Translated by Mrs. Alice Delano
This is the dream of poor Makár, who drove his calves to faraway and dreary tracts, that same Makár doomed, as all the world knows, to every sort of misfortune.
His home, in the remote hamlet of Tchalágan, is well nigh lost in the distant Yakút forests. Makár’s ancestors had conquered from the forests a bit of frozen ground, and although the gloomy woods still surrounded it as with a hostile wall, they were contented. They divided the lot thus cleared by rail fences; hay-ricks both great and small, and smoky yurts† made their appearance, and at last from the hillock, in the midst of the hamlet, like the standard of a conqueror, a lofty birch shot upward to the sky. Tchalágan had become a large settlement.
But while Makár’s sires and grandsires were burning and felling in their struggle with the forest, they were gradually growing less civilized themselves. As they married Yakút women, and adopted the Yakút language and customs, the characteristic traits of the great Russian nationality became obliterated and finally disappeared.
In spite of that, however, Makár never forgot that he was a native Tchalágan peasant. There he had been born, there he lived, and there he intended to die. He was very proud of his origin, and was sometimes heard to talk about the “filthy Yakút,” although it can not be denied that the difference between the latter and himself either in personal habits or mode of life was not evident. He seldom spoke Russian and that very poorly; the skin of beasts served him for garments, and on his feet he wore torbás;‡ his daily food consisted of a griddle-cake and “brick tea,”§ and during the holidays or other gala days he would eat the exact quantity of melted butter that was placed before him on the table. He was neither a skillful rider of oxen, and whenever he chanced to fall ill he called the “shaman,”|| who in a frenzy and with gnashing of teeth would rush toward Makár as if he meant to expel his disease by fright.
He worked hard, fared ill, suffered hunger and cold. Had he an idea beyond his constant anxiety about the griddle-cakes and tea? Yes, he had.
When he was tipsy, he would weep. “What a wretched lot, O Lord!” he would exclaim. And then he would sometimes add that he wished he could give up everything and go “on the hill.” Then there would be no plowing nor sowing, no chopping nor hauling of wood, he need not even grind the grain in a hand-mill. He would have nothing to attend to but the salvation of his soul. He was not sure about this hill, what it was, or where it was; he only knew that there was such a hill, and that it was far away, so far that even the Toyón Isprávnik¶ himself could not catch him there. . . .
And of course he would have no taxes to pay. . . . When sober he ran away those thoughts, realizing, perhaps, the impossibility of finding that wonderful hill; but when drunk he grew bolder. When he thought the matter over, he admitted to himself the danger of chancing on the wrong hill in case he failed to find the right one. “Then I shall be lost,” he said, but still he went on making plans for his journey, and if he failed to carry them out, it was probably due to the fact that the Tartar settlers always sold him poor vodka that had been steeped in tobacco to increase its strength, which not only weakened him but often made him ill.
It was Christmas Eve, and Makár knew that to-morrow would be a grand holiday. This made him long to have a drink, but he lacked the wherewithal to obtain it; his bread was nearly out and Makár was already in debt to the local merchants and Tartars. Still it would be a great holiday to-morrow, no work could be done. . . . what could he do if he had no chance to get tipsy? The thought was extremely depressing. What a life was his! Not to be able to drink a bottle of vodka on the great winter feast.
A happy thought occurred to him. He rose and dressed himself in his ragged sobá, His wife, a remarkably strong and muscular woman, as ugly as she was powerful, and who could read his simple thoughts without trouble, at once divined his intention.
“Where are you bound, you fiend? You have it in your mind to get some more vodka.”
“Hush! I am going to buy one bottle. We will drink it together to-morrow!”
He winked at her and let his hand fall on her shoulder. Such is the heart of woman! She knew perfectly well that Makár would deceive her, and yet she succumbed to the charm of the conjugal caress.
He went out to the inclosure, caught his old roan, brought him home by the mane, and began to harness him into the sledge. In a few minutes the roan had carried his master beyond the gate. There he stopped, and turning his head looked askance at Makár, who seemed lost in his thoughts. Then Makár pulled the left rein and drove to the end of the village.
On its very outskirts stood a small yurt, from whose fire-place, as from all the others, an undulating volume of smoke rose high in the air, veiling the cold stars and the bright moon. The fire flashed cheerfully through the transparent ice of the windows. It was perfectly still in the yard. Here lived strange people from foreign parts. How they came there, what unlucky chance had cast them upon these distant wilds, Makár neither knew nor cared to know, but he liked to deal with them, because they did not try to get the better of him, and were not anxious about their pay.
On entering the yurt, Makár went straight to the fireplace, and put his cold hands toward the fire.
“Tchá!” he said, by way of expressing his sense of the cold.
The strangers were at home. A lighted candle stood on the table, although they were not working. One of them was lying on the bed puffing rings of smoke, and watching them, musingly, as if they were interwoven with his own thoughts.
The other man sat opposite the hearth; he too gazed thoughtfully at the flames as they ran along the charred wood.
“How do you do!” said Makár, as to interrupt the oppressive silence.
He knew nothing of the sorrow that might be weighing upon the hearts of these strangers, of the memories that came crowding in their minds that evening.
“Ah, how do you do, Makár! Glad to see you. Will you have some tea with us?”
