A Sportsman's Sketches Volume I Part 18

'Fishes have cold blood,' he replied with conviction. 'The fish is a dumb creature; it knows neither fear nor rejoicing. The fish is a voiceless creature. The fish does not feel; the blood in it is not living.... Blood,' he continued, after a pause, 'blood is a holy thing!

G.o.d's sun does not look upon blood; it is hidden away from the light ... it is a great sin to bring blood into the light of day; a great sin and horror.... Ah, a great sin!'

He sighed, and his head drooped forward. I looked, I confess, in absolute amazement at the strange old man. His language did not sound like the language of a peasant; the common people do not speak like that, nor those who aim at fine speaking. His speech was meditative, grave, and curious.... I had never heard anything like it.

'Tell me, please, Ka.s.syan,' I began, without taking my eyes off his slightly flushed face, 'what is your occupation?'

He did not answer my question at once. His eyes strayed uneasily for an instant.

'I live as the Lord commands,' he brought out at last; 'and as for occupation--no, I have no occupation. I've never been very clever from a child: I work when I can: I'm not much of a workman--how should I be?

I have no health; my hands are awkward. In the spring I catch nightingales.'

'You catch nightingales?... But didn't you tell me that we must not touch any of the wild things of the woods and the fields, and so on?'

'We must not kill them, of a certainty; death will take its own without that. Look at Martin the carpenter; Martin lived, and his life was not long, but he died; his wife now grieves for her husband, for her little children.... Neither for man nor beast is there any charm against death. Death does not hasten, nor is there any escaping it; but we must not aid death.... And I do not kill nightingales--G.o.d forbid! I do not catch them to harm them, to spoil their lives, but for the pleasure of men, for their comfort and delight.'

'Do you go to Kursk to catch them?'

'Yes, I go to Kursk, and farther too, at times. I pa.s.s nights in the marshes, or at the edge of the forests; I am alone at night in the fields, in the thickets; there the curlews call and the hares squeak and the wild ducks lift up their voices.... I note them at evening; at morning I give ear to them; at daybreak I cast my net over the bushes.... There are nightingales that sing so pitifully sweet ... yea, pitifully.'

'And do you sell them?'

'I give them to good people.'

'And what are you doing now?'

'What am I doing?'

'Yes, how are you employed?'

The old man was silent for a little.

'I am not employed at all.... I am a poor workman. But I can read and write.'

'You can read?'

'Yes, I can read and write. I learnt, by the help of G.o.d and good people.'

'Have you a family?'

'No, not a family.'

'How so?... Are they dead, then?'

'No, but ... I have never been lucky in life. But all that is in G.o.d's hands; we are all in G.o.d's hands; and a man should be righteous--that is all! Upright before G.o.d, that is it.'

'And you have no kindred?'

'Yes ... well....'

The old man was confused.

'Tell me, please,' I began: 'I heard my coachman ask you why you did not cure Martin? You cure disease?'

'Your coachman is a righteous man,' Ka.s.syan answered thoughtfully. 'I too am not without sin. They call me a doctor.... Me a doctor, indeed!

And who can heal the sick? That is all a gift from G.o.d. But there are ... yes, there are herbs, and there are flowers; they are of use, of a certainty. There is plantain, for instance, a herb good for man; there is bud-marigold too; it is not sinful to speak of them: they are holy herbs of G.o.d. Then there are others not so; and they may be of use, but it's a sin; and to speak of them is a sin. Still, with prayer, may be.... And doubtless there are such words.... But who has faith, shall be saved,' he added, dropping his voice.

'You did not give Martin anything?' I asked.

'I heard of it too late,' replied the old man. 'But what of it! Each man's destiny is written from his birth. The carpenter Martin was not to live; he was not to live upon the earth: that was what it was. No, when a man is not to live on the earth, him the sunshine does not warm like another, and him the bread does not nourish and make strong; it is as though something is drawing him away.... Yes: G.o.d rest his soul!'

'Have you been settled long amongst us?' I asked him after a short pause.

Ka.s.syan started.

'No, not long; four years. In the old master's time we always lived in our old houses, but the trustees transported us. Our old master was a kind heart, a man of peace--the Kingdom of Heaven be his! The trustees doubtless judged righteously.'

'And where did you live before?'

'At Fair Springs.'

'Is it far from here?'

'A hundred miles.'

'Well, were you better off there?'

'Yes ... yes, there there was open country, with rivers; it was our home: here we are cramped and parched up.... Here we are strangers.

There at home, at Fair Springs, you could get up on to a hill--and ah, my G.o.d, what a sight you could see! Streams and plains and forests, and there was a church, and then came plains beyond. You could see far, very far. Yes, how far you could look--you could look and look, ah, yes! Here, doubtless, the soil is better; it is clay--good fat clay, as the peasants say; for me the corn grows well enough everywhere.'

'Confess then, old man; you would like to visit your birth-place again?'

'Yes, I should like to see it. Still, all places are good. I am a man without kin, without neighbours. And, after all, do you gain much, pray, by staying at home? But, behold! as you walk, and as you walk,'

he went on, raising his voice, 'the heart grows lighter, of a truth.

And the sun shines upon you, and you are in the sight of G.o.d, and the singing comes more tunefully. Here, you look--what herb is growing; you look on it--you pick it. Here water runs, perhaps--spring water, a source of pure holy water; so you drink of it--you look on it too. The birds of heaven sing.... And beyond Kursk come the steppes, that steppes-country: ah, what a marvel, what a delight for man! what freedom, what a blessing of G.o.d! And they go on, folks tell, even to the warm seas where dwells the sweet-voiced bird, the Hamayune, and from the trees the leaves fall not, neither in autumn nor in winter, and apples grow of gold, on silver branches, and every man lives in uprightness and content. And I would go even there.... Have I journeyed so little already! I have been to Romyon and to Simbirsk the fair city, and even to Moscow of the golden domes; I have been to Oka the good nurse, and to Tsna the dove, and to our mother Volga, and many folks, good Christians have I seen, and n.o.ble cities I have visited.... Well, I would go thither ... yes ... and more too ... and I am not the only one, I a poor sinner ... many other Christians go in bast-shoes, roaming over the world, seeking truth, yea!... For what is there at home? No righteousness in man--it's that.'

These last words Ka.s.syan uttered quickly, almost unintelligibly; then he said something more which I could not catch at all, and such a strange expression pa.s.sed over his face that I involuntarily recalled the epithet 'cracked.' He looked down, cleared his throat, and seemed to come to himself again. 'What sunshine!' he murmured in a low voice.

'It is a blessing, oh, Lord! What warmth in the woods!'

He gave a movement of the shoulders and fell into silence. With a vague look round him he began softly to sing. I could not catch all the words of his slow chant; I heard the following:

'They call me Ka.s.syan, But my nickname's the Flea.'

'Oh!' I thought, 'so he improvises.' Suddenly he started and ceased singing, looking intently at a thick part of the wood. I turned and saw a little peasant girl, about seven years old, in a blue frock, with a checked handkerchief over her head, and a woven bark-basket in her little bare sunburnt hand. She had certainly not expected to meet us; she had, as they say, 'stumbled upon' us, and she stood motionless in a shady recess among the thick foliage of the nut-trees, looking dismayed at me with her black eyes. I had scarcely time to catch a glimpse of her; she dived behind a tree.

'Annushka! Annushka! come here, don't be afraid!' cried the old man caressingly.

'I'm afraid,' came her shrill voice.