at it practically the hunting’s woeful, pitiful. There’s just no game at all and what there is isn’t worth soiling your hands for – it’s not even fully-grown! So tiny it makes you feel real sorry.’

Meliton grinned and waved dismissively. ‘What’s happening in the world’s enough to make you laugh – and that’s all! Birds are so daft nowadays they sit on their eggs late and there’s some that aren’t off them come St Peter’s Day. Oh yes!’

‘Everything’s heading the same way,’ said the shepherd, raising his head. ‘Last year there weren’t much game and this year there’s even less. You mark my words – in another five years there won’t be any at all. As I see it, ’fore long there won’t be birds of any kind left – let alone game-birds.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Meliton after pausing for thought. ‘That’s true.’

The shepherd laughed bitterly and shook his head.

‘I’m just flabbergasted!’ he exclaimed. ‘What’s become of ’em all? Twenty years ago, as I remember, there were geese here, cranes, ducks and black grouse – the place was swarming with ’em! The gents used to go out shooting and all you’d hear was bang-bang, bang-bang! There was no end of woodcock, snipe and curlews, and little teal and pipers was as common as starlings or sparrows, let’s say – just swarms of ’em! And where have they all gone? Nowadays you don’t even see birds of prey. Eagles, falcons, eagle-owls – all wiped out! There’s not many beasts of any kind left. These days, my friend, you can count yourself lucky if you see a wolf or a fox, let alone a bear or a mink. Time was when there were even elk! For forty years I’ve been keeping an eye on God’s works – year in year out – and as I see it everything’s heading one way.’

‘What way?’

‘Towards what’s bad, my lad. Towards ruination, it seems. The time’s come for God’s world to perish.’

The old man put on his cap and began to gaze at the sky.

‘It’s a real shame!’ he sighed after a short silence. ‘Lord, what a crying shame! Of course, it’s all God’s will – it wasn’t us who made the world. All the same, my friend, it’s a terrible shame. If a single tree withers away or, let’s say, one of your cows dies, you feel sorry. So what will it be like, my friend, if the whole world goes to wrack and ruin? There is so much that’s good, Lord Jesus Christ! The sun, the sky, the woods, the rivers, living creatures – they’ve all been created and fashioned so they fit in with each other. Everything has its allotted task and knows its place. And all this must perish!’

A sad smile passed over the shepherd’s face and his eyelids trembled.

‘You say that the world’s heading for ruin,’ Meliton said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe the world will end soon, but you can hardly take just birds as a sign.’

‘It’s not only birds,’ said the shepherd. ‘It’s beasts as well – cattle, bees and fish… If you don’t believe me ask any old man. Every one of them’ll tell you that fish ain’t anything like what they used to be. Every year there’s less and less fish in the seas, lakes and rivers. Here in the Peschanka, as I remember, you could catch two-foot pike and there was burbot and ide and bream – all goodly-sized fish. But now you can thank your lucky stars if you catch a small pike or a six-inch perch. There’s not even decent ruff. Every year it gets worse and worse and soon there won’t be any fish at all! As for the rivers – they’ll dry up, most likely!’

‘You’re right – that they will!’

‘That’s it! Every year they get shallower and shallower, there’s no longer those nice deep pools there used to be, me friend. See those bushes over there?’ asked the old man, pointing to one side. ‘Behind them there’s an old river-bed – “the backwater” it’s called. In my father’s day that’s where the Peschanka flowed, but now look where the devil’s taken it! It keeps changing course and you see, it’ll keep changing course till it dries up altogether. Other side of Kurgasov there used to be marshes and ponds, but where are they now? And what became of all them little streams? In this very wood there used to be a stream with so much water in it the peasants only had to dip their creels in to catch pike, and wild duck used to winter there. But even at spring flood there’s no decent water in it now. Yes, me friend, things are bad everywhere you look. Everywhere!’