The invitation pleased him.
“Tea? That will be good!”
He began to undress with alacrity. After taking off his sobá and hat he felt more at ease, and when he saw the hot coals glowing in the samovar he grew quite affectionate toward the young man.
“I love you, I do! . . . So much, so much! I don’t sleep nights.”
The young man turned and a bitter smile appeared on his face.
“Ah, you love me?” he asked. “What do you want then?”
Makár became confused.
“Yes, I have business,” he replied. “But how did you know? Well, after I drink my tea I will tell you.”
As the tea had been offered by the hosts Makár thought proper to ask:
“Have you any roast meat? I like that.”
“No.”
“Well, never mind,” said he in a reassuring tone, “some other time will do. You will have it some other time?”
“Very well.”
Now Makár considered this an acknowledgment that the strangers owed him a slice of roast meat, and a debt of this description he never forgot.
An hour later he was again in his sledge. He had succeeded in getting a whole rouble in advance, having sold five loads of wood on comparatively easy terms. Although he had sworn by all that was holy that he would not spend the money in liquor that day, he secretly meant to do it. But what of that? The pleasure in store for him deadened the voice of conscience. He gave no thought to the severe beating that he would have to take from his deceived and faithful spouse if he got drunk.
The knowing horse, with a reproachful switch of his tail slowly turned in the required direction, and soon the creaking runners stopped at the Tartar’s gate.
Several horses wearing the big Yakút saddles stood fastened there.
Within the narrow hut the atmosphere was stifling with the fumes of the strong cheap tobacco, which the fireplace was slowly absorbing. The Yakút guests sat on benches in front of cups filled with vodka. In one corner a drunken Yakút sat rocking himself to and fro on the straw, crooning an endless song which reiterated the fact that to-morrow would be the holiday and that he was tipsy to-day.
Makár put down his money and received the bottle. He hid it in his bosom and withdrew into a dark corner, without attracting the notice of the others. There pouring out cup after cup, he swallowed their contents in rapid succession. The vodka was bitter and more than a third part water, being diluted for the occasion of the holiday. At every swallow Makár gasped and red circles swam before his eyes.
Presently he became quite drunk. He too let himself fall on the straw, and clasping his knees with his hands, rested his heavy head upon them. He sang of the holiday and of his spending in liquor five loads of wood.
Meanwhile the hut grew more and more crowded. New Yakút guests entered, who had come to say their prayers and to drink the Tartar vodka. The landlord remarked that there would not be room for many more. He rose from the table, and as with one sweeping glance he reviewed the entire assembly, he caught sight in the dark corner of Makár and his other guest.
He approached the Yakút and taking him by the collar threw him out of the hut. Then he went up to Makár. The latter being a local settler was treated with greater respect.
Opening wide his door, he gave the poor man a kick that hurled him from the hut into a snow bank.
It would have been difficult to discover whether he realized that he had been insulted. Extricating himself from the snow bank as best he could, he started for home.
The moon was now quite high. The constellation of the Great Bear had already begun to droop its tail. The frost was increasing. Softly flashing against a darker semicircular cloud in the north, rose from time to time the fiery columns of the Aurora Borealis.
The roan, who evidently realized the condition of his master, started with prudent intelligence for his home. Makár sat on the sledge, rocking from side to side and continuing to sing. He sang of squandering five loads of wood and of the beating his wife would give him. The sounds that came from his throat wailed so pitifully and mournfully through the air, that a stranger who had chanced at that moment to climb to the top of his hill to get a better view of the chimney of the fireplace felt still sadder as he heard Makár’s song. In the meantime the roan had dragged the sledge up to the hillock, which commanded a view of the surrounding country. The yurt glistened brightly, bathed in the moonlight. At times the light seemed to melt, as it were, the snow took on a darker hue, and the flashing Aurora was for the moment lost from it. Then one might fancy that the snow-covered hills overgrown with forests alternately approached and receded. On the edge of the forest Makár could plainly see the snowy baldness of Yamalách hill, on the other side of which he had set traps in the woods for beasts and birds.
This changed the current of his thoughts. He began to sing of a fox caught in his trap. To-morrow he will sell the skin, and then the old woman will spare him.
The first stroke of the bell was echoing through the frosty air when Makár entered the hut. He at once informed the old woman that there was a fox caught in the trap, quite forgetting that she had not been indulging in vodka, and was taken by surprise when she began pounding him.
He fell flat upon his bed. His head burned. His stomach seemed on fire. The strong infusion of liquor steeped on tobacco was coursing through his veins. Cold drops of melting snow trickled down his face.
The old woman thought that he was asleep. But he was not asleep. He could not get that fox out of his mind. He was sure that it had been caught in the trap; he even knew which trap it was. He could see the animal, held fast by the heavy log, pawing the snow with its claws in its efforts to escape. The moonbeams darting through the thicket played on its golden colored fur. He saw its eyes sparkle. He could endure it no longer, and rising from his bed, he was on the point of getting his faithful roan and starting for the woods.
But what was this? Could it be the vigorous hand of the old woman seizing him by the collar of his fur coat and throwing him back on the bed?
