The Luck of Ivan the Forgetful

V

Ivan the Runaway could not bury Anjuta’s mother, for he had no spade. He contented himself with collecting twigs, pine-branches, and stones in order to cover the body of the poor tramp. The little girl at first wanted to hold his hands, but at his sharp rebuke she crept into a ditch and remained there crying bitterly, while he finished his work.

“Well, why are you crying?” he asked at last to comfort her.

“I am sad about mother.”

“Your mother is dead; she won’t come back.”

“How can she be dead?”

“Have you never seen any one die?”

“Oh yes, Uncle Andron, whom God took to Himself.”

“Well, God has taken your mother to Himself. Perhaps He wanted her.”

“There was also the grey horse,” said the child. “God took him too. When will He take me?”

The old man looked long at the child, and something like pity stirred him.

“For you it is still too early,” he said gloomily.

“But what shall I do without mother?” She again held his finger with her little hand.

“Don’t be afraid. I will stay with you. No one will touch you; I have a gun.”

The old man picked up two slender sticks and tied them together with a strip of birch-bark, so as to make a rude cross. “Now your mother’s grave is finished. Make a prayer, Anjuta; then we will go.”

“I don’t know how to pray; mother never taught me. I can only say, ‘Give me a piece of bread for Jesus’ sake.'”

“Have you never been in church?”

“No; mother and I—we always stood before the church door when people came out and cried, ‘Good people, give us bread for Jesus’ sake; we have eaten nothing for two days.'”

“Well then, God can ask nothing more of you, poor thing,” said Ivan in a more friendly tone and stroked her. “He will be tolerant. Cross yourself and kiss this cross. That’s right. And now say, ‘Lord, have mercy on her poor soul.'”

“Lord, have mercy on her poor soul,” the child repeated.

“Now let us go on. We have no time to loiter.”

It was not till evening that Ivan, carrying the tired child on his arm, reached a little village. He waited till it was dark and lights showed in the windows. As though they scented a thief in him, the dogs raised an ear-splitting noise. Anjuta, who had been asleep, nestling against his cheek, started with fright, and began to cry; he told her harshly to be quiet and approached the last cottage in the village which stood near the wood.

“Who is knocking? Is it a Christian?” asked a woman’s voice.

“Will you give me a bed for the night? I am tired with carrying her.” He pointed to the child, whose little head had again sunk on his shoulder. The woman would hardly have admitted him alone.

“Come in, but don’t take it ill that there is nothing to eat; we have nothing ourselves.”

“I have money, if there is any chance of buying anything.”

“Is the child yours? How tired it is, poor little thing!”

“No, she is not mine. What should a hunter do with children? She came in my way, that is all. Her mother died in the forest and I found her before the wolves ate her. Perhaps some one will adopt her. She is quite healthy and her name is Anjuta.”

“Who can adopt her? We ourselves have barely enough to live upon. You must report your finding her at the police office in the nearest town, or go with her to the bailiff of the village.”

But Ivan was not at all disposed to go either to the town or to the village bailiff. “Since God has sent me the poor orphan, she can remain with me,” he said. “We will not come to grief, we two, in the forest. Will you promise not to be afraid when you hear howlings and moanings in the wood?”

“If you are with me, Grandfather, I won’t be afraid. You have a gun and can shoot all the wolves dead.”

As the child chattered, the old man’s sulky face assumed a brighter expression.