There was silence. Lost in thought, Meliton stared before him. He wanted to think of a single part of nature as yet untouched by the all-embracing ruin. Bright patches of light glided over the mist and the slanting sheets of rain as if over frosted glass, only to vanish immediately – the rising sun was trying to break through the clouds and glimpse the earth.

‘Yes – and the forests too,’ Meliton muttered.

‘And the forests too,’ repeated the shepherd. ‘They’re being cut down, they catch fire or dry up and there’s no new growth. What does grow is felled right away. One day it comes up and the next it’s chopped down and so it goes on till there’s nothing left. Ever since we got our freedom,² me friend, I’ve been minding the village herd and before that I was one of squire’s shepherds too – grazed this very spot – and I can’t remember one summer’s day when I wasn’t here. And all the time I keep watching God’s works. I’ve been able to keep a close watch on things in me lifetime and as I sees it now all kinds of plants are dying out, whether it’s rye, vegetables, flowers – everything’s heading one way…’

‘But people are better now,’ observed the bailiff.

‘How are they better?’

‘They’re cleverer.’

‘Cleverer they may be, my lad, but what good is that? What use is being clever to those that’s on the brink of ruin? You don’t need any brains to perish! What use is brains to a huntsman if there’s no game about? As I reckon, God’s given folk brains, but he’s taken their strength away. Folk have become feeble, mighty feeble. Take me, for example. I know I’m not worth a brass farthing, I’m the lowliest peasant in the whole village, but I still have me strength, lad. As you can see, I’m in me sixties, but I still mind the herd, come rain or shine. And at night I keep watch over the horses for a couple of copecks and I don’t fall asleep or suffer from the cold. My son’s cleverer than me, but just put him in my place and next day he’ll be asking for a rise or he’ll be off to the doctor’s. Oh yes! I don’t need nothing but bread – “give us our daily bread” as it is written. And me father ate nothing but bread – and me grandpa, too. But these days your peasant wants his tea and vodka and fancy white rolls. He needs to sleep from dusk to dawn, keeps going to the doctor’s – pampers himself silly, he does. And why? Because he’s grown feeble, he’s got no backbone. He’d rather not sleep, but his eyes start to close – and there’s nothing he can do about it.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Meliton. ‘These days peasants are a useless bunch.’

‘There’s no escaping the fact, we get worse every year. Just consider the gentry, they’re even feebler than the peasants now. These days gents might think they know everything, but they know things they don’t need to know – and where’s the sense in that? Fair breaks your heart to look at them… all skinny and weedy, like some Magyar or Frenchie. No class, no dignity – they’re only gents by name. The poor devils’ve got no place in society, no work to do and you can never make out what they really want. Either they sit with their rod catching fish or they lie belly up reading a book. Or they’re knocking around with the peasants and telling them all sorts of things. And there’s those what’s hungry and get jobs as clerks. And so they fritter their time away and it never enters their heads to try and get down to some real work. Time was when half the gentry were generals, but nowadays they’re sheer trash!’

‘They’re very much poorer now,’ said Meliton.

‘They’re poorer because God’s taken their strength away. You can’t go against God.’

Meliton stared fixedly at one point again. After a pause for thought he sighed the way steady, sober-minded people sigh and shook his head.

‘And what’s the reason for all this?’ he said. ‘It’s because we sin so much, we’ve forgotten God and so the time is near when everything will come to an end. Honestly, you can’t expect the world to last for ever. It mustn’t outstay its welcome!’

The shepherd sighed and as if wishing to end that painful conversation he walked away from the birch and started counting the cattle in silence.

‘Hey-hey-hey!’ he shouted, ‘where d’ye think you’re all going, damn you! The devil himself’s driven them into the firs! Halloo-loo-loo!’

He glared angrily and went over to the bushes to round up the herd. Meliton rose and strolled quietly along the edge of the wood. He gazed at the ground beneath his feet and thought: he was still trying to remember at least one thing as yet untouched by death. Again, bright patches crept over the slanting belts of rain; they leapt into the tree tops and faded away in the wet foliage. Lady found a hedgehog under a bush and tried to attract her master’s attention by howling and barking.