No, it could not be, for he was already beyond the village. The runners creaked monotonously over the firm snow. He had left the village behind him. He could see the triumphant ringing of the church bells. Standing out against the dark horizon that intersected the shining sky, he could see the faint outlines of the Yakút horsemen hastening to church.
Meanwhile the moon had set, and to the zenith rose a white cloud shining with a phosphorescent light. All at once it seemed to burst and spread in all directions in innumerable rays of flame, while the semicircular cloud on the north grew darker and darker, until it became quite black, blacker than the forest to which Makár was making his way.
The road wound between thick clumps of bushes. Low hills rose to right and to left. The further he went, the taller grew the trees and the denser the forest. It was silent and mysterious. The naked branches of the larch trees were covered with silvery sheen. The soft glimmer of the Aurora, stealing through their tops, flashed to and fro, now revealing a snowy glade, and again the prostrate bodies of the giants of the forest as they lay there besprinkled with snow. . . . The next moment all was lost in the silent and mysterious darkness.
Makár paused. This was the spot where a system of traps began that reached nearly to the road. By the aid of the phosphorescent light he could distinctly see the low fence of fallen trees, and even caught sight of the first trap: three long heavy logs propped by an inclined stick and supported by a cunning arrangement of levers with hair ropes.
These traps were not his, to be sure; but the fox might possibly have been caught in another man’s traps. Makár hastily jumped off his sledge, leaving the wise roan in the road, stood still and listened.
Not a sound to be heard in the woods. Only from the distant settlement, now lost to sight, still came the festive ringing.
He had nothing to fear. At this moment the owner of the traps, Alyóshka Chalgánov, Makár’s neighbor and sworn enemy, was sure to be in church. No footprints were visible on the smooth surface of the snow.
He plunged into the thicket. No sound but the snow creaking under his feet. Side by side stood the traps like a row of cannon, their mouths gaping wide expectantly.
Hark! A slight rustling close beside him. He caught the sudden flash of red fur in an open glade among the trees. Makár distinctly saw the sharp ears of the fox, with its bushy tail waving to and fro, as though enticing him into the thicket. He followed between the trunks of the trees in the direction of Makár’s traps, and soon after a dull but heavy thud echoed through the forest.
Makár’s heart beat fast. A log had fallen. He rushed toward it, pushing his way through the thicket. The cold branches struck him on the face, covering his face with snow. He stumbled and panted for breath. Now he had reached the clearing where he himself had made. On both sides rose the trees whitening with the hoarfrost, and beneath them, growing narrower and narrower, could be seen the winding path, at the end of which was the mouth of the large trap. . . . Suddenly on the path, close to the trap, a white form glimmered for an instant and vanished. Makár recognized Alyóshka Chalgánov, his small, thick-set figure lurching along with the gait of a bear, was not to be mistaken. It seemed to Makár, that Alyóshka’s dark face, had grown still darker, and his big teeth grinned even more than usual.
Makár felt thoroughly indignant. “The rascal! . . . He rummages in my traps.” It is needless to remark that Makár himself had just been inspecting those of Alyóshka, but this was a very different matter.
There was the fallen log, and under it he could see the red fur of the ensnared creature. The fox was pawing the snow, exactly as Makár had imagined, and looking at him with the same sharp, burning eyes which he had seen in his fancy.
“Let him alone! . . . He is mine!” called out Makár to Alyóshka.
“Don’t touch him,” echoed back the voice of Alyóshka. “He is mine!”
They both ran up at the same instant and began hurriedly lifting the log, thus setting the creature free. As the log rose, the fox rose too. It made one leap, stopped, gave both men a mocking glance, then bending its head licked the sore spot and bounded merrily away, gratefully flirting its tail.
Alyóshka started in pursuit, but Makár seized the skirt of his coat.
Makár was very angry. He forgot all about the fox in his desire to overtake Alyóshka, who was running away from him.
Faster and faster they ran. Alyóshka’s way was pulled from his head by the branch of a larch tree and he had no time to pick it up. Makár was on the point of seizing him, when all of a sudden the cunning Alyóshka had always been more than a match for poor Makár. He suddenly stopped, turned and ducked, bringing his head into violent contact with Makár’s stomach, and pitching him into the snow. As he fell, that cursed Alyóshka seized the hat from his head and disappeared in the forest.
Makár rose with difficulty. He knew he was conquered and felt thoroughly miserable. The fox had been in his possession . . . and now . . . he felt as if he could still see it in the dark thicket flirting its tail derisively as it vanished in the distance.
Multitudinous rivulets of melting snow trickled down Makár’s body. The snow which had made its way into his sleeves, behind the collar of his fur coat, was now streaming down his back, and pouring into his boots. That cursed Alyóshka had carried off his hat. He had lost his mittens somewhere in the course of his race. Matters were looking pretty gloomy. Makár knew that frost has small mercy on people who wander about the forest without hat or mittens.
He had been walking for a long time. According to his own calculations he ought long since to have left the Yamalách behind; the belfry should have been in sight, and he was not as yet out of the woods. Like an enchanted forest it seemed to hold him in its embrace, and the same solemn pealing reached his ears from the distance. It seemed to Makár that although he was going toward this sound, it kept receding further and further, and as the tones grew fainter by degrees, Makár’s heart sank within him.
