Ivàn Ivànovitch

"They tell me, your carpenters," quoth I to my friend the Russ, "Make a simple hatchet serve as a tool-box serves with us. Arm but each man with his axe, 't is a hammer and saw and plane And chisel, and — what know I else? We should imitate in vain The mastery wherewithal, by a flourish of just the adze, He cleaves, clamps, dovetails in, — no need of our nails and brads, — The manageable pine: 't is said he could shave himself With the axe, — so all adroit, now a giant and now an elf, Does he work and play at once!"

Quoth my friend the Russ to me, "Ay, that and more beside on occasion! It scarce may be   You never heard tell a tale told children, time out of mind, By father and mother and nurse, for a moral that's behind, Which children quickly seize. If the incident happened at all, We place it in Peter's time when hearts were great not small, Germanized, Frenchified. I wager 't is old to you As the story of Adam and Eve, and possibly quite as true."

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In the deep of our land, 't is said, a village from out the woods Emerged on the great main-road 'twixt two great solitudes. Through forestry right and left, black verst and verst of pine, From village to village runs the road's long wide bare line. Clearance and clearance break the else-unconquered growth Of pine and all that breeds and broods there, leaving loth Man's inch of masterdom, — spot of life, spirt of fire, — To star the dark and dread, lest right and rule expire Throughout the monstrous wild, a-hungered to resume Its ancient sway, suck back the world into its womb: Defrauded by man's craft which clove from North to South This highway broad and straight e'en from the Neva's mouth To Moscow's gates of gold. So, spot of life and spirt Of fire aforesaid, burn, each village death-begirt By wall and wall of pine — unprobed undreamed abyss.

Early one winter morn, in such a village as this, Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle road Ice-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abode Ivàn Ivànovitch, the carpenter, employed On A huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyed With branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the bole Changed bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul. About him, watched the work his neighbours sheepskin-clad; Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each grey eye twinkled glad To see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play. Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may. Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edge Of the hamlet — horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge? What's here?" cried all as — in, up to the open space, Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place, — Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life, A horse: and, at his heels, a sledge held — "Dmìtri's wife! Back without Dmìtri too! and children — where are they? Only a frozen corpse!"

They drew it forth: then — "Nay,   Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago: Home again, this rough jaunt — alone through night and snow — What can the cause be? Hark — Droug, old horse, how he groans: His day's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans: She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends! Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amends For outside cold, — sup quick! Don't look as we were bears! What is it startles you? What strange adventure stares Up at us in your face? You know friends — which is which? I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch . . ."

At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they neared The blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-coloured beard, Took in full light and sense and — torn to rags, some dream Which hid the naked truth — O loud and long the scream She gave, as if all power of voice within her throat Poured itself wild away to waste in one dread note! Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flow Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know. Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee; His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed — "Loukèria, Loùscha!" — still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed. At last her lips formed speech.

"Ivàn, dear — you indeed! You, just the same dear you! While I . . . O intercede, Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty — let his might Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night! But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you, A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two, A babe inside my arms, close to my heart — that's lost In morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost,   Cannot you bring again my blessed yesterday?"

When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way.

"Maybe, a month ago, — was it not? — news came here, They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear A church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said: 'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.' So, friends here helped us off — Ivàn, dear, you the first! How gay we jingled forth, all five — (my heart will burst) — While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track!

"Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back,   When yesterday — behold, the village was on fire! Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher, The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must do The little good man may: to sledge and in with you, You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat Each building in its path, — I needs must stay for that, — But you . . . no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug, Cover the couple close, — you'll have the babe to hug. No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess, Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less!    The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon You'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon. Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch! Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch, All's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all's right with me. So I but find as safe you and our precious three! Off, Droug!' — because the flames had reached us, and the men Shouted 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri — as good as ten!'

"So, in we bundled — I, and those God gave me once; Old Droug, that's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce:   He understood the case, galloping straight ahead. Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red In that unnatural day — yes, daylight, bred between Moon-light and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen Such devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow! Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind While we escaped outside their border!

"Was that — wind? Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs, Snorts, — never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough's   Only the wind: yet, no — our breath goes up too straight! Still the low sound, — less low, loud, louder, at a rate There's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out — look — learn The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn —

'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge! An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge: They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side, Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide The four-footed steady advance. The foremost — none may pass: They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye — green-glowing brass! But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best: Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach, — one reaches. . . How utter the rest? O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue, How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry among The wraps and the rugs! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead! Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal, — here's your mother instead! No, he will not be counselled — must cry, poor Stiòpka, so foolish! though first Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbours have called him the worst: He was puny, an undersized slip, — a darling to me, all the same! But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame. I loved him with heart and soul, yes — but, deal him a blow for a fault, He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault, Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, screams, — who can hold Fast a boy in a frenzy of fear! It follows — as I foretold! The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore — and then His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is men The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps: God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew, Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue! That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst Or two, or three — God sends we beat them, arrive the first! A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich: Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him, — God knows which Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!

