Dersu the Trapper

Some books transcend time. They may not be popular when they are first published, but after the bestsellers of the day are long forgotten, Sailing Alone Around The World, Moby Dick and Walden are still widely read and talked about.

        Dersu the Trapper was written in the 1920s by a Russian army officer about turn-of-the-century travels in remote areas of Siberia. In the forest he meets an Indian, whom he hires as a guide. A deep friendship develops between the two men. Ultimately, over many adventures, each would risk his own life to save the other.

        Dersu reminds me of men I have known briefly – people of the land who possessed both inner strength and humility. The notion of the “noble savage” is largely myth – Indians are, and were, of course, capable of all the sins and inadequacies that have shaped human history. And yet, I believe, survival as a hunter/gatherer required a physical and mental strength different from the strength required to succeed in our culture. I suspect that the humility and selflessness that characterized much of their social interaction was born of necessity; to survive they had to develop a set of social skills that enabled them to get along with each other in small groups over long periods of time. The lack of means to store things, whether refrigerators to store food, or money to store human energy, encouraged a slower pace and a more relaxed approach to day-to-day life. A lack of technology and of associated comforts led to humility before the forces of nature. We invent tools to make our lives easier, and then our tools change who we are, our religion and our values.

       In 1941, Dersu The Trapper was translated into English from the Russian by Malcolm Burr. The usage in the book of the “Gold,” or “Goldi” is perhaps related to “Mongol.” The text also contains references to other cultures that may appear condescending or paternalistic, including words like “Chinamen”, that have, for good reason, fallen into disuse. The way these words are used in the book, it seems unlikely that any disrespect was intended.

       A few years ago, the Japanese director Kurosawa made a film of the book which he titled Dersu Uzala. Kurosawa's film won an Oscar for best foreign language film for 1975. This led McPherson & Company to publish a new edition of the book in English (the first in 55 years) from which the following excerpt is taken.

Our Nocturnal Visitor

In the year 1902 I was engaged on a survey of the then unmapped country between the rivers Amur and Ussuri on the west and the Sea of Japan on the east, to the north of Vladivostok. It is marked on English maps as the Maritime Province, but is conveniently referred to as Ussuria, from its dominant river. My duties included the making of a reconnaissance of the chief rivers and of the central watershed, the range called Sihote-Alin, which dominates the province. My orders covered the study of the zoology and botany of the district, and of the natives, both aborigines and immigrant. I had with me two assistants and a small detachment of Siberian Rifles and Cossacks, with pack-horses.

      It is rough, steep, mountainous country where we were trekking, covered with dense virgin forest, the famous taiga of Siberia, in places almost impenetrable, especially where the ground is littered with fallen giants smashed down by storms.

      One afternoon, when the sun was low over the horizon, it was time to stop and bivouac. There was an urgent need to find water quickly, for both beasts and men. The slopes were gentle at first, but farther on the gradient became much steeper, and the horses slid down, squatting on their hocks. The packs slipped forward, and if it had not been for the breech-bands they would have fallen over their horses’ heads. We were obliged to make long zigzags, and through all the windfalls that littered the ground here it was by no means easy going.

      Over the pass we dropped at once into a gulch. The place was extraordinarily broken. Deep screes, encumbered with boulders and trunks, streams and rocks, all thickly overgrown with a carpet of moss; the whole scene reminded me vividly of a picture of Walpurgis Night. It would be hard to imagine a wilder and more repellent scene than that grim gorge.

      Sometimes it happens that mountain and forest have such a cheerful and attractive appearance that one would be glad to linger there forever. In others, mountains seem surly and wild. It is a strange thing that such impressions are not purely personal and subjective, but were felt by all the men in the detachment. I tested this several times and was always convinced that it was so. That was the case here. In that spot there was an oppressive feeling in the air, something unhappy and painful, and the sensation of gloom and ill-omen was felt by us all.

      “Never mind,” said the rifleman, “we’ll manage to bivouac somehow or other. We’re not here for a year, and we’ll find a jollier place tomorrow.”
      I did not want to stop there either, but what else could we do? Night was coming on, and there was no time to lose. I could hear the murmur of a brook at the bottom of the defile, so made my way down to it and chose the nearest approach to a level spot and gave orders to pitch camp there.

