Stazzemsko the Moujik.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1060, 23 June 1892, Page 9

Stazzemsko the Moujik.

From the French of D’Esparbes. It is morning. The little moujik Stazzamsko arises, very drowsy yet. The pigeons, cooiner, brush their wings lightly against the roof of yellow straw. The horses are snorting impatiently over their mangers. The moujik pulls on a pair of trousers of Lesghis cloth, wi'aps his feet with the onoutchi, four bands of red wool folded crosswise, and to complete his costume puts on the scliouba, the comfortable sehouba, very long and very warm, which cost two roubles and a year’s harvesting of honey. Eeivkine, his wife before God, sleeps stretched out upon the great tiled stove. He playfully touches her nose, then each cheek, and finally awakens her and says : ‘ I am going to the city, to your father’s house to get what you have asked of me—two jars filled with mare’s milk, a flute one tone higher than cousin Serkow’s. and a fat sheep for you to roast in Lent.’ And the little moujik, after the manner of a fond husband, begins teasing his wife. He pats her gently on the forehead, on the cheek, then on the neck and pretty shoulders ‘ I am going to take our little one, Popow, with me,’ he says. ‘The air is cool and bracing, the journey will be good for* him. It will wake up little Popow, it will wake him up !’ And the moujik laughs merrily. A worthy man is the moujik, a shoemaker by trade. He goes regularly to church, swears not, never omits the sign of the cross in passing a funeral. He gives thanks at night for the day’s blessings, and his faithful soul knows well that although he feeds his horse, and puts on its harness, it is the Lord who leads it. He now awakens his son. Popoty rubs his eyes with his chubby fist, and cries a little befoi’e knowing what is wanted of him. The moujik, assuming a gruff tone, says : ‘ I am going to the city to get some mare’s milk, a flute, and a sheep. Who wants to go with me ?’ ‘ 1/ cries Popow,

Then the father takes up the child, places him astride his shoulders, and descends to the stable. There he yokes up his carriage, a well-made vehicle with fine axle-trees, high wheels, and traces of leather, to which the horses are buckled. - And now the day breaks, a fresh lilac coloured dawn spreading afar over the land. Both Sbazzemsko and little Popow are seated comfortably in the carriage, well covered up, and the moujik grasps the reins. Father and son are riding through fields, plains, and valleys, and how Popow is questioning the moujik. He is eight years old. He is wise. * Papa, what is the mare’s milk for ?’ ‘ For the baby if she should be sick.’ ‘ Papa, what is the sheep for'?' 4 For the festival of Lent; the family must eat.’ 4 Papa, what is the flute for V 4 To make the bees swarm ; they are like simple-minded people—they listen to music.’ Popow is satisfied. He is of a curious and thoughtful turn of mind. Beneath that shock of golden hair flying in the wind are grave thoughts, and these grave thoughts must be happy ones, since they make the child smile. 4 I will drink some mare’s milk; I will suck the fat from the bones of the sheep ; I will play on the flute.’ 31 is noon. . . They arrive at the great city. The father-inlaw is pleased. He makes them drink a bowl of tea, offers them cakes and game, and gives th 3 moujik a Daghestan pipe, and Popow a poicelain figure of a Cossack thrusting out his tongue. Heenquires how shoes are selling, if the supply of honey is good, if the baba is well. 4 The baba is not only well, but doubly well. ’ And Popow does not understand why the two men whisper to each other, laughing. Finally, the moujik says : 4 1 have come for two jars of mare’s milk.’ 4 Here they are.’ 4 Also a fat sheep.’ 4 1 sold the last this morning,’ 4 And also a flute.’

‘1 have three of them 5 take your choice.’ The moujik tries the three flutes, takes the one which makes the loudest sound. Then together they walk out in the broad streets. They look at the pretty women reclining on the cushions of their carriages, the fine shops, the people who are speaking French in the street, and when they have gazed at all these things, the moujik finally says, in a decided tone, ‘ It is time to go.’ • Well, son in law, God be with you !’ Behold now, father and son are again traversing the fields, plains, and valleys, and Popow is still asking questions as in the morning. ‘ Papa, you have the flute ?’ ‘ Yes.’ ‘ Do the bees like music ?’ ‘As simple minded people do,’ answered Stazzemslco, and he shook the reins. ‘Go on, iny little father! Go on, my little pigeon 1’ And the two black horses seem to fly over the ground. They leave behind them the roads, the ditches, the hills, the brooks, the high hedges of trees, and behold the great steppe spreads out before them—-like a sea. r lhe pace becomes more rapid, but steadier, for nothing, neither ruts nor stones, will now impede the smooth movement of the wheels. And eventide in hyacinthine hues spreads over the land, the moon appears, and Popow claps his hands, shouting, « Good ! ’tis night ! ’ And the moujik softly sings the Pliassovala. ‘ From the north pole to the south pole, no place for us, no place ! ’ { lt is beautiful, the darkness D cries Popow, delighted at the sensation of moving swiftly through the shadows. And now they have been galloping for two hours. The horned moon is bright. Ihe sweat of the horses rises in vapour about them, glinting in the white light. On they gallop, on and