He was tired and disheartened. His feet were benumbed. The thought “it may fare ill with me,” came oftener and oftener to his mind. But still he kept on.
Young trees struck him rudely on the face, jeering at his helplessness. In one spot he saw a rabbit run out into the clearing, and there resting on his haunches and pricking up his white ears spotted with black, he began to wash himself, making all the while the most impudent grimaces at Makár, as if he would give him to understand that he knew him for the very same Makár who had set cunning traps in the woods for his undoing. And now it was his turn to laugh.
Makár was much disturbed. Meanwhile the forest had grown full of hostile life. As he passed along, even the distant trees stretched forth long boughs, barring his path, caught at his hair, or switched him across the face and eyes. Woodpeckers came out of their hiding places, and looked at him with their round, curious eyes, and the woodpecker ran to and fro angrily spreading his long tail and wings and clamored to his mates about the evil doing and cunning devices of Makár. To cap the climax he saw in the distant thickets the glimmering faces of thousands of foxes. Snuffing the air and moving their sharp ears to and fro, they gazed at Makár. The hares stood before them on their hind legs and laughed as they listened to the tale of Makár’s woes.
This was beyond all endurance.
“I am certainly coming to grief,” thought Makár, and decided to make the best of it. He stretched himself out on the snow.
The cold was increasing. The last feeble reflections of the Aurora glimmered across the sky, peering through the tops of the trees at the spot where Makár was lying. The last reverberations of the bell reached him from the distant Tchalágan.
The light flickered and disappeared. The ringing had ceased.
And Makár died.
He could not tell how it all happened. He was waiting for that something which he knew must leave his body, to depart. But nothing left.
He realized, however, that he was dead, and therefore lay quiet and motionless. Thus he remained for a long time, so long in fact that he grew quite tired of it.
It had already grown dark when Makár suddenly felt some one kicking him. He turned his head and opened his eyes. The beech trees now rose above him meek and peaceful, as though repenting of their former tricks. The shaggy fur trees stretched forth their broad, snow-covered arms, gently swayed from side to side. Shining snow-flakes fell softly through the air.
From the deep blue sky overhead the kindly stars looked down through the thick branches as much as to say: “See, the poor man is dead.”
Over the body of Makár, kicking him with foot, stood the old priest Ivan. The snow lay on his shoulders; in fact the whole of his long surplice, as well as his beard and fur hat, were covered with it, but the face was part of it which was alive was the selfsame priest Ivan who had died four years ago.
He had been a kind priest. He never oppressed Makár on account of his fees, never even asking for his pay when he officiated for him. Makár paid him whatever he pleased for christenings and Te Deums, and now remembered with shame that he often had paid him too little, and sometimes even not at all. But the priest Ivan had never resented this; the one thing that he required was a bottle of vodka for every service. If Makár had not the money, priest Ivan would send for it himself, and they would drink it together. The priest was forever getting drunk, but he seldom fought and had no malice in his nature. Makár generally carried the helpless man to his home and left him to the care of his wife.
Yes, he had been a kind priest, but he had met with a painful death. Once, when every one was out, and the drunken priest lay alone in his bed, he was seized with a longing to smoke. He rose, and staggered up to the wide fire place where a fire was burning, to light his pipe. But he was too much intoxicated; he reeled and fell into the fire. When the family returned, there was nothing left of him but his feet.
Everybody was sorry for the kind priest Ivan, but as nothing was left of him but his feet, no doctors in the world could cure him. They buried the feet and another priest was appointed in his place.
Now this same priest, made whole again to all appearances, stood over Makár and was gently pushing him with his foot.
“Rise, Makár,” he said. “We must go.”
“Where am I to go?” asked Makár, somewhat vexed.
He had supposed that once he “had come to grief,” he would have nothing to do but to stay perfectly quiet, and that there would be no need of roaming aimlessly through the forest. Otherwise why should he have come to grief?
“We must go to the Great Toyón.”
“Why am I to go to him?” asked Makár.
“He is to judge you,” said the priest, in mild and sorrowful tones.
Then Makár remembered, that after death one had to appear at the judgment bar. He used to hear about that in church. Of course the priest was right and he must go.
Grumbling under his breath, Makár rose; it seemed that there was no peace for a man, even after death.
The priest walked ahead and Makár followed. They walked straight onward. The beech trees meekly made way before them as they passed. They went towards the east. Makár noticed with surprise that Father Ivan left no foot-prints on the snow, and glancing downward discovered that it was even so with himself. The snow was as white and spotless as a tablecloth.
The thought occurred to him how convenient this would be for rummaging in other men’s traps without the risk of getting found out; but the priest, who had evidently guessed his secret thought, turned toward him and said:
“Beware! You do not know what you will have to suffer for every thought like that.”
“Am I not to be allowed even to think as I please? You have become very severe all at once,” said Makár.
The priest shook his head and continued on his way.
“How far have we to go?” asked Makár.
“A long way,” replied the priest, in a sad voice.
“And what shall we have to eat?” uneasily inquired Makár.
“You forget that you are dead,” replied the priest, turning toward him, “and that you will need neither food nor drink.”
Makár did not like this. It was all very well, as there happened to be nothing to eat; but it would have been better to remain lying where he was after he died.
“Don’t grumble,” said the priest.