      The silence of the forest was at once broken by the ring of axes and by human voices as the men started collecting firewood, unsaddling the horses, and preparing for supper.

      Poor horses! Among those rocks and broken branches they would find little grazing, I feared, but we would make it up for them the next day if we succeeded in getting through to some farmers’ cabins.

      Darkness comes on early in the forest. In the west a few spots of pale sky were still to be picked out between the black branches of the pines, but below the shades of night had already fallen. As our bonfire sprang into flame, the dark clumps of shrubs and thick trunks of the trees stood out in the glare against the darkness. A little squirrel-like pica, startled among the screes, uttered a high-pitched pipe, but, suddenly frightened, slipped nimbly into its hole and did not appear again.

      At length our little party quieted down. After drinking tea, each one of us was busy on his own particular job. One was cleaning his rifle, another repairing a saddle, or darning a piece of torn clothing. There is always plenty of that sort of work to be done. When they had finished, the men turned in to sleep. They pressed up close to each other for warmth, covered themselves with their greatcoats, and slept like the dead. The horses, finding no food among the rocks, came up close to our bivouac, and stood and drowsed. Only Olentiev and I remained awake. I described our road in my diary, and he patched his boots. About ten I rolled myself up in my shaggy Caucasian cloak, or burka, and lay down by the fire. The branches of the old fir under which we were sleeping swayed in the rising column of heat and smoke from the fire, disclosing and closing the dark sky above, all spangled in a long colonnade of stars which faded away gradually into the depths of the forest and imperceptibly merged into the blackness of the night.

      Suddenly the horses raised their heads and pricked up their ears, were restive a moment, then quieted down and resumed their drowse. We paid no attention to that and continued our conversation. A minute or two went by. I asked my assistant Olentiev something and, not receiving a reply, turned towards him. He was standing in an attitude of expectancy and, shading the glare of the fire with his hand, gazing into the darkness.

      “What’s up?” I asked.

      “Something coming down the hillside,” he whispered.

      We both listened, but all around was still, as still as it can be only in the heart of a forest on a cold autumn night. Suddenly some small stones came trickling down from above.

      “A bear, I expect,” said Olentiev, and began to load his rifle,

      “No shoot . . . me man!” came a voice out of the darkness, and a moment later a man stepped into the light of the fire.

      He was dressed in a jacket of deerskin with breeches of the same material. He had a sort of scarf tied round his head and on his feet unty, moccasins made of wapiti or elk skin. He had a knapsack of birch bark on his back and in his hands he carried an old rifle, called in Russian a berdianka, with soshki, or prop, to support it when aiming.

      “Morning, captain,” he said, greeting me in the way the local tribesmen address all Russians in uniform.

      Then he leaned his rifle against a tree, took off his knapsack, wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve, and sat down by the fire. I had a good look at him.

      Our visitor looked about forty-five years of age. He was not very tall, but broad and thickset, and evidently a man of great physical strength. He had a tremendous chest, his arms were strong and muscular, his legs a trifle bowed. His weather-beaten face was typical of the local tribesmen, with his cheekbones, small nose, slanting eyes with the Mongolian fold of the lid, and broad mouth with strong, big teeth. A small reddish mustache edged his upper lip, while his chin was tipped by a short, reddish, skimpy beard. But most remarkable of all were his eyes. These were dark grey rather than hazel, with a calm but somewhat naive expression. Through them there looked out upon the world directness of character, good nature, and decision.

      The unknown did not take us in as we did him. From his breast he took out a pouch of tobacco, filled his pipe and started smoking. Without asking him who he was or whence he came, I offered him food. That is the custom in the taiga.

      “Thanks, captain,” he said, “me want eat very much; me not eat all day long.”

      I watched him while he ate. A hunting-knife hung from his girdle. His hands were gnarled and scarred. Similar, but deeper scars marked his face, one across his brow, another on the neck below the ear. He pulled off his scarf, and I saw that his head was covered with thick, reddish hair, all in disorder, long locks hanging down his neck.

      Our guest was taciturn. At length Olentiev could contain himself no longer, and asked him right out:

      “Are you a Chinaman or a Korean?”

      “Me a Gold,” he answered simply.

