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diff --git a/old/13419-h/13419-h.htm b/old/13419-h/13419-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..61d9074 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/13419-h/13419-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10126 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title>The Bishop and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov</title> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" /> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> + <pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Bishop and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Bishop and Other Stories + +Author: Anton Chekhov + +Release Date: September 9, 2004 [EBook #13419] +Last Updated: May 26, 2018 + + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BISHOP AND OTHER STORIES *** + + + + +Etext Produced by James Rusk + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE TALES OF CHEKHOV + </h1> + <h4> + Volume 7 + </h4> + <h3> + THE BISHOP AND OTHER STORIES + </h3> + <h2> + By Anton Tchekhov + </h2> + <h4> + Translated by Constance Garnett + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE BISHOP </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE LETTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> EASTER EVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> A NIGHTMARE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE MURDER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> UPROOTED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE STEPPE </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE BISHOP + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE evening service + was being celebrated on the eve of Palm Sunday in the Old Petrovsky + Convent. When they began distributing the palm it was close upon ten + o’clock, the candles were burning dimly, the wicks wanted snuffing; it was + all in a sort of mist. In the twilight of the church the crowd seemed + heaving like the sea, and to Bishop Pyotr, who had been unwell for the + last three days, it seemed that all the faces—old and young, men’s + and women’s—were alike, that everyone who came up for the palm had + the same expression in his eyes. In the mist he could not see the doors; + the crowd kept moving and looked as though there were no end to it. The + female choir was singing, a nun was reading the prayers for the day. + </p> + <p> + How stifling, how hot it was! How long the service went on! Bishop Pyotr + was tired. His breathing was laboured and rapid, his throat was parched, + his shoulders ached with weariness, his legs were trembling. And it + disturbed him unpleasantly when a religious maniac uttered occasional + shrieks in the gallery. And then all of a sudden, as though in a dream or + delirium, it seemed to the bishop as though his own mother Marya + Timofyevna, whom he had not seen for nine years, or some old woman just + like his mother, came up to him out of the crowd, and, after taking a palm + branch from him, walked away looking at him all the while good-humouredly + with a kind, joyful smile until she was lost in the crowd. And for some + reason tears flowed down his face. There was peace in his heart, + everything was well, yet he kept gazing fixedly towards the left choir, + where the prayers were being read, where in the dusk of evening you could + not recognize anyone, and—wept. Tears glistened on his face and on + his beard. Here someone close at hand was weeping, then someone else + farther away, then others and still others, and little by little the + church was filled with soft weeping. And a little later, within five + minutes, the nuns’ choir was singing; no one was weeping and everything + was as before. + </p> + <p> + Soon the service was over. When the bishop got into his carriage to drive + home, the gay, melodious chime of the heavy, costly bells was filling the + whole garden in the moonlight. The white walls, the white crosses on the + tombs, the white birch-trees and black shadows, and the far-away moon in + the sky exactly over the convent, seemed now living their own life, apart + and incomprehensible, yet very near to man. It was the beginning of April, + and after the warm spring day it turned cool; there was a faint touch of + frost, and the breath of spring could be felt in the soft, chilly air. The + road from the convent to the town was sandy, the horses had to go at a + walking pace, and on both sides of the carriage in the brilliant, peaceful + moonlight there were people trudging along home from church through the + sand. And all was silent, sunk in thought; everything around seemed + kindly, youthful, akin, everything—trees and sky and even the moon, + and one longed to think that so it would be always. + </p> + <p> + At last the carriage drove into the town and rumbled along the principal + street. The shops were already shut, but at Erakin’s, the millionaire + shopkeeper’s, they were trying the new electric lights, which flickered + brightly, and a crowd of people were gathered round. Then came wide, dark, + deserted streets, one after another; then the highroad, the open country, + the fragrance of pines. And suddenly there rose up before the bishop’s + eyes a white turreted wall, and behind it a tall belfry in the full + moonlight, and beside it five shining, golden cupolas: this was the + Pankratievsky Monastery, in which Bishop Pyotr lived. And here, too, high + above the monastery, was the silent, dreamy moon. The carriage drove in at + the gate, crunching over the sand; here and there in the moonlight there + were glimpses of dark monastic figures, and there was the sound of + footsteps on the flag-stones. . . . + </p> + <p> + “You know, your holiness, your mamma arrived while you were away,” the lay + brother informed the bishop as he went into his cell. + </p> + <p> + “My mother? When did she come?” + </p> + <p> + “Before the evening service. She asked first where you were and then she + went to the convent.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was her I saw in the church, just now! Oh, Lord!” + </p> + <p> + And the bishop laughed with joy. + </p> + <p> + “She bade me tell your holiness,” the lay brother went on, “that she would + come to-morrow. She had a little girl with her—her grandchild, I + suppose. They are staying at Ovsyannikov’s inn.” + </p> + <p> + “What time is it now?” + </p> + <p> + “A little after eleven.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how vexing!” + </p> + <p> + The bishop sat for a little while in the parlour, hesitating, and as it + were refusing to believe it was so late. His arms and legs were stiff, his + head ached. He was hot and uncomfortable. After resting a little he went + into his bedroom, and there, too, he sat a little, still thinking of his + mother; he could hear the lay brother going away, and Father Sisoy + coughing the other side of the wall. The monastery clock struck a quarter. + </p> + <p> + The bishop changed his clothes and began reading the prayers before sleep. + He read attentively those old, long familiar prayers, and at the same time + thought about his mother. She had nine children and about forty + grandchildren. At one time, she had lived with her husband, the deacon, in + a poor village; she had lived there a very long time from the age of + seventeen to sixty. The bishop remembered her from early childhood, almost + from the age of three, and—how he had loved her! Sweet, precious + childhood, always fondly remembered! Why did it, that long-past time that + could never return, why did it seem brighter, fuller, and more festive + than it had really been? When in his childhood or youth he had been ill, + how tender and sympathetic his mother had been! And now his prayers + mingled with the memories, which gleamed more and more brightly like a + flame, and the prayers did not hinder his thinking of his mother. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished his prayers he undressed and lay down, and at once, + as soon as it was dark, there rose before his mind his dead father, his + mother, his native village Lesopolye . . . the creak of wheels, the bleat + of sheep, the church bells on bright summer mornings, the gypsies under + the window—oh, how sweet to think of it! He remembered the priest of + Lesopolye, Father Simeon—mild, gentle, kindly; he was a lean little + man, while his son, a divinity student, was a huge fellow and talked in a + roaring bass voice. The priest’s son had flown into a rage with the cook + and abused her: “Ah, you Jehud’s ass!” and Father Simeon overhearing it, + said not a word, and was only ashamed because he could not remember where + such an ass was mentioned in the Bible. After him the priest at Lesopolye + had been Father Demyan, who used to drink heavily, and at times drank till + he saw green snakes, and was even nicknamed Demyan Snakeseer. The + schoolmaster at Lesopolye was Matvey Nikolaitch, who had been a divinity + student, a kind and intelligent man, but he, too, was a drunkard; he never + beat the schoolchildren, but for some reason he always had hanging on his + wall a bunch of birch-twigs, and below it an utterly meaningless + inscription in Latin: “Betula kinderbalsamica secuta.” He had a shaggy + black dog whom he called Syntax. + </p> + <p> + And his holiness laughed. Six miles from Lesopolye was the village Obnino + with a wonder-working ikon. In the summer they used to carry the ikon in + procession about the neighbouring villages and ring the bells the whole + day long; first in one village and then in another, and it used to seem to + the bishop then that joy was quivering in the air, and he (in those days + his name was Pavlusha) used to follow the ikon, bareheaded and barefoot, + with naïve faith, with a naïve smile, infinitely happy. In Obnino, he + remembered now, there were always a lot of people, and the priest there, + Father Alexey, to save time during mass, used to make his deaf nephew + Ilarion read the names of those for whose health or whose souls’ peace + prayers were asked. Ilarion used to read them, now and then getting a five + or ten kopeck piece for the service, and only when he was grey and bald, + when life was nearly over, he suddenly saw written on one of the pieces of + paper: “What a fool you are, Ilarion.” Up to fifteen at least Pavlusha was + undeveloped and idle at his lessons, so much so that they thought of + taking him away from the clerical school and putting him into a shop; one + day, going to the post at Obnino for letters, he had stared a long time at + the post-office clerks and asked: “Allow me to ask, how do you get your + salary, every month or every day?” + </p> + <p> + His holiness crossed himself and turned over on the other side, trying to + stop thinking and go to sleep. + </p> + <p> + “My mother has come,” he remembered and laughed. + </p> + <p> + The moon peeped in at the window, the floor was lighted up, and there were + shadows on it. A cricket was chirping. Through the wall Father Sisoy was + snoring in the next room, and his aged snore had a sound that suggested + loneliness, forlornness, even vagrancy. Sisoy had once been housekeeper to + the bishop of the diocese, and was called now “the former Father + Housekeeper”; he was seventy years old, he lived in a monastery twelve + miles from the town and stayed sometimes in the town, too. He had come to + the Pankratievsky Monastery three days before, and the bishop had kept him + that he might talk to him at his leisure about matters of business, about + the arrangements here. . . . + </p> + <p> + At half-past one they began ringing for matins. Father Sisoy could be + heard coughing, muttering something in a discontented voice, then he got + up and walked barefoot about the rooms. + </p> + <p> + “Father Sisoy,” the bishop called. + </p> + <p> + Sisoy went back to his room and a little later made his appearance in his + boots, with a candle; he had on his cassock over his underclothes and on + his head was an old faded skull-cap. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t sleep,” said the bishop, sitting up. “I must be unwell. And what + it is I don’t know. Fever!” + </p> + <p> + “You must have caught cold, your holiness. You must be rubbed with + tallow.” Sisoy stood a little and yawned. “O Lord, forgive me, a sinner.” + </p> + <p> + “They had the electric lights on at Erakin’s today,” he said; “I don’t + like it!” + </p> + <p> + Father Sisoy was old, lean, bent, always dissatisfied with something, and + his eyes were angry-looking and prominent as a crab’s. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like it,” he said, going away. “I don’t like it. Bother it!” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Next day, Palm Sunday, the bishop took the service in the cathedral in the + town, then he visited the bishop of the diocese, then visited a very sick + old lady, the widow of a general, and at last drove home. Between one and + two o’clock he had welcome visitors dining with him—his mother and + his niece Katya, a child of eight years old. All dinner-time the spring + sunshine was streaming in at the windows, throwing bright light on the + white tablecloth and on Katya’s red hair. Through the double windows they + could hear the noise of the rooks and the notes of the starlings in the + garden. + </p> + <p> + “It is nine years since we have met,” said the old lady. “And when I + looked at you in the monastery yesterday, good Lord! you’ve not changed a + bit, except maybe you are thinner and your beard is a little longer. Holy + Mother, Queen of Heaven! Yesterday at the evening service no one could + help crying. I, too, as I looked at you, suddenly began crying, though I + couldn’t say why. His Holy Will!” + </p> + <p> + And in spite of the affectionate tone in which she said this, he could see + she was constrained as though she were uncertain whether to address him + formally or familiarly, to laugh or not, and that she felt herself more a + deacon’s widow than his mother. And Katya gazed without blinking at her + uncle, his holiness, as though trying to discover what sort of a person he + was. Her hair sprang up from under the comb and the velvet ribbon and + stood out like a halo; she had a turned-up nose and sly eyes. The child + had broken a glass before sitting down to dinner, and now her grandmother, + as she talked, moved away from Katya first a wineglass and then a tumbler. + The bishop listened to his mother and remembered how many, many years ago + she used to take him and his brothers and sisters to relations whom she + considered rich; in those days she was taken up with the care of her + children, now with her grandchildren, and she had brought Katya. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Your sister, Varenka, has four children,” she told him; “Katya, here, is + the eldest. And your brother-in-law Father Ivan fell sick, God knows of + what, and died three days before the Assumption; and my poor Varenka is + left a beggar.” + </p> + <p> + “And how is Nikanor getting on?” the bishop asked about his eldest + brother. + </p> + <p> + “He is all right, thank God. Though he has nothing much, yet he can live. + Only there is one thing: his son, my grandson Nikolasha, did not want to + go into the Church; he has gone to the university to be a doctor. He + thinks it is better; but who knows! His Holy Will!” + </p> + <p> + “Nikolasha cuts up dead people,” said Katya, spilling water over her + knees. + </p> + <p> + “Sit still, child,” her grandmother observed calmly, and took the glass + out of her hand. “Say a prayer, and go on eating.” + </p> + <p> + “How long it is since we have seen each other!” said the bishop, and he + tenderly stroked his mother’s hand and shoulder; “and I missed you abroad, + mother, I missed you dreadfully.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “I used to sit in the evenings at the open window, lonely and alone; often + there was music playing, and all at once I used to be overcome with + homesickness and felt as though I would give everything only to be at home + and see you.” + </p> + <p> + His mother smiled, beamed, but at once she made a grave face and said: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + His mood suddenly changed. He looked at his mother and could not + understand how she had come by that respectfulness, that timid expression + of face: what was it for? And he did not recognize her. He felt sad and + vexed. And then his head ached just as it had the day before; his legs + felt fearfully tired, and the fish seemed to him stale and tasteless; he + felt thirsty all the time. . . . + </p> + <p> + After dinner two rich ladies, landowners, arrived and sat for an hour and + a half in silence with rigid countenances; the archimandrite, a silent, + rather deaf man, came to see him about business. Then they began ringing + for vespers; the sun was setting behind the wood and the day was over. + When he returned from church, he hurriedly said his prayers, got into bed, + and wrapped himself up as warm as possible. + </p> + <p> + It was disagreeable to remember the fish he had eaten at dinner. The + moonlight worried him, and then he heard talking. In an adjoining room, + probably in the parlour, Father Sisoy was talking politics: + </p> + <p> + “There’s war among the Japanese now. They are fighting. The Japanese, my + good soul, are the same as the Montenegrins; they are the same race. They + were under the Turkish yoke together.” + </p> + <p> + And then he heard the voice of Marya Timofyevna: + </p> + <p> + “So, having said our prayers and drunk tea, we went, you know, to Father + Yegor at Novokatnoye, so. . .” + </p> + <p> + And she kept on saying, “having had tea” or “having drunk tea,” and it + seemed as though the only thing she had done in her life was to drink tea. + </p> + <p> + The bishop slowly, languidly, recalled the seminary, the academy. For + three years he had been Greek teacher in the seminary: by that time he + could not read without spectacles. Then he had become a monk; he had been + made a school inspector. Then he had defended his thesis for his degree. + When he was thirty-two he had been made rector of the seminary, and + consecrated archimandrite: and then his life had been so easy, so + pleasant; it seemed so long, so long, no end was in sight. Then he had + begun to be ill, had grown very thin and almost blind, and by the advice + of the doctors had to give up everything and go abroad. + </p> + <p> + “And what then?” asked Sisoy in the next room. + </p> + <p> + “Then we drank tea . . .” answered Marya Timofyevna. + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious, you’ve got a green beard,” said Katya suddenly in + surprise, and she laughed. + </p> + <p> + The bishop remembered that the grey-headed Father Sisoy’s beard really had + a shade of green in it, and he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “God have mercy upon us, what we have to put up with with this girl!” said + Sisoy, aloud, getting angry. “Spoilt child! Sit quiet!” + </p> + <p> + The bishop remembered the perfectly new white church in which he had + conducted the services while living abroad, he remembered the sound of the + warm sea. In his flat he had five lofty light rooms; in his study he had a + new writing-table, lots of books. He had read a great deal and often + written. And he remembered how he had pined for his native land, how a + blind beggar woman had played the guitar under his window every day and + sung of love, and how, as he listened, he had always for some reason + thought of the past. But eight years had passed and he had been called + back to Russia, and now he was a suffragan bishop, and all the past had + retreated far away into the mist as though it were a dream. . . . + </p> + <p> + Father Sisoy came into the bedroom with a candle. + </p> + <p> + “I say!” he said, wondering, “are you asleep already, your holiness?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, it’s still early, ten o’clock or less. I bought a candle to-day; I + wanted to rub you with tallow.” + </p> + <p> + “I am in a fever . . .” said the bishop, and he sat up. “I really ought to + have something. My head is bad. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Sisoy took off the bishop’s shirt and began rubbing his chest and back + with tallow. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the way . . . that’s the way . . .” he said. “Lord Jesus Christ . + . . that’s the way. I walked to the town to-day; I was at + what’s-his-name’s—the chief priest Sidonsky’s. . . . I had tea with + him. I don’t like him. Lord Jesus Christ. . . . That’s the way. I don’t + like him.” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The bishop of the diocese, a very fat old man, was ill with rheumatism or + gout, and had been in bed for over a month. Bishop Pyotr went to see him + almost every day, and saw all who came to ask his help. And now that he + was unwell he was struck by the emptiness, the triviality of everything + which they asked and for which they wept; he was vexed at their ignorance, + their timidity; and all this useless, petty business oppressed him by the + mass of it, and it seemed to him that now he understood the diocesan + bishop, who had once in his young days written on “The Doctrines of the + Freedom of the Will,” and now seemed to be all lost in trivialities, to + have forgotten everything, and to have no thoughts of religion. The bishop + must have lost touch with Russian life while he was abroad; he did not + find it easy; the peasants seemed to him coarse, the women who sought his + help dull and stupid, the seminarists and their teachers uncultivated and + at times savage. And the documents coming in and going out were reckoned + by tens of thousands; and what documents they were! The higher clergy in + the whole diocese gave the priests, young and old, and even their wives + and children, marks for their behaviour—a five, a four, and + sometimes even a three; and about this he had to talk and to read and + write serious reports. And there was positively not one minute to spare; + his soul was troubled all day long, and the bishop was only at peace when + he was in church. + </p> + <p> + He could not get used, either, to the awe which, through no wish of his + own, he inspired in people in spite of his quiet, modest disposition. All + the people in the province seemed to him little, scared, and guilty when + he looked at them. Everyone was timid in his presence, even the old chief + priests; everyone “flopped” at his feet, and not long previously an old + lady, a village priest’s wife who had come to consult him, was so overcome + by awe that she could not utter a single word, and went empty away. And + he, who could never in his sermons bring himself to speak ill of people, + never reproached anyone because he was so sorry for them, was moved to + fury with the people who came to consult him, lost his temper and flung + their petitions on the floor. The whole time he had been here, not one + person had spoken to him genuinely, simply, as to a human being; even his + old mother seemed now not the same! And why, he wondered, did she chatter + away to Sisoy and laugh so much; while with him, her son, she was grave + and usually silent and constrained, which did not suit her at all. The + only person who behaved freely with him and said what he meant was old + Sisoy, who had spent his whole life in the presence of bishops and had + outlived eleven of them. And so the bishop was at ease with him, although, + of course, he was a tedious and nonsensical man. + </p> + <p> + After the service on Tuesday, his holiness Pyotr was in the diocesan + bishop’s house receiving petitions there; he got excited and angry, and + then drove home. He was as unwell as before; he longed to be in bed, but + he had hardly reached home when he was informed that a young merchant + called Erakin, who subscribed liberally to charities, had come to see him + about a very important matter. The bishop had to see him. Erakin stayed + about an hour, talked very loud, almost shouted, and it was difficult to + understand what he said. + </p> + <p> + “God grant it may,” he said as he went away. “Most essential! According to + circumstances, your holiness! I trust it may!” + </p> + <p> + After him came the Mother Superior from a distant convent. And when she + had gone they began ringing for vespers. He had to go to church. + </p> + <p> + In the evening the monks sang harmoniously, with inspiration. A young + priest with a black beard conducted the service; and the bishop, hearing + of the Bridegroom who comes at midnight and of the Heavenly Mansion + adorned for the festival, felt no repentance for his sins, no tribulation, + but peace at heart and tranquillity. And he was carried back in thought to + the distant past, to his childhood and youth, when, too, they used to sing + of the Bridegroom and of the Heavenly Mansion; and now that past rose up + before him—living, fair, and joyful as in all likelihood it never + had been. And perhaps in the other world, in the life to come, we shall + think of the distant past, of our life here, with the same feeling. Who + knows? The bishop was sitting near the altar. It was dark; tears flowed + down his face. He thought that here he had attained everything a man in + his position could attain; he had faith and yet everything was not clear, + something was lacking still. He did not want to die; and he still felt + that he had missed what was most important, something of which he had + dimly dreamed in the past; and he was troubled by the same hopes for the + future as he had felt in childhood, at the academy and abroad. + </p> + <p> + “How well they sing to-day!” he thought, listening to the singing. “How + nice it is!” + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + On Thursday he celebrated mass in the cathedral; it was the Washing of + Feet. When the service was over and the people were going home, it was + sunny, warm; the water gurgled in the gutters, and the unceasing trilling + of the larks, tender, telling of peace, rose from the fields outside the + town. The trees were already awakening and smiling a welcome, while above + them the infinite, fathomless blue sky stretched into the distance, God + knows whither. + </p> + <p> + On reaching home his holiness drank some tea, then changed his clothes, + lay down on his bed, and told the lay brother to close the shutters on the + windows. The bedroom was darkened. But what weariness, what pain in his + legs and his back, a chill heavy pain, what a noise in his ears! He had + not slept for a long time—for a very long time, as it seemed to him + now, and some trifling detail which haunted his brain as soon as his eyes + were closed prevented him from sleeping. As on the day before, sounds + reached him from the adjoining rooms through the walls, voices, the jingle + of glasses and teaspoons. . . . Marya Timofyevna was gaily telling Father + Sisoy some story with quaint turns of speech, while the latter answered in + a grumpy, ill-humoured voice: “Bother them! Not likely! What next!” And + the bishop again felt vexed and then hurt that with other people his old + mother behaved in a simple, ordinary way, while with him, her son, she was + shy, spoke little, and did not say what she meant, and even, as he + fancied, had during all those three days kept trying in his presence to + find an excuse for standing up, because she was embarrassed at sitting + before him. And his father? He, too, probably, if he had been living, + would not have been able to utter a word in the bishop’s presence. . . . + </p> + <p> + Something fell down on the floor in the adjoining room and was broken; + Katya must have dropped a cup or a saucer, for Father Sisoy suddenly spat + and said angrily: + </p> + <p> + “What a regular nuisance the child is! Lord forgive my transgressions! One + can’t provide enough for her.” + </p> + <p> + Then all was quiet, the only sounds came from outside. And when the bishop + opened his eyes he saw Katya in his room, standing motionless, staring at + him. Her red hair, as usual, stood up from under the comb like a halo. