Peasant Tales of RussiaNemirovich-Danchenko, Vasilii Ivanovich
General
Peasant Tales of Russia
Nemirovich-Danchenko, Vasilii Ivanovich
Tales -- Russia
When the fugitive was tired, he could find a shelter anywhere. He would
fling himself down where he liked, cross his hands under his head, and
look up at the sky till his eyes closed of themselves. The wounds on his
legs caused by the iron fetters began to heal; no one who met him would
have guessed who he was. But the primeval forest seemed quite deserted;
no tree bore the mark of an axe, and none had been felled. Here a black
scorched pine-tree had been blasted by the lightning; there a
half-decayed one, whose top was entangled in its neighbour's branches,
had collapsed from sheer old age. This solitude had been profaned by no
one's foot; here was real freedom.
Only now and then he encountered wild animals. Once a bear came within
gun-shot, but the old man spared his life. "You have nothing to give me
now," he thought. "Your skin is no use in summer. Come again in winter."
And he shouted at the animal in such a terrible voice, that it trotted
off with its tail drawn in.
Sometimes he heard the howling of the wolves in the distance; in the
deep silence it sounded weird and terrifying. It filled the old man with
a strange feeling, not fear, but in his innermost being something seemed
to howl and moan in sympathy with the beasts of prey. Was he not indeed
like a wolf among men? Cowering by the fires he made, he would gaze for
hours into the red glowing embers. The flames roared and strained
towards the dark sky as though they would make themselves free; the
fresh brushwood crackled and emitted clouds of blue whirling smoke;
the birch-trunk over which the sparks danced, contracted itself as
though in a spasm, till it finally flared up in a sheet of fire, and the
solitary man felt ever more painfully conscious that he too was every
one's enemy, and was only tolerated in this wilderness like those
creatures whose howling so strangely thrilled his heart. The darkness
which seemed to press from all sides on the fire looked between the grey
pine-trunks on the gloomy face of the convict, and listened to his
moody murmuring.
IV
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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