      I was interested to meet one of this disappearing tribe of natives, related to the Manchus and Tungus. I knew there were but about five thousand of them left in Russian territory and a few more in Chinese. They are mostly hunters and fishermen, and such culture as they have is more influenced by China than by Russia, and there are more Buddhists among them than Orthodox, and plenty still are heathen.

      “You are, of course, a hunter?” I asked him again.

      “Yes,” he answered. “Me all time go hunt; no other work; me no can fish, not know; only know hunt.”

      “And where do you live?” went on Olentiev relentlessly.

      “Me no got house; me all time live moving; light fire, make tent, sleep; all time go hunt, how have house?”
      He went on to tell us that that day he had been after a wapiti, that he had wounded a doe, but only lightly. Following her spoor, he had come across our tracks, which he had followed down into the gulch. When darkness came on he saw our fire, so came straight to it.

      “Me go quiet,” he explained, “think what man go far? Go see, captain or Cossack. Me then come straight.”

      “What’s your name?” I then asked the stranger.

      “Dersu Uzala,” he answered.

      This man interested me. There was something unusual and original about him. He spoke simply, quietly, and had a modest, gentle manner. We sat and talked. He told me all about his life, and the more he talked, the more I liked the fellow. Before me I saw a primitive hunter, who had spent his entire life in the taiga and was exempt from all the vices which our urban civilization brings in its train. >From his words I gathered that everything in life he owed to his rifle, and the results of the chase he gave to the Chinese in exchange for tobacco, lead, and powder, and that his rifle he had inherited from his father. He then told me that he was fifty-three years of age, that he had never had a house in his life, that he had always slept under the open sky and only in winter built himself a hut of bark and brushwood. His first glimmerings of childish memories were of a river, a hut, father, mother, and little sister.

      “They all gone dead,” he concluded, and became pensive. After a little silence he went on:

      “Once me had wife and son and girl child; smallpox kill all; now me alone.”

      His face became sad at the thought of past suffering. I attempted to offer consolation, but what consolation could I give this lonesome man, whom death had robbed of his family, the only consolation of old age? I felt I wanted to express my sympathy for him, to do something to help him, but I did not know what. Then an idea came to me, and I offered to give him a new rifle in exchange for his old berdianka. But he refused, saying that his was an old favorite, that he loved it for the sake of the memory of his father, that he was used to it, and that it killed well. He stretched out his arm to the tree, picked up the old weapon, and began to stroke the stock affectionately.

      The stars over our heads had moved on, showing that it was after midnight. The hours sped by, but still we sat over the fire and talked. Dersu did most of the talking, while I sat over the fire and listened, and listened with very real pleasure. He told me about his hunting, and how once he had fallen into an ambush of brigands, and how he had escaped from them. He told me about his encounter with tigers, how he could not shoot them because they are gods who protect ginseng from men; he talked about floods and about evil spirits.

      Once a tiger had severely mauled him. His wife tracked him for several days and eventually found him exhausted from loss of blood. While he was ill, she did the hunting.

      Then I began asking him about the place where we then were. He told me that it was the source of Lefu and that the next day we should come to the first cabin.

      One of the sleeping soldiers awoke, looked in astonishment at us, muttered something to himself, smiled, turned over, and went to sleep again.

      On the ground and in the sky it was still dark, but on the side where new stars were rising we could detect the approach of tomorrow. All around, the stillness was impressive. It seemed as through Nature herself was resting.

      Another hour, and the east turned crimson. I looked at my watch; it was six o’clock, and time to wake the orderly of the day. I shook him by the shoulder. He sat up and stretched himself. The bright light of the fire dazzled him and he screwed up his eyes. Then, catching sight of Dersu, he smiled and said:

      “Hullo. That’s rummy, a pal turned up!” and began to pull on his boots.

      The sky turned from black to deep blue, and then grey and cloudy. The shades of night began to shrink into the bushes and ravines. In a few minutes our bivouac was astir again; men started talking; the horses stirred at their ropes; a pica piped on one side, and lower down the gorge another answered it; the yaffle of the woodpecker ranged through the forest and the melodious whistle of the oriole. The taiga awoke. It grew lighter every moment, and suddenly the dazzling rays of the sun burst out from beyond the mountains and lit up the whole forest. Now our camp had a very different aspect. Instead of the blazing bonfire there lay a pile of ashes, with hardly a glimmer of flame; on the ground there lay the empty tins out of which we had supped; on the spot where my tent had been there stood a naked pole, and the trampled grass.