"O misery! for while I settle to what near seems Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams — Point and point — the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire! So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, nought tire   The furies? And yet I think — I am certain the race is slack, And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack! Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind . . . Ah why? We'll sorrow for that too soon! Now, — gallop, reach home, and die, Nor ever again leave house, to trust our hfe in the trap For life — we call a sledge! Terioscha, in my lap! Yes, I'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings Here — of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings . . . Flings? I flung? Never! But think! — a woman, after all Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall,    Terentiì!

"How now? What, you still head the race, Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face? There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! Flash again? All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain! My fist — why not crunch that? He is wanton for . . . O God, Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod The earth till out they scratch some corpse — mere putrid flesh! Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh? Terentiì — God, feel! — his neck keeps fast thy bag Of holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will drag   Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared The relics were to save from danger!

"Spurned, not spared! 'T was through my arms, crossed arms, he — nuzzling now with snout, Now ripping, tooth and claw — plucked, pulled Terentiì out, A prize indeed! I saw — how could I else but see? — My precious one — I bit to hold back — pulled from me! Up came the others, fell to dancing — did the imps! — Skipped as they scampered round. There's one is grey, and limps: Who knows but old bad Màrpha, — she always owed me spite And envied me my births, — skulks out of doors at night   And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood, And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood, Squats down at door by dawn, spins there demure as erst  — No strength, old crone, — not she! — to crawl forth half a verst!

"Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there lies The space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes The endmost snow: 't is dawn, 't is day, 't is safe at home! We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam, Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share, — Forgetful, in your greed, our finest off we bear,   Tough Droug and I, — my babe, my boy that shall be man, My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat! 'Take that!' we'll stab you with, — 'the tenderness we met When, wretches, you danced round — not this, thank God — not this! Hellhounds, we baulk you!'

"But — Ah, God above! — Bliss, bliss — Not the band, no! And yet — yes, for Droug knows him! One — This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!   His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes, He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves: He's off and after us, — one speck, one spot, one ball Grows bigger, bound on bound, — one wolf as good as all! Oh but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue! That's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst! Now for it — now! Ah me! I know him — thrice-accurst Satan-face, — him to the end my foe!

"All fight's in vain: This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain.   I fall — fall as I ought — quite on the babe I guard: I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I — one inch! Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch! O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder! — see! It grinds — it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me, Could I do more? Besides he knew wolf's way to win: I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in. Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until . . . how feels The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels.    Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf And bloom and seed unborn?

"That slew me: yes, in brief, I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped Thus — how or when or why, — I know not. Tell me, friends, All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends! Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof, Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you'd see the roof Which holds my three — my two — my one — not one?

"Life's mixed With misery, yet we live — must live. The Satan fixed   His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch, 'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing! Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling. Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears  — What good they do! Life's sweet, and all its after-years, Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I! May God reward you, dear!"

Down she sank. Solemnly Ivàn rose, raised his axe, — for fitly, as she knelt. Her head lay: well-apart, each side, her arms hung, — dealt Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow — no need of more! Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound at core (Neighbours were used to say) — cast-iron-kernelled — which Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be: I could no other: God it was bade 'Act for me!' " Then stooping, peering round — what is it now he lacks? A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe. Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind. The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

At length, still mute, all move: one lifts, — from where it steeps Redder each ruddy rag of pine, — the head: two more Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before, Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends Opposite to the church; where halting, — who suspends, By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife And mother, loved until this latest of her life. Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space Kept free before the porch for judgment: just the place! Presently all the souls, man, woman, child, which make The village up, are found assembling for the sake Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there: A Gipsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair, Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say, — none breathes.