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Katya?” he asked. “Who is it downstairs who keeps opening + and shutting a door?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t hear it,” answered Katya; and she listened. + </p> + <p> + “There, someone has just passed by.” + </p> + <p> + “But that was a noise in your stomach, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed and stroked her on the head. + </p> + <p> + “So you say Cousin Nikolasha cuts up dead people?” he asked after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he is studying.” + </p> + <p> + “And is he kind?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, he’s kind. But he drinks vodka awfully.” + </p> + <p> + “And what was it your father died of?” + </p> + <p> + “Papa was weak and very, very thin, and all at once his throat was bad. I + was ill then, too, and brother Fedya; we all had bad throats. Papa died, + uncle, and we got well.” + </p> + <p> + Her chin began quivering, and tears gleamed in her eyes and trickled down + her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Your holiness,” she said in a shrill voice, by now weeping bitterly, + “uncle, mother and all of us are left very wretched. . . . Give us a + little money . . . do be kind . . . uncle darling. . . .” + </p> + <p> + He, too, was moved to tears, and for a long time was too much touched to + speak. Then he stroked her on the head, patted her on the shoulder and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Very good, very good, my child. When the holy Easter comes, we will talk + it over. . . . I will help you. . . . I will help you. . . .” + </p> + <p> + His mother came in quietly, timidly, and prayed before the ikon. Noticing + that he was not sleeping, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you have a drop of soup?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you,” he answered, “I am not hungry.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to be unwell, now I look at you. I should think so; you may well + be ill! The whole day on your legs, the whole day. . . . And, my goodness, + it makes one’s heart ache even to look at you! Well, Easter is not far + off; you will rest then, please God. Then we will have a talk, too, but + now I’m not going to disturb you with my chatter. Come along, Katya; let + his holiness sleep a little.” + </p> + <p> + And he remembered how once very long ago, when he was a boy, she had + spoken exactly like that, in the same jestingly respectful tone, with a + Church dignitary. . . . Only from her extraordinarily kind eyes and the + timid, anxious glance she stole at him as she went out of the room could + one have guessed that this was his mother. He shut his eyes and seemed to + sleep, but twice heard the clock strike and Father Sisoy coughing the + other side of the wall. And once more his mother came in and looked + timidly at him for a minute. Someone drove up to the steps, as he could + hear, in a coach or in a chaise. Suddenly a knock, the door slammed, the + lay brother came into the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “Your holiness,” he called. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “The horses are here; it’s time for the evening service.” + </p> + <p> + “What o’clock is it?” + </p> + <p> + “A quarter past seven.” + </p> + <p> + He dressed and drove to the cathedral. During all the “Twelve Gospels” he + had to stand in the middle of the church without moving, and the first + gospel, the longest and the most beautiful, he read himself. A mood of + confidence and courage came over him. That first gospel, “Now is the Son + of Man glorified,” he knew by heart; and as he read he raised his eyes + from time to time, and saw on both sides a perfect sea of lights and heard + the splutter of candles, but, as in past years, he could not see the + people, and it seemed as though these were all the same people as had been + round him in those days, in his childhood and his youth; that they would + always be the same every year and till such time as God only knew. + </p> + <p> + His father had been a deacon, his grandfather a priest, his + great-grandfather a deacon, and his whole family, perhaps from the days + when Christianity had been accepted in Russia, had belonged to the + priesthood; and his love for the Church services, for the priesthood, for + the peal of the bells, was deep in him, ineradicable, innate. In church, + particularly when he took part in the service, he felt vigorous, of good + cheer, happy. So it was now. Only when the eighth gospel had been read, he + felt that his voice had grown weak, even his cough was inaudible. His head + had begun to ache intensely, and he was troubled by a fear that he might + fall down. And his legs were indeed quite numb, so that by degrees he + ceased to feel them and could not understand how or on what he was + standing, and why he did not fall. . . . + </p> + <p> + It was a quarter to twelve when the service was over. When he reached + home, the bishop undressed and went to bed at once without even saying his + prayers. He could not speak and felt that he could not have stood up. When + he had covered his head with the quilt he felt a sudden longing to be + abroad, an insufferable longing! He felt that he would give his life not + to see those pitiful cheap shutters, those low ceilings, not to smell that + heavy monastery smell. If only there were one person to whom he could have + talked, have opened his heart! + </p> + <p> + For a long while he heard footsteps in the next room and could not tell + whose they were. At last the door opened, and Sisoy came in with a candle + and a tea-cup in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “You are in bed already, your holiness?” he asked. “Here I have come to + rub you with spirit and vinegar. A thorough rubbing does a great deal of + good. Lord Jesus Christ! . . . That’s the way . . . that’s the way. . . . + I’ve just been in our monastery. . . . I don’t like it. I’m going away + from here to-morrow, your holiness; I don’t want to stay longer. Lord + Jesus Christ. . . . That’s the way. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Sisoy could never stay long in the same place, and he felt as though he + had been a whole year in the Pankratievsky Monastery. Above all, listening + to him it was difficult to understand where his home was, whether he cared + for anyone or anything, whether he believed in God. . . . He did not know + himself why he was a monk, and, indeed, he did not think about it, and the + time when he had become a monk had long passed out of his memory; it + seemed as though he had been born a monk. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going away to-morrow; God be with them all.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to talk to you. . . . I can’t find the time,” said the + bishop softly with an effort. “I don’t know anything or anybody here. . . + .” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll stay till Sunday if you like; so be it, but I don’t want to stay + longer. I am sick of them!” + </p> + <p> + “I ought not to be a bishop,” said the bishop softly. “I ought to have + been a village priest, a deacon . . . or simply a monk. . . . All this + oppresses me . . . oppresses me.” + </p> + <p> + “What? Lord Jesus Christ. . . . That’s the way. Come, sleep well, your + holiness! . . . What’s the good of talking? It’s no use. Good-night!” + </p> + <p> + The bishop did not sleep all night. And at eight o’clock in the morning he + began to have hemorrhage from the bowels. The lay brother was alarmed, and + ran first to the archimandrite, then for the monastery doctor, Ivan + Andreyitch, who lived in the town. The doctor, a stout old man with a long + grey beard, made a prolonged examination of the bishop, and kept shaking + his head and frowning, then said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, your holiness, you have got typhoid?” + </p> + <p> + After an hour or so of hemorrhage the bishop looked much thinner, paler, + and wasted; his face looked wrinkled, his eyes looked bigger, and he + seemed older, shorter, and it seemed to him that he was thinner, weaker, + more insignificant than any one, that everything that had been had + retreated far, far away and would never go on again or be repeated. + </p> + <p> + “How good,” he thought, “how good!” + </p> + <p> + His old mother came. Seeing his wrinkled face and his big eyes, she was + frightened, she fell on her knees by the bed and began kissing his face, + his shoulders, his hands. And to her, too, it seemed that he was thinner, + weaker, and more insignificant than anyone, and now she forgot that he was + a bishop, and kissed him as though he were a child very near and very dear + to her. + </p> + <p> + “Pavlusha, darling,” she said; “my own, my darling son! . . . Why are you + like this? Pavlusha, answer me!” + </p> + <p> + Katya, pale and severe, stood beside her, unable to understand what was + the matter with her uncle, why there was such a look of suffering on her + grandmother’s face, why she was saying such sad and touching things. By + now he could not utter a word, he could understand nothing, and he + imagined he was a simple ordinary man, that he was walking quickly, + cheerfully through the fields, tapping with his stick, while above him was + the open sky bathed in sunshine, and that he was free now as a bird and + could go where he liked! + </p> + <p> + “Pavlusha, my darling son, answer me,” the old woman was saying. “What is + it? My own!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t disturb his holiness,” Sisoy said angrily, walking about the room. + “Let him sleep . . . what’s the use . . . it’s no good. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Three doctors arrived, consulted together, and went away again. The day + was long, incredibly long, then the night came on and passed slowly, + slowly, and towards morning on Saturday the lay brother went in to the old + mother who was lying on the sofa in the parlour, and asked her to go into + the bedroom: the bishop had just breathed his last. + </p> + <p> + Next day was Easter Sunday. There were forty-two churches and six + monasteries in the town; the sonorous, joyful clang of the bells hung over + the town from morning till night unceasingly, setting the spring air + aquiver; the birds were singing, the sun was shining brightly. The big + market square was noisy, swings were going, barrel organs were playing, + accordions were squeaking, drunken voices were shouting. After midday + people began driving up and down the principal street. + </p> + <p> + In short, all was merriment, everything was satisfactory, just as it had + been the year before, and as it will be in all likelihood next year. + </p> + <p> + A month later a new suffragan bishop was appointed, and no one thought + anything more of Bishop Pyotr, and afterwards he was completely forgotten. + And only the dead man’s old mother, who is living to-day with her + son-in-law the deacon in a remote little district town, when she goes out + at night to bring her cow in and meets other women at the pasture, begins + talking of her children and her grandchildren, and says that she had a son + a bishop, and this she says timidly, afraid that she may not be believed. + . . . + </p> + <p> + And, indeed, there are some who do not believe her. + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE LETTER + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he clerical + superintendent of the district, his Reverence Father Fyodor Orlov, a + handsome, well-nourished man of fifty, grave and important as he always + was, with an habitual expression of dignity that never left his face, was + walking to and fro in his little drawing-room, extremely exhausted, and + thinking intensely about the same thing: “When would his visitor go?” The + thought worried him and did not leave him for a minute. The visitor, + Father Anastasy, the priest of one of the villages near the town, had come + to him three hours before on some very unpleasant and dreary business of + his own, had stayed on and on, was now sitting in the corner at a little + round table with his elbow on a thick account book, and apparently had no + thought of going, though it was getting on for nine o’clock in the + evening. + </p> + <p> + Not everyone knows when to be silent and when to go. It not infrequently + happens that even diplomatic persons of good worldly breeding fail to + observe that their presence is arousing a feeling akin to hatred in their + exhausted or busy host, and that this feeling is being concealed with an + effort and disguised with a lie. But Father Anastasy perceived it clearly, + and realized that his presence was burdensome and inappropriate, that his + Reverence, who had taken an early morning service in the night and a long + mass at midday, was exhausted and longing for repose; every minute he was + meaning to get up and go, but he did not get up, he sat on as though he + were waiting for something. He was an old man of sixty-five, prematurely + aged, with a bent and bony figure, with a sunken face and the dark skin of + old age, with red eyelids and a long narrow back like a fish’s; he was + dressed in a smart cassock of a light lilac colour, but too big for him + (presented to him by the widow of a young priest lately deceased), a full + cloth coat with a broad leather belt, and clumsy high boots the size and + hue of which showed clearly that Father Anastasy dispensed with goloshes. + In spite of his position and his venerable age, there was something + pitiful, crushed and humiliated in his lustreless red eyes, in the strands + of grey hair with a shade of green in it on the nape of his neck, and in + the big shoulder-blades on his lean back. . . . He sat without speaking or + moving, and coughed with circumspection, as though afraid that the sound + of his coughing might make his presence more noticeable. + </p> + <p> + The old man had come to see his Reverence on business. Two months before + he had been prohibited from officiating till further notice, and his case + was being inquired into. His shortcomings were numerous. He was + intemperate in his habits, fell out with the other clergy and the commune, + kept the church records and accounts carelessly —these were the + formal charges against him; but besides all that, there had been rumours + for a long time past that he celebrated unlawful marriages for money and + sold certificates of having fasted and taken the sacrament to officials + and officers who came to him from the town. These rumours were maintained + the more persistently that he was poor and had nine children to keep, who + were as incompetent and unsuccessful as himself. The sons were spoilt and + uneducated, and stayed at home doing nothing, while the daughters were + ugly and did not get married. + </p> + <p> + Not having the moral force to be open, his Reverence walked up and down + the room and said nothing or spoke in hints. + </p> + <p> + “So you are not going home to-night?” he asked, stopping near the dark + window and poking with his little finger into the cage where a canary was + asleep with its feathers puffed out. + </p> + <p> + Father Anastasy started, coughed cautiously and said rapidly: + </p> + <p> + “Home? I don’t care to, Fyodor Ilyitch. I cannot officiate, as you know, + so what am I to do there? I came away on purpose that I might not have to + look the people in the face. One is ashamed not to officiate, as you know. + Besides, I have business here, Fyodor Ilyitch. To-morrow after breaking + the fast I want to talk things over thoroughly with the Father charged + with the inquiry.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! . . .” yawned his Reverence, “and where are you staying?” + </p> + <p> + “At Zyavkin’s.” + </p> + <p> + Father Anastasy suddenly remembered that within two hours his Reverence + had to take the Easter-night service, and he felt so ashamed of his + unwelcome burdensome presence that he made up his mind to go away at once + and let the exhausted man rest. And the old man got up to go. But before + he began saying good-bye he stood clearing his throat for a minute and + looking searchingly at his Reverence’s back, still with the same + expression of vague expectation in his whole figure; his face was working + with shame, timidity, and a pitiful forced laugh such as one sees in + people who do not respect themselves. Waving his hand as it were + resolutely, he said with a husky quavering laugh: + </p> + <p> + “Father Fyodor, do me one more kindness: bid them give me at leave-taking + . . . one little glass of vodka.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not the time to drink vodka now,” said his Reverence sternly. “One + must have some regard for decency.” + </p> + <p> + Father Anastasy was still more overwhelmed by confusion; he laughed, and, + forgetting his resolution to go away, he dropped back on his chair. His + Reverence looked at his helpless, embarrassed face and his bent figure and + he felt sorry for the old man. + </p> + <p> + “Please God, we will have a drink to-morrow,” he said, wishing to soften + his stem refusal. “Everything is good in due season.” + </p> + <p> + His Reverence believed in people’s reforming, but now when a feeling of + pity had been kindled in him it seemed to him that this disgraced, + worn-out old man, entangled in a network of sins and weaknesses, was + hopelessly wrecked, that there was no power on earth that could straighten + out his spine, give brightness to his eyes and restrain the unpleasant + timid laugh which he laughed on purpose to smoothe over to some slight + extent the repulsive impression he made on people. + </p> + <p> + The old man seemed now to Father Fyodor not guilty and not vicious, but + humiliated, insulted, unfortunate; his Reverence thought of his wife, his + nine children, the dirty beggarly shelter at Zyavkin’s; he thought for + some reason of the people who are glad to see priests drunk and persons in + authority detected in crimes; and thought that the very best thing Father + Anastasy could do now would be to die as soon as possible and to depart + from this world for ever. + </p> + <p> + There were a sound of footsteps. + </p> + <p> + “Father Fyodor, you are not resting?” a bass voice asked from the passage. + </p> + <p> + “No, deacon; come in.” + </p> + <p> + Orlov’s colleague, the deacon Liubimov, an elderly man with a big bald + patch on the top of his head, though his hair was still black and he was + still vigorous-looking, with thick black eyebrows like a Georgian’s, + walked in. He bowed to Father Anastasy and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “What good news have you?” asked his Reverence. + </p> + <p> + “What good news?” answered the deacon, and after a pause he went on with a + smile: “When your children are little, your trouble is small; when your + children are big, your trouble is great. Such goings on, Father Fyodor, + that I don’t know what to think of it. It’s a regular farce, that’s what + it is.” + </p> + <p> + He paused again for a little, smiled still more broadly and said: + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Matveyitch came back from Harkov to-day. He has been telling me + about my Pyotr. He has been to see him twice, he tells me.” + </p> + <p> + “What has he been telling you, then?” + </p> + <p> + “He has upset me, God bless him. He meant to please me but when I came to + think it over, it seems there is not much to be pleased at. I ought to + grieve rather than be pleased. . . ‘Your Petrushka,’ said he, ‘lives in + fine style. He is far above us now,’ said he. ‘Well thank God for that,’ + said I. ‘I dined with him,’ said he, ‘and saw his whole manner of life. He + lives like a gentleman,’ he said; ‘you couldn’t wish to live better.’ I + was naturally interested and I asked, ‘And what did you have for dinner?’ + ‘First,’ he said, ‘a fish course something like fish soup, then tongue and + peas,’ and then he said, ‘roast turkey.’ ‘Turkey in Lent? that is + something to please me,’ said I. ‘Turkey in Lent? Eh?’” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing marvellous in that,” said his Reverence, screwing up his eyes + ironically. And sticking both thumbs in his belt, he drew himself up and + said in the tone in which he usually delivered discourses or gave his + Scripture lessons to the pupils in the district school: “People who do not + keep the fasts are divided into two different categories: some do not keep + them through laxity, others through infidelity. Your Pyotr does not keep + them through infidelity. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The deacon looked timidly at Father Fyodor’s stern face and said: + </p> + <p> + “There is worse to follow. . . . We talked and discussed one thing and + another, and it turned out that my infidel of a son is living with some + madame, another man’s wife. She takes the place of wife and hostess in his + flat, pours out the tea, receives visitors and all the rest of it, as + though she were his lawful wife. For over two years he has been keeping up + this dance with this viper. It’s a regular farce. They have been living + together for three years and no children.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose they have been living in chastity!” chuckled Father Anastasy, + coughing huskily. “There are children, Father Deacon— there are, but + they don’t keep them at home! They send them to the Foundling! He-he-he! . + . .” Anastasy went on coughing till he choked. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t interfere, Father Anastasy,” said his Reverence sternly. + </p> + <p> + “Nikolay Matveyitch asked him, ‘What madame is this helping the soup at + your table?’” the deacon went on, gloomily scanning Anastasy’s bent + figure. “‘That is my wife,’ said he. ‘When was your wedding?’ Nikolay + Matveyitch asked him, and Pyotr answered, ‘We were married at Kulikov’s + restaurant.’” + </p> + <p> + His Reverence’s eyes flashed wrathfully and the colour came into his + temples. Apart from his sinfulness, Pyotr was not a person he liked. + Father Fyodor had, as they say, a grudge against him. He remembered him a + boy at school—he remembered him distinctly, because even then the + boy had seemed to him not normal. As a schoolboy, Petrushka had been + ashamed to serve at the altar, had been offended at being addressed + without ceremony, had not crossed himself on entering the room, and what + was still more noteworthy, was fond of talking a great deal and with heat—and, + in Father Fyodor’s opinion, much talking was unseemly in children and + pernicious to them; moreover Petrushka had taken up a contemptuous and + critical attitude to fishing, a pursuit to which both his Reverence and + the deacon were greatly addicted. As a student Pyotr had not gone to + church at all, had slept till midday, had looked down on people, and had + been given to raising delicate and insoluble questions with a peculiarly + provoking zest. + </p> + <p> + “What would you have?” his Reverence asked, going up to the deacon and + looking at him angrily. “What would you have? This was to be expected! I + always knew and was convinced that nothing good would come of your Pyotr! + I told you so, and I tell you so now. What you have sown, that now you + must reap! Reap it!” + </p> + <p> + “But what have I sown, Father Fyodor?” the deacon asked softly, looking up + at his Reverence. + </p> + <p> + “Why, who is to blame if not you? You’re his father, he is your offspring! + You ought to have admonished him, have instilled the fear of God into him. + A child must be taught! You have brought him into the world, but you + haven’t trained him up in the right way. It’s a sin! It’s wrong! It’s a + shame!” + </p> + <p> + His Reverence forgot his exhaustion, paced to and fro and went on talking. + Drops of perspiration came out on the deacon’s bald head and forehead. He + raised his eyes to his Reverence with a look of guilt, and said: + </p> + <p> + “But didn’t I train him, Father Fyodor? Lord have mercy on us, haven’t I + been a father to my children? You know yourself I spared nothing for his + good; I have prayed and done my best all my life to give him a thorough + education. He went to the high school and I got him tutors, and he took + his degree at the University. And as to my not being able to influence his + mind, Father Fyodor, why, you can judge for yourself that I am not + qualified to do so! Sometimes when he used to come here as a student, I + would begin admonishing him in my way, and he wouldn’t heed me. I’d say to + him, ‘Go to church,’ and he would answer, ‘What for?’ I would begin + explaining, and he would say, ‘Why? what for?’ Or he would slap me on the + shoulder and say, ‘Everything in this world is relative, approximate and + conditional. I don’t know anything, and you don’t know anything either, + dad.’” + </p> + <p> + Father Anastasy laughed huskily, cleared his throat and waved his fingers + in the air as though preparing to say something. His Reverence glanced at + him and said sternly: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t interfere, Father Anastasy.” + </p> + <p> + The old man laughed, beamed, and evidently listened with pleasure to the + deacon as though he were glad there were other sinful persons in this + world besides himself. The deacon spoke sincerely, with an aching heart, + and tears actually came into his eyes. Father Fyodor felt sorry for him. + </p> + <p> + “You are to blame, deacon, you are to blame,” he said, but not so sternly + and heatedly as before. “If you could beget him, you ought to know how to + instruct him. You ought to have trained him in his childhood; it’s no good + trying to correct a student.” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed; the deacon clasped his hands and said with a sigh: + </p> + <p> + “But you know I shall have to answer for him!” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure you will!” + </p> + <p> + After a brief silence his Reverence yawned and sighed at the same moment + and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Who is reading the ‘Acts’?” + </p> + <p> + “Yevstrat. Yevstrat always reads them.” + </p> + <p> + The deacon got up and, looking imploringly at his Reverence, asked: + </p> + <p> + “Father Fyodor, what am I to do now?” + </p> + <p> + “Do as you please; you are his father, not I. You ought to know best.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know anything, Father Fyodor! Tell me what to do, for goodness’ + sake! Would you believe it, I am sick at heart! I can’t sleep now, nor + keep quiet, and the holiday will be no holiday to me. Tell me what to do, + Father Fyodor!” + </p> + <p> + “Write him a letter.” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to write to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Write that he mustn’t go on like that. Write shortly, but sternly and + circumstantially, without softening or smoothing away his guilt. It is + your parental duty; if you write, you will have done your duty and will be + at peace.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true. But what am I to write to him, to what effect? If I write to + him, he will answer, ‘Why? what for? Why is it a sin?’” + </p> + <p> + Father Anastasy laughed hoarsely again, and brandished his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Why? what for? why is it a sin?” he began shrilly. “I was once confessing + a gentleman, and I told him that excessive confidence in the Divine Mercy + is a sin; and he asked, ‘Why?’ I tried to answer him, but——” + Anastasy slapped himself on the forehead. “I had nothing here. + He-he-he-he! . . .” + </p> + <p> + Anastasy’s words, his hoarse jangling laugh at what was not laughable, had + an unpleasant effect on his Reverence and on the deacon. The former was on + the point of saying, “Don’t interfere” again, but he did not say it, he + only frowned. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t write to him,” sighed the deacon. + </p> + <p> + “If you can’t, who can?” + </p> + <p> + “Father Fyodor!” said the deacon, putting his head on one side and + pressing his hand to his heart. “I am an uneducated slow-witted man, while + the Lord has vouchsafed you judgment and wisdom. You know everything and + understand everything. You can master anything, while I don’t know how to + put my words together sensibly. Be generous. Instruct me how to write the + letter. Teach me what to say and how to say it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What is there to teach? There is nothing to teach. Sit down and write.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do me the favour, Father Fyodor! I beseech you! I know he will be + frightened and will attend to your letter, because, you see, you are a + cultivated man too. Do be so good! I’ll sit down, and you’ll dictate to + me. It will be a sin to write to-morrow, but now would be the very time; + my mind would be set at rest.” + </p> + <p> + His Reverence looked at the deacon’s imploring face, thought of the + disagreeable Pyotr, and consented to dictate. He made the deacon sit down + to his table and began. + </p> + <p> + “Well, write . . . ‘Christ is risen, dear son . . .’ exclamation mark. + ‘Rumours have reached me, your father,’ then in parenthesis, ‘from what + source is no concern of yours . . .’ close the parenthesis. . . . Have you + written it? ‘That you are leading a life inconsistent with the laws both + of God and of man. Neither the luxurious comfort, nor the worldly + splendour, nor the culture with which you seek outwardly to disguise it, + can hide your heathen manner of life. In name you are a Christian, but in + your real nature a heathen as pitiful and wretched as all other heathens—more + wretched, indeed, seeing that those heathens who know not Christ are lost + from ignorance, while you are lost in that, possessing a treasure, you + neglect it. I will not enumerate here your vices, which you know well + enough; I will say that I see the cause of your ruin in your infidelity. + You imagine yourself to be wise, boast of your knowledge of science, but + refuse to see that science without faith, far from elevating a man, + actually degrades him to the level of a lower animal, inasmuch as. . .’” + The whole letter was in this strain. + </p> + <p> + When he had finished writing it the deacon read it aloud, beamed all over + and jumped up. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a gift, it’s really a gift!” he said, clasping his hands and looking + enthusiastically at his Reverence. “To think of the Lord’s bestowing a + gift like that! Eh? Holy Mother! I do believe I couldn’t write a letter + like that in a hundred years. Lord save you!” + </p> + <p> + Father Anastasy was enthusiastic too. + </p> + <p> + “One couldn’t write like that without a gift,” he said, getting up and + wagging his fingers—“that one couldn’t! His rhetoric would trip any + philosopher and shut him up. Intellect. Brilliant intellect! If you + weren’t married, Father Fyodor, you would have been a bishop long ago, you + would really!” + </p> + <p> + Having vented his wrath in a letter, his Reverence felt relieved; his + fatigue and exhaustion came back to him. The deacon was an old friend, and + his Reverence did not hesitate to say to him: + </p> + <p> + “Well deacon, go, and God bless you. I’ll have half an hour’s nap on the + sofa; I must rest.” + </p> + <p> + The deacon went away and took Anastasy with him. As is always the case on + Easter Eve, it was dark in the street, but the whole sky was sparkling + with bright luminous stars. There was a scent of spring and holiday in the + soft still air. + </p> + <p> + “How long was he dictating?” the deacon said admiringly. “Ten minutes, not + more! It would have taken someone else a month to compose such a letter. + Eh! What a mind! Such a mind that I don’t know what to call it! It’s a + marvel! It’s really a marvel!” + </p> + <p> + “Education!” sighed Anastasy as he crossed the muddy street; holding up + his cassock to his waist. “It’s not for us to compare ourselves with him. + We come of the sacristan class, while he has had a learned education. Yes, + he’s a real man, there is no denying that.” + </p> + <p> + “And you listen how he’ll read the Gospel in Latin at mass to-day! He + knows Latin and he knows Greek. . . . Ah Petrushka, Petrushka!” the deacon + said, suddenly remembering. “Now that will make him scratch his head! That + will shut his mouth, that will bring it home to him! Now he won’t ask + ‘Why.’ It is a case of one wit to outwit another! Haha-ha!” + </p> + <p> + The deacon laughed gaily and loudly. Since the letter had been written to + Pyotr he had become serene and more cheerful. The consciousness of having + performed his duty as a father and his faith in the power of the letter + had brought back his mirthfulness and good-humour. + </p> + <p> + “Pyotr means a stone,” said he, as he went into his house. “My Pyotr is + not a stone, but a rag. A viper has fastened upon him and he pampers her, + and hasn’t the pluck to kick her out. Tfoo! To think there should be women + like that, God forgive me! Eh? Has she no shame? She has fastened upon the + lad, sticking to him, and keeps him tied to her apron strings. . . . Fie + upon her!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it’s not she keeps hold of him, but he of her?” + </p> + <p> + “She is a shameless one anyway! Not that I am defending Pyotr. . . . He’ll + catch it. He’ll read the letter and scratch his head! He’ll burn with + shame!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a splendid letter, only you know I wouldn’t send it, Father Deacon. + Let him alone.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” said the deacon, disconcerted. + </p> + <p> + “Why. . . . Don’t send it, deacon! What’s the sense of it? Suppose you + send it; he reads it, and . . . and what then? You’ll only upset him. + Forgive him. Let him alone!” + </p> + <p> + The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy’s dark face, at his unbuttoned + cassock, which looked in the dusk like wings, and shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “How can I forgive him like that?” he asked. “Why I shall have to answer + for him to God!” + </p> + <p> + “Even so, forgive him all the same. Really! And God will forgive you for + your kindness to him.” + </p> + <p> + “But he is my son, isn’t he? Ought I not to teach him?” + </p> + <p> + “Teach him? Of course—why not? You can teach him, but why call him a + heathen? It will hurt his feelings, you know, deacon. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The deacon was a widower, and lived in a little house with three windows. + His elder sister, an old maid, looked after his house for him, though she + had three years before lost the use of her legs and was confined to her + bed; he was afraid of her, obeyed her, and did nothing without her advice. + Father Anastasy went in with him. Seeing his table already laid with + Easter cakes and red eggs, he began weeping for some reason, probably + thinking of his own home, and to turn these tears into a jest, he at once + laughed huskily. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we shall soon be breaking the fast,” he said. “Yes . . . it wouldn’t + come amiss, deacon, to have a little glass now. Can we? I’ll drink it so + that the old lady does not hear,” he whispered, glancing sideways towards + the door. + </p> + <p> + Without a word the deacon moved a decanter and wineglass towards him. He + unfolded the letter and began reading it aloud. And now the letter pleased + him just as much as when his Reverence had dictated it to him. He beamed + with pleasure and wagged his head, as though he had been tasting something + very sweet. + </p> + <p> + “A-ah, what a letter!” he said. “Petrushka has never dreamt of such a + letter. It’s just what he wants, something to throw him into a fever. . .” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, deacon, don’t send it!” said Anastasy, pouring himself out a + second glass of vodka as though unconsciously. “Forgive him, let him + alone! I am telling you . . . what I really think. If his own father can’t + forgive him, who will forgive him? And so he’ll live without forgiveness. + Think, deacon: there will be plenty to chastise him without you, but you + should look out for some who will show mercy to your son! I’ll . . . I’ll + . . . have just one more. The last, old man. . . . Just sit down and write + straight off to him, ‘I forgive you Pyotr!’ He will under-sta-and! He will + fe-el it! I understand it from myself, you see old man . . . deacon, I + mean. When I lived like other people, I hadn’t much to trouble about, but + now since I lost the image and semblance, there is only one thing I care + about, that good people should forgive me. And remember, too, it’s not the + righteous but sinners we must forgive. Why should you forgive your old + woman if she is not sinful? No, you must forgive a man when he is a sad + sight to look at . . . yes!” + </p> + <p> + Anastasy leaned his head on his fist and sank into thought. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a terrible thing, deacon,” he sighed, evidently struggling with the + desire to take another glass—“a terrible thing! In sin my mother + bore me, in sin I have lived, in sin I shall die. . . . God forgive me, a + sinner! I have gone astray, deacon! There is no salvation for me! And it’s + not as though I had gone astray in my life, but in old age—at + death’s door . . . I . . .” + </p> + <p> + The old man, with a hopeless gesture, drank off another glass, then got up + and moved to another seat. The deacon, still keeping the letter in his + hand, was walking up and down the room. He was thinking of his son. + Displeasure, distress and anxiety no longer troubled him; all that had + gone into the letter. Now he was simply picturing Pyotr; he imagined his + face, he thought of the past years when his son used to come to stay with + him for the holidays. His thoughts were only of what was good, warm, + touching, of which one might think for a whole lifetime without wearying. + Longing for his son, he read the letter through once more and looked + questioningly at Anastasy. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t send it,” said the latter, with a wave of his hand. + </p> + <p> + “No, I must send it anyway; I must . . . bring him to his senses a little, + all the same. It’s just as well. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The deacon took an envelope from the table, but before putting the letter + into it he sat down to the table, smiled and added on his own account at + the bottom of the letter: + </p> + <p> + “They have sent us a new inspector. He’s much friskier than the old one. + He’s a great one for dancing and talking, and there’s nothing he can’t do, + so that all the Govorovsky girls are crazy over him. Our military chief, + Kostyrev, will soon get the sack too, they say. High time he did!” And + very well pleased, without the faintest idea that with this postscript he + had completely spoiled the stern letter, the deacon addressed the envelope + and laid it in the most conspicuous place on the table. + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + EASTER EVE + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was standing on + the bank of the River Goltva, waiting for the ferry-boat from the other + side. At ordinary times the Goltva is a humble stream of moderate size, + silent and pensive, gently glimmering from behind thick reeds; but now a + regular lake lay stretched out before me. The waters of spring, running + riot, had overflowed both banks and flooded both sides of the river for a + long distance, submerging vegetable gardens, hayfields and marshes, so + that it was no unusual thing to meet poplars and bushes sticking out above + the surface of the water and looking in the darkness like grim solitary + crags. + </p> + <p> + The weather seemed to me magnificent. It was dark, yet I could see the + trees, the water and the people. . . . The world was lighted by the stars, + which were scattered thickly all over the sky. I don’t remember ever + seeing so many stars. Literally one could not have put a finger in between + them. There were some as big as a goose’s egg, others tiny as hempseed. . + . . They had come out for the festival procession, every one of them, + little and big, washed, renewed and joyful, and everyone of them was + softly twinkling its beams. The sky was reflected in the water; the stars + were bathing in its dark depths and trembling with the quivering eddies. + The air was warm and still. . . . Here and there, far away on the further + bank in the impenetrable darkness, several bright red lights were + gleaming. . . . + </p> + <p> + A couple of paces from me I saw the dark silhouette of a peasant in a high + hat, with a thick knotted stick in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “How long the ferry-boat is in coming!” I said. + </p> + <p> + “It is time it was here,” the silhouette answered. + </p> + <p> + “You are waiting for the ferry-boat, too?” + </p> + <p> + “No I am not,” yawned the peasant—“I am waiting for the + illumination. I should have gone, but to tell you the truth, I haven’t the + five kopecks for the ferry.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give you the five kopecks.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I humbly thank you. . . . With that five kopecks put up a candle for + me over there in the monastery. . . . That will be more interesting, and I + will stand here. What can it mean, no ferry-boat, as though it had sunk in + the water!” + </p> + <p> + The peasant went up to the water’s edge, took the rope in his hands, and + shouted; “Ieronim! Ieron—im!” + </p> + <p> + As though in answer to his shout, the slow peal of a great bell floated + across from the further bank. The note was deep and low, as from the + thickest string of a double bass; it seemed as though the darkness itself + had hoarsely uttered it. At once there was the sound of a cannon shot. It + rolled away in the darkness and ended somewhere in the far distance behind + me. The peasant took off his hat and crossed himself. + </p> + <p> + ‘“Christ is risen,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Before the vibrations of the first peal of the bell had time to die away + in the air a second sounded, after it at once a third, and the darkness + was filled with an unbroken quivering clamour. Near the red lights fresh + lights flashed, and all began moving together and twinkling restlessly. + </p> + <p> + “Ieron—im!” we heard a hollow prolonged shout. + </p> + <p> + “They are shouting from the other bank,” said the peasant, “so there is no + ferry there either. Our Ieronim has gone to sleep.” + </p> + <p> + The lights and the velvety chimes of the bell drew one towards them. . . . + I was already beginning to lose patience and grow anxious, but behold at + last, staring into the dark distance, I saw the outline of something very + much like a gibbet. It was the long-expected ferry. It moved towards us + with such deliberation that if it had not been that its lines grew + gradually more definite, one might have supposed that it was standing + still or moving to the other bank. + </p> + <p> + “Make haste! Ieronim!” shouted my peasant. “The gentleman’s tired of + waiting!” + </p> + <p> + The ferry crawled to the bank, gave a lurch and stopped with a creak. A + tall man in a monk’s cassock and a conical cap stood on it, holding the + rope. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you been so long?” I asked jumping upon the ferry. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, for Christ’s sake,” Ieronim answered gently. “Is there no one + else?” + </p> + <p> + “No one. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Ieronim took hold of the rope in both hands, bent himself to the figure of + a mark of interrogation, and gasped. The ferry-boat creaked and gave a + lurch. The outline of the peasant in the high hat began slowly retreating + from me—so the ferry was moving off. Ieronim soon drew himself up + and began working with one hand only. We were silent, gazing towards the + bank to which we were floating. There the illumination for which the + peasant was waiting had begun. At the water’s edge barrels of tar were + flaring like huge camp fires. Their reflections, crimson as the rising + moon, crept to meet us in long broad streaks. The burning barrels lighted + up their own smoke and the long shadows of men flitting about the fire; + but further to one side and behind them from where the velvety chime + floated there was still the same unbroken black gloom. All at once, + cleaving the darkness, a rocket zigzagged in a golden ribbon up the sky; + it described an arc and, as though broken to pieces against the sky, was + scattered crackling into sparks. There was a roar from the bank like a + far-away hurrah. + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful!” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful beyond words!” sighed Ieronim. “Such a night, sir! Another time + one would pay no attention to the fireworks, but to-day one rejoices in + every vanity. Where do you come from?” + </p> + <p> + I told him where I came from. + </p> + <p> + “To be sure . . . a joyful day to-day. . . .” Ieronim went on in a weak + sighing tenor like the voice of a convalescent. “The sky is rejoicing and + the earth and what is under the earth. All the creatures are keeping + holiday. Only tell me kind sir, why, even in the time of great rejoicing, + a man cannot forget his sorrows?” + </p> + <p> + I fancied that this unexpected question was to draw me into one of those + endless religious conversations which bored and idle monks are so fond of. + I was not disposed to talk much, and so I only asked: + </p> + <p> + “What sorrows have you, father?” + </p> + <p> + “As a rule only the same as all men, kind sir, but to-day a special sorrow + has happened in the monastery: at mass, during the reading of the Bible, + the monk and deacon Nikolay died.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s God’s will!” I said, falling into the monastic tone. “We must + all die. To my mind, you ought to rejoice indeed. . . . They say if anyone + dies at Easter he goes straight to the kingdom of heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true.” + </p> + <p> + We sank into silence. The figure of the peasant in the high hat melted + into the lines of the bank. The tar barrels were flaring up more and more. + </p> + <p> + “The Holy Scripture points clearly to the vanity of sorrow and so does + reflection,” said Ieronim, breaking the silence, “but why does the heart + grieve and refuse to listen to reason? Why does one want to weep + bitterly?” + </p> + <p> + Ieronim shrugged his shoulders, turned to me and said quickly: + </p> + <p> + “If I died, or anyone else, it would not be worth notice perhaps; but, you + see, Nikolay is dead! No one else but Nikolay! Indeed, it’s hard to + believe that he is no more! I stand here on my ferry-boat and every minute + I keep fancying that he will lift up his voice from the bank. He always + used to come to the bank and call to me that I might not be afraid on the + ferry. He used to get up from his bed at night on purpose for that. He was + a kind soul. My God! how kindly and gracious! Many a mother is not so good + to her child as Nikolay was to me! Lord, save his soul!” + </p> + <p> + Ieronim took hold of the rope, but turned to me again at once. + </p> + <p> + “And such a lofty intelligence, your honour,” he said in a vibrating + voice. “Such a sweet and harmonious tongue! Just as they will sing + immediately at early matins: ‘Oh lovely! oh sweet is Thy Voice!’ Besides + all other human qualities, he had, too, an extraordinary gift!” + </p> + <p> + “What gift?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + The monk scrutinized me, and as though he had convinced himself that he + could trust me with a secret, he laughed good-humouredly. + </p> + <p> + “He had a gift for writing hymns of praise,” he said. “It was a marvel, + sir; you couldn’t call it anything else! You would be amazed if I tell you + about it. Our Father Archimandrite comes from Moscow, the Father Sub-Prior + studied at the Kazan academy, we have wise monks and elders, but, would + you believe it, no one could write them; while Nikolay, a simple monk, a + deacon, had not studied anywhere, and had not even any outer appearance of + it, but he wrote them! A marvel! A real marvel!” Ieronim clasped his hands + and, completely forgetting the rope, went on eagerly: + </p> + <p> + “The Father Sub-Prior has great difficulty in composing sermons; when he + wrote the history of the monastery he worried all the brotherhood and + drove a dozen times to town, while Nikolay wrote canticles! Hymns of + praise! That’s a very different thing from a sermon or a history!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it difficult to write them?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “There’s great difficulty!” Ieronim wagged his head. “You can do nothing + by wisdom and holiness if God has not given you the gift. The monks who + don’t understand argue that you only need to know the life of the saint + for whom you are writing the hymn, and to make it harmonize with the other + hymns of praise. But that’s a mistake, sir. Of course, anyone who writes + canticles must know the life of the saint to perfection, to the least + trivial detail. To be sure, one must make them harmonize with the other + canticles and know where to begin and what to write about. To give you an + instance, the first response begins everywhere with ‘the chosen’ or ‘the + elect.’ . . . The first line must always begin with the ‘angel.’ In the + canticle of praise to Jesus the Most Sweet, if you are interested in the + subject, it begins like this: ‘Of angels Creator and Lord of all powers!’ + In the canticle to the Holy Mother of God: ‘Of angels the foremost sent + down from on high,’ to Nikolay, the Wonder-worker— ‘An angel in + semblance, though in substance a man,’ and so on. Everywhere you begin + with the angel. Of course, it would be impossible without making them + harmonize, but the lives of the saints and conformity with the others is + not what matters; what matters is the beauty and sweetness of it. + Everything must be harmonious, brief and complete. There must be in every + line softness, graciousness and tenderness; not one word should be harsh + or rough or unsuitable. It must be written so that the worshipper may + rejoice at heart and weep, while his mind is stirred and he is thrown into + a tremor. In the canticle to the Holy Mother are the words: ‘Rejoice, O + Thou too high for human thought to reach! Rejoice, O Thou too deep for + angels’ eyes to fathom!’ In another place in the same canticle: ‘Rejoice, + O tree that bearest the fair fruit of light that is the food of the + faithful! Rejoice, O tree of gracious spreading shade, under which there + is shelter for multitudes!’” + </p> + <p> + Ieronim hid his face in his hands, as though frightened at something or + overcome with shame, and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Tree that bearest the fair fruit of light . . . tree of gracious + spreading shade. . . .” he muttered. “To think that a man should find + words like those! Such a power is a gift from God! For brevity he packs + many thoughts into one phrase, and how smooth and complete it all is! + ‘Light-radiating torch to all that be . . .’ comes in the canticle to + Jesus the Most Sweet. ‘Light-radiating!’ There is no such word in + conversation or in books, but you see he invented it, he found it in his + mind! Apart from the smoothness and grandeur of language, sir, every line + must be beautified in every way, there must be flowers and lightning and + wind and sun and all the objects of the visible world. And every + exclamation ought to be put so as to be smooth and easy for the ear. + ‘Rejoice, thou flower of heavenly growth!’ comes in the hymn to Nikolay + the Wonder-worker. It’s not simply ‘heavenly flower,’ but ‘flower of + heavenly growth.’ It’s smoother so and sweet to the ear. That was just as + Nikolay wrote it! Exactly like that! I can’t tell you how he used to + write!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, in that case it is a pity he is dead,” I said; “but let us get on, + father, or we shall be late.” + </p> + <p> + Ieronim started and ran to the rope; they were beginning to peal all the + bells. Probably the procession was already going on near the monastery, + for all the dark space behind the tar barrels was now dotted with moving + lights. + </p> + <p> + “Did Nikolay print his hymns?” I asked Ieronim. + </p> + <p> + “How could he print them?” he sighed. “And indeed, it would be strange to + print them. What would be the object? No one in the monastery takes any + interest in them. They don’t like them. They knew Nikolay wrote them, but + they let it pass unnoticed. No one esteems new writings nowadays, sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Were they prejudiced against him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed. If Nikolay had been an elder perhaps the brethren would have + been interested, but he wasn’t forty, you know. There were some who + laughed and even thought his writing a sin.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he write them for?” + </p> + <p> + “Chiefly for his own comfort. Of all the brotherhood, I was the only one + who read his hymns. I used to go to him in secret, that no one else might + know of it, and he was glad that I took an interest in them. He would + embrace me, stroke my head, speak to me in caressing words as to a little + child. He would shut his cell, make me sit down beside him, and begin to + read. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Ieronim left the rope and came up to me. + </p> + <p> + “We were dear friends in a way,” he whispered, looking at me with shining + eyes. “Where he went I would go. If I were not there he would miss me. And + he cared more for me than for anyone, and all because I used to weep over + his hymns. It makes me sad to remember. Now I feel just like an orphan or + a widow. You know, in our monastery they are all good people, kind and + pious, but . . . there is no one with softness and refinement, they are + just like peasants. They all speak loudly, and tramp heavily when they + walk; they are noisy, they clear their throats, but Nikolay always talked + softly, caressingly, and if he noticed that anyone was asleep or praying + he would slip by like a fly or a gnat. His face was tender, compassionate. + . . .” + </p> + <p> + Ieronim heaved a deep sigh and took hold of the rope again. We were by now + approaching the bank. We floated straight out of the darkness and + stillness of the river into an enchanted realm, full of stifling smoke, + crackling lights and uproar. By now one could distinctly see people moving + near the tar barrels. The flickering of the lights gave a strange, almost + fantastic, expression to their figures and red faces. From time to time + one caught among the heads and faces a glimpse of a horse’s head + motionless as though cast in copper. + </p> + <p> + “They’ll begin singing the Easter hymn directly, . . .” said Ieronim, “and + Nikolay is gone; there is no one to appreciate it. . . . There was nothing + written dearer to him than that hymn. He used to take in every word! + You’ll be there, sir, so notice what is sung; it takes your breath away!” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you be in church, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t; . . . I have to work the ferry. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “But won’t they relieve you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. . . . I ought to have been relieved at eight; but, as you + see, they don’t come! . . . And I must own I should have liked to be in + the church. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Are you a monk?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes . . . that is, I am a lay-brother.” + </p> + <p> + The ferry ran into the bank and stopped. I thrust a five-kopeck piece into + Ieronim’s hand for taking me across and jumped on land. Immediately a cart + with a boy and a sleeping woman in it drove creaking onto the ferry. + Ieronim, with a faint glow from the lights on his figure, pressed on the + rope, bent down to it, and started the ferry back. . . . + </p> + <p> + I took a few steps through mud, but a little farther walked on a soft + freshly trodden path. This path led to the dark monastery gates, that + looked like a cavern through a cloud of smoke, through a disorderly crowd + of people, unharnessed horses, carts and chaises. All this crowd was + rattling, snorting, laughing, and the crimson light and wavering shadows + from the smoke flickered over it all . . . . A perfect chaos! And in this + hubbub the people yet found room to load a little cannon and to sell + cakes. There was no less commotion on the other side of the wall in the + monastery precincts, but there was more regard for decorum and order. Here + there was a smell of juniper and incense. They talked loudly, but there + was no sound of laughter or snorting. Near the tombstones and crosses + people pressed close to one another with Easter cakes and bundles in their + arms. Apparently many had come from a long distance for their cakes to be + blessed and now were exhausted. Young lay brothers, making a metallic + sound with their boots, ran busily along the iron slabs that paved the way + from the monastery gates to the church door. They were busy and shouting + on the belfry, too. + </p> + <p> + “What a restless night!” I thought. “How nice!” + </p> + <p> + One was tempted to see the same unrest and sleeplessness in all nature, + from the night darkness to the iron slabs, the crosses on the tombs and + the trees under which the people were moving to and fro. But nowhere was + the excitement and restlessness so marked as in the church. An unceasing + struggle was going on in the entrance between the inflowing stream and the + outflowing stream. Some were going in, others going out and soon coming + back again to stand still for a little and begin moving again. People were + scurrying from place to place, lounging about as though they were looking + for something. The stream flowed from the entrance all round the church, + disturbing even the front rows, where persons of weight and dignity were + standing. There could be no thought of concentrated prayer. There were no + prayers at all, but a sort of continuous, childishly irresponsible joy, + seeking a pretext to break out and vent itself in some movement, even in + senseless jostling and shoving. + </p> + <p> + The same unaccustomed movement is striking in the Easter service itself. + The altar gates are flung wide open, thick clouds of incense float in the + air near the candelabra; wherever one looks there are lights, the gleam + and splutter of candles. . . . There is no reading; restless and + lighthearted singing goes on to the end without ceasing. After each hymn + the clergy change their vestments and come out to burn the incense, which + is repeated every ten minutes. + </p> + <p> + I had no sooner taken a place, when a wave rushed from in front and forced + me back. A tall thick-set deacon walked before me with a long red candle; + the grey-headed archimandrite in his golden mitre hurried after him with + the censer. When they had vanished from sight the crowd squeezed me back + to my former position. But ten minutes had not passed before a new wave + burst on me, and again the deacon appeared. This time he was followed by + the Father Sub-Prior, the man who, as Ieronim had told me, was writing the + history of the monastery. + </p> + <p> + As I mingled with the crowd and caught the infection of the universal + joyful excitement, I felt unbearably sore on Ieronim’s account. Why did + they not send someone to relieve him? Why could not someone of less + feeling and less susceptibility go on the ferry? ‘Lift up thine eyes, O + Sion, and look around,’ they sang in the choir, ‘for thy children have + come to thee as to a beacon of divine light from north and south, and from + east and from the sea. . . .’ + </p> + <p> + I looked at the faces; they all had a lively expression of triumph, but + not one was listening to what was being sung and taking it in, and not one + was ‘holding his breath.’ Why was not Ieronim released? I could fancy + Ieronim standing meekly somewhere by the wall, bending forward and + hungrily drinking in the beauty of the holy phrase. All this that glided + by the ears of the people standing by me he would have eagerly drunk in + with his delicately sensitive soul, and would have been spell-bound to + ecstasy, to holding his breath, and there would not have been a man + happier than he in all the church. Now he was plying to and fro over the + dark river and grieving for his dead friend and brother. + </p> + <p> + The wave surged back. A stout smiling monk, playing with his rosary and + looking round behind him, squeezed sideways by me, making way for a lady + in a hat and velvet cloak. A monastery servant hurried after the lady, + holding a chair over our heads. + </p> + <p> + I came out of the church. I wanted to have a look at the dead Nikolay, the + unknown canticle writer. I walked about the monastery wall, where there + was a row of cells, peeped into several windows, and, seeing nothing, came + back again. I do not regret now that I did not see Nikolay; God knows, + perhaps if I had seen him I should have lost the picture my imagination + paints for me now. I imagine the lovable poetical figure solitary and not + understood, who went out at nights to call to Ieronim over the water, and + filled his hymns with flowers, stars and sunbeams, as a pale timid man + with soft mild melancholy features. His eyes must have shone, not only + with intelligence, but with kindly tenderness and that hardly restrained + childlike enthusiasm which I could hear in Ieronim’s voice when he quoted + to me passages from the hymns. + </p> + <p> + When we came out of church after mass it was no longer night. The morning + was beginning. The stars had gone out and the sky was a morose greyish + blue. The iron slabs, the tombstones and the buds on the trees were + covered with dew There was a sharp freshness in the air. Outside the + precincts I did not find the same animated scene as I had beheld in the + night. Horses and men looked exhausted, drowsy, scarcely moved, while + nothing was left of the tar barrels but heaps of black ash. When anyone is + exhausted and sleepy he fancies that nature, too, is in the same + condition. It seemed to me that the trees and the young grass were asleep. + It seemed as though even the bells were not pealing so loudly and gaily as + at night. The restlessness was over, and of the excitement nothing was + left but a pleasant weariness, a longing for sleep and warmth. + </p> + <p> + Now I could see both banks of the river; a faint mist hovered over it in + shifting masses. There was a harsh cold breath from the water. When I + jumped on to the ferry, a chaise and some two dozen men and women were + standing on it already. The rope, wet and as I fancied drowsy, stretched + far away across the broad river and in places disappeared in the white + mist. + </p> + <p> + “Christ is risen! Is there no one else?” asked a soft voice. + </p> + <p> + I recognized the voice of Ieronim. There was no darkness now to hinder me + from seeing the monk. He was a tall narrow-shouldered man of + five-and-thirty, with large rounded features, with half-closed + listless-looking eyes and an unkempt wedge-shaped beard. He had an + extraordinarily sad and exhausted look. + </p> + <p> + “They have not relieved you yet?” I asked in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Me?” he answered, turning to me his chilled and dewy face with a smile. + “There is no one to take my place now till morning. They’ll all be going + to the Father Archimandrite’s to break the fast directly.” + </p> + <p> + With the help of a little peasant in a hat of reddish fur that looked like + the little wooden tubs in which honey is sold, he threw his weight on the + rope; they gasped simultaneously, and the ferry started. + </p> + <p> + We floated across, disturbing on the way the lazily rising mist. Everyone + was silent. Ieronim worked mechanically with one hand. He slowly passed + his mild lustreless eyes over us; then his glance rested on the rosy face + of a young merchant’s wife with black eyebrows, who was standing on the + ferry beside me silently shrinking from the mist that wrapped her about. + He did not take his eyes off her face all the way. + </p> + <p> + There was little that was masculine in that prolonged gaze. It seemed to + me that Ieronim was looking in the woman’s face for the soft and tender + features of his dead friend. + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + A NIGHTMARE + </h2> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">K</span>unin, a young man + of thirty, who was a permanent member of the Rural Board, on returning + from Petersburg to his district, Borisovo, immediately sent a mounted + messenger to Sinkino, for the priest there, Father Yakov Smirnov. + </p> + <p> + Five hours later Father Yakov appeared. + </p> + <p> + “Very glad to make your acquaintance,” said Kunin, meeting him in the + entry. “I’ve been living and serving here for a year; it seems as though + we ought to have been acquainted before. You are very welcome! But . . . + how young you are!” Kunin added in surprise. “What is your age?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-eight, . . .” said Father Yakov, faintly pressing Kunin’s + outstretched hand, and for some reason turning crimson. + </p> + <p> + Kunin led his visitor into his study and began looking at him more + attentively. + </p> + <p> + “What an uncouth womanish face!” he thought. + </p> + <p> + There certainly was a good deal that was womanish in Father Yakov’s face: + the turned-up nose, the bright red cheeks, and the large grey-blue eyes + with scanty, scarcely perceptible eyebrows. His long reddish hair, smooth + and dry, hung down in straight tails on to his shoulders. The hair on his + upper lip was only just beginning to form into a real masculine moustache, + while his little beard belonged to that class of good-for-nothing beards + which among divinity students are for some reason called “ticklers.” It + was scanty and extremely transparent; it could not have been stroked or + combed, it could only have been pinched. . . . All these scanty + decorations were put on unevenly in tufts, as though Father Yakov, + thinking to dress up as a priest and beginning to gum on the beard, had + been interrupted halfway through. He had on a cassock, the colour of weak + coffee with chicory in it, with big patches on both elbows. + </p> + <p> + “A queer type,” thought Kunin, looking at his muddy skirts. “Comes to the + house for the first time and can’t dress decently. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Father,” he began more carelessly than cordially, as he moved + an easy-chair to the table. “Sit down, I beg you.” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov coughed into his fist, sank awkwardly on to the edge of the + chair, and laid his open hands on his knees. With his short figure, his + narrow chest, his red and perspiring face, he made from the first moment a + most unpleasant impression on Kunin. The latter could never have imagined + that there were such undignified and pitiful-looking priests in Russia; + and in Father Yakov’s attitude, in the way he held his hands on his knees + and sat on the very edge of his chair, he saw a lack of dignity and even a + shade of servility. + </p> + <p> + “I have invited you on business, Father. . . .” Kunin began, sinking back + in his low chair. “It has fallen to my lot to perform the agreeable duty + of helping you in one of your useful undertakings. . . . On coming back + from Petersburg, I found on my table a letter from the Marshal of + Nobility. Yegor Dmitrevitch suggests that I should take under my + supervision the church parish school which is being opened in Sinkino. I + shall be very glad to, Father, with all my heart. . . . More than that, I + accept the proposition with enthusiasm.” + </p> + <p> + Kunin got up and walked about the study. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, both Yegor Dmitrevitch and probably you, too, are aware that I + have not great funds at my disposal. My estate is mortgaged, and I live + exclusively on my salary as the permanent member. So that you cannot + reckon on very much assistance, but I will do all that is in my power. . . + . And when are you thinking of opening the school Father?” + </p> + <p> + “When we have the money, . . .” answered Father Yakov. + </p> + <p> + “You have some funds at your disposal already?” + </p> + <p> + “Scarcely any. . . . The peasants settled at their meeting that they would + pay, every man of them, thirty kopecks a year; but that’s only a promise, + you know! And for the first beginning we should need at least two hundred + roubles. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “M’yes. . . . Unhappily, I have not that sum now,” said Kunin with a sigh. + “I spent all I had on my tour and got into debt, too. Let us try and think + of some plan together.” + </p> + <p> + Kunin began planning aloud. He explained his views and watched Father + Yakov’s face, seeking signs of agreement or approval in it. But the face + was apathetic and immobile, and expressed nothing but constrained shyness + and uneasiness. Looking at it, one might have supposed that Kunin was + talking of matters so abstruse that Father Yakov did not understand and + only listened from good manners, and was at the same time afraid of being + detected in his failure to understand. + </p> + <p> + “The fellow is not one of the brightest, that’s evident . . .” thought + Kunin. “He’s rather shy and much too stupid.” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov revived somewhat and even smiled only when the footman came + into the study bringing in two glasses of tea on a tray and a cake-basket + full of biscuits. He took his glass and began drinking at once. + </p> + <p> + “Shouldn’t we write at once to the bishop?” Kunin went on, meditating + aloud. “To be precise, you know, it is not we, not the Zemstvo, but the + higher ecclesiastical authorities, who have raised the question of the + church parish schools. They ought really to apportion the funds. I + remember I read that a sum of money had been set aside for the purpose. Do + you know nothing about it?” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov was so absorbed in drinking tea that he did not answer this + question at once. He lifted his grey-blue eyes to Kunin, thought a moment, + and as though recalling his question, he shook his head in the negative. + An expression of pleasure and of the most ordinary prosaic appetite + overspread his face from ear to ear. He drank and smacked his lips over + every gulp. When he had drunk it to the very last drop, he put his glass + on the table, then took his glass back again, looked at the bottom of it, + then put it back again. The expression of pleasure faded from his face. . + . . Then Kunin saw his visitor take a biscuit from the cake-basket, nibble + a little bit off it, then turn it over in his hand and hurriedly stick it + in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Well, that’s not at all clerical!” thought Kunin, shrugging his shoulders + contemptuously. “What is it, priestly greed or childishness?” + </p> + <p> + After giving his visitor another glass of tea and seeing him to the entry, + Kunin lay down on the sofa and abandoned himself to the unpleasant feeling + induced in him by the visit of Father Yakov. + </p> + <p> + “What a strange wild creature!” he thought. “Dirty, untidy, coarse, + stupid, and probably he drinks. . . . My God, and that’s a priest, a + spiritual father! That’s a teacher of the people! I can fancy the irony + there must be in the deacon’s face when before every mass he booms out: + ‘Thy blessing, Reverend Father!’ A fine reverend Father! A reverend Father + without a grain of dignity or breeding, hiding biscuits in his pocket like + a schoolboy. . . . Fie! Good Lord, where were the bishop’s eyes when he + ordained a man like that? What can he think of the people if he gives them + a teacher like that? One wants people here who . . .” + </p> + <p> + And Kunin thought what Russian priests ought to be like. + </p> + <p> + “If I were a priest, for instance. . . . An educated priest fond of his + work might do a great deal. . . . I should have had the school opened long + ago. And the sermons? If the priest is sincere and is inspired by love for + his work, what wonderful rousing sermons he might give!” + </p> + <p> + Kunin shut his eyes and began mentally composing a sermon. A little later + he sat down to the table and rapidly began writing. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give it to that red-haired fellow, let him read it in church, . . .” + he thought. + </p> + <p> + The following Sunday Kunin drove over to Sinkino in the morning to settle + the question of the school, and while he was there to make acquaintance + with the church of which he was a parishioner. In spite of the awful state + of the roads, it was a glorious morning. The sun was shining brightly and + cleaving with its rays the layers of white snow still lingering here and + there. The snow as it took leave of the earth glittered with such diamonds + that it hurt the eyes to look, while the young winter corn was hastily + thrusting up its green beside it. The rooks floated with dignity over the + fields. A rook would fly, drop to earth, and give several hops before + standing firmly on its feet. . . . + </p> + <p> + The wooden church up to which Kunin drove was old and grey; the columns of + the porch had once been painted white, but the colour had now completely + peeled off, and they looked like two ungainly shafts. The ikon over the + door looked like a dark smudged blur. But its poverty touched and softened + Kunin. Modestly dropping his eyes, he went into the church and stood by + the door. The service had only just begun. An old sacristan, bent into a + bow, was reading the “Hours” in a hollow indistinct tenor. Father Yakov, + who conducted the service without a deacon, was walking about the church, + burning incense. Had it not been for the softened mood in which Kunin + found himself on entering the poverty-stricken church, he certainly would + have smiled at the sight of Father Yakov. The short priest was wearing a + crumpled and extremely long robe of some shabby yellow material; the hem + of the robe trailed on the ground. + </p> + <p> + The church was not full. Looking at the parishioners, Kunin was struck at + the first glance by one strange circumstance: he saw nothing but old + people and children. . . . Where were the men of working age? Where was + the youth and manhood? But after he had stood there a little and looked + more attentively at the aged-looking faces, Kunin saw that he had mistaken + young people for old. He did not, however, attach any significance to this + little optical illusion. + </p> + <p> + The church was as cold and grey inside as outside. There was not one spot + on the ikons nor on the dark brown walls which was not begrimed and + defaced by time. There were many windows, but the general effect of colour + was grey, and so it was twilight in the church. + </p> + <p> + “Anyone pure in soul can pray here very well,” thought Kunin. “Just as in + St. Peter’s in Rome one is impressed by grandeur, here one is touched by + the lowliness and simplicity.” + </p> + <p> + But his devout mood vanished like smoke as soon as Father Yakov went up to + the altar and began mass. Being still young and having come straight from + the seminary bench to the priesthood, Father Yakov had not yet formed a + set manner of celebrating the service. As he read he seemed to be + vacillating between a high tenor and a thin bass; he bowed clumsily, + walked quickly, and opened and shut the gates abruptly. . . . The old + sacristan, evidently deaf and ailing, did not hear the prayers very + distinctly, and this very often led to slight misunderstandings. Before + Father Yakov had time to finish what he had to say, the sacristan began + chanting his response, or else long after Father Yakov had finished the + old man would be straining his ears, listening in the direction of the + altar and saying nothing till his skirt was pulled. The old man had a + sickly hollow voice and an asthmatic quavering lisp. . . . The complete + lack of dignity and decorum was emphasized by a very small boy who + seconded the sacristan and whose head was hardly visible over the railing + of the choir. The boy sang in a shrill falsetto and seemed to be trying to + avoid singing in tune. Kunin stayed a little while, listened and went out + for a smoke. He was disappointed, and looked at the grey church almost + with dislike. + </p> + <p> + “They complain of the decline of religious feeling among the people . . .” + he sighed. “I should rather think so! They’d better foist a few more + priests like this one on them!” + </p> + <p> + Kunin went back into the church three times, and each time he felt a great + temptation to get out into the open air again. Waiting till the end of the + mass, he went to Father Yakov’s. The priest’s house did not differ + outwardly from the peasants’ huts, but the thatch lay more smoothly on the + roof and there were little white curtains in the windows. Father Yakov led + Kunin into a light little room with a clay floor and walls covered with + cheap paper; in spite of some painful efforts towards luxury in the way of + photographs in frames and a clock with a pair of scissors hanging on the + weight the furnishing of the room impressed him by its scantiness. Looking + at the furniture, one might have supposed that Father Yakov had gone from + house to house and collected it in bits; in one place they had given him a + round three-legged table, in another a stool, in a third a chair with a + back bent violently backwards; in a fourth a chair with an upright back, + but the seat smashed in; while in a fifth they had been liberal and given + him a semblance of a sofa with a flat back and a lattice-work seat. This + semblance had been painted dark red and smelt strongly of paint. Kunin + meant at first to sit down on one of the chairs, but on second thoughts he + sat down on the stool. + </p> + <p> + “This is the first time you have been to our church?” asked Father Yakov, + hanging his hat on a huge misshapen nail. + </p> + <p> + “Yes it is. I tell you what, Father, before we begin on business, will you + give me some tea? My soul is parched.” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov blinked, gasped, and went behind the partition wall. There + was a sound of whispering. + </p> + <p> + “With his wife, I suppose,” thought Kunin; “it would be interesting to see + what the red-headed fellow’s wife is like.” + </p> + <p> + A little later Father Yakov came back, red and perspiring and with an + effort to smile, sat down on the edge of the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “They will heat the samovar directly,” he said, without looking at his + visitor. + </p> + <p> + “My goodness, they have not heated the samovar yet!” Kunin thought with + horror. “A nice time we shall have to wait.” + </p> + <p> + “I have brought you,” he said, “the rough draft of the letter I have + written to the bishop. I’ll read it after tea; perhaps you may find + something to add. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed. Father Yakov threw furtive glances at the partition + wall, smoothed his hair, and blew his nose. + </p> + <p> + “It’s wonderful weather, . . .” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I read an interesting thing yesterday. . . . the Volsky Zemstvo have + decided to give their schools to the clergy, that’s typical.” + </p> + <p> + Kunin got up, and pacing up and down the clay floor, began to give + expression to his reflections. + </p> + <p> + “That would be all right,” he said, “if only the clergy were equal to + their high calling and recognized their tasks. I am so unfortunate as to + know priests whose standard of culture and whose moral qualities make them + hardly fit to be army secretaries, much less priests. You will agree that + a bad teacher does far less harm than a bad priest.” + </p> + <p> + Kunin glanced at Father Yakov; he was sitting bent up, thinking intently + about something and apparently not listening to his visitor. + </p> + <p> + “Yasha, come here!” a woman’s voice called from behind the partition. + Father Yakov started and went out. Again a whispering began. + </p> + <p> + Kunin felt a pang of longing for tea. + </p> + <p> + “No; it’s no use my waiting for tea here,” he thought, looking at his + watch. “Besides I fancy I am not altogether a welcome visitor. My host has + not deigned to say one word to me; he simply sits and blinks.” + </p> + <p> + Kunin took up his hat, waited for Father Yakov to return, and said + good-bye to him. + </p> + <p> + “I have simply wasted the morning,” he thought wrathfully on the way home. + “The blockhead! The dummy! He cares no more about the school than I about + last year’s snow. . . . No, I shall never get anything done with him! We + are bound to fail! If the Marshal knew what the priest here was like, he + wouldn’t be in such a hurry to talk about a school. We ought first to try + and get a decent priest, and then think about the school.” + </p> + <p> + By now Kunin almost hated Father Yakov. The man, his pitiful, grotesque + figure in the long crumpled robe, his womanish face, his manner of + officiating, his way of life and his formal restrained respectfulness, + wounded the tiny relic of religious feeling which was stored away in a + warm corner of Kunin’s heart together with his nurse’s other fairy tales. + The coldness and lack of attention with which Father Yakov had met Kunin’s + warm and sincere interest in what was the priest’s own work was hard for + the former’s vanity to endure. . . . + </p> + <p> + On the evening of the same day Kunin spent a long time walking about his + rooms and thinking. Then he sat down to the table resolutely and wrote a + letter to the bishop. After asking for money and a blessing for the + school, he set forth genuinely, like a son, his opinion of the priest at + Sinkino. + </p> + <p> + “He is young,” he wrote, “insufficiently educated, leads, I fancy, an + intemperate life, and altogether fails to satisfy the ideals which the + Russian people have in the course of centuries formed of what a pastor + should be.” + </p> + <p> + After writing this letter Kunin heaved a deep sigh, and went to bed with + the consciousness that he had done a good deed. + </p> + <p> + On Monday morning, while he was still in bed, he was informed that Father + Yakov had arrived. He did not want to get up, and instructed the servant + to say he was not at home. On Tuesday he went away to a sitting of the + Board, and when he returned on Saturday he was told by the servants that + Father Yakov had called every day in his absence. + </p> + <p> + “He liked my biscuits, it seems,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + Towards evening on Sunday Father Yakov arrived. This time not only his + skirts, but even his hat, was bespattered with mud. Just as on his first + visit, he was hot and perspiring, and sat down on the edge of his chair as + he had done then. Kunin determined not to talk about the school—not + to cast pearls. + </p> + <p> + “I have brought you a list of books for the school, Pavel Mihailovitch, . + . .” Father Yakov began. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + But everything showed that Father Yakov had come for something else + besides the list. Has whole figure was expressive of extreme + embarrassment, and at the same time there was a look of determination upon + his face, as on the face of a man suddenly inspired by an idea. He + struggled to say something important, absolutely necessary, and strove to + overcome his timidity. + </p> + <p> + “Why is he dumb?” Kunin thought wrathfully. “He’s settled himself + comfortably! I haven’t time to be bothered with him.” + </p> + <p> + To smoothe over the awkwardness of his silence and to conceal the struggle + going on within him, the priest began to smile constrainedly, and this + slow smile, wrung out on his red perspiring face, and out of keeping with + the fixed look in his grey-blue eyes, made Kunin turn away. He felt moved + to repulsion. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Father, I have to go out,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov started like a man asleep who has been struck a blow, and, + still smiling, began in his confusion wrapping round him the skirts of his + cassock. In spite of his repulsion for the man, Kunin felt suddenly sorry + for him, and he wanted to soften his cruelty. + </p> + <p> + “Please come another time, Father,” he said, “and before we part I want to + ask you a favour. I was somehow inspired to write two sermons the other + day. . . . I will give them to you to look at. If they are suitable, use + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” said Father Yakov, laying his open hand on Kunin’s sermons + which were lying on the table. “I will take them.” + </p> + <p> + After standing a little, hesitating and still wrapping his cassock round + him, he suddenly gave up the effort to smile and lifted his head + resolutely. + </p> + <p> + “Pavel Mihailovitch,” he said, evidently trying to speak loudly and + distinctly. + </p> + <p> + “What can I do for you?” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard that you . . . er . . . have dismissed your secretary, and . + . . and are looking for a new one. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am. . . . Why, have you someone to recommend?” + </p> + <p> + “I. . . er . . . you see . . . I . . . Could you not give the post to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, are you giving up the Church?” said Kunin in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” Father Yakov brought out quickly, for some reason turning pale + and trembling all over. “God forbid! If you feel doubtful, then never + mind, never mind. You see, I could do the work between whiles, . . so as + to increase my income. . . . Never mind, don’t disturb yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! . . . your income. . . . But you know, I only pay my secretary + twenty roubles a month.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens! I would take ten,” whispered Father Yakov, looking about + him. “Ten would be enough! You . . . you are astonished, and everyone is + astonished. The greedy priest, the grasping priest, what does he do with + his money? I feel myself I am greedy, . . . and I blame myself, I condemn + myself. . . . I am ashamed to look people in the face. . . . I tell you on + my conscience, Pavel Mihailovitch. . . . I call the God of truth to + witness. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov took breath and went on: + </p> + <p> + “On the way here I prepared a regular confession to make you, but . . . + I’ve forgotten it all; I cannot find a word now. I get a hundred and fifty + roubles a year from my parish, and everyone wonders what I do with the + money. . . . But I’ll explain it all truly. . . . I pay forty roubles a + year to the clerical school for my brother Pyotr. He has everything found + there, except that I have to provide pens and paper.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I believe you; I believe you! But what’s the object of all this?” + said Kunin, with a wave of the hand, feeling terribly oppressed by this + outburst of confidence on the part of his visitor, and not knowing how to + get away from the tearful gleam in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Then I have not yet paid up all that I owe to the consistory for my place + here. They charged me two hundred roubles for the living, and I was to pay + ten roubles a month. . . . You can judge what is left! And, besides, I + must allow Father Avraamy at least three roubles a month.” + </p> + <p> + “What Father Avraamy?” + </p> + <p> + “Father Avraamy who was priest at Sinkino before I came. He was deprived + of the living on account of . . . his failing, but you know, he is still + living at Sinkino! He has nowhere to go. There is no one to keep him. + Though he is old, he must have a corner, and food and clothing—I + can’t let him go begging on the roads in his position! It would be on my + conscience if anything happened! It would be my fault! He is. . . in debt + all round; but, you see, I am to blame for not paying for him.” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov started up from his seat and, looking frantically at the + floor, strode up and down the room. + </p> + <p> + “My God, my God!” he muttered, raising his hands and dropping them again. + “Lord, save us and have mercy upon us! Why did you take such a calling on + yourself if you have so little faith and no strength? There is no end to + my despair! Save me, Queen of Heaven!” + </p> + <p> + “Calm yourself, Father,” said Kunin. + </p> + <p> + “I am worn out with hunger, Pavel Mihailovitch,” Father Yakov went on. + “Generously forgive me, but I am at the end of my strength . . . . I know + if I were to beg and to bow down, everyone would help, but . . . I cannot! + I am ashamed. How can I beg of the peasants? You are on the Board here, so + you know. . . . How can one beg of a beggar? And to beg of richer people, + of landowners, I cannot! I have pride! I am ashamed!” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov waved his hand, and nervously scratched his head with both + hands. + </p> + <p> + “I am ashamed! My God, I am ashamed! I am proud and can’t bear people to + see my poverty! When you visited me, Pavel Mihailovitch, I had no tea in + the house! There wasn’t a pinch of it, and you know it was pride prevented + me from telling you! I am ashamed of my clothes, of these patches here. . + . . I am ashamed of my vestments, of being hungry. . . . And is it seemly + for a priest to be proud?” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov stood still in the middle of the study, and, as though he did + not notice Kunin’s presence, began reasoning with himself. + </p> + <p> + “Well, supposing I endure hunger and disgrace—but, my God, I have a + wife! I took her from a good home! She is not used to hard work; she is + soft; she is used to tea and white bread and sheets on her bed. . . . At + home she used to play the piano. . . . She is young, not twenty yet. . . . + She would like, to be sure, to be smart, to have fun, go out to see + people. . . . And she is worse off with me than any cook; she is ashamed + to show herself in the street. My God, my God! Her only treat is when I + bring an apple or some biscuit from a visit. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov scratched his head again with both hands. + </p> + <p> + “And it makes us feel not love but pity for each other. . . . I cannot + look at her without compassion! And the things that happen in this life, O + Lord! Such things that people would not believe them if they saw them in + the newspaper. . . . And when will there be an end to it all!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Father!” Kunin almost shouted, frightened at his tone. “Why take + such a gloomy view of life?” + </p> + <p> + “Generously forgive me, Pavel Mihailovitch . . .” muttered Father Yakov as + though he were drunk, “Forgive me, all this . . . doesn’t matter, and + don’t take any notice of it. . . . Only I do blame myself, and always + shall blame myself . . . always.” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov looked about him and began whispering: + </p> + <p> + “One morning early I was going from Sinkino to Lutchkovo; I saw a woman + standing on the river bank, doing something. . . . I went up close and + could not believe my eyes. . . . It was horrible! The wife of the doctor, + Ivan Sergeitch, was sitting there washing her linen. . . . A doctor’s + wife, brought up at a select boarding-school! She had got up you see, + early and gone half a mile from the village that people should not see + her. . . . She couldn’t get over her pride! When she saw that I was near + her and noticed her poverty, she turned red all over. . . . I was + flustered—I was frightened, and ran up to help her, but she hid her + linen from me; she was afraid I should see her ragged chemises. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “All this is positively incredible,” said Kunin, sitting down and looking + almost with horror at Father Yakov’s pale face. + </p> + <p> + “Incredible it is! It’s a thing that has never been! Pavel Mihailovitch, + that a doctor’s wife should be rinsing the linen in the river! Such a + thing does not happen in any country! As her pastor and spiritual father, + I ought not to allow it, but what can I do? What? Why, I am always trying + to get treated by her husband for nothing myself! It is true that, as you + say, it is all incredible! One can hardly believe one’s eyes. During Mass, + you know, when I look out from the altar and see my congregation, Avraamy + starving, and my wife, and think of the doctor’s wife—how blue her + hands were from the cold water—would you believe it, I forget myself + and stand senseless like a fool, until the sacristan calls to me. . . . + It’s awful!” + </p> + <p> + Father Yakov began walking about again. + </p> + <p> + “Lord Jesus!” he said, waving his hands, “holy Saints! I can’t officiate + properly. . . . Here you talk to me about the school, and I sit like a + dummy and don’t understand a word, and think of nothing but food. . . . + Even before the altar. . . . But . . . what am I doing?” Father Yakov + pulled himself up suddenly. “You want to go out. Forgive me, I meant + nothing. . . . Excuse . . .” + </p> + <p> + Kunin shook hands with Father Yakov without speaking, saw him into the + hall, and going back into his study, stood at the window. He saw Father + Yakov go out of the house, pull his wide-brimmed rusty-looking hat over + his eyes, and slowly, bowing his head, as though ashamed of his outburst, + walk along the road. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see his horse,” thought Kunin. + </p> + <p> + Kunin did not dare to think that the priest had come on foot every day to + see him; it was five or six miles to Sinkino, and the mud on the road was + impassable. Further on he saw the coachman Andrey and the boy Paramon, + jumping over the puddles and splashing Father Yakov with mud, run up to + him for his blessing. Father Yakov took off his hat and slowly blessed + Andrey, then blessed the boy and stroked his head. + </p> + <p> + Kunin passed his hand over his eyes, and it seemed to him that his hand + was moist. He walked away from the window and with dim eyes looked round + the room in which he still seemed to hear the timid droning voice. He + glanced at the table. Luckily, Father Yakov, in his haste, had forgotten + to take the sermons. Kunin rushed up to them, tore them into pieces, and + with loathing thrust them under the table. + </p> + <p> + “And I did not know!” he moaned, sinking on to the sofa. “After being here + over a year as member of the Rural Board, Honorary Justice of the Peace, + member of the School Committee! Blind puppet, egregious idiot! I must make + haste and help them, I must make haste!” + </p> + <p> + He turned from side to side uneasily, pressed his temples and racked his + brains. + </p> + <p> + “On the twentieth I shall get my salary, two hundred roubles. . . . On + some good pretext I will give him some, and some to the doctor’s wife. . . + . I will ask them to perform a special service here, and will get up an + illness for the doctor. . . . In that way I shan’t wound their pride. And + I’ll help Father Avraamy too. . . .” + </p> + <p> + He reckoned his money on his fingers, and was afraid to own to himself + that those two hundred roubles would hardly be enough for him to pay his + steward, his servants, the peasant who brought the meat. . . . He could + not help remembering the recent past when he was senselessly squandering + his father’s fortune, when as a puppy of twenty he had given expensive + fans to prostitutes, had paid ten roubles a day to Kuzma, his cab-driver, + and in his vanity had made presents to actresses. Oh, how useful those + wasted rouble, three-rouble, ten-rouble notes would have been now! + </p> + <p> + “Father Avraamy lives on three roubles a month!” thought Kunin. “For a + rouble the priest’s wife could get herself a chemise, and the doctor’s + wife could hire a washerwoman. But I’ll help them, anyway! I must help + them.” + </p> + <p> + Here Kunin suddenly recalled the private information he had sent to the + bishop, and he writhed as from a sudden draught of cold air. This + remembrance filled him with overwhelming shame before his inner self and + before the unseen truth. + </p> + <p> + So had begun and had ended a sincere effort to be of public service on the + part of a well-intentioned but unreflecting and over-comfortable person. + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE MURDER + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he evening service + was being celebrated at Progonnaya Station. Before the great ikon, painted + in glaring colours on a background of gold, stood the crowd of railway + servants with their wives and children, and also of the timbermen and + sawyers who worked close to the railway line. All stood in silence, + fascinated by the glare of the lights and the howling of the snow-storm + which was aimlessly disporting itself outside, regardless of the fact that + it was the Eve of the Annunciation. The old priest from Vedenyapino + conducted the service; the sacristan and Matvey Terehov were singing. + </p> + <p> + Matvey’s face was beaming with delight; he sang stretching out his neck as + though he wanted to soar upwards. He sang tenor and chanted the “Praises” + too in a tenor voice with honied sweetness and persuasiveness. When he + sang “Archangel Voices” he waved his arms like a conductor, and trying to + second the sacristan’s hollow bass with his tenor, achieved something + extremely complex, and from his face it could be seen that he was + experiencing great pleasure. + </p> + <p> + At last the service was over, and they all quietly dispersed, and it was + dark and empty again, and there followed that hush which is only known in + stations that stand solitary in the open country or in the forest when the + wind howls and nothing else is heard and when all the emptiness around, + all the dreariness of life slowly ebbing away is felt. + </p> + <p> + Matvey lived not far from the station at his cousin’s tavern. But he did + not want to go home. He sat down at the refreshment bar and began talking + to the waiter in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “We had our own choir in the tile factory. And I must tell you that though + we were only workmen, our singing was first-rate, splendid. We were often + invited to the town, and when the Deputy Bishop, Father Ivan, took the + service at Trinity Church, the bishop’s singers sang in the right choir + and we in the left. Only they complained in the town that we kept the + singing on too long: ‘the factory choir drag it out,’ they used to say. It + is true we began St. Andrey’s prayers and the Praises between six and + seven, and it was past eleven when we finished, so that it was sometimes + after midnight when we got home to the factory. It was good,” sighed + Matvey. “Very good it was, indeed, Sergey Nikanoritch! But here in my + father’s house it is anything but joyful. The nearest church is four miles + away; with my weak health I can’t get so far; there are no singers there. + And there is no peace or quiet in our family; day in day out, there is an + uproar, scolding, uncleanliness; we all eat out of one bowl like peasants; + and there are beetles in the cabbage soup. . . . God has not given me + health, else I would have gone away long ago, Sergey Nikanoritch.” + </p> + <p> + Matvey Terehov was a middle-aged man about forty-five, but he had a look + of ill-health; his face was wrinkled and his lank, scanty beard was quite + grey, and that made him seem many years older. He spoke in a weak voice, + circumspectly, and held his chest when he coughed, while his eyes assumed + the uneasy and anxious look one sees in very apprehensive people. He never + said definitely what was wrong with him, but he was fond of describing at + length how once at the factory he had lifted a heavy box and had ruptured + himself, and how this had led to “the gripes,” and had forced him to give + up his work in the tile factory and come back to his native place; but he + could not explain what he meant by “the gripes.” + </p> + <p> + “I must own I am not fond of my cousin,” he went on, pouring himself out + some tea. “He is my elder; it is a sin to censure him, and I fear the + Lord, but I cannot bear it in patience. He is a haughty, surly, abusive + man; he is the torment of his relations and workmen, and constantly out of + humour. Last Sunday I asked him in an amiable way, ‘Brother, let us go to + Pahomovo for the Mass!’ but he said ‘I am not going; the priest there is a + gambler;’ and he would not come here to-day because, he said, the priest + from Vedenyapino smokes and drinks vodka. He doesn’t like the clergy! He + reads Mass himself and the Hours and the Vespers, while his sister acts as + sacristan; he says, ‘Let us pray unto the Lord’! and she, in a thin little + voice like a turkey-hen, ‘Lord, have mercy upon us! . . .’ It’s a sin, + that’s what it is. Every day I say to him, ‘Think what you are doing, + brother! Repent, brother!’ and he takes no notice.” + </p> + <p> + Sergey Nikanoritch, the waiter, poured out five glasses of tea and carried + them on a tray to the waiting-room. He had scarcely gone in when there was + a shout: + </p> + <p> + “Is that the way to serve it, pig’s face? You don’t know how to wait!” + </p> + <p> + It was the voice of the station-master. There was a timid mutter, then + again a harsh and angry shout: + </p> + <p> + “Get along!” + </p> + <p> + The waiter came back greatly crestfallen. + </p> + <p> + “There was a time when I gave satisfaction to counts and princes,” he said + in a low voice; “but now I don’t know how to serve tea. . . . He called me + names before the priest and the ladies!” + </p> + <p> + The waiter, Sergey Nikanoritch, had once had money of his own, and had + kept a buffet at a first-class station, which was a junction, in the + principal town of a province. There he had worn a swallow-tail coat and a + gold chain. But things had gone ill with him; he had squandered all his + own money over expensive fittings and service; he had been robbed by his + staff, and getting gradually into difficulties, had moved to another + station less bustling. Here his wife had left him, taking with her all the + silver, and he moved to a third station of a still lower class, where no + hot dishes were served. Then to a fourth. Frequently changing his + situation and sinking lower and lower, he had at last come to Progonnaya, + and here he used to sell nothing but tea and cheap vodka, and for lunch + hard-boiled eggs and dry sausages, which smelt of tar, and which he + himself sarcastically said were only fit for the orchestra. He was bald + all over the top of his head, and had prominent blue eyes and thick bushy + whiskers, which he often combed out, looking into the little + looking-glass. Memories of the past haunted him continually; he could + never get used to sausage “only fit for the orchestra,” to the rudeness of + the station-master, and to the peasants who used to haggle over the + prices, and in his opinion it was as unseemly to haggle over prices in a + refreshment room as in a chemist’s shop. He was ashamed of his poverty and + degradation, and that shame was now the leading interest of his life. + </p> + <p> + “Spring is late this year,” said Matvey, listening. “It’s a good job; I + don’t like spring. In spring it is very muddy, Sergey Nikanoritch. In + books they write: Spring, the birds sing, the sun is setting, but what is + there pleasant in that? A bird is a bird, and nothing more. I am fond of + good company, of listening to folks, of talking of religion or singing + something agreeable in chorus; but as for nightingales and flowers—bless + them, I say!” + </p> + <p> + He began again about the tile factory, about the choir, but Sergey + Nikanoritch could not get over his mortification, and kept shrugging his + shoulders and muttering. Matvey said good-bye and went home. + </p> + <p> + There was no frost, and the snow was already melting on the roofs, though + it was still falling in big flakes; they were whirling rapidly round and + round in the air and chasing one another in white clouds along the railway + line. And the oak forest on both sides of the line, in the dim light of + the moon which was hidden somewhere high up in the clouds, resounded with + a prolonged sullen murmur. When a violent storm shakes the trees, how + terrible they are! Matvey walked along the causeway beside the line, + covering his face and his hands, while the wind beat on his back. All at + once a little nag, plastered all over with snow, came into sight; a sledge + scraped along the bare stones of the causeway, and a peasant, white all + over, too, with his head muffled up, cracked his whip. Matvey looked round + after him, but at once, as though it had been a vision, there was neither + sledge nor peasant to be seen, and he hastened his steps, suddenly scared, + though he did not know why. + </p> + <p> + Here was the crossing and the dark little house where the signalman lived. + The barrier was raised, and by it perfect mountains had drifted and clouds + of snow were whirling round like witches on broomsticks. At that point the + line was crossed by an old highroad, which was still called “the track.” + On the right, not far from the crossing, by the roadside stood Terehov’s + tavern, which had been a posting inn. Here there was always a light + twinkling at night. + </p> + <p> + When Matvey reached home there was a strong smell of incense in all the + rooms and even in the entry. His cousin Yakov Ivanitch was still reading + the evening service. In the prayer-room where this was going on, in the + corner opposite the door, there stood a shrine of old-fashioned ancestral + ikons in gilt settings, and both walls to right and to left were decorated + with ikons of ancient and modern fashion, in shrines and without them. On + the table, which was draped to the floor, stood an ikon of the + Annunciation, and close by a cyprus-wood cross and the censer; wax candles + were burning. Beside the table was a reading desk. As he passed by the + prayer-room, Matvey stopped and glanced in at the door. Yakov Ivanitch was + reading at the desk at that moment, his sister Aglaia, a tall lean old + woman in a dark-blue dress and white kerchief, was praying with him. Yakov + Ivanitch’s daughter Dashutka, an ugly freckled girl of eighteen, was + there, too, barefoot as usual, and wearing the dress in which she had at + nightfall taken water to the cattle. + </p> + <p> + “Glory to Thee Who hast shown us the light!” Yakov Ivanitch boomed out in + a chant, bowing low. + </p> + <p> + Aglaia propped her chin on her hand and chanted in a thin, shrill, + drawling voice. And upstairs, above the ceiling, there was the sound of + vague voices which seemed menacing or ominous of evil. No one had lived on + the storey above since a fire there a long time ago. The windows were + boarded up, and empty bottles lay about on the floor between the beams. + Now the wind was banging and droning, and it seemed as though someone were + running and stumbling over the beams. + </p> + <p> + Half of the lower storey was used as a tavern, while Terehov’s family + lived in the other half, so that when drunken visitors were noisy in the + tavern every word they said could be heard in the rooms. Matvey lived in a + room next to the kitchen, with a big stove, in which, in old days, when + this had been a posting inn, bread had been baked every day. Dashutka, who + had no room of her own, lived in the same room behind the stove. A cricket + chirped there always at night and mice ran in and out. + </p> + <p> + Matvey lighted a candle and began reading a book which he had borrowed + from the station policeman. While he was sitting over it the service + ended, and they all went to bed. Dashutka lay down, too. She began snoring + at once, but soon woke up and said, yawning: + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn’t burn a candle for nothing, Uncle Matvey.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s my candle,” answered Matvey; “I bought it with my own money.” + </p> + <p> + Dashutka turned over a little and fell asleep again. Matvey sat up a good + time longer—he was not sleepy—and when he had finished the + last page he took a pencil out of a box and wrote on the book: + </p> + <p> + “I, Matvey Terehov, have read this book, and think it the very best of all + the books I have read, for which I express my gratitude to the + non-commissioned officer of the Police Department of Railways, Kuzma + Nikolaev Zhukov, as the possessor of this priceless book.” + </p> + <p> + He considered it an obligation of politeness to make such inscriptions in + other people’s books. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + On Annunciation Day, after the mail train had been sent off, Matvey was + sitting in the refreshment bar, talking and drinking tea with lemon in it. + </p> + <p> + The waiter and Zhukov the policeman were listening to him. + </p> + <p> + “I was, I must tell you,” Matvey was saying, “inclined to religion from my + earliest childhood. I was only twelve years old when I used to read the + epistle in church, and my parents were greatly delighted, and every summer + I used to go on a pilgrimage with my dear mother. Sometimes other lads + would be singing songs and catching crayfish, while I would be all the + time with my mother. My elders commended me, and, indeed, I was pleased + myself that I was of such good behaviour. And when my mother sent me with + her blessing to the factory, I used between working hours to sing tenor + there in our choir, and nothing gave me greater pleasure. I needn’t say, I + drank no vodka, I smoked no tobacco, and lived in chastity; but we all + know such a mode of life is displeasing to the enemy of mankind, and he, + the unclean spirit, once tried to ruin me and began to darken my mind, + just as now with my cousin. First of all, I took a vow to fast every + Monday and not to eat meat any day, and as time went on all sorts of + fancies came over me. For the first week of Lent down to Saturday the holy + fathers have ordained a diet of dry food, but it is no sin for the weak or + those who work hard even to drink tea, yet not a crumb passed into my + mouth till the Sunday, and afterwards all through Lent I did not allow + myself a drop of oil, and on Wednesdays and Fridays I did not touch a + morsel at all. It was the same in the lesser fasts. Sometimes in St. + Peter’s fast our factory lads would have fish soup, while I would sit a + little apart from them and suck a dry crust. Different people have + different powers, of course, but I can say of myself I did not find fast + days hard, and, indeed, the greater the zeal the easier it seems. You are + only hungry on the first days of the fast, and then you get used to it; it + goes on getting easier, and by the end of a week you don’t mind it at all, + and there is a numb feeling in your legs as though you were not on earth, + but in the clouds. And, besides that, I laid all sorts of penances on + myself; I used to get up in the night and pray, bowing down to the ground, + used to drag heavy stones from place to place, used to go out barefoot in + the snow, and I even wore chains, too. Only, as time went on, you know, I + was confessing one day to the priest and suddenly this reflection occurred + to me: why, this priest, I thought, is married, he eats meat and smokes + tobacco—how can he confess me, and what power has he to absolve my + sins if he is more sinful that I? I even scruple to eat Lenten oil, while + he eats sturgeon, I dare say. I went to another priest, and he, as ill + luck would have it, was a fat fleshy man, in a silk cassock; he rustled + like a lady, and he smelt of tobacco too. I went to fast and confess in + the monastery, and my heart was not at ease even there; I kept fancying + the monks were not living according to their rules. And after that I could + not find a service to my mind: in one place they read the service too + fast, in another they sang the wrong prayer, in a third the sacristan + stammered. Sometimes, the Lord forgive me a sinner, I would stand in + church and my heart would throb with anger. How could one pray, feeling + like that? And I fancied that the people in the church did not cross + themselves properly, did not listen properly; wherever I looked it seemed + to me that they were all drunkards, that they broke the fast, smoked, + lived loose lives and played cards. I was the only one who lived according + to the commandments. The wily spirit did not slumber; it got worse as it + went on. I gave up singing in the choir and I did not go to church at all; + since my notion was that I was a righteous man and that the church did not + suit me owing to its imperfections—that is, indeed, like a fallen + angel, I was puffed up in my pride beyond all belief. After this I began + attempting to make a church for myself. I hired from a deaf woman a tiny + little room, a long way out of town near the cemetery, and made a + prayer-room like my cousin’s, only I had big church candlesticks, too, and + a real censer. In this prayer-room of mine I kept the rules of holy Mount + Athos—that is, every day my matins began at midnight without fail, + and on the eve of the chief of the twelve great holy days my midnight + service lasted ten hours and sometimes even twelve. Monks are allowed by + rule to sit during the singing of the Psalter and the reading of the + Bible, but I wanted to be better than the monks, and so I used to stand + all through. I used to read and sing slowly, with tears and sighing, + lifting up my hands, and I used to go straight from prayer to work without + sleeping; and, indeed, I was always praying at my work, too. Well, it got + all over the town ‘Matvey is a saint; Matvey heals the sick and + senseless.’ I never had healed anyone, of course, but we all know wherever + any heresy or false doctrine springs up there’s no keeping the female sex + away. They are just like flies on the honey. Old maids and females of all + sorts came trailing to me, bowing down to my feet, kissing my hands and + crying out I was a saint and all the rest of it, and one even saw a halo + round my head. It was too crowded in the prayer-room. I took a bigger + room, and then we had a regular tower of Babel. The devil got hold of me + completely and screened the light from my eyes with his unclean hoofs. We + all behaved as though we were frantic. I read, while the old maids and + other females sang, and then after standing on their legs for twenty-four + hours or longer without eating or drinking, suddenly a trembling would + come over them as though they were in a fever; after that, one would begin + screaming and then another—it was horrible! I, too, would shiver all + over like a Jew in a frying-pan, I don’t know myself why, and our legs + began to prance about. It’s a strange thing, indeed: you don’t want to, + but you prance about and waggle your arms; and after that, screaming and + shrieking, we all danced and ran after one another —ran till we + dropped; and in that way, in wild frenzy, I fell into fornication.” + </p> + <p> + The policeman laughed, but, noticing that no one else was laughing, became + serious and said: + </p> + <p> + “That’s Molokanism. I have heard they are all like that in the Caucasus.” + </p> + <p> + “But I was not killed by a thunderbolt,” Matvey went on, crossing himself + before the ikon and moving his lips. “My dead mother must have been + praying for me in the other world. When everyone in the town looked upon + me as a saint, and even the ladies and gentlemen of good family used to + come to me in secret for consolation, I happened to go into our landlord, + Osip Varlamitch, to ask forgiveness —it was the Day of Forgiveness—and + he fastened the door with the hook, and we were left alone face to face. + And he began to reprove me, and I must tell you Osip Varlamitch was a man + of brains, though without education, and everyone respected and feared + him, for he was a man of stern, God-fearing life and worked hard. He had + been the mayor of the town, and a warden of the church for twenty years + maybe, and had done a great deal of good; he had covered all the New + Moscow Road with gravel, had painted the church, and had decorated the + columns to look like malachite. Well, he fastened the door, and—‘I + have been wanting to get at you for a long time, you rascal, . . .’ he + said. ‘You think you are a saint,’ he said. ‘No you are not a saint, but a + backslider from God, a heretic and an evildoer! . . .’ And he went on and + on. . . . I can’t tell you how he said it, so eloquently and cleverly, as + though it were all written down, and so touchingly. He talked for two + hours. His words penetrated my soul; my eyes were opened. I listened, + listened and —burst into sobs! ‘Be an ordinary man,’ he said, ‘eat + and drink, dress and pray like everyone else. All that is above the + ordinary is of the devil. Your chains,’ he said, ‘are of the devil; your + fasting is of the devil; your prayer-room is of the devil. It is all + pride,’ he said. Next day, on Monday in Holy Week, it pleased God I should + fall ill. I ruptured myself and was taken to the hospital. I was terribly + worried, and wept bitterly and trembled. I thought there was a straight + road before me from the hospital to hell, and I almost died. I was in + misery on a bed of sickness for six months, and when I was discharged the + first thing I did I confessed, and took the sacrament in the regular way + and became a man again. Osip Varlamitch saw me off home and exhorted me: + ‘Remember, Matvey, that anything above the ordinary is of the devil.’ And + now I eat and drink like everyone else and pray like everyone else . . . . + If it happens now that the priest smells of tobacco or vodka I don’t + venture to blame him, because the priest, too, of course, is an ordinary + man. But as soon as I am told that in the town or in the village a saint + has set up who does not eat for weeks, and makes rules of his own, I know + whose work it is. So that is how I carried on in the past, gentlemen. Now, + like Osip Varlamitch, I am continually exhorting my cousins and + reproaching them, but I am a voice crying in the wilderness. God has not + vouchsafed me the gift.” + </p> + <p> + Matvey’s story evidently made no impression whatever. Sergey Nikanoritch + said nothing, but began clearing the refreshments off the counter, while + the policeman began talking of how rich Matvey’s cousin was. + </p> + <p> + “He must have thirty thousand at least,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Zhukov the policeman, a sturdy, well-fed, red-haired man with a full face + (his cheeks quivered when he walked), usually sat lolling and crossing his + legs when not in the presence of his superiors. As he talked he swayed to + and fro and whistled carelessly, while his face had a self-satisfied + replete air, as though he had just had dinner. He was making money, and he + always talked of it with the air of a connoisseur. He undertook jobs as an + agent, and when anyone wanted to sell an estate, a horse or a carriage, + they applied to him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it will be thirty thousand, I dare say,” Sergey Nikanoritch + assented. “Your grandfather had an immense fortune,” he said, addressing + Matvey. “Immense it was; all left to your father and your uncle. Your + father died as a young man and your uncle got hold of it all, and + afterwards, of course, Yakov Ivanitch. While you were going pilgrimages + with your mama and singing tenor in the factory, they didn’t let the grass + grow under their feet.” + </p> + <p> + “Fifteen thousand comes to your share,” said the policeman swaying from + side to side. “The tavern belongs to you in common, so the capital is in + common. Yes. If I were in your place I should have taken it into court + long ago. I would have taken it into court for one thing, and while the + case was going on I’d have knocked his face to a jelly.” + </p> + <p> + Yakov Ivanitch was disliked because, when anyone believes differently from + others, it upsets even people who are indifferent to religion. The + policeman disliked him also because he, too, sold horses and carriages. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t care about going to law with your cousin because you have + plenty of money of your own,” said the waiter to Matvey, looking at him + with envy. “It is all very well for anyone who has means, but here I shall + die in this position, I suppose. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Matvey began declaring that he hadn’t any money at all, but Sergey + Nikanoritch was not listening. Memories of the past and of the insults + which he endured every day came showering upon him. His bald head began to + perspire; he flushed and blinked. + </p> + <p> + “A cursed life!” he said with vexation, and he banged the sausage on the + floor. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + The story ran that the tavern had been built in the time of Alexander I, + by a widow who had settled here with her son; her name was Avdotya + Terehov. The dark roofed-in courtyard and the gates always kept locked + excited, especially on moonlight nights, a feeling of depression and + unaccountable uneasiness in people who drove by with posting-horses, as + though sorcerers or robbers were living in it; and the driver always + looked back after he passed, and whipped up his horses. Travellers did not + care to put up here, as the people of the house were always unfriendly and + charged heavily. The yard was muddy even in summer; huge fat pigs used to + lie there in the mud, and the horses in which the Terehovs dealt wandered + about untethered, and often it happened that they ran out of the yard and + dashed along the road like mad creatures, terrifying the pilgrim women. At + that time there was a great deal of traffic on the road; long trains of + loaded waggons trailed by, and all sorts of adventures happened, such as, + for instance, that thirty years ago some waggoners got up a quarrel with a + passing merchant and killed him, and a slanting cross is standing to this + day half a mile from the tavern; posting-chaises with bells and the heavy + <i>dormeuses</i> of country gentlemen drove by; and herds of horned cattle + passed bellowing and stirring up clouds of dust. + </p> + <p> + When the railway came there was at first at this place only a platform, + which was called simply a halt; ten years afterwards the present station, + Progonnaya, was built. The traffic on the old posting-road almost ceased, + and only local landowners and peasants drove along it now, but the working + people walked there in crowds in spring and autumn. The posting-inn was + transformed into a restaurant; the upper storey was destroyed by fire, the + roof had grown yellow with rust, the roof over the yard had fallen by + degrees, but huge fat pigs, pink and revolting, still wallowed in the mud + in the yard. As before, the horses sometimes ran away and, lashing their + tails dashed madly along the road. In the tavern they sold tea, hay oats + and flour, as well as vodka and beer, to be drunk on the premises and also + to be taken away; they sold spirituous liquors warily, for they had never + taken out a licence. + </p> + <p> + The Terehovs had always been distinguished by their piety, so much so that + they had even been given the nickname of the “Godlies.” But perhaps + because they lived apart like bears, avoided people and thought out all + their ideas for themselves, they were given to dreams and to doubts and to + changes of faith and almost each generation had a peculiar faith of its + own. The grandmother Avdotya, who had built the inn, was an Old Believer; + her son and both her grandsons (the fathers of Matvey and Yakov) went to + the Orthodox church, entertained the clergy, and worshipped before the new + ikons as devoutly as they had done before the old. The son in old age + refused to eat meat and imposed upon himself the rule of silence, + considering all conversation as sin; it was the peculiarity of the + grandsons that they interpreted the Scripture not simply, but sought in it + a hidden meaning, declaring that every sacred word must contain a mystery. + </p> + <p> + Avdotya’s great-grandson Matvey had struggled from early childhood with + all sorts of dreams and fancies and had been almost ruined by it; the + other great-grandson, Yakov Ivanitch, was orthodox, but after his wife’s + death he gave up going to church and prayed at home. Following his + example, his sister Aglaia had turned, too; she did not go to church + herself, and did not let Dashutka go. Of Aglaia it was told that in her + youth she used to attend the Flagellant meetings in Vedenyapino, and that + she was still a Flagellant in secret, and that was why she wore a white + kerchief. + </p> + <p> + Yakov Ivanitch was ten years older than Matvey—he was a very + handsome tall old man with a big grey beard almost to his waist, and bushy + eyebrows which gave his face a stern, even ill-natured expression. He wore + a long jerkin of good cloth or a black sheepskin coat, and altogether + tried to be clean and neat in dress; he wore goloshes even in dry weather. + He did not go to church, because, to his thinking, the services were not + properly celebrated and because the priests drank wine at unlawful times + and smoked tobacco. Every day he read and sang the service at home with + Aglaia. At Vedenyapino they left out the “Praises” at early matins, and + had no evening service even on great holidays, but he used to read through + at home everything that was laid down for every day, without hurrying or + leaving out a single line, and even in his spare time read aloud the Lives + of the Saints. And in everyday life he adhered strictly to the rules of + the church; thus, if wine were allowed on some day in Lent “for the sake + of the vigil,” then he never failed to drink wine, even if he were not + inclined. + </p> + <p> + He read, sang, burned incense and fasted, not for the sake of receiving + blessings of some sort from God, but for the sake of good order. Man + cannot live without religion, and religion ought to be expressed from year + to year and from day to day in a certain order, so that every morning and + every evening a man might turn to God with exactly those words and + thoughts that were befitting that special day and hour. One must live, + and, therefore, also pray as is pleasing to God, and so every day one must + read and sing what is pleasing to God—that is, what is laid down in + the rule of the church. Thus the first chapter of St. John must only be + read on Easter Day, and “It is most meet” must not be sung from Easter to + Ascension, and so on. The consciousness of this order and its importance + afforded Yakov Ivanitch great gratification during his religious + exercises. When he was forced to break this order by some necessity—to + drive to town or to the bank, for instance his conscience was uneasy and + he felt miserable. + </p> + <p> + When his cousin Matvey had returned unexpectedly from the factory and + settled in the tavern as though it were his home, he had from the very + first day disturbed his settled order. He refused to pray with them, had + meals and drank tea at wrong times, got up late, drank milk on Wednesdays + and Fridays on the pretext of weak health; almost every day he went into + the prayer-room while they were at prayers and cried: “Think what you are + doing, brother! Repent, brother!” These words threw Yakov into a fury, + while Aglaia could not refrain from beginning to scold; or at night Matvey + would steal into the prayer-room and say softly: “Cousin, your prayer is + not pleasing to God. For it is written, First be reconciled with thy + brother and then offer thy gift. You lend money at usury, you deal in + vodka—repent!” + </p> + <p> + In Matvey’s words Yakov saw nothing but the usual evasions of empty-headed + and careless people who talk of loving your neighbour, of being reconciled + with your brother, and so on, simply to avoid praying, fasting and reading + holy books, and who talk contemptuously of profit and interest simply + because they don’t like working. Of course, to be poor, save nothing, and + put by nothing was a great deal easier than being rich. + </p> + <p> + But yet he was troubled and could not pray as before. As soon as he went + into the prayer-room and opened the book he began to be afraid his cousin + would come in and hinder him; and, in fact, Matvey did soon appear and cry + in a trembling voice: “Think what you are doing, brother! Repent, + brother!” Aglaia stormed and Yakov, too, flew into a passion and shouted: + “Go out of my house!” while Matvey answered him: “The house belongs to + both of us.” + </p> + <p> + Yakov would begin singing and reading again, but he could not regain his + calm, and unconsciously fell to dreaming over his book. Though he regarded + his cousin’s words as nonsense, yet for some reason it had of late haunted + his memory that it is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven, + that the year before last he had made a very good bargain over buying a + stolen horse, that one day when his wife was alive a drunkard had died of + vodka in his tavern. . . . + </p> + <p> + He slept badly at nights now and woke easily, and he could hear that + Matvey, too, was awake, and continually sighing and pining for his tile + factory. And while Yakov turned over from one side to another at night he + thought of the stolen horse and the drunken man, and what was said in the + gospels about the camel. + </p> + <p> + It looked as though his dreaminess were coming over him again. And as + ill-luck would have it, although it was the end of March, every day it + kept snowing, and the forest roared as though it were winter, and there + was no believing that spring would ever come. The weather disposed one to + depression, and to quarrelling and to hatred and in the night, when the + wind droned over the ceiling, it seemed as though someone were living + overhead in the empty storey; little by little the broodings settled like + a burden on his mind, his head burned and he could not sleep. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + On the morning of the Monday before Good Friday, Matvey heard from his + room Dashutka say to Aglaia: + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Matvey said, the other day, that there is no need to fast.” + </p> + <p> + Matvey remembered the whole conversation he had had the evening before + with Dashutka, and he felt hurt all at once. + </p> + <p> + “Girl, don’t do wrong!” he said in a moaning voice, like a sick man. “You + can’t do without fasting; our Lord Himself fasted forty days. I only + explained that fasting does a bad man no good.” + </p> + <p> + “You should just listen to the factory hands; they can teach you + goodness,” Aglaia said sarcastically as she washed the floor (she usually + washed the floors on working days and was always angry with everyone when + she did it). “We know how they keep the fasts in the factory. You had + better ask that uncle of yours—ask him about his ‘Darling,’ how he + used to guzzle milk on fast days with her, the viper. He teaches others; + he forgets about his viper. But ask him who was it he left his money with—who + was it?” + </p> + <p> + Matvey had carefully concealed from everyone, as though it were a foul + sore, that during that period of his life when old women and unmarried + girls had danced and run about with him at their prayers he had formed a + connection with a working woman and had had a child by her. When he went + home he had given this woman all he had saved at the factory, and had + borrowed from his landlord for his journey, and now he had only a few + roubles which he spent on tea and candles. The “Darling” had informed him + later on that the child was dead, and asked him in a letter what she + should do with the money. This letter was brought from the station by the + labourer. Aglaia intercepted it and read it, and had reproached Matvey + with his “Darling” every day since. + </p> + <p> + “Just fancy, nine hundred roubles,” Aglaia went on. “You gave nine hundred + roubles to a viper, no relation, a factory jade, blast you!” She had flown + into a passion by now and was shouting shrilly: “Can’t you speak? I could + tear you to pieces, wretched creature! Nine hundred roubles as though it + were a farthing. You might have left it to Dashutka—she is a + relation, not a stranger—or else have it sent to Byelev for Marya’s + poor orphans. And your viper did not choke, may she be thrice accursed, + the she-devil! May she never look upon the light of day!” + </p> + <p> + Yakov Ivanitch called to her: it was time to begin the “Hours.” She + washed, put on a white kerchief, and by now quiet and meek, went into the + prayer-room to the brother she loved. When she spoke to Matvey or served + peasants in the tavern with tea she was a gaunt, keen-eyed, ill-humoured + old woman; in the prayer-room her face was serene and softened, she looked + younger altogether, she curtsied affectedly, and even pursed up her lips. + </p> + <p> + Yakov Ivanitch began reading the service softly and dolefully, as he + always did in Lent. After he had read a little he stopped to listen to the + stillness that reigned through the house, and then went on reading again, + with a feeling of gratification; he folded his hands in supplication, + rolled his eyes, shook his head, sighed. But all at once there was the + sound of voices. The policeman and Sergey Nikanoritch had come to see + Matvey. Yakov Ivanitch was embarrassed at reading aloud and singing when + there were strangers in the house, and now, hearing voices, he began + reading in a whisper and slowly. He could hear in the prayer-room the + waiter say: + </p> + <p> + “The Tatar at Shtchepovo is selling his business for fifteen hundred. + He’ll take five hundred down and an I.O.U. for the rest. And so, Matvey + Vassilitch, be so kind as to lend me that five hundred roubles. I will pay + you two per cent a month.” + </p> + <p> + “What money have I got?” cried Matvey, amazed. “I have no money!” + </p> + <p> + “Two per cent a month will be a godsend to you,” the policeman explained. + “While lying by, your money is simply eaten by the moth, and that’s all + that you get from it.” + </p> + <p> + Afterwards the visitors went out and a silence followed. But Yakov + Ivanitch had hardly begun reading and singing again when a voice was heard + outside the door: + </p> + <p> + “Brother, let me have a horse to drive to Vedenyapino.” + </p> + <p> + It was Matvey. And Yakov was troubled again. “Which can you go with?” he + asked after a moment’s thought. “The man has gone with the sorrel to take + the pig, and I am going with the little stallion to Shuteykino as soon as + I have finished.” + </p> + <p> + “Brother, why is it you can dispose of the horses and not I?” Matvey asked + with irritation. + </p> + <p> + “Because I am not taking them for pleasure, but for work.” + </p> + <p> + “Our property is in common, so the horses are in common, too, and you + ought to understand that, brother.” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed. Yakov did not go on praying, but waited for Matvey to + go away from the door. + </p> + <p> + “Brother,” said Matvey, “I am a sick man. I don’t want possession —let + them go; you have them, but give me a small share to keep me in my + illness. Give it me and I’ll go away.” + </p> + <p> + Yakov did not speak. He longed to be rid of Matvey, but he could not give + him money, since all the money was in the business; besides, there had + never been a case of the family dividing in the whole history of the + Terehovs. Division means ruin. + </p> + <p> + Yakov said nothing, but still waited for Matvey to go away, and kept + looking at his sister, afraid that she would interfere, and that there + would be a storm of abuse again, as there had been in the morning. When at + last Matvey did go Yakov went on reading, but now he had no pleasure in + it. There was a heaviness in his head and a darkness before his eyes from + continually bowing down to the ground, and he was weary of the sound of + his soft dejected voice. When such a depression of spirit came over him at + night, he put it down to not being able to sleep; by day it frightened + him, and he began to feel as though devils were sitting on his head and + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + Finishing the service after a fashion, dissatisfied and ill-humoured, he + set off for Shuteykino. In the previous autumn a gang of navvies had dug a + boundary ditch near Progonnaya, and had run up a bill at the tavern for + eighteen roubles, and now he had to find their foreman in Shuteykino and + get the money from him. The road had been spoilt by the thaw and the + snowstorm; it was of a dark colour and full of holes, and in parts it had + given way altogether. The snow had sunk away at the sides below the road, + so that he had to drive, as it were, upon a narrow causeway, and it was + very difficult to turn off it when he met anything. The sky had been + overcast ever since the morning and a damp wind was blowing. . . . + </p> + <p> + A long train of sledges met him; peasant women were carting bricks. Yakov + had to turn off the road. His horse sank into the snow up to its belly; + the sledge lurched over to the right, and to avoid falling out he bent + over to the left, and sat so all the time the sledges moved slowly by him. + Through the wind he heard the creaking of the sledge poles and the + breathing of the gaunt horses, and the women saying about him, “There’s + Godly coming,” while one, gazing with compassion at his horse, said + quickly: + </p> + <p> + “It looks as though the snow will be lying till Yegory’s Day! They are + worn out with it!” + </p> + <p> + Yakov sat uncomfortably huddled up, screwing up his eyes on account of the + wind, while horses and red bricks kept passing before him. And perhaps + because he was uncomfortable and his side ached, he felt all at once + annoyed, and the business he was going about seemed to him unimportant, + and he reflected that he might send the labourer next day to Shuteykino. + Again, as in the previous sleepless night, he thought of the saying about + the camel, and then memories of all sorts crept into his mind; of the + peasant who had sold him the stolen horse, of the drunken man, of the + peasant women who had brought their samovars to him to pawn. Of course, + every merchant tries to get as much as he can, but Yakov felt depressed + that he was in trade; he longed to get somewhere far away from this + routine, and he felt dreary at the thought that he would have to read the + evening service that day. The wind blew straight into his face and soughed + in his collar; and it seemed as though it were whispering to him all these + thoughts, bringing them from the broad white plain . . . . Looking at that + plain, familiar to him from childhood, Yakov remembered that he had had + just this same trouble and these same thoughts in his young days when + dreams and imaginings had come upon him and his faith had wavered. + </p> + <p> + He felt miserable at being alone in the open country; he turned back and + drove slowly after the sledges, and the women laughed and said: + </p> + <p> + “Godly has turned back.” + </p> + <p> + At home nothing had been cooked and the samovar was not heated on account + of the fast, and this made the day seem very long. Yakov Ivanitch had long + ago taken the horse to the stable, dispatched the flour to the station, + and twice taken up the Psalms to read, and yet the evening was still far + off. Aglaia has already washed all the floors, and, having nothing to do, + was tidying up her chest, the lid of which was pasted over on the inside + with labels off bottles. Matvey, hungry and melancholy, sat reading, or + went up to the Dutch stove and slowly scrutinized the tiles which reminded + him of the factory. Dashutka was asleep; then, waking up, she went to take + water to the cattle. When she was getting water from the well the cord + broke and the pail fell in. The labourer began looking for a boathook to + get the pail out, and Dashutka, barefooted, with legs as red as a goose’s, + followed him about in the muddy snow, repeating: “It’s too far!” She meant + to say that the well was too deep for the hook to reach the bottom, but + the labourer did not understand her, and evidently she bothered him, so + that he suddenly turned around and abused her in unseemly language. Yakov + Ivanitch, coming out that moment into the yard, heard Dashutka answer the + labourer in a long rapid stream of choice abuse, which she could only have + learned from drunken peasants in the tavern. + </p> + <p> + “What are you saying, shameless girl!” he cried to her, and he was + positively aghast. “What language!” + </p> + <p> + And she looked at her father in perplexity, dully, not understanding why + she should not use those words. He would have admonished her, but she + struck him as so savage and benighted; and for the first time he realized + that she had no religion. And all this life in the forest, in the snow, + with drunken peasants, with coarse oaths, seemed to him as savage and + benighted as this girl, and instead of giving her a lecture he only waved + his hand and went back into the room. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the policeman and Sergey Nikanoritch came in again to see + Matvey. Yakov Ivanitch thought that these people, too, had no religion, + and that that did not trouble them in the least; and human life began to + seem to him as strange, senseless and unenlightened as a dog’s. Bareheaded + he walked about the yard, then he went out on to the road, clenching his + fists. Snow was falling in big flakes at the time. His beard was blown + about in the wind. He kept shaking his head, as though there were + something weighing upon his head and shoulders, as though devils were + sitting on them; and it seemed to him that it was not himself walking + about, but some wild beast, a huge terrible beast, and that if he were to + cry out his voice would be a roar that would sound all over the forest and + the plain, and would frighten everyone. . . . + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + When he went back into the house the policeman was no longer there, but + the waiter was sitting with Matvey, counting something on the reckoning + beads. He was in the habit of coming often, almost every day, to the + tavern; in old days he had come to see Yakov Ivanitch, now he came to see + Matvey. He was continually reckoning on the beads, while his face + perspired and looked strained, or he would ask for money or, stroking his + whiskers, would describe how he had once been in a first-class station and + used to prepare champagne-punch for officers, and at grand dinners served + the sturgeon-soup with his own hands. Nothing in this world interested him + but refreshment bars, and he could only talk about things to eat, about + wines and the paraphernalia of the dinner-table. On one occasion, handing + a cup of tea to a young woman who was nursing her baby and wishing to say + something agreeable to her, he expressed himself in this way: + </p> + <p> + “The mother’s breast is the baby’s refreshment bar.” + </p> + <p> + Reckoning with the beads in Matvey’s room, he asked for money; said he + could not go on living at Progonnaya, and several times repeated in a tone + of voice that sounded as though he were just going to cry: + </p> + <p> + “Where am I to go? Where am I to go now? Tell me that, please.” + </p> + <p> + Then Matvey went into the kitchen and began peeling some boiled potatoes + which he had probably put away from the day before. It was quiet, and it + seemed to Yakov Ivanitch that the waiter was gone. It was past the time + for evening service; he called Aglaia, and, thinking there was no one else + in the house sang out aloud without embarrassment. He sang and read, but + was inwardly pronouncing other words, “Lord, forgive me! Lord, save me!” + and, one after another, without ceasing, he made low bows to the ground as + though he wanted to exhaust himself, and he kept shaking his head, so that + Aglaia looked at him with wonder. He was afraid Matvey would come in, and + was certain that he would come in, and felt an anger against him which he + could overcome neither by prayer nor by continually bowing down to the + ground. + </p> + <p> + Matvey opened the door very softly and went into the prayer-room. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a sin, such a sin!” he said reproachfully, and heaved a sigh. + “Repent! Think what you are doing, brother!” + </p> + <p> + Yakov Ivanitch, clenching his fists and not looking at him for fear of + striking him, went quickly out of the room. Feeling himself a huge + terrible wild beast, just as he had done before on the road, he crossed + the passage into the grey, dirty room, reeking with smoke and fog, in + which the peasants usually drank tea, and there he spent a long time + walking from one corner to the other, treading heavily, so that the + crockery jingled on the shelves and the tables shook. It was clear to him + now that he was himself dissatisfied with his religion, and could not pray + as he used to do. He must repent, he must think things over, reconsider, + live and pray in some other way. But how pray? And perhaps all this was a + temptation of the devil, and nothing of this was necessary? . . . How was + it to be? What was he to do? Who could guide him? What helplessness! He + stopped and, clutching at his head, began to think, but Matvey’s being + near him prevented him from reflecting calmly. And he went rapidly into + the room. + </p> + <p> + Matvey was sitting in the kitchen before a bowl of potato, eating. Close + by, near the stove, Aglaia and Dashutka were sitting facing one another, + spinning yarn. Between the stove and the table at which Matvey was sitting + was stretched an ironing-board; on it stood a cold iron. + </p> + <p> + “Sister,” Matvey asked, “let me have a little oil!” + </p> + <p> + “Who eats oil on a day like this?” asked Aglaia. + </p> + <p> + “I am not a monk, sister, but a layman. And in my weak health I may take + not only oil but milk.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, at the factory you may have anything.” + </p> + <p> + Aglaia took a bottle of Lenten oil from the shelf and banged it angrily + down before Matvey, with a malignant smile evidently pleased that he was + such a sinner. + </p> + <p> + “But I tell you, you can’t eat oil!” shouted Yakov. + </p> + <p> + Aglaia and Dashutka started, but Matvey poured the oil into the bowl and + went on eating as though he had not heard. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you, you can’t eat oil!” Yakov shouted still more loudly; he + turned red all over, snatched up the bowl, lifted it higher than his head, + and dashed it with all his force to the ground, so that it flew into + fragments. “Don’t dare to speak!” he cried in a furious voice, though + Matvey had not said a word. “Don’t dare!” he repeated, and struck his fist + on the table. + </p> + <p> + Matvey turned pale and got up. + </p> + <p> + “Brother!” he said, still munching—“brother, think what you are + about!” + </p> + <p> + “Out of my house this minute!” shouted Yakov; he loathed Matvey’s wrinkled + face, and his voice, and the crumbs on his moustache, and the fact that he + was munching. “Out, I tell you!” + </p> + <p> + “Brother, calm yourself! The pride of hell has confounded you!” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue!” (Yakov stamped.) “Go away, you devil!” + </p> + <p> + “If you care to know,” Matvey went on in a loud voice, as he, too, began + to get angry, “you are a backslider from God and a heretic. The accursed + spirits have hidden the true light from you; your prayer is not acceptable + to God. Repent before it is too late! The deathbed of the sinner is + terrible! Repent, brother!” + </p> + <p> + Yakov seized him by the shoulders and dragged him away from the table, + while he turned whiter than ever, and frightened and bewildered, began + muttering, “What is it? What’s the matter?” and, struggling and making + efforts to free himself from Yakov’s hands, he accidentally caught hold of + his shirt near the neck and tore the collar; and it seemed to Aglaia that + he was trying to beat Yakov. She uttered a shriek, snatched up the bottle + of Lenten oil and with all her force brought it down straight on the skull + of the cousin she hated. Matvey reeled, and in one instant his face became + calm and indifferent. Yakov, breathing heavily, excited, and feeling + pleasure at the gurgle the bottle had made, like a living thing, when it + had struck the head, kept him from falling and several times (he + remembered this very distinctly) motioned Aglaia towards the iron with his + finger; and only when the blood began trickling through his hands and he + heard Dashutka’s loud wail, and when the ironing-board fell with a crash, + and Matvey rolled heavily on it, Yakov left off feeling anger and + understood what had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Let him rot, the factory buck!” Aglaia brought out with repulsion, still + keeping the iron in her hand. The white bloodstained kerchief slipped on + to her shoulders and her grey hair fell in disorder. “He’s got what he + deserved!” + </p> + <p> + Everything was terrible. Dashutka sat on the floor near the stove with the + yarn in her hands, sobbing, and continually bowing down, uttering at each + bow a gasping sound. But nothing was so terrible to Yakov as the potato in + the blood, on which he was afraid of stepping, and there was something + else terrible which weighed upon him like a bad dream and seemed the worst + danger, though he could not take it in for the first minute. This was the + waiter, Sergey Nikanoritch, who was standing in the doorway with the + reckoning beads in his hands, very pale, looking with horror at what was + happening in the kitchen. Only when he turned and went quickly into the + passage and from there outside, Yakov grasped who it was and followed him. + </p> + <p> + Wiping his hands on the snow as he went, he reflected. The idea flashed + through his mind that their labourer had gone away long before and had + asked leave to stay the night at home in the village; the day before they + had killed a pig, and there were huge bloodstains in the snow and on the + sledge, and even one side of the top of the well was splattered with + blood, so that it could not have seemed suspicious even if the whole of + Yakov’s family had been stained with blood. To conceal the murder would be + agonizing, but for the policeman, who would whistle and smile ironically, + to come from the station, for the peasants to arrive and bind Yakov’s and + Aglaia’s hands, and take them solemnly to the district courthouse and from + there to the town, while everyone on the way would point at them and say + mirthfully, “They are taking the Godlies!”—this seemed to Yakov more + agonizing than anything, and he longed to lengthen out the time somehow, + so as to endure this shame not now, but later, in the future. + </p> + <p> + “I can lend you a thousand roubles, . . .” he said, overtaking Sergey + Nikanoritch. “If you tell anyone, it will do no good. . . . There’s no + bringing the man back, anyway;” and with difficulty keeping up with the + waiter, who did not look round, but tried to walk away faster than ever, + he went on: “I can give you fifteen hundred. . . .” + </p> + <p> + He stopped because he was out of breath, while Sergey Nikanoritch walked + on as quickly as ever, probably afraid that he would be killed, too. Only + after passing the railway crossing and going half the way from the + crossing to the station, he furtively looked round and walked more slowly. + Lights, red and green, were already gleaming in the station and along the + line; the wind had fallen, but flakes of snow were still coming down and + the road had turned white again. But just at the station Sergey + Nikanoritch stopped, thought a minute, and turned resolutely back. It was + growing dark. + </p> + <p> + “Oblige me with the fifteen hundred, Yakov Ivanitch,” he said, trembling + all over. “I agree.” + </p> + <h3> + VI + </h3> + <p> + Yakov Ivanitch’s money was in the bank of the town and was invested in + second mortgages; he only kept a little at home, Just what was wanted for + necessary expenses. Going into the kitchen he felt for the matchbox, and + while the sulphur was burning with a blue light he had time to make out + the figure of Matvey, which was still lying on the floor near the table, + but now it was covered with a white sheet, and nothing could be seen but + his boots. A cricket was chirruping. Aglaia and Dashutka were not in the + room, they were both sitting behind the counter in the tea-room, spinning + yarn in silence. Yakov Ivanitch crossed to his own room with a little lamp + in his hand, and pulled from under the bed a little box in which he kept + his money. This time there were in it four hundred and twenty one-rouble + notes and silver to the amount of thirty-five roubles; the notes had an + unpleasant heavy smell. Putting the money together in his cap, Yakov + Ivanitch went out into the yard and then out of the gate. He walked, + looking from side to side, but there was no sign of the waiter. + </p> + <p> + “Hi!” cried Yakov. + </p> + <p> + A dark figure stepped out from the barrier at the railway crossing and + came irresolutely towards him. