The Luck of Ivan the Forgetful

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All that remained to the convict of his brief summer happiness was Anjuta. As he lay on his bed of soft skins his burning eyes never left the child. The unfortunate man suffered severely. In the first shock he had not been able to judge distinctly how seriously the bear had injured him. The deep wound in his shoulder would not heal, although Anjuta had learnt how to wash and bandage it daily. It was soon accompanied by a fever. Meanwhile, time went on remorselessly; the winter regularly settled in, and the rude hut no longer afforded sufficient shelter. One day Ivan dragged himself on all fours into the open, and with endless trouble began to plaster the hut outside with earth. Within, he dug a hollow in the ground, and with the help of a pole made a hole in the roof, which could be closed with a small board. The fire-place was then ready.

“Listen, little girl.” In his illness the old man had become especially gentle towards the orphan. “Now you must look after me. Be my little housekeeper. Light the fire and boil the water. Thank God we have enough bread and wood and meal. Put a couple of handfuls into the soup with sliced potatoes; it will be quite tasty. Later on we will catch hares. Peasants are not allowed to eat hares, but we are foresters, and that has nothing to do with us.”

So Anjuta lit the fire, cooked the soup, brought fresh wood from the wood-pile. When the fire had burnt out, she clambered on the roof and closed the opening—the “chimney,” as Ivan called it—so that it remained comfortably warm in the hut.

“Is that right, Grandfather?” she laughed.

“You are my treasure, my little dove,” the old man said as he lay on his skins. “Without you it would be all over with me.”

Ivan was glad that he had taken care in the summer that the little girl should know the way to the village thoroughly well. If his sickness lasted, she would have to go many errands for him. But he did not like sending the little creature out when all the paths were covered with snow.

“Anjuta,” he asked by way of precaution, “how will you recognize the way to the village?”

“By the axe-cuts on the trunks as far as the pine which was struck by lightning.”

“You are a sharp little girl.”

“And then by the ravine to the birch-tree where you have made the sign of the cross. Then following the notches to the river, and from there one can see the village.”

Ivan became easier in mind. His protégée would not be lost, but in case of need could fetch help by herself. But he continued in a weak state. One day, when he felt he could no longer bear doing nothing, he dragged himself, gun in hand, as far as the edge of the clearing, only to sink down exhausted. Shaking with fever, after some time he returned home. Anjuta, who ran to help him, was frightened and saw that all was not right with him. He threw off his fur coat and talked to her excitedly, with delirious eyes. “I will not go back behind the iron bars, do you hear? I will not. I am innocent, your honour. Why do you torment the old man? You might sentence a younger man to be knouted, but it will be the death of me. Have pity, kind sirs, I must look after Anjuta.” His voice sank to a hardly intelligible whisper. “You have made a bad beginning, comrade. When the hour comes, everything must be ready. Take out the plank and lower it. Do you see the sentry. Spring on his shoulder and throttle him so that he does not stir … it serves him right. Don’t sentence me, kind sirs; I have not killed Anjuta. Ask her herself.”

At last he fell into a light slumber, and when he awoke he was calmer. “Have I frightened you, my dovelet? Ah, I am very ill, Anjuta; you have much trouble. But wait; when I am well again we will have a jolly life.”

But weeks passed, and Ivan did not get up. He was quite emaciated, and his dark eyes were sunken still more deeply in their sockets, under his bushy white eye-brows. Fortunately the winter was mild, and there was not much snow.

“Anjuta, have we still bread and meal?”

“There is only a hard crust left for you to-morrow, and the meal too is nearly finished.”

“I will go to-morrow to the village,” said the old man. “I will send Andryushka Lasaref for the skins which are lying ready; the sledge can go all the way.”

The next day he took a tender adieu of the child and started; but half an hour afterwards he knocked at the door and threw himself on the bed in a state of complete exhaustion.

“I can’t do it, Anjuta, really I can’t,” he said as though in apology. “There is no more marrow in my bones. If I can’t stand up to-morrow, you must go. You are not afraid?”

“No, Grandfather … only a little of the bears.”

“The bears are now asleep in their holes, you little stupid, and suck their paws. And there are no wolves to be heard just now. There is nothing more for them here; therefore they are gone near the villages; otherwise we would hear them howling every night.”

The old man had tears in his eyes when Anjuta got herself ready next morning for the journey.

“Such a tiny thing, quite alone in the deep forest!” he murmured to himself.

“Tell Lasaref to bring a sack of meal, two large loaves of bread, and some barley, and say that Grandfather has all kinds of fine things ready for him. But mind you don’t try to come home by night, Anjuta. Stay with Andryushka for the night, and he will bring you in the sledge in the morning. Tell him I am ill—the bear has badly mauled Ivan the Runaway. Do you understand?”

“Yes; but why do you cry, Grandfather?”

“It is only foolishness…. I have grown quite weak. Now go, and God preserve you! And listen, Anjuta; whenever you feel frightened, you must sing.”

The child started and the old man, creeping out of the hut, followed her with his eyes. She soon reached the edge of the clearing. How nimbly her young feet moved! Under the gigantic trees she moved like a little beetle. Now she turned and laughed at him, and his eyes, misty with tears, could see nothing more.