the witch and other stories(女巫)-第12章
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heads。
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THE WITCH AND OTHER STORIES
DREAMS
Two peasant constables one a stubby； black…bearded individual with
such exceptionally short legs that if you looked at him from behind it
seemed as though his legs began much lower down than in other people；
the other； long； thin； and straight as a stick； with a scanty beard of dark
reddish colour were escorting to the district town a tramp who refused
to remember his name。 The first waddled along； looking from side to side；
chewing now a straw； now his own sleeve； slapping himself on the
haunches and humming； and altogether had a careless and frivolous air；
the other； in spite of his lean face and narrow shoulders； looked solid；
grave； and substantial； in the lines and expression of his whole figure he
was like the priests among the Old Believers； or the warriors who are
painted on old…fashioned ikons。 〃For his wisdom God had added to his
forehead〃 that is； he was bald which increased the resemblance
referred to。 The first was called Andrey Ptaha； the second Nikandr
Sapozhnikov。
The man they were escorting did not in the least correspond with the
conception everyone has of a tramp。 He was a frail little man； weak and
sickly…looking； with small； colourless； and extremely indefinite features。
His eyebrows were scanty； his expression mild and submissive； he had
scarcely a trace of a moustache； though he was over thirty。 He walked
along timidly； bent forward； with his hands thrust into his sleeves。 The
collar of his shabby cloth overcoat； which did not look like a peasant's；
was turned up to the very brim of his cap； so that only his little red nose
ventured to peep out into the light of day。 He spoke in an ingratiating tenor；
continually coughing。 It was very； very difficult to believe that he was a
tramp concealing his surname。 He was more like an unsuccessful priest's
son； stricken by God and reduced to beggary； a clerk discharged for
drunkenness； a merchant's son or nephew who had tried his feeble powers
in a theatrical career； and was now going home to play the last act in the
parable of the prodigal son； perhaps； judging by the dull patience with
which he struggled with the hopeless autumn mud； he might have been a
fanatical monk； wandering from one Russian monastery to another；
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continually seeking 〃a peaceful life； free from sin；〃 and not finding it。 。 。 。
The travellers had been a long while on their way； but they seemed to
be always on the same small patch of ground。 In front of them there
stretched thirty feet of muddy black…brown mud； behind them the same；
and wherever one looked further； an impenetrable wall of white fog。 They
went on and on； but the ground remained the same； the wall was no nearer；
and the patch on which they walked seemed still the same patch。 They got
a glimpse of a white； clumsy…looking stone； a small ravine； or a bundle of
hay dropped by a passer…by； the brief glimmer of a great muddy puddle； or；
suddenly； a shadow with vague outlines would come into view ahead of
them； the nearer they got to it the smaller and darker it became； nearer still；
and there stood up before the wayfarers a slanting milestone with the
number rubbed off； or a wretched birch…tree drenched and bare like a
wayside beggar。 The birch…tree would whisper something with what
remained of its yellow leaves； one leaf would break off and float lazily to
the ground。 。 。 。 And then again fog； mud； the brown grass at the edges of
the road。 On the grass hung dingy； unfriendly tears。 They were not the
tears of soft joy such as the earth weeps at welcoming the summer sun and
parting from it； and such as she gives to drink at dawn to the corncrakes；
quails； and graceful； long…beaked crested snipes。 The travellers' feet stuck
in the heavy； clinging mud。 Every step cost an effort。
Andrey Ptaha was somewhat excited。 He kept looking round at the
tramp and trying to understand how a live； sober man could fail to
remember his name。
〃You are an orthodox Christian； aren't you？〃 he asked。
〃Yes；〃 the tramp answered mildly。
〃H'm。 。 。 then you've been christened？〃
〃Why； to be sure！ I'm not a Turk。 I go to church and to the sacrament；
and do not eat meat when it is forbidden。 And I observe my religious
duties punctually。 。 。 。〃
〃Well； what are you called； then？〃
〃Call me what you like； good man。〃
Ptaha shrugged his shoulders and slapped himself on the haunches in
extreme perplexity。 The other constable； Nikandr Sapozhnikov； maintained