‘You had an eclipse,³ didn’t you?’ the shepherd cried out from behind the bushes.

‘Yes, we did!’ replied Meliton.

‘I thought so. Everywhere folk are going on about it. It means, me friend, that there’s disorder in heaven too. It didn’t happen for nothing… Hey-hey-hey!’

After driving his herd out of the wood the shepherd leant against a birch, glanced at the sky and idly drew his pipe from his smock. As before he played mechanically, producing no more than five or six notes. The sounds that flew forth were hesitant, disjointed, wild and tuneless, as if he were holding the pipes for the very first time. But to Meliton, who was contemplating the world’s impending ruin, there was something deeply mournful and heart-rending in his playing, something that he would have preferred not to hear. The highest, shrillest notes which trembled and broke off abruptly seemed to be weeping inconsolably, as though the pipe was sick and frightened, while the lowest notes somehow evoked the mist, the dejected trees and the grey skies. Such music harmonized with the weather, the old man and what he had been saying.

Meliton felt an urge to complain. He went up to the old man, looked at his sad, mocking face and muttered, ‘And life’s got worse, old man. It’s more than flesh and blood can stand, what with bad harvests, poverty, cattle plagues the whole time, illness. We’re racked by poverty, we are.’

The bailiff’s podgy face turned crimson and took on a doleful, womanish expression. He twiddled his fingers as if looking for words to convey his vague feelings.

‘I’ve eight children,’ he continued, ‘and a wife… my mother is still alive and all they pay me is ten roubles a month without lodging. The poverty’s turned my wife into a real bitch and I’m on the bottle. In actual fact, I’m a sober-minded, steady sort of chap, I’ve had some education. I’d like to be sitting peacefully at home but all day long I keep wandering around with my gun, just like a dog, because I can’t stand it there. I hate my own home!’

Aware that his tongue was muttering the complete opposite of what he intended the bailiff waved his arm and continued bitterly, ‘If the world’s doomed to perish, the sooner the better! No point in dragging things out and letting people suffer for nothing!’

The old shepherd took the pipe from his lips, screwed up one eye and peered down the small mouthpiece. His face was sad and covered with large, tear-like splashes. He smiled and said, ‘It’s a pity, my friend. God, a real pity! The earth, forests, sky, animals – all these have been fashioned and fitted for some purpose, there’s a reason behind everything. But it’ll all come to nothing. It’s folk I feel most sorry for.’

Suddenly a heavy squall rustled through the wood as it approached the edge. Meliton looked towards where the noise was coming from and buttoned his coat right up.

‘I must get back to the village,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, old friend… what’s your name?’

‘Poor Luke.’

‘Well, goodbye Luke. It’s been nice talking to you. Lady, ici!’

When he had taken leave of the shepherd, Meliton trudged along the edge of the wood and then down to a meadow which gradually turned into a marsh. Water squelched underfoot and the reddish heads of sedge (its stems were still green and lush) bowed towards the earth as if afraid of being trampled. Beyond the marsh, on the banks of the Peschanka, about which the old shepherd had just been talking, stood willows, and beyond them, showing blue in the mist, could be seen the squire’s threshing-barn. One sensed the proximity of that bleak time which nothing can avert, when the fields darken, when the earth grows muddy and cold, when the weeping willow seems sadder than ever and tears trickle down her trunk, when the cranes alone are able to flee universal disaster. And even they, as if afraid of offending despondent nature by voicing their joy, fill the skies with their mournful, plaintive song.

Meliton wandered towards the river and heard the sounds of the pipe gradually dying away behind him. He still felt the urge to complain. Sadly he looked on both sides and he felt unbearably sorry for the sky, the earth, the sun, the moon, the woods, his Lady; and when the pipe’s highest note suddenly shrilled and hung in the air, trembling like the voice of someone weeping, he felt extraordinarily bitter and resentful at the disorder that was apparent in nature.

The top note quivered, broke off – and the panpipes were silent.