The Boar Hunt

When we had drunk a mug or two of tea the soldiers began to load up the horses. Dersu also began to make ready. He pulled on his knapsack and picked up his rifle and prop. In a few minutes the detachment was on the road, and Dersu came with us.

      The ravine along which we went was long and winding, with similar lateral ravines running into it from the sides, down which mountain streamlets came bustling. The gulch broadened out gradually into a valley. Here the trees had been blazed, which kept us on the trail. The Gold marched ahead, keeping his eye fixed upon the ground. At times he would stoop to pick up a leaf between his fingers.

      “What is that?” I asked him.

      Dersu stopped and said that the path was not intended for horse traffic, but only for men on foot, that it led to sable traps, and that a man had passed that way some days previously, probably a Chinaman.

      The Gold’s words surprised us all. Noticing that we looked rather incredulous, he exclaimed:

      “How you not know? Look self!”

      After this he produced such indications that my doubts were scattered at once. It was all so clear and simple that I was surprised not to have noticed it myself. In the first place there had been no sign of hoof marks, and in the second, none of the twigs on the shrubs bordering the path had been broken off, which would have been the case if horses had been that way, for the trail was narrow for them and the packs kept catching in the branches. The bends were so sharp that horses could not turn round, but were obliged to make little detours, and the tracks across the brooks always led to a tree-trunk bridge, and never into the water; besides, the blown-down branches lying about the track were not broken. All this showed that the trail was not suitable for caravans with pack animals.

      “Long time one man he go,” continued the Gold as though to himself. “Man he go finish – rain come,” and he began to count how many days since the last rain.

      For a couple of hours we marched along the trail. Little by little the coniferous forest became mixed and broad-leaved trees more numerous – poplar, maple, aspen, birch, and lime. I wanted to halt but Dersu advised us to go on a little further.

      “We soon find hunt,” he said, and pointed to some trees from which the bark had been cut.

      I understood. It meant that in the neighborhood there must be something for which that bark was wanted. We pushed on and about ten minutes later saw a small hut on the bank of a brook, rigged up by some trapper or ginseng-hunter. Looking round, our new friend repeated that a Chinaman had passed that way a few days previously, and spent a night in the hut. The ashes of his fire, beaten down by the rain, the pile of grass that made his couch, and an abandoned pair of old gaiters of the coarse blue material locally called daba, were clear evidence of that.

      I had by now realized that Dersu the Gold was no ordinary man. Before me stood a tracker, and involuntarily my thoughts went back to the delight of my boyhood, Fenimore Cooper and Mayne Reid.

      It was time to feed the horses. I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to lie down in the shade of a big cedar, and dropped off to sleep at once. In a couple of hours Olentiev awakened me and I looked around. I saw Dersu splitting firewood and collecting birch bark and stacking it all in the hut.

     I thought at first that he wanted to burn it down, and started dissuading him from the idea. Instead of replying he asked me for a pinch of salt and a handful of rice. I was interested to see what he was going to do with it, so told the men to give him some. The Gold carefully rolled up some matches in birch bark, and the salt and rice, each separately, in rolls of birch bark, and hung it all inside the hut. He then started packing his own things.

      “You’ll probably be coming back here one of these days, I suppose?” I asked him.

      He shook his head, so I then asked him for whom he was leaving the matches, salt, and rice.

      “Some other man he come,” answered Dersu, “He find dry wood, he find matches, he find food, not die.”

      I well remember how struck I was by this. It was wonderful, I thought, that the Gold should bother his head about an unknown man whom he never would see, and who would never know who had left him the provisions. I thought how my men, on leaving a bivouac, always burnt up all the bark left at the fire. They did it out of no ill-will, but simply for amusement, to see the blaze, and I never used to stop them from doing so. And here was this savage far more thoughtful for others than I. Why is it that among town-dwellers this forethought for the interests of others has completely disappeared, though no doubt it was once there?