A Sportsmans Sketches, vol 2 | Page 8

wood I knew so well. The ruinous, snowless winter of 1840 had not spared my old friends, the oaks and the ashes; withered, naked, covered here and there with sickly foliage, they struggled mournfully up above the young growth which 'took their place, but could never replace them.' [Footnote: In 1840 there were severe frosts, and no snow fell up to the very end of December; all the wintercorn was frozen, and many splendid oak-forests were destroyed by that merciless winter. It will be hard to replace them; the productive force of the land is apparently diminishing; in the 'interdicted' wastelands (visited by processions with holy images, and so not to be touched), instead of the noble trees of former days, birches and aspens grow of themselves; and, indeed, they have no idea among us of planting woods at all.--_Author's Note_.]
Some trees, still covered with leaves below, fling their lifeless, ruined branches upwards, as it were, in reproach and despair; in others, stout, dead, dry branches are thrust out of the midst of foliage still thick, though with none of the luxuriant abundance of old; others have fallen altogether, and lie rotting like corpses on the ground. And--who could have dreamed of this in former days?--there was no shade--no shade to be found anywhere in Tchapligino! 'Ah,' I thought, looking at the dying trees: 'isn't it shameful and bitter for you?'... Koltsov's lines recurred to me:
'What has become Of the mighty voices, The haughty strength, The royal pomp? Where now is the Wealth of green?...
'How is it, Ardalion Mihalitch,' I began, 'that they didn't fell these trees the very next year? You see they won't give for them now a tenth of what they would have done before.'
He merely shrugged his shoulders.
'You should have asked my aunt that; the timber merchants came, offered money down, pressed the matter, in fact.'
'_Mein Gott! mein Gott!_' Von der Kock cried at every step. 'Vat a bity, vat a bity!'
'What's a bity!' observed my neighbour with a smile.
'That is; how bitiful, I meant to say.'
What particularly aroused his regrets were the oaks lying on the ground--and, indeed, many a miller would have given a good sum for them. But the constable Arhip preserved an unruffled composure, and did not indulge in any lamentations; on the contrary, he seemed even to jump over them and crack his whip on them with a certain satisfaction.
We were getting near the place where they were cutting down the trees, when suddenly a shout and hurried talk was heard, following on the crash of a falling tree, and a few instants after a young peasant, pale and dishevelled, dashed out of the thicket towards us.
'What is it? where are you running?' Ardalion Mihalitch asked him.
He stopped at once.
'Ah, Ardalion Mihalitch, sir, an accident!'
'What is it?'
'Maksim, sir, crushed by a tree.'
'How did it happen?... Maksim the foreman?'
'The foreman, sir. We'd started cutting an ash-tree, and he was standing looking on.... He stood there a bit, and then off he went to the well for some water--wanted a drink, seemingly--when suddenly the ash-tree began creaking and coming straight towards him. We shout to him: 'Run, run, run!'.... He should have rushed to one side, but he up and ran straight before him.... He was scared, to be sure. The ash-tree covered him with its top branches. But why it fell so soon, the Lord only knows!... Perhaps it was rotten at the core.'
'And so it crushed Maksim?'
'Yes, sir.'
'To death?'
'No, sir, he's still alive--but as good as dead; his arms and legs are crushed. I was running for Seliverstitch, for the doctor.'
Ardalion Mihalitch told the constable to gallop to the village for Seliverstitch, while he himself pushed on at a quick trot to the clearing.... I followed him.
We found poor Maksim on the ground. The peasants were standing about him. We got off our horses. He hardly moaned at all; from time to time he opened his eyes wide, looked round, as it were, in astonishment, and bit his lips, fast turning blue.... The lower part of his face was twitching; his hair was matted on his brow; his breast heaved irregularly: he was dying. The light shade of a young lime-tree glided softly over his face.
We bent down to him. He recognised Ardalion Mihalitch.
'Please sir,' he said to him, hardly articulately, 'send... for the priest... tell... the Lord... has punished me... arms, legs, all smashed... to-day's... Sunday... and I... I... see... didn't let the lads off... work.'
He ceased, out of breath.
'And my money... for my wife... after deducting.... Onesim here knows... whom I... what I owe.'
'We've sent for the doctor, Maksim,' said my neighbour; 'perhaps you may not die yet.'
He tried to open his eyes, and with an effort raised the lids.
'No, I'm dying. Here... here it is coming... here it....