20. Last Wreaths

The forest, which they saw in the distance stretching out like a blue shadow, began to show its beautiful green color as they drew near it. They could see on its border the deep green of the oak and the lighter colored foliage of the birch.

“We have reached here,” said the Envoy, pushing aside the branches and penetrating the underwood. “We will soon find a thicket where we can make a new halt.”

It was not easy to find the thicket. The forest was so dense that it was almost impossible to advance. Not to speak of the branches which struck their faces, the thorns which tore their clothes, caught their hair, scratched and lacerated them, and the trunks of dead trees lying on the ground which barred their way, gigantic hop-vines interlaced all this vegetation at the top, while ground ivy and a thousand running plants were twined about it below.

Nevertheless, Tchetchevik knew where he wished to go, for he examined every bush, listened to every sound, and at times stopped to reflect and to search for a trace or an indication on the ground or in the grass which he wished to find.

At last, they reached the thicket. Close at hand was a clearing where there was more space than they needed to make a halt on the grass.

“Rest yourself, Maroussia. Do you see this grass, this moss? Our rich Ataman himself does not possess such a brilliant carpet. Oh, if this luxury had satisfied him! If he had comprehended sooner that gold is not even a demigod, but the worst of idols. Be seated under this oak, it is the great Ataman of the forest. It is a thousand years old, perhaps. It has seen everything but does not fail yet. The stars of heaven have always been enough for its head.”

The oak tree was truly magnificent. It stretched its majestic branches in all directions, and formed by itself alone a sort of fresh and sacred temple, where at the same time reigned coolness, shade and silence. The sun’s rays could not penetrate its thick foliage, its top alone was lighted.

Very near this tree the trunk of another oak, which must have been the equal of the one still standing, was lying on the ground, vanquished by years. Not a leaf was left of all those which had been the pride of its life. Tchetchevik, looking at it, began to think aloud.

“This tree,” he said, “has never been touched by the axe. It has never been subject to the violence of man, its old limbs are free from wound, even the lightning has respected it, and yet here it lies on the ground. Thus everything that has life marches by days or by ages toward what seems to be an end. A few years more and this colossus will return to the dust, but the dust is fruitful, and very soon the oak will become a blade of grass. Small or great, resurrection awaits all alike. A grain of sand is indestructible, is immortal, for a much greater reason are our souls immortal; in truth, life here below is so short, that it is scarcely worthwhile to worry over it, since it belongs to God more than to us.”