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a staid silence。 He was not so naive as Ptaha； and apparently knew very
well the reasons which might induce an orthodox Christian to conceal his
name from other people。 His expressive face was cold and stern。 He
walked apart and did not condescend to idle chatter with his companions；
but； as it were； tried to show everyone； even the fog； his sedateness and
discretion。
〃God knows what to make of you；〃 Ptaha persisted in addressing the
tramp。 〃Peasant you are not； and gentleman you are not； but some sort of a
thing between。 。 。 。 The other day I was washing a sieve in the pond and
caught a reptile see； as long as a finger； with gills and a tail。 The first
minute I thought it was a fish； then I looked and； blow it！ if it hadn't
paws。 It was not a fish； it was a viper； and the deuce only knows what it
was。 。 。 。 So that's like you。 。 。 。 What's your calling？〃
〃I am a peasant and of peasant family；〃 sighed the tramp。 〃My mamma
was a house serf。 I don't look like a peasant； that's true； for such has been
my lot； good man。 My mamma was a nurse with the gentry； and had every
comfort； and as I was of her flesh and blood； I lived with her in the
master's house。 She petted and spoiled me； and did her best to take me out
of my humble class and make a gentleman of me。 I slept in a bed； every
day I ate a real dinner； I wore breeches and shoes like a gentleman's child。
What my mamma ate I was fed on； too； they gave her stuffs as a present；
and she dressed me up in them。 。 。 。 We lived well！ I ate so many sweets
and cakes in my childish years that if they could be sold now it would be
enough to buy a goo d horse。 Mamma taught me to read and write； she
instilled the fear of God in me from my earliest years； and she so trained
me that now I can't bring myself to utter an unrefined peasant word。 And I
don't drink vodka； my lad； and am neat in my dress； and know how to
behave with decorum in good society。 If she is still living； God give her
health； and if she is dead； then； O Lord； give her soul peace in Thy
Kingdom； wherein the just are at rest。〃
The tramp bared his head with the scanty hair standing up like a brush
on it； turned his eyes upward and crossed himself twice。
〃Grant her； O Lord； a verdant and peaceful resting…place；〃 he said in a
drawling voice； more like an old woman's than a man's。 〃Teach Thy
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servant Xenia Thy justifications； O Lord！ If it had not been for my beloved
mamma I should have been a peasant with no sort of understanding！ Now；
young man； ask me about anything and I understand it all： the holy
Scriptures and profane writings； and every prayer and catechism。 I live
according to the Scriptures。 。 。 。 I don't injure anyone； I keep my flesh in
purity and continence； I observe the fasts； I eat at fitting times。 Another
man will take no pleasure in anything but vodka and lewd talk； but when I
have time I sit in a corner and read a book。 I read and I weep and weep。〃
〃What do you weep for？〃
〃They write so patheticallyl For some books one gives but a five…
kopeck piece； and yet one weeps and sighs exceedingly over it。〃
〃Is your father dead？〃 asked Ptaha。
〃I don't know； good man。 I don't know my parent； it is no use
concealing it。 I judge that I was mamma's illegitimate son。 My mamma
lived all her life with the gentry； and did not want to marry a simple
peasant。 。 。 。〃
〃And so she fell into the master's hands；〃 laughed Ptaha。
〃She did transgress； that's true。 She was pious； God…fearing； but she
did not keep her maiden purity。 It is a sin； of course； a great sin； there's no
doubt about it； but to make up for it there is； maybe； noble blood in me。
Maybe I am only a peasant by class； but in nature a noble gentleman。〃
The 〃noble gentleman〃 uttered all this in a soft； sugary tenor；
wrinkling up his narrow forehead and emitting creaking sounds from his
red； frozen little nose。 Ptaha listened and looked askance at him in wonder；
continually shrugging his shoulders。
After going nearly five miles the constables and the tramp sat down on
a mound to rest。
〃Even a dog knows his name；〃 Ptaha muttered。 〃My name is
Andryushka； his is Nikandr； every man has his holy name； and it can't be
forgotten。 Nohow。〃
〃Who has any need to know my name？〃 sighed the tramp； leaning his
cheek on his fist。 〃And what advantage would it be to me if they did know
it？ If I were allowed to go where I would but it would only make things
worse。 I know the law； Christian brothers。 Now I am a tramp who doesn't
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remember his name； and it's the very most if they send me to Eastern
Siberia and give me thirty o
