KATRINKA stood in the middle of the storeroom and looked around. The walls were bare, the casks that had held salted meat, pickled cucumbers and cabbages were empty. She had given the last of the honey to Mother Drovski for Marie's wedding feast. Katrinka shook her head sadly and went to the cupboard where her mother had kept the preserved cherries and strawberries and the delicious bottled grape juice. The cupboard was now bare.
Katrinka sighed. The light of the flickering candle showed that her cheeks had lost their rosy color and that there were hollows in them. The white kerchief crossed over her breast revealed the thinness of her sweet throat.
Katrinka ran her fingers over the dusty shelves, hoping that unexpectedly she would come upon a dried herring. She disturbed a couple of big beetles which rustled away to hide in a crack in the shelf, but there were no herrings.
With a shake of the head and a quivering under lip, she left the cupboard and going to the big stone jars standing on the floor of the storeroom, peered into them. There was a sharp stick on top of one. She took it and stirred the brine in the bottom of the jar where the cucumbers had been kept. Then with another sigh she turned to the stairway.
"Peter will cry if there is nothing but berries and a crust of the black bread," she said under her breath. "I will go out and hunt again for some mushrooms."
She blew out her candle and, tying her kerchief over her head, went to the pasture. Her feet lagged. She felt very tired. In the distance the cow, which had given no milk for a month, was contentedly chewing her cud. Katrinka looked at her reproachfully, then as her eyes fell on the ground, laughed gleefully. Almost at her feet were two beautiful mushrooms nestled, half hidden in the grass. She pulled them up carefully, and laying them in a large leaf, hid them in a corner of the fence.
Cheered by her good fortune, she called to Peter to come and help her look for others. The child came trotting dutifully toward her. He was wearing the yellow frock in which Katrinka had dressed him on Easter morning and which had fitted so snugly. Now, although Easter had long since passed and the dress should have been tighter than ever, it hung quite loosely upon him. For Peter, like Katrinka, was very thin. There were blue hollows under his cheek bones, and his little nose looked sharp and pinched.
Katrinka's breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. Then her eyes wandered in the direction of Ivan Drovski's cottage. At Ivan's there was milk and plenty of sour, black bread. But Marie's wedding was to take place Sunday and Mother Drovski was busy preparing for the feasting that would last for three days. Katrinka looked longingly towards the cottage, then shook her head and resumed her search for mushrooms. She and Peter would be in the way. Besides, the Drovskis' storeroom would be as bare as their own by the time Marie's wedding was over, and there were many mouths to be fed in the Drovski izba.
Poor Katrinka!
She felt faint. Her feet no longer skimmed the ground as lightly as thistledown. There was a strange feeling of hollowness under her breastbone and her head ached. For two days there had been only a few crusts of black bread in the house and these Peter had eaten. Mother Drovski had given her milk, ever since the cow had gone dry, but yesterday when Katrinka had gone for it she had been given only a part of the usual allowance, because the big cheeses for the wedding would take all of the milk that the Drovski cow gave.
"My own babies will have to get along on cabbage soup and bread for the next few days," Mother Drovski had said, shaking her head sadly as she looked at Katrinka, "and so will you and Peter. But after the wedding–well, as I have told you before–there is always room in our house for Peter Petrovski's little ones, and you will soon be big enough to work in the fields with the women."
Katrinka had thanked Mother Drovski and had gone slowly home. She felt that she could not again ask for milk. Half-heartedly she searched the field and the neighboring roadside for mushrooms and berries, then went to the straw-thatched stable in search of eggs. But there were only two hens now, and she found no eggs.
Inside the cottage the big samovar still stood in the center of the pine table. But it had not been used for many days. There was neither tea nor sugar in the cupboard, and after to-day there would be no bread, not even a crust.
Katrinka fried her mushrooms in oil that her mother had made from the seeds of sunflowers, looked over the few berries she had gathered, arranged them nicely in a yellow bowl and lifted Peter to his high stool.
Peter tasted the berries, then pushed them away.
"Peter wants bread and milk," he said crossly.
"First eat some mushrooms and the nice, red berries, then, by and by, Katrinka will give Peter some bread and milk."
