Part 41 (2/2)
The big man's eyes were fixed. His wife shook him gently, but he did not heed her. He was looking through the presidential rostrum, through the big buildings behind it, looking out over leagues of s.p.a.ce to a snow-swept village that huddled on an island in the Beresina, the swift-flowing tributary of the mighty Dnieper, an island that looked like a black bone stuck tight in the maw of the stream.
It was in the little village on the Beresina that the Dream came to Ivan Berloff, Big Ivan of the Bridge.
The Dream came in the spring. All great dreams come in the spring, and the Spring Maiden who brought Big Ivan's Dream was more than ordinarily beautiful. She swept up the Beresina, trailing wondrous draperies of vivid green. Her feet touched the snow-hardened ground, and armies of little white and blue flowers sprang up in her footsteps. Soft breezes escorted her, velvety breezes that carried the aromas of the far-off places from which they came, places far to the southward, and more distant towns beyond the Black Sea whose people were not under the sway of the Great Czar.
The father of Big Ivan, who had fought under Prince Mens.h.i.+kov at Alma fifty-five years before, hobbled out to see the sunbeams eat up the snow hummocks that hid in the shady places, and he told his son it was the most wonderful spring he had ever seen.
”The little breezes are hot and sweet,” he said, sniffing hungrily with his face turned toward the south. ”I know them, Ivan! I know them! They have the spice odor that I sniffed on the winds that came to us when we lay in the trenches at Balaklava. Praise G.o.d for the warmth!”
And that day the Dream came to Big Ivan as he plowed. It was a wonder dream. It sprang into his brain as he walked behind the plow, and for a few minutes he quivered as the big bridge quivers when the Beresina sends her ice squadrons to hammer the arches. It made his heart pound mightily, and his lips and throat became very dry.
Big Ivan stopped at the end of the furrow and tried to discover what had brought the Dream. Where had it come from? Why had it clutched him so suddenly? Was he the only man in the village to whom it had come?
Like his father, he sniffed the sweet-smelling breezes. He thrust his great hands into the sunbeams. He reached down and plucked one of a bunch of white flowers that had sprung up overnight. The Dream was born of the breezes and the suns.h.i.+ne and the spring flowers. It came from them and it had sprung into his mind because he was young and strong. He knew! It couldn't come to his father or Donkov, the tailor, or Poborino, the smith. They were old and weak, and Ivan's dream was one that called for youth and strength.
”Ay, for youth and strength,” he muttered as he gripped the plow. ”And I have it!”
That evening Big Ivan of the Bridge spoke to his wife, Anna, a little woman, who had a sweet face and a wealth of fair hair.
”Wife, we are going away from here,” he said.
”Where are we going, Ivan?” she asked.
”Where do you think, Anna?” he said, looking down at her as she stood by his side.
”To Bobruisk,” she murmured.
”No.”
”Farther?”
”Ay, a long way farther.”
Fear sprang into her soft eyes. Bobruisk was eighty-nine versts away, yet Ivan said they were going farther.
”We--we are not going to Minsk?” she cried.
”Aye, and beyond Minsk!”
”Ivan, tell me!” she gasped. ”Tell me where we are going!”
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