on ! Their eight hoofs make but a single flash. ‘ Kiss ! Kiss ! little paschal lamb ! Kiss ! Kiss ! dove of my roof ! ’ cries the moujik to his horses. But now, just below the wheel, two white points light up near him, and these noints of fire follow him, bounding along." The Moujik Stazzemsko shudders. But he is braver than a Pandour, stronger than a cannoneer. He lashes the eyes of the wolf with his whip, other white points light up on the right side, and, lo ! now two wolves are following the carriage. They jn m p, they fix their eyes on the moujik in silence. Stazzemsko is afraid. He looks out upon the boundless steppe filled with shadows, and as he lowers his eyes he sees not four but thirty points of light gleaming about him. 'Ho! ho !ho ! little pigeon! little faster ! faster ! faster ! ’ And the excited horses raise higher their iron shoes,stretch their necks forward, panting for breath. So swift is their reaching gallop that they appear longer by half. ‘Ho! ho! ho! rai! ra! rail’ screams Stazzemsko. The moujik rises to his feet, holding the reins taut, his cap on the back of his head, his round eyes staring straight into the night. It is no longer a pack, but a multitude, which follows him. He hears their panting, their claws scratching the hard earth. ‘Ho! rai ! rai ! ra ! little pigeon ! little father ! run quick !’ And the carriage flies, a swiftlymoving shadow in the night. Stazzemsko stands erect, like the Tamschtsehik, the weird postilion with eyes of flame. He is seized with horror. The wolves seem about to spring upon him, to fasten themselves to his cloak, to bury their fangs in his arms, to leap upon the hores, to cut the reins with their sharp teeth, to tear his son to pieces. And Popow laughs, unconscious of the danger. Kow and then he blows in the flute, his eyes turned toward the stars. ‘ Haou ! ho ! rai ! rai ! ho ! hou!’

Poor Stazzemsko ! He thinks of the .baba, the pretty, fair-haired baba, who is waiting for them by the stove or before the bee-hire, of the soup of pearl barley which is steaming upon the dresser", and of the tale he will tell of his journey. But now, wolves, wolves, and more wolves, gathering silently, eager for one of the horses to fall, The sharp wind cuts the moujik’s face, and pierces to the mairow of his bones. ‘ Clic ! clac !—Hou ! 110 ! rai ! rai ! 110 ! hou ! —clie ! clac !’ A wolf has leaped upon the seat, has bitten, the moujik’s shoe. He utters a sharp cry, seizes the animal by the nostrils, hurls him back—but a spasm of fear seizes Stazzemsko like a sharp

pain. He leaps upon the back of one of the horses, and cries in the ears of the faithful beast : ‘ Faster, lamb ! faster pigeon ! for Popow’s sake !’ ‘ By the Christ !' suddenly screams Stazzemsko. A wolf is clinging to the seat. Stazzemsko now springs quickly back into the carriage. He lifts the tilt and looks behind him. They are a score, threescore, sevenscore, tenscore wolves. It is a black oceaii swarming with stars, as if the canopy of hell reflected in the steppe ! And still, the moujik’s cry: ‘Ho! rai ! rai ! rai ! ra ! rai ! ho !’ But he'has lost all hope, he is gasp ing for breath ! Popow has let the flute fall, the good flute which the bees love. ‘Popow ! Popow !’ suddenly screams the moujik, with the gestures and cries of a madman. ‘ What, papa?’ murmurs the child. ‘ Popow ! Popow !’ sobs the father, ‘ O papa, what do you say ?’ ‘Popow! Popow! you see the

wolves ?’ ‘ Yes, papa, yes !’ ‘ They are going to kill us !’ ‘No, papa, if the bees like the music, the wolves ’ But these ai"e his last words ! Suddenly the moujik seizes his child by the throat, lifts him on high, and with an awful blasphemy hurls the child into the midst of the wolves ! A strangled cry. The dark moving pack stops. . . stops for a moment. The carriage glides swiftly on. Now it has passed the steppe. The horses slacken their pace. They enter the darkened, sleeping village, but the baba, the pretty blonde baba, waits by the gate. ‘ Well ! Stazz, dear Stazz, hast thou had a peaceful journey ? Was Popow cold ? Did the horses go well ?’ But the moujik answers not. He plays upon the flute, laughing long and loud, a strange shuddering laugh, for his mind is dead to all things