Yevno shuffled down the road, leading old Lukiv behind him. The aging peasant’s step was more labored these days, and his breathing heavier, yet he would not have dreamed of riding the faithful beast.
“Sitting on the back of a horse is for rich moujiks and the promieshik,” he murmured in what was apparently an ongoing conversation with his four-legged companion. “You and I, Lukiv, are equals, eh? You walk, I walk, and we both grow weary together.”
He chuckled into his tangled gray beard. The horse gave a whinnying snort of acknowledgment.
Yevno paused a moment for breath and, shielding his eyes against the midday sun, gazed across the surrounding valley. A light, cool breeze rustled the leaves of the birch and elms; the leaves were yellower than they had been only a week before.
Time indeed marched on, if not with the cadence of a military parade, then most certainly with the tenacity of an old man leading his workhorse and friend.
As the short warm summer drifts into the chills of autumn, so are our lives drifting into new paths, thought Yevno, the particular mood of the day casting his mind into a philosophical bent. For all his worldly ignorance, deep inside he was a man whose heart felt the changing and subtle tunes of the universe. And indeed, as sure as the air was turning crisp and the leaves yellow and brown with the new season, so too could Yevno sense the passing of the season of grief that had descended upon his home three months earlier.
Russians might revel in gloom and disaster, with their sonorous ballads in minor keys. But as with everything about the Motherland, on the other side lay the lusty, wild, vibrant grasping for life with all its riotous joy. Drudgery and joy, both went to make up Russia.
Old Yevno could feel the beginnings of change. As he trudged over the old wooden bridge, his sweeping gaze shifted toward the little crook in the stream beside the giant willow, where his eldest daughter sat in a most familiar pose. But instead of a book, a bundle of squirming blankets lay in her lap.
Once, in Pskov, Yevno had struck up a conversation with an ironmonger, as he had watched the burly artisan at his trade. Bent before the fiery cauldrons in which the metals were forged, the man told him that in melting together distinctive metals, he was able to produce a stronger tool in the end than was possible with only one element.
So it was with his own precious Anna.
She had passed through the fires of grief and loss and confusion—or at least was steadily passing through them. Into her grieving soul were being poured persons and situations, quandaries and decisions, that would never have come to her had she remained forever under his roof. The fires of suffering were melting into her very being, not breaking, not destroying, not consuming her, but rather strengthening her—adding depths of character that could come by no other means.
He knew well that it was not always so. Count Remizov displayed the sad example of a man who had let his troubles defeat him—at least for the present. Instead of forging a life for himself and his daughter, he had chosen to face life alone, turning his back rather than confronting the realities before him. They had heard no word from him since his brief visit in July with Lieutenant Grigorov. And as attached as they had all become to the count’s daughter, they grieved that her own father would not desire to pour his life into her.
But his Anna was allowing the fires of affliction to purify her, even as the blacksmith’s forge strengthened the poorer metals poured into it. Every day she grew with an inward stature toward a loveliness a father could be proud of.