Anon from out the church totters the Pope — the priest — Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least. With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too, Stàrosta, that 's his style, — like Equity Judge with you, — Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs, Pomeschìk, — Lord of the Land, who wields — and none demurs — A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta — the thorpe's Sagaciousest old man — hears what you just have heard, From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word "God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"

Silence — the Pomeschìk broke with "A wild wrong way   Of righting wrong — if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse! Why was not law observed? What article allows Whoso may please to play the judge, and, judgment dealt, Play executioner, as promptly as we pelt To death, without appeal, the vermin whose sole fault Has been — it dared to leave the darkness of its vault, Intrude upon our day! Too sudden and too rash! What was this woman's crime? Suppose the church should crash Down where I stand, your lord: bound are my serfs to dare Their utmost that I 'scape: yet, if the crashing scare    My children, — as you are, — if sons fly, one and all, Leave father to his fate, — poor cowards though I call The runaways, I pause before I claim their life Because they prized it more than mine. I would each wife Died for her husband's sake, each son to save his sire: 'T is glory, I applaud — scarce duty, I require. Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that's named Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"

All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old — How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled   Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age, Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God. 'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw And paid obedience to man's visionary law: 'Your old men shall dream dreams:' and, in my age, a hand Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand    Firm on its base, — know cause, who, before, knew effect.

"The world lies under me: and nowhere I detect So great a gift as this — God's own — of human life. 'Shall the dead praise thee?' No! 'The whole live world is rife, God, with thy glory,' rather! Life then, God's best of gifts, For what shall man exchange? For life — when so he shifts The weight and turns the scale, lets life for life restore God's balance, sacrifice the less to gain the more, Substitute — for low life, another's or his own — Life large and liker God's who gave it: thus alone   May life extinguish life that life may trulier be! How low this law descends on earth, is not for me To trace: complexed becomes the simple, intricate The plain, when I pursue law's winding. 'T is the straight Outflow of law I know and name: to law, the fount Fresh from God's footstool, friends, follow while I remount.

"A mother bears a child: perfection is complete So far in such a birth. Enabled to repeat The miracle of life, — herself was born so just A type of womankind, that God sees fit to trust   Her with the holy task of giving life in turn. Crowned by this crowning pride, — how say you, should she spurn Regality — discrowned, unchilded, by her choice Of barrenness exchanged for fruit which made rejoice Creation, though life's self were lost in giving birth To life more fresh and fit to glorify God's earth? How say you, should the hand God trusted with life's torch Kindled to light the world — aware of sparks that scorch, Let fall the same? Forsooth, her flesh a fire-flake stings: The mother drops the child! Among what monstrous things    Shall she be classed? Because of motherhood, each male Yields to his partner place, sinks proudly in the scale: His strength owned weakness, wit — folly, and courage — fear. Beside the female proved male's mistress — only here. The fox-dam, hunger-pined, will slay the felon sire Who dares assault her whelp: the beaver, stretched on fire, Will die without a groan: no, pang avails to wrest Her young from where they hide — her sanctuary breast. What's here then? Answer me, thou dead one, as, I trow, Standing at God's own bar, he bids thee answer now! Thrice crowned wast thou — each crown of pride, a child — thy charge! Where are they? Lost? Enough: no need that thou enlarge On how or why the loss: life left to utter 'lost' Condemns itself beyond appeal. The soldier's post Guards from the foe's attack the camp he sentinels: That he no traitor proved, this and this only tells — Over the corpse of him trod foe to foe's success. Yet — one by one thy crowns torn from thee — thou no less To scare the world, shame God, — livedst! I hold He saw The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law, Whereof first instrument was first intelligence Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense, The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace. Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found A man and man enough, head-sober and heart-sound, Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey. Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day, No otherwise than did, in ages long ago, Moses when he made known the purport of that flow Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"

At which name Uprose that creepy whisper from out the crowd, is wont To swell and surge and sink when fellow-men confront A punishment that falls on fellow flesh and blood, Appallingly beheld — shudderingly understood, No less, to be the right, the just, the merciful. "God's servant!" hissed the crowd.

When that Amen grew dull And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged, "Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There's none shall say I grudged   Escape from punishment in such a novel case. Deferring to old age and holy life, — be grace Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense Firmer than I boast mine. Law's law, and evidence Of breach therein lies plain, — blood-red-bright, — all may see! Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!

"And next — as mercy rules the hour — methinks 't were well You signify forthwith its sentence, and dispel The doubts and fears, I judge, which busy now the head Law puts a halter round — a halo — you, instead!   Ivàn Ivànovitch — what think you he expects Will follow from his feat? Go, tell him — law protects Murder, for once: no need he longer keep behind The Sacred Pictures — where skulks Innocence enshrined, Or I missay! Go, some! You others, haste and hide The dismal object there: get done, whate'er betide!"

So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped Silently to the house: where halting, someone stooped, Listened beside the door; all there was silent too. Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through, Stood in the murderer's presence.

Ivàn Ivànovitch Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights. Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights, Piece upoa piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete. Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread. Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-coloured head, Was just in act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones, — each a dome, — The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch, — An acorn-cup — was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch Turned with it in his mouth.

They told him he was free As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.