Peter shook his head obstinately, but after some coaxing Katrinka prevailed upon him to eat the mushrooms and berries. When he had finished these he again asked for milk and set up a loud wailing when Katrinka told him that he must wait until night, when Ivan Drovski had finished milking.
Katrinka's dinner consisted solely of wild berries, and when she finished this meager repast, she felt weaker than ever. But she kept up a brave front for Peter's sake.
She washed her dishes, tidied her little kitchen and whitewashed the stove. Then with Peter she started down the long village street towards the house of the white-haired priest. She had given many a strip of bacon, many a fine ham, as well as potatoes and flour, to the priest during the past six months. Now she was going to ask him to give her food enough to keep her and little Peter from starving during the next few weeks.
The old priest was working in his garden and, as Katrinka approached, smiled a friendly greeting.
"And what has the lamb for an offering to-day?" he asked as she drew near.
"I have not come with an offering to-day, Father. I have come to ask alms. Peter is hungry. Our cow has gone dry. Our hens do not lay any eggs. The garden which Ivan Drovski has plowed and planted for us will yield nothing for some weeks. We are hungry and Peter cries for milk."
The priest's face grew serious. "And you have come to the church for aid? Oh, my child, these are hard times for the church and for the good Czar, the head of it. As for me, I have a large family of my own to feed and my storeroom is almost empty. You should be giving alms, not asking them."
"But, Father, I have nothing more to give and Peter is starving."
The priest looked at Katrinka, scowling.
"How does it happen that with all the riches left in your house when your father and mother went away, you have come to such straits that you ask aid of the church?" he demanded sternly. "What have you done with the fish and pork, the bin full of potatoes, the cabbages, the beets, the cucumbers? Surely two children have not eaten everything."
"Oh, no," said Katrinka. "The winter was long. Many of our neighbors needed food. My father always helped those poorer than himself, so I did what he would have had me do. I gave to the hungry whatever they asked. Surely I did right."
"So that is the way the wind blows! Well, then, my child, since you have come to me for help and advice I will give it to you."
Katrinka's head suddenly stopped aching. The color flashed into her cheeks.
"Thank you, Father," she said, making a reverence and seizing the priest's hand in order to kiss his finger tips. The priest patted her head, smiling into her upturned face. "Yes, child, I will help you. Go to the neighbors whom you helped in their need, and ask them to help you, now, in yours. Tell them that I sent you."
"But, Father, they are no better off than they were last winter. They were hungry then. They are still hungry. I cannot ask help from them."
"Tell them that I sent you. Surely there is enough food in the village to keep two orphaned little ones from starving."
Tears rose and filled Katrinka's eyes as she looked at the broad back of the priest, which he had turned towards her as he finished speaking. She brushed them away, then her gaze wandered to the windows of his small house where his wife sat sewing. The woman looked pale and ill.
Katrinka smiled at her as cheerily as she could. She felt sorry for the priest's wife, because in Russia, although the people love the church, they shun the priest and his family. Neither the children of the peasants nor the children of the nobles associate with the priest's children. It is considered very bad luck to come upon him unexpectedly in the street. If his wife dies he must give up his parish, take leave of his children and enter a monastery, because a priest without a wife is not allowed to live in a parish, and a second marriage if forbidden.
His oldest son must become a priest, no matter how unwilling he may be, and his daughters must marry priests. Frequently they never see their future husbands before the wedding ceremony. Pictures and descriptions of these girls are sent to all the church schools in the country. When a young man has completed his education for the priesthood he writes to the father of the girl whose picture and description have pleased him, and a marriage is arranged. The wedding must take place before he is given a parish in order to fulfill the law of the Russian church, which provides that no unmarried man can be a priest.
The priest's wife smiled and nodded at Katrinka and no doubt would have gladly asked her to tea, if she had not felt certain that the child would have refused such an invitation, as the villagers deem it unlucky to eat or drink in the house of a priest.