“All right,” replied Makár, in an injured voice; but still he went on grumbling to himself and complaining of this unreasonable arrangement. “To make a man walk and not allow him to eat.”
They had been walking a long time. Although it was not yet dawn, it seemed to Makár, judging from the distance they had traversed, they must have been walking for a week at least, so many ravines and mountains, rivers and lakes, forests and plains had they passed. Whenever Makár looked back it seemed to him that the forest was receding from them and the high mountains dissolving away in the twilight and disappearing below the horizon.
They seemed to be rising higher and higher. The stars grew larger and brighter. Then over the ridge of the hill they were climbing appeared the rim of the setting moon. It seemed as if in haste to get out of sight, but Makár and the priest were overtaking it. At last it began to rise again above the horizon. Now they were walking along a high and level plain.
Suddenly Makár, who had been looking closely at one of the horsemen, turned and ran after him.
“Wait! wait!” cried the priest. But he did not hear him. He had recognized a Tartar of his acquaintance who six years before had stolen his sorrel horse, and who died the very next year. Now this Tartar was riding the same sorrel horse. The horse was galloping wildly. From beneath its hoofs flew clouds of snow, sparkling with the variegated reflections of the star rays. Makár could not understand how he, a foot passenger, could so easily overtake the Tartar at full gallop. When, however, the latter perceived that Makár was within a few paces of him he stopped.
“Come to the Stárosta,” Makár cried. “This is my horse! His right ear is cut! You ride another man’s horse, while the master is walking like a beggar!”
“Wait,” said the Tartar, “why should we go to the Stárosta? You say this is your horse. Take him then! Cursed beast! I have been riding him for five years and make no progress whatever. Every day foot-men get ahead of me; it is a disgrace for a Tartar.”
And he raised his foot to dismount, but just then the priest, all out of breath, ran up to them and seized Makár’s hand.
“Wretched man! What are you doing?” he exclaimed. “Can’t you see that the Tartar is trying to deceive you?”
“Of course he is,” exclaimed Makár, gesticulating. “It was a good horse—a capital horse for work. . . . I was offered forty roubles for him when he was three years old. . . . No, indeed! If you have injured my horse, I will kill him for his flesh, and you shall pay me in cash. You think because you are a Tartar you can do as you please?”
Makár grew excited and talked louder and louder to attract a crowd about him, for he was afraid of the Tartar. But the priest checked him.
“Hush, hush, Makár. You keep forgetting that you have died. . . . Of what use is a horse to you? Besides can’t you see that you are walking faster than the Tartar’s? Would you like to be traveling a thousand years?”
Makár now understood why the Tartar was willing to give up the horse.
“They are a cunning tribe!” he thought. “All right!” he cried, “go along with your horse. . . . I shall complain of you all the same.”
The Tartar angrily clapped on his hat and gave the horse a blow. The horse pranced, clouds of snow flew from under his hoofs, but not one step did he advance while Makár and the priest stood there.
He spat angrily, as he said to Makár: “Have you a leaf of tobacco, friend? I am suffering for a smoke, and I used up my tobacco four years ago.”
“Call a dog your friend!” angrily replied Makár. “You are a shrewd fellow. You stole my horse, and now you are begging for tobacco! I have no pity for you.”
And saying this Makár went on.
“You were wrong not to give him a leaf of tobacco,” remarked Priest Ivan; “for an act like that, the Great Toyón would have forgiven you not less than one hundred sins.”
“Why did you not tell me so before?” snapped Makár.
“It is too late to teach you now. You should have learned it from your priests during your lifetime.”
Makár was vexed. He had gained nothing from the priests. They had taken their fees, but had never taught him the proper time to give the Tartar a leaf of tobacco, that he might receive absolution for his sins.
“Wait a moment,” he said; “one leaf will do for us, and the other four I will give to the Tartar at once.”
“Look back,” said the priest.
Makár turned. Behind him stretched the deserted snow-covered plain. The Tartar looked like a dot shining in the distance.
“Well, never mind!” said Makár, “this Tartar can do without his tobacco. He hurt my horse, the cursed fellow!”
“No,” said the priest, “he has not injured your horse. Have you not often heard the old saying, one can not go far on a stolen horse”?
Makár had, indeed, heard this saying, but as he had often seen the Tartars enter the very town itself on stolen horses, he had naturally put very little faith in it. Now he perceived that there is truth even in old sayings. He began to overtake a good many riders along the plain. They all seemed to be making the same rate of progress as the first one. The horses flew like birds, the riders were reeking with perspiration, and still Makár left every one of them behind.
They were mostly Tartars, but now and then he met a Tchalágan settler; some of these were riding stolen oxen, urging them along with sticks.
Makár regarded the Tartars with displeasure, and every time he met one, he would mutter something to the effect that they were not getting suitable punishment; but whenever he met a Tchalágan settler he paused and entered into friendly conversation with him: they were friends, at least, even if they had been thieves. Now and then by way of expressing his sympathy, he would even pick up a stick from the road and try to urge their beasts along; but after a very few paces on his side, these riders diminished to barely perceptible specks, a long way behind him. There was no apparent limit to the plain. Although he was constantly passing both riders and foot passengers, it was of so vast an extent that it still seemed deserted. It seemed as if hundreds, nay thousands of versts lay between each traveler.
