it snowed in september.
it had been noticeable, even in august, how the days drew in and darkened, how the nights lengthened and deepened. the wood all at once grew still and dumb; it seemed as though it were deserted. the air grew cold, and the river became locked in ice. the twilight was slow and lingering, its deepening shadows turning the snow and ice on the river to a keen, frosty blue.
through the nights rang the loud, strange, fierce bellowing of the elks as they mated; the walls shook, and the hills re-echoed with their terrible roar.
marina was with child in the autumn.
one night she woke before dawn. the room was stifling from the heat of the stove, and she could smell the bear. there was a faint glimmer of dawn, and the dark walls showed the window frames in a wan blue outline. somewhere close by an old elk was bellowing: you could tell it was old by the hoarse, hissing notes of its hollow cries.
marina sat up in bed. her head swam, and she felt nauseated. the bear lay beside her; he was already awake and was watching her. his eyes shone with quiet, greenish lights; from outside, the thin crepuscular light crept into the room through little crevices.
again marina felt the nausea, and her head swam; the lights in makar's eyes were re-enkindled in marina's soul into a great, overwhelming joy that made her body quiver with emotion . . . her heart beat like a snared bird—all was wavering and misty, like a summer morn.
she rose from her bed of bear-skin furs, and naked, with swift, awkward, uncertain steps, went in to demid. he was still asleep—she put her burning arms about him and drew his head to her deep bosom, whispering to him softly:
"a child … it is the child…."
little by little, the night lifted and in through the windows came the daylight. the elk ceased his bellowing the room filled with glancing morning shadows. makar approached, sniffed, and laid his paws on the bed. demid seized his collar with his free hand and patting him fondly said:
"that is right, makar ivanych—you know, don't you?" then turning to
marina, he added: "what do you think, marinka? doesn't he know?
doesn't the old bear know, marinka?"
makar licked demid's hand, and laid his head knowingly on his forepaws. the night had gone; rays of lilac-coloured light illumined the snow and entered the house. round, red, and distant rose the sun. below the hill lay the blue, ice-bound river, and away beyond it stretched the ribbed outline of the vast, marshy siberian forest. demid did not enter it that day, nor on many of the following days.
