IT was just daylight on the following morning that two children passed the house of Ivan Drovski. A sack made from a strong linen sheet was swung over the back of the older child, a girl of ten or eleven. She had knotted the four corners of the sheet securely and she held the ends firmly in her two hands. The sack was heavy and the child walked with bent back to ease its weight. Beside her a boy danced gayly, running off now and then into the fields to look for flowers and mushrooms. He found an abundance of flowers but it was not until they had passed the church at the end of the village street that he picked his first mushroom.
"Look, Katrinka," he cried, running towards the girl, who had stopped breathless at the top of the hill. "I have found a pink mushroom."
The girl smiled. "It is a very pretty, Peter," she said; "you shall eat it with salt for your dinner."
"And the leg of the chicken? You said you were saving that for my dinner to-day. I am hungry, Katrinka; it is time for dinner now."
The girl laughed. "No, Peter, we must travel a long, long distance before we eat dinner. Come, the sun will be up in a few minutes and all of the village will be out. We must hurry or somebody will see us and then we shall be scolded for beginning our journey without first discussing it with our neighbors."
She drew the sack higher over her shoulder and started briskly down the incline. A little feeling of fear and desolation was already taking possession of her, and in order to keep up her sinking spirits she began to talk gayly.
"We are going to St. Petersburg, where the streets are all beautiful and the houses are made of marble and gold," she said. She had never seen a great city except in her dreams.
"All of the people there are merry. They laugh and sing and the Little Father goes about among them showering blessings on their heads. And nobody is hungry. When we get there we will go to the Little Father and ask him to take us to Stefan Norvitch."
"Why do you say 'Little Father,' Katrinka? Father is bigger than Ivan Drovski."
"The Little Father is the Czar. He has five children, one of them a little boy only two years older than you."
"Will he play with me, Katrinka?"
"Perhaps, if you are good."
"What is his name?"
"Alexis."
"Has he a yellow jacket like mine?"
"He has many jackets of different colors."
"Has he a sword?"
"Yes, although he is only six years old. He is an officer of many regiments."
"So am I," cried Peter, "and I have a sword. Tell me some more."
"Wait until we reach the bazaar, 11 Peter."
"When will that be?"
"In a little while. It is in the next town."
"Is the next town St. Petersburg?"
"Oh, no. This town is only eight miles from our village. St. Petersburg is much farther. Before we reach St. Petersburg we come to the town called Tsarskoe Seloe 12 where the Czar and his children live."
"Will they let us sleep in their oven?"
"They do not sleep on the oven, Peter."
Peter pouted. "Do they sleep on shelves? I like the oven better."
"They sleep on beds that are as soft and warm as fur. But see, there in the field is a brown mushroom." Katrinka laughed. "We shall find more than we can eat."
Peter gathered the mushroom and a short distance farther on the children came to a place where the road divided. Katrinka stopped.
Two roads now stretched before her. She did not know which one led to the town where she had heard there was a bazaar to which people came from far and near to buy and sell things. While she stood hesitating, a man driving a shaggy little farm horse approached. Katrinka drew Peter into the grass at the side of the road and held up her hand.
The man brought his horse to a sudden halt, and leaning from his wagon asked if he could give her a lift.
"No, I thank you. We are on our way to St. Petersburg. But first we want to stop at the village of Tosna, where there is a bazaar. Which of these two roads goes there, please?"
The man laughed. "So you and the little one are going to the bazaar. It is a long journey by foot. Take the road to the right. If I overtake you on my way back, I will give you a ride. What have you in the sack?"
"I am taking our samovar to the bazaar to sell."
"Well, good luck," said the man, and crossed himself. It was not unusual in the spring for Russian peasants to be obliged to part with their most treasured household possessions. The winters were long and hard. It was easy to see that Katrinka had gone hungry more than once. The wagon rattled down the road. The children stood looking wistfully after it until it disappeared, then resumed their journey.
At ten o'clock they sat down by the roadside and Katrinka untied the great sack and took from it a tiny bundle which she opened and from which she produced the leg and back of the chicken.
She gave the leg to Peter, who bit into it ravenously. The chicken was tough, for Katrinka had long ago given away the young pullets, either to the priest or to her needy neighbors, keeping two old hens until the last. She had felt a fondness for them because they had raised families the year before. But, to the children, the tough meat tasted delicious and they picked the bones until not a shred of meat remained. Then Peter set his teeth into the pink mushroom, offering the brown one to Katrinka. This she refused, urging Peter to eat it himself, and sprinkling salt between its feathery gills. She was afraid that Peter would be hungry again long before they reached the bazaar.
After they had finished their luncheon she threw the heavy sack over her shoulder. Then she and Peter again started on their journey. The sun beat down upon them pitilessly, for summer comes suddenly in Russia, intense heat frequently following severe cold. But they went on courageously until, by and by, Peter's feet began to drag. Now and then he stopped and, sitting down by the side of the road, begged Katrinka to take him home. By one o'clock both children were very hungry again, but there was nothing for them to eat excepting a few sunflower seeds that Katrinka had been saving to plant.
On every side of them they saw men and women working in the fields and gardens, the women weeding the cucumber beds on their hands and knees, or, hitched beside cows, dragging the heavy plows. Their bright skirts and kerchiefs made pretty patches of color, and Katrinka longed to abandon her weary pilgrimage and stop and talk with them. Only her desire to reach the bazaar before dark stopped her.
To brace her waning spirits she sang the village war songs and hummed tunes that Ivan Drovski played on his accordeon.
After a while the sun went down and the air grew cold. Peter said he wanted his sheepskin coat, but it had been left behind. Then he insisted on returning and made Katrinka's progress difficult by tugging at her skirts and beseeching her to go back.
Too tired to remonstrate with the child, with back aching and hands stiff and sore from holding the pack, she went stubbornly on, and just as darkness fell her perseverance was rewarded. She saw in the distance the lights of the village of Tosna.
This chapter has been put on-line as part of the
BUILD-A-BOOK Initiative at the
Celebration of Women Writers.
Initial text entry and proof-reading of this chapter were the work of volunteer
Sally Drake.