Among others Makár encountered a strange old man, evidently from Tchalágan. Makár knew that from his face, his dress and even from his gait, but he could not remember to have met him before. The old man wore a tattered sobá, a large projecting fur hat, old leathern trousers, no less ragged and worn out calf skin torbás. But the most pitiful part of it was, that in spite of his age and infirmities, he bore on his shoulders a still older woman, whose feet dragged along the ground. The old man panted, he could not rightly control his feet and he leaned heavily on the stick. Makár halted him. He stopped. The old man stopped also.
After a short silence Makár thought he might venture to question the old man whence he came and whither he was going.
The latter told him what his name was. Long ago, he had forgotten how many years ago it was since, he left Tchalágan and went “to the hill” to be saved. There he did nothing whatever; living on berries and roots, he neither plowed, nor sowed, nor did he grind the grain, or pay the taxes. After his death he went to the old Toyón to be judged. When the Toyón asked him who he was and what he had done, he replied that he had lived on the hill for the salvation of his soul. “Very well,” said Toyón, “and where is your old woman? Return and fetch her.” So he went after her; now the old woman had died a beggar, for she had no one to support her, and neither house, nor cows, nor bread. She had grown very feeble and could hardly drag one foot after the other. And he was obliged to carry her to the great Toyón.
The old man wept, and the old woman kicked him, as if she were driving an ox, saying in a faint but angry voice:
“Go along!”
Makár pitied the old man still more and was thankful that he had not gone “to the hill,” for his old woman was tall and heavy, and he would have had a hard time carrying her.
Journeying onward Makár met no more people upon whom he bestowed special attention. They were thieves bowed down like beasts of burden, with stolen goods, barely able to drag themselves forward; stout Yakút Toyóns jolted along on their high saddles, almost touching the skies with their tall hats; they looked like towers. Here, too, the poor workmen hobbled along as light and thin as rabbits. With wild and wandering gaze, a gloomy looking, blood-stained murderer stalked along. In vain he threw himself into the snow hoping to wash away those stains of blood. The snow instantly reddened and seethed like boiling water, the stains came out brighter than ever, and wild despair and horror were depicted on his face as he strode onward, trying to avoid the terrified glances of those whom he met. The souls of little children fluttered in their like birds. Makár felt no surprise when they flew past in crowds. The poor, coarse food, the filth, the open chimney and the cold draughts in the yurts caused the children to live but a short while. As they drew near the murderer, they dashed aside in a frightened crowd, and for long after they had passed one could still hear the swift fluttering sound of their tiny wings.
Makár could not help seeing that he was making rapid progress as compared with the others, and he lost no time in setting this down to the account of his virtue.
“What do you think about it, father?” he asked. “I acknowledge that I loved the cup, but after all I was a good man. God loves me.”
“Do not pride yourself on your virtue. We are not far from the goal. You will soon find out for yourself.”
Makár had not until now observed that daylight was breaking over the plain. A few bright rays, like the first strains from a full orchestra, broke upon the horizon, and swiftly traversing the sky put out the burning stars. The fogs arose and hovered like sentinels around it. Toward the east they shone like bright warders clad in golden armor; they wavered, and bowed their heads. Above them rose the sun, pausing to rest upon their golden crests and overlook the plain, which was illumined by an unseen and dazzling light.
Then the fogs rising majestically heavenward were rent asunder in the west, and Makár heard a wondrous song. It seemed no other than the well-known anthem with which the earth each morning greets the sun; but now Makár perceived the wondrous beauty which had before passed unheeded.
He stood listening with but one desire, that so listening he might remain forever. But Ivan touched him on the sleeve.
“Come,” he said, “this is the place.”
Then Makár perceived that they were standing near a wide open door, that had been hidden from them by the mists. He felt reluctant to enter, but obeyed.
It was not until they found themselves within a spacious hut that Makár noticed that it had been frosty outside. In the middle of the hut stood a beautiful fireplace of pure silver and fine workmanship, wherein burned golden logs, diffusing a gentle warmth that enveloped the whole person. The blaze from the mournful fireplace did not try the eyes, nor scorch the face, it merely suffused a pleasant warmth. Then Makár again longed to remain forever warming himself. The priest Ivan also drew near the fireplace and stretched forth his cold hands.
The hut had three inner doors and but one outer one, and through the former young men clad in long white garments passed incessantly to and fro. Makár took them for Toyón’s servants. He felt as if he must have seen them before, but he could not remember just where. He was much surprised to discover large white wings attached to their shoulders, but he decided that the Toyón no doubt had other servants, for with those wings they could never make their way through the dense forest, either to chop wood or gather fagots.
One of the servants approached the fire also, and turning his back to it spoke to priest Ivan.
“Speak!”
“I have nothing to say.”
“What have you heard in the world?”
“I heard nothing.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw nothing.”
Both were silent; then the priest said:
“I have brought you a man.”
“Is he from Tchalágan?” asked the laborer.
“Yes.”
“Then we must prepare the large scales.”
And he went through one of the doors to give orders, while Makár asked the priest for what purpose the scales were needed and why they wanted large ones.