As Katrinka again turned her face towards the street, the tears once more rose and filled her eyes. She walked slowly with down-drooping head. House after house she passed, pausing now and then to look wistfully into the open doorways. There was scarcely a family which had not benefited from her generosity during the past winter. But something–either pride or shyness–kept her now from asking alms. No, there must be some other way. Her knees trembled as she climbed the slight rise of ground which led to Ivan Drovski's cottage. Peter was waiting for her near the gate. As Katrinka looked at him she knew that Mother Drovski had given him some milk. The front of his jacket was wet with it. Marie sat on a bench in front of the house putting the last stitches into her full skirt. Her hips burst like shelves from her tight belt.
The Drovskis had fared well since Peter Petrovski had been taken away. Ivan Drovski had come every morning to milk the cow for Katrinka and to bring in an armful or two of birch wood for the fire, while Marie had slept in the house with the children every night since the disappearance of Katrinka's parents. In return, longing to show her gratitude for their kindness, Katrinka had loaded her neighbors with provisions, and the Drovski children had grown fat and rosy as they had never been before.
But now that the provisions had given out she could no longer repay Ivan for taking care of the cow and bringing in the wood. She had given him the last of the salt fish the day he had plowed the garden. Katrinka sighed, then threw up her head courageously and smiled at Marie.
"Thank you for giving Peter a cup of milk, Marie," she called. "He is growing so fast that he is always hungry." She paused, then went on, making a brave attempt to seem cheerful.
"I found a lace and linen apron in mother's chest yesterday. I will send it to you to-night by your father when he comes to feed the cow. I am sure it will become you."
Marie showed all of her pretty teeth in the smile she flashed at Katrinka.
"Thank you, she cried, and then bent again over her work.
Katrinka took Peter by the hand. They were a long time in reaching home, although it was but a little way, for Katrinka's feet dragged. When, at last, she reached the house she sank down weakly on the doorstep, her chin in her palms. She knew that the time had come when she and Peter must have help from the outside, but it was the first of June and the whole village seemed poverty-stricken. Last year's provisions were exhausted and this season's crops were not yet ready.
Presently Katrinka's thoughts were disturbed by the plaintive mooing of the cow. Ivan Drovski had assured her that in a few days there would be plenty of milk again. Katrinka smiled wanly. By that time she and Peter would have starved to death. She rose wearily, called Peter, and undressing him, put him to bed on the shelf under the window, although it was still early in the afternoon. If he went to sleep now, she reasoned, he would not miss his supper.
Katrinka lay down beside her brother, her dark eyes wide open, resting first on one piece of furniture, then on another. Suddenly a wonderful idea came to her, and forgetting her weakness, and the heavy feeling in her head, she sprang to her feet, and as of old danced across the floor, waving her thin, little arms above her head. In front of the table she paused.
On it stood the shining samovar. She gazed at it, her eyes glowing. Then, in spite of her hunger, she began to sing, choosing one of the songs the young men in the village always sing before starting away to join the army. Afterwards she blew a kiss towards the samovar, whirled around, opened the door and went outside. As she walked towards the enclosure that her father had made for the chickens, the old weakness returned, but she still hummed softly. She looked at the two fat hens that were scratching in the dirt, then started down the road towards Ivan Drovski's house. Half-way there she met Ivan coming up the slope.
"Good evening, my lamb," he shouted. "I was on my way to your house."
Katrinka smiled. "And I was in search of you, Ivan Drovski. Our hens do not lay. I will bake one and give the other to you." As she spoke a shadow clouded her brow, for the hens seemed like old friends, although they laid no eggs.
"I will lose no time," replied Ivan, his face lighting up. "But first I will take a look at the cow."
He went around to the back of the house, and then began shouting to Katrinka.
"Come, child. Here is a present for you. Come quickly, and call Peter."
Katrinka made haste to join Ivan, who was standing in the door of the stable. "Come here, little one," he shouted.
She entered the low stable door and saw lying in the straw on the floor beside the cow, a tiny, baby calf. She cried out in delight, clasping her hands. Then the thought came to her that there was another mouth to be fed and she sighed despairingly.
"In a few days you will have milk to spare," cried Ivan, running his hand gently along the cow's back. "And now I will see about the hens."
Ten minutes later a fine plump hen, picked and dressed, was placed on the kitchen table.
Katrinka threw wood on the fire, and before the sun went down, the cottage was filled with pleasant odors. Peter danced gleefully back and forth patting his small stomach in delighted anticipation of the approaching feast.
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