“Well, you must know,” replied the priest, slightly confused, “that the scales are needed to weigh your good and evil deeds. With most persons the good and evil will nearly balance the cups. But the inhabitants of Tchalágan have committed so many sins that for them the Toyón was obliged to order special scales, with a large cup for sins.” Makár’s heart sank within him when he heard these words.
The big scales were brought in and set up. One cup was made of gold and very small, the other was of wood, and very large, and beneath the latter a deep and dark chasm suddenly appeared.
Makár approached the scales and carefully examined them to make sure that they were correct. They proved to be perfectly accurate. The cups hung motionless on the same level. But he did not quite understand their construction and would have chosen the common scales, on which he had learned to buy and sell to his own advantage.
“The Toyón is coming,” said the priest Ivan, and he began hurriedly arranging his surplice.
The middle door opened and a very aged Toyón appeared with a silvery beard extending below his waist. He was clad in rich, and to Makár unfamiliar furs and stuffs, and on his feet he wore boots trimmed with velvet.
The very first glance revealed to Makár that this was the same aged being whose picture he had seen in church. His son, however, was not beside him. Makár thought that he was probably absent on business. A dove flew into the room and circling around the old man’s head, it settled on his knees, and he caressed the dove with his hand, while he sat on a chair that had been specially prepared for him. The old Toyón had a benevolent face, and whenever Makár felt oppressed he looked at that face and took courage. Now Makár began to feel sad, for suddenly he remembered every smallest detail of his entire life, every step he had trodden, every stroke of the axe, every tree he had felled, every deceitful action and every glass of vodka.
And he felt not only ashamed but afraid, and still as he gazed on the face of the old Toyón he took heart.
And taking heart he thought occurred to him that perhaps he might be able to conceal some things.
The old Toyón looked at him and asked him his name, his age and whence he came.
Makár had replied and the Toyón asked: “What have you done during your life?”
“You must know yourself what I have done,” replied Makár, “you have it written down.”
Makár was feeling his way, so to speak, trying to discover whether all the deeds of his life had actually been written down.
“It is for you to tell,” said the old Toyón.
And Makár felt encouraged.
He began to render an account of his labors, and although he remembered perfectly well every stroke of the axe, every tree he had chopped and every furrow he had plowed, yet he multiplied his poles by thousands and his loads of wood as well as his pots of shóka by hundreds. After he had enumerated everything, the old Toyón turned to the priest Ivan and said:
“Bring hither the book.”
Then Makár saw why the priest Ivan served as a clerk to the old Toyón, and was vexed that he had not been told of that. The priest Ivan brought in a big book, opened it and began to read:
“Tell me how many poles,” said the old Toyón.
After looking carefully priest Ivan said in a tone that expressed his disappointment:
“He has added three thousand.”
“He lies,” exclaimed Makár angrily. “How is he likely to be right? He was a drunkard and died a bad death.”
“Be silent!” said the old Toyón. “Has he ever charged you an extra fee for weddings or christenings? Did he press you for his pay?”
“No, I can not say that he did,” replied Makár.
“I have always known that he was fond of drinking,” said the Toyón.
Then the old Toyón waxed angry, and he said to the priest Ivan:
“Now read the list of his sins that is written in the book, for he is proved a liar, and I can not trust him.”
Meanwhile the servants of the Toyón had thrown into the golden cup Makár’s poles, his wood, his plowing and all his work. And this weighed so heavily that the golden cup sank low, and the wooden one rose so high that no hands could reach it; then the young Toyón’s servants soared upward by means of their wings and one hundred of them pulled it down with ropes.
The Tchalágan settler had worked hard indeed. Now priest Ivan began to count his lies, and it was made manifest that there were twenty-one thousand nine hundred and thirty-three of them; then he began to count the number of bottles of vodka he had drunk, which proved to be four hundred. The priest had not yet finished his reading when Makár saw that the wooden cup of the scales already outweighed the golden one, sinking lower and lower toward the pit.
Makár began to think that his chance was a poor one, and approaching the scales he tried to hold the cup with his foot. But one of the Toyón’s servants observed him.
“What is the matter?” asked the old Toyón.
“He was meddling with the scales,” replied the Toyón’s servant.
Then the Toyón turned angrily to Makár and said: “It is plain that you are a liar, an indolent fellow and a drunkard! Moreover, you have left your taxes unpaid, you owe fees to the priest, and you have tempted the Isprávnik to sin.”
Then turning to priest Ivan, the old Toyón asked:
“Who is it in Tchalágan that loads horses most heavily and drives them hardest?”
The priest Ivan replied:
“The church bursar. He carries the mails and drives the Isprávnik.”
Then the old Toyón said:
“Let this lazy fellow become a bursar’s horse and carry the Isprávnik, till he falls to the ground.”
But just as the old Toyón had said this, the door opened and his son entered the hut, taking a seat on the old Toyón’s right hand.
The son said: “I heard your verdict. I lived with the world many years and know how matters go on there: it will be hard for the poor man to carry the Isprávnik! Perhaps he may have something more to say in his defense. Speak, poor man!”
Then a remarkable thing happened. Makár, the very Makár who never in all his life had uttered more than ten words at a time, grew suddenly eloquent. He spoke, and great was his own surprise. It was as if there were two Makárs: one speaking and the other listening. He expressed himself easily, and in forcible language, the words followed each other in rapid succession, arranging themselves in long, well-framed sentences. He felt no fear. If he chanced to hesitate, he at once recovered himself, and continued in more loud and impressive tones. And it was consoling to feel that his words carried conviction. The old Toyón, who at first had been somewhat vexed by his audacity, afterward listened to him with close attention, as though he had begun to realize that Makár was not such a fool as he seemed. At first the priest Ivan was really frightened, and pulled Makár by the skirt of his sóna, but the latter put him aside and went on as before. After a while even the priest lost his fear, and smiled to think that his truth was beginning to be revealed; and this truth pleases the old Toyón. Even the white-winged youths in their long, snowy garments, who were the old Toyón’s servants, came to the doors and listened in amazement to Makár’s words.
He began by saying that he did not wish to be a bursar’s horse, not that he feared work, but because the sentence was unjust. And to an unjust sentence he refuses to submit; not an inch will he budge. Let them do with him whatever they please! Let them even give him up to the devil for a servant, he would not carry the Isprávnik, because it was unjust. And they need not think that he dreaded to be a horse; the bursar drives his horse hard, to be sure, but he feeds him with oats; he himself had been driven all his life, but no oats had ever fallen to his lot. Driven by starosts and elders, by assessors and Isprávniks collecting their taxes, he had been driven by priests who would have their pay; driven by necessity and hunger, by frost and heat, by rain and droughts; driven by the frozen ground and the malicious woods! Beasts travel with eyes down, not knowing whither they are driven. Thus it was with him. Did he understand what the priest read in church and why he required his fees? Did he know the reason why they took his oldest son and carried him off to be a soldier, or where he died, or even where his poor bones lie? They accuse him of drinking much vodka! He does not deny it; it is true, but he was forced to it.
“How many bottles did you say?”
“Four hundred,” replied the priest Ivan, looking into the book.
“Very well! But was this vodka? Three-quarters water and but one-quarter of real vodka, and steeped on tobacco; three hundred bottles ought to be deducted.”
“Does he speak the truth?” asked the old Toyón, turning to the priest Ivan; it was evident that he was still vexed.
“He is telling the simple truth,” replied the priest, hastily, and Makár continued.
He had added three thousand poles to his account! What of it? Supposing he had only chopped sixteen thousand, would that be called a small piece of work? And moreover, two thousand of these he had chopped while his first wife was ill, . . . and his heart was aching, for he wanted to stay with her, his old woman, but necessity drove him, and while he was at work, she was dying, while the tears froze on his eyelashes, and the cold entered his sorely stricken heart. . . . But he went on chopping! . . . Then his old woman died. He must bury her, and where was the money to pay for it? He hired himself out to chop wood, to pay for the old woman’s lodging in the other world. . . . And the merchant, knowing him to be sorely pressed, paid him only ten copecks a load, . . . his wife meanwhile lying alone in the cold, fireless hut, and he in the woods chopping and weeping. Loads like those might well be reckoned five times over, or even more!
Tears came to the eyes of the old Toyón, and Makár saw that the cups of the scales had begun to waver, the wooden cup was rising, and the golden one sinking. And still Makár went on. If everything is set down in their books. . . . then let them look and see if ever he received a caress, a welcome, or any joy whatever from mortal being? Where are his children? If they died his heart grew heavy and sadness filled his soul, and if they grew up, they left him to struggle alone against the most abject poverty. Then he grew old, with no companion but his second old woman; he could feel his strength grow less and helpless old age came creeping on. They were alone, like two solitary pine trees in the steppe, buffeted on all sides by the wintry gales.
“Is that true?” again asked the old Toyón.
And the priest hastily replied:
“It is quite true!”
Again the scales wavered. But the old Toyón had grown thoughtful.
“How is this?” he said. “On earth my righteous people have eyes clear, faces bright and garments unsullied. Their hearts are like rich soil; they receive the good seed and return the white lily of the fields and fragrant harvests, whose odor delights me. And behold this man.
“Your face is dark,” continued the old Toyón, “your eyes are dim, your garments are torn, your heart is overgrown with weeds, thorns and wormwood. The righteous are dear to me, but from the evil doer I turn my face.”
Makár’s heart sank within him. He felt ashamed of his own existence. His head dropped, but again he raised it and spoke.
“He knew not whom the Toyón meant by the righteous. If they were such that lived in rich houses when Makár was on earth he knew them. . . . Their eyes were bright because they had shed fewer tears than he; their faces shone because they bathed in perfumed waters, and their spotless garments were woven by the hands of others.
If Makár could have known the effect of his words on the old Toyón, if he could have seen that every angry word he uttered fell into the golden cup a weight of lead, he would have controlled his anger. But he saw nothing of this, for blind despair filled his heart.
The old Toyón said to him:
“Wait, poor fellow, you are no longer on earth. There will be justice for you also.”
And Makár trembled. He felt that he was pitied and his heart softened, and as he beheld a vision of his wretched life from first to last, he felt unspeakably sorry for himself. And he wept.
The old Toyón wept also. So did the old priest Ivan and the young servants of the Toyón shed tears, wiping them away with their broad white sleeves.
And the scales still wavered, but the wooden cup rose higher and higher.