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you keep walking about?” said Yakov with vexation, as he + recognized the waiter. “Here you are; there is a little less than five + hundred. . . . I’ve no more in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well; . . . very grateful to you,” muttered Sergey Nikanoritch, + taking the money greedily and stuffing it into his pockets. He was + trembling all over, and that was perceptible in spite of the darkness. + “Don’t worry yourself, Yakov Ivanitch. . . . What should I chatter for: I + came and went away, that’s all I’ve had to do with it. As the saying is, I + know nothing and I can tell nothing . . .” And at once he added with a + sigh “Cursed life!” + </p> + <p> + For a minute they stood in silence, without looking at each other. + </p> + <p> + “So it all came from a trifle, goodness knows how, . . .” said the waiter, + trembling. “I was sitting counting to myself when all at once a noise. . . + . I looked through the door, and just on account of Lenten oil you. . . . + Where is he now?” + </p> + <p> + “Lying there in the kitchen.” + </p> + <p> + “You ought to take him somewhere. . . . Why put it off?” + </p> + <p> + Yakov accompanied him to the station without a word, then went home again + and harnessed the horse to take Matvey to Limarovo. He had decided to take + him to the forest of Limarovo, and to leave him there on the road, and + then he would tell everyone that Matvey had gone off to Vedenyapino and + had not come back, and then everyone would think that he had been killed + by someone on the road. He knew there was no deceiving anyone by this, but + to move, to do something, to be active, was not as agonizing as to sit + still and wait. He called Dashutka, and with her carried Matvey out. + Aglaia stayed behind to clean up the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + When Yakov and Dashutka turned back they were detained at the railway + crossing by the barrier being let down. A long goods train was passing, + dragged by two engines, breathing heavily, and flinging puffs of crimson + fire out of their funnels. + </p> + <p> + The foremost engine uttered a piercing whistle at the crossing in sight of + the station. + </p> + <p> + “It’s whistling, . . .” said Dashutka. + </p> + <p> + The train had passed at last, and the signalman lifted the barrier without + haste. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Yakov Ivanitch? I didn’t know you, so you’ll be rich.” + </p> + <p> + And then when they had reached home they had to go to bed. + </p> + <p> + Aglaia and Dashutka made themselves a bed in the tea-room and lay down + side by side, while Yakov stretched himself on the counter. They neither + said their prayers nor lighted the ikon lamp before lying down to sleep. + All three lay awake till morning, but did not utter a single word, and it + seemed to them that all night someone was walking about in the empty + storey overhead. + </p> + <p> + Two days later a police inspector and the examining magistrate came from + the town and made a search, first in Matvey’s room and then in the whole + tavern. They questioned Yakov first of all, and he testified that on the + Monday Matvey had gone to Vedenyapino to confess, and that he must have + been killed by the sawyers who were working on the line. + </p> + <p> + And when the examining magistrate had asked him how it had happened that + Matvey was found on the road, while his cap had turned up at home—surely + he had not gone to Vedenyapino without his cap?— and why they had + not found a single drop of blood beside him in the snow on the road, + though his head was smashed in and his face and chest were black with + blood, Yakov was confused, lost his head and answered: + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell.” + </p> + <p> + And just what Yakov had so feared happened: the policeman came, the + district police officer smoked in the prayer-room and Aglaia fell upon him + with abuse and was rude to the police inspector; and afterwards when Yakov + and Aglaia were led out to the yard, the peasants crowded at the gates and + said, “They are taking the Godlies!” and it seemed that they were all + glad. + </p> + <p> + At the inquiry the policeman stated positively that Yakov and Aglaia had + killed Matvey in order not to share with him, and that Matvey had money of + his own, and that if it was not found at the search evidently Yakov and + Aglaia had got hold of it. And Dashutka was questioned. She said that + Uncle Matvey and Aunt Aglaia quarrelled and almost fought every day over + money, and that Uncle Matvey was rich, so much so that he had given + someone—“his Darling”—nine hundred roubles. + </p> + <p> + Dashutka was left alone in the tavern. No one came now to drink tea or + vodka, and she divided her time between cleaning up the rooms, drinking + mead and eating rolls; but a few days later they questioned the signalman + at the railway crossing, and he said that late on Monday evening he had + seen Yakov and Dashutka driving from Limarovo. Dashutka, too, was + arrested, taken to the town and put in prison. It soon became known, from + what Aglaia said, that Sergey Nikanoritch had been present at the murder. + A search was made in his room, and money was found in an unusual place, in + his snowboots under the stove, and the money was all in small change, + three hundred one-rouble notes. He swore he had made this money himself, + and that he hadn’t been in the tavern for a year, but witnesses testified + that he was poor and had been in great want of money of late, and that he + used to go every day to the tavern to borrow from Matvey; and the + policeman described how on the day of the murder he had himself gone twice + to the tavern with the waiter to help him to borrow. It was recalled at + this juncture that on Monday evening Sergey Nikanoritch had not been there + to meet the passenger train, but had gone off somewhere. And he, too, was + arrested and taken to the town. + </p> + <p> + The trial took place eleven months later. + </p> + <p> + Yakov Ivanitch looked much older and much thinner, and spoke in a low + voice like a sick man. He felt weak, pitiful, lower in stature that anyone + else, and it seemed as though his soul, too, like his body, had grown + older and wasted, from the pangs of his conscience and from the dreams and + imaginings which never left him all the while he was in prison. When it + came out that he did not go to church the president of the court asked + him: + </p> + <p> + “Are you a dissenter?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + He had no religion at all now; he knew nothing and understood nothing; and + his old belief was hateful to him now, and seemed to him darkness and + folly. Aglaia was not in the least subdued, and she still went on abusing + the dead man, blaming him for all their misfortunes. Sergey Nikanoritch + had grown a beard instead of whiskers. At the trial he was red and + perspiring, and was evidently ashamed of his grey prison coat and of + sitting on the same bench with humble peasants. He defended himself + awkwardly, and, trying to prove that he had not been to the tavern for a + whole year, got into an altercation with every witness, and the spectators + laughed at him. Dashutka had grown fat in prison. At the trial she did not + understand the questions put to her, and only said that when they killed + Uncle Matvey she was dreadfully frightened, but afterwards she did not + mind. + </p> + <p> + All four were found guilty of murder with mercenary motives. Yakov + Ivanitch was sentenced to penal servitude for twenty years; Aglaia for + thirteen and a half; Sergey Nikanoritch to ten; Dashutka to six. + </p> + <h3> + VII + </h3> + <p> + Late one evening a foreign steamer stopped in the roads of Dué in Sahalin + and asked for coal. The captain was asked to wait till morning, but he did + not want to wait over an hour, saying that if the weather changed for the + worse in the night there would be a risk of his having to go off without + coal. In the Gulf of Tartary the weather is liable to violent changes in + the course of half an hour, and then the shores of Sahalin are dangerous. + And already it had turned fresh, and there was a considerable sea running. + </p> + <p> + A gang of convicts were sent to the mine from the Voevodsky prison, the + grimmest and most forbidding of all the prisons in Sahalin. The coal had + to be loaded upon barges, and then they had to be towed by a steam-cutter + alongside the steamer which was anchored more than a quarter of a mile + from the coast, and then the unloading and reloading had to begin—an + exhausting task when the barge kept rocking against the steamer and the + men could scarcely keep on their legs for sea-sickness. The convicts, only + just roused from their sleep, still drowsy, went along the shore, + stumbling in the darkness and clanking their fetters. On the left, + scarcely visible, was a tall, steep, extremely gloomy-looking cliff, while + on the right there was a thick impenetrable mist, in which the sea moaned + with a prolonged monotonous sound, “Ah! . . . ah! . . . ah! . . . ah! . . + .” And it was only when the overseer was lighting his pipe, casting as he + did so a passing ray of light on the escort with a gun and on the coarse + faces of two or three of the nearest convicts, or when he went with his + lantern close to the water that the white crests of the foremost waves + could be discerned. + </p> + <p> + One of this gang was Yakov Ivanitch, nicknamed among the convicts the + “Brush,” on account of his long beard. No one had addressed him by his + name or his father’s name for a long time now; they called him simply + Yashka. + </p> + <p> + He was here in disgrace, as, three months after coming to Siberia, feeling + an intense irresistible longing for home, he had succumbed to temptation + and run away; he had soon been caught, had been sentenced to penal + servitude for life and given forty lashes. Then he was punished by + flogging twice again for losing his prison clothes, though on each + occasion they were stolen from him. The longing for home had begun from + the very time he had been brought to Odessa, and the convict train had + stopped in the night at Progonnaya; and Yakov, pressing to the window, had + tried to see his own home, and could see nothing in the darkness. He had + no one with whom to talk of home. His sister Aglaia had been sent right + across Siberia, and he did not know where she was now. Dashutka was in + Sahalin, but she had been sent to live with some ex-convict in a far away + settlement; there was no news of her except that once a settler who had + come to the Voevodsky Prison told Yakov that Dashutka had three children. + Sergey Nikanoritch was serving as a footman at a government official’s at + Dué, but he could not reckon on ever seeing him, as he was ashamed of + being acquainted with convicts of the peasant class. + </p> + <p> + The gang reached the mine, and the men took their places on the quay. It + was said there would not be any loading, as the weather kept getting worse + and the steamer was meaning to set off. They could see three lights. One + of them was moving: that was the steam-cutter going to the steamer, and it + seemed to be coming back to tell them whether the work was to be done or + not. Shivering with the autumn cold and the damp sea mist, wrapping + himself in his short torn coat, Yakov Ivanitch looked intently without + blinking in the direction in which lay his home. Ever since he had lived + in prison together with men banished here from all ends of the earth—with + Russians, Ukrainians, Tatars, Georgians, Chinese, Gypsies, Jews— and + ever since he had listened to their talk and watched their sufferings, he + had begun to turn again to God, and it seemed to him at last that he had + learned the true faith for which all his family, from his grandmother + Avdotya down, had so thirsted, which they had sought so long and which + they had never found. He knew it all now and understood where God was, and + how He was to be served, and the only thing he could not understand was + why men’s destinies were so diverse, why this simple faith which other men + receive from God for nothing and together with their lives, had cost him + such a price that his arms and legs trembled like a drunken man’s from all + the horrors and agonies which as far as he could see would go on without a + break to the day of his death. He looked with strained eyes into the + darkness, and it seemed to him that through the thousand miles of that + mist he could see home, could see his native province, his district, + Progonnaya, could see the darkness, the savagery, the heartlessness, and + the dull, sullen, animal indifference of the men he had left there. His + eyes were dimmed with tears; but still he gazed into the distance where + the pale lights of the steamer faintly gleamed, and his heart ached with + yearning for home, and he longed to live, to go back home to tell them + there of his new faith and to save from ruin if only one man, and to live + without suffering if only for one day. + </p> + <p> + The cutter arrived, and the overseer announced in a loud voice that there + would be no loading. + </p> + <p> + “Back!” he commanded. “Steady!” + </p> + <p> + They could hear the hoisting of the anchor chain on the steamer. A strong + piercing wind was blowing by now; somewhere on the steep cliff overhead + the trees were creaking. Most likely a storm was coming. + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + UPROOTED + </h2> + <h3> + <i>An Incident of My Travels</i> + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> WAS on my way + back from evening service. The clock in the belfry of the Svyatogorsky + Monastery pealed out its soft melodious chimes by way of prelude and then + struck twelve. The great courtyard of the monastery stretched out at the + foot of the Holy Mountains on the banks of the Donets, and, enclosed by + the high hostel buildings as by a wall, seemed now in the night, when it + was lighted up only by dim lanterns, lights in the windows, and the stars, + a living hotch-potch full of movement, sound, and the most original + confusion. From end to end, so far as the eye could see, it was all choked + up with carts, old-fashioned coaches and chaises, vans, tilt-carts, about + which stood crowds of horses, dark and white, and horned oxen, while + people bustled about, and black long-skirted lay brothers threaded their + way in and out in all directions. Shadows and streaks of light cast from + the windows moved over the carts and the heads of men and horses, and in + the dense twilight this all assumed the most monstrous capricious shapes: + here the tilted shafts stretched upwards to the sky, here eyes of fire + appeared in the face of a horse, there a lay brother grew a pair of black + wings. . . . There was the noise of talk, the snorting and munching of + horses, the creaking of carts, the whimpering of children. Fresh crowds + kept walking in at the gate and belated carts drove up. + </p> + <p> + The pines which were piled up on the overhanging mountain, one above + another, and leaned towards the roof of the hostel, gazed into the + courtyard as into a deep pit, and listened in wonder; in their dark + thicket the cuckoos and nightingales never ceased calling. . . . Looking + at the confusion, listening to the uproar, one fancied that in this living + hotch-potch no one understood anyone, that everyone was looking for + something and would not find it, and that this multitude of carts, chaises + and human beings could not ever succeed in getting off. + </p> + <p> + More than ten thousand people flocked to the Holy Mountains for the + festivals of St. John the Divine and St. Nikolay the wonder-worker. Not + only the hostel buildings, but even the bakehouse, the tailoring room, the + carpenter’s shop, the carriage house, were filled to overflowing. . . . + Those who had arrived towards night clustered like flies in autumn, by the + walls, round the wells in the yard, or in the narrow passages of the + hostel, waiting to be shown a resting-place for the night. The lay + brothers, young and old, were in an incessant movement, with no rest or + hope of being relieved. By day or late at night they produced the same + impression of men hastening somewhere and agitated by something, yet, in + spite of their extreme exhaustion, their faces remained full of courage + and kindly welcome, their voices friendly, their movements rapid. . . . + For everyone who came they had to find a place to sleep, and to provide + food and drink; to those who were deaf, slow to understand, or profuse in + questions, they had to give long and wearisome explanations, to tell them + why there were no empty rooms, at what o’clock the service was to be where + holy bread was sold, and so on. They had to run, to carry, to talk + incessantly, but more than that, they had to be polite, too, to be + tactful, to try to arrange that the Greeks from Mariupol, accustomed to + live more comfortably than the Little Russians, should be put with other + Greeks, that some shopkeeper from Bahmut or Lisitchansk, dressed like a + lady, should not be offended by being put with peasants. There were + continual cries of: “Father, kindly give us some kvass! Kindly give us + some hay!” or “Father, may I drink water after confession?” And the lay + brother would have to give out kvass or hay or to answer: “Address + yourself to the priest, my good woman, we have not the authority to give + permission.” Another question would follow, “Where is the priest then?” + and the lay brother would have to explain where was the priest’s cell. + With all this bustling activity, he yet had to make time to go to service + in the church, to serve in the part devoted to the gentry, and to give + full answers to the mass of necessary and unnecessary questions which + pilgrims of the educated class are fond of showering about them. Watching + them during the course of twenty-four hours, I found it hard to imagine + when these black moving figures sat down and when they slept. + </p> + <p> + When, coming back from the evening service, I went to the hostel in which + a place had been assigned me, the monk in charge of the sleeping quarters + was standing in the doorway, and beside him, on the steps, was a group of + several men and women dressed like townsfolk. + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said the monk, stopping me, “will you be so good as to allow this + young man to pass the night in your room? If you would do us the favour! + There are so many people and no place left—it is really dreadful!” + </p> + <p> + And he indicated a short figure in a light overcoat and a straw hat. I + consented, and my chance companion followed me. Unlocking the little + padlock on my door, I was always, whether I wanted to or not, obliged to + look at the picture that hung on the doorpost on a level with my face. + This picture with the title, “A Meditation on Death,” depicted a monk on + his knees, gazing at a coffin and at a skeleton laying in it. Behind the + man’s back stood another skeleton, somewhat more solid and carrying a + scythe. + </p> + <p> + “There are no bones like that,” said my companion, pointing to the place + in the skeleton where there ought to have been a pelvis. “Speaking + generally, you know, the spiritual fare provided for the people is not of + the first quality,” he added, and heaved through his nose a long and very + melancholy sigh, meant to show me that I had to do with a man who really + knew something about spiritual fare. + </p> + <p> + While I was looking for the matches to light a candle he sighed once more + and said: + </p> + <p> + “When I was in Harkov I went several times to the anatomy theatre and saw + the bones there; I have even been in the mortuary. Am I not in your way?” + </p> + <p> + My room was small and poky, with neither table nor chairs in it, but quite + filled up with a chest of drawers by the window, the stove and two little + wooden sofas which stood against the walls, facing one another, leaving a + narrow space to walk between them. Thin rusty-looking little mattresses + lay on the little sofas, as well as my belongings. There were two sofas, + so this room was evidently intended for two, and I pointed out the fact to + my companion. + </p> + <p> + “They will soon be ringing for mass, though,” he said, “and I shan’t have + to be in your way very long.” + </p> + <p> + Still under the impression that he was in my way and feeling awkward, he + moved with a guilty step to his little sofa, sighed guiltily and sat down. + When the tallow candle with its dim, dilatory flame had left off + flickering and burned up sufficiently to make us both visible, I could + make out what he was like. He was a young man of two-and-twenty, with a + round and pleasing face, dark childlike eyes, dressed like a townsman in + grey cheap clothes, and as one could judge from his complexion and narrow + shoulders, not used to manual labour. He was of a very indefinite type; + one could take him neither for a student nor for a man in trade, still + less for a workman. But looking at his attractive face and childlike + friendly eyes, I was unwilling to believe he was one of those vagabond + impostors with whom every conventual establishment where they give food + and lodging is flooded, and who give themselves out as divinity students, + expelled for standing up for justice, or for church singers who have lost + their voice. . . . There was something characteristic, typical, very + familiar in his face, but what exactly, I could not remember nor make out. + </p> + <p> + For a long time he sat silent, pondering. Probably because I had not shown + appreciation of his remarks about bones and the mortuary, he thought that + I was ill-humoured and displeased at his presence. Pulling a sausage out + of his pocket, he turned it about before his eyes and said irresolutely: + </p> + <p> + “Excuse my troubling you, . . . have you a knife?” + </p> + <p> + I gave him a knife. + </p> + <p> + “The sausage is disgusting,” he said, frowning and cutting himself off a + little bit. “In the shop here they sell you rubbish and fleece you + horribly. . . . I would offer you a piece, but you would scarcely care to + consume it. Will you have some?” + </p> + <p> + In his language, too, there was something typical that had a very great + deal in common with what was characteristic in his face, but what it was + exactly I still could not decide. To inspire confidence and to show that I + was not ill-humoured, I took some of the proffered sausage. It certainly + was horrible; one needed the teeth of a good house-dog to deal with it. As + we worked our jaws we got into conversation; we began complaining to each + other of the lengthiness of the service. + </p> + <p> + “The rule here approaches that of Mount Athos,” I said; “but at Athos the + night services last ten hours, and on great feast-days —fourteen! + You should go there for prayers!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered my companion, and he wagged his head, “I have been here + for three weeks. And you know, every day services, every day services. On + ordinary days at midnight they ring for matins, at five o’clock for early + mass, at nine o’clock for late mass. Sleep is utterly out of the question. + In the daytime there are hymns of praise, special prayers, vespers. . . . + And when I was preparing for the sacrament I was simply dropping from + exhaustion.” He sighed and went on: “And it’s awkward not to go to church. + . . . The monks give one a room, feed one, and, you know, one is ashamed + not to go. One wouldn’t mind standing it for a day or two, perhaps, but + three weeks is too much—much too much! Are you here for long?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to-morrow evening.” + </p> + <p> + “But I am staying another fortnight.” + </p> + <p> + “But I thought it was not the rule to stay for so long here?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s true: if anyone stays too long, sponging on the monks, he is + asked to go. Judge for yourself, if the proletariat were allowed to stay + on here as long as they liked there would never be a room vacant, and they + would eat up the whole monastery. That’s true. But the monks make an + exception for me, and I hope they won’t turn me out for some time. You + know I am a convert.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I am a Jew baptized. . . . Only lately I have embraced orthodoxy.” + </p> + <p> + Now I understood what I had before been utterly unable to understand from + his face: his thick lips, and his way of twitching up the right corner of + his mouth and his right eyebrow, when he was talking, and that peculiar + oily brilliance of his eyes which is only found in Jews. I understood, + too, his phraseology. . . . From further conversation I learned that his + name was Alexandr Ivanitch, and had in the past been Isaac, that he was a + native of the Mogilev province, and that he had come to the Holy Mountains + from Novotcherkassk, where he had adopted the orthodox faith. + </p> + <p> + Having finished his sausage, Alexandr Ivanitch got up, and, raising his + right eyebrow, said his prayer before the ikon. The eyebrow remained up + when he sat down again on the little sofa and began giving me a brief + account of his long biography. + </p> + <p> + “From early childhood I cherished a love for learning,” he began in a tone + which suggested he was not speaking of himself, but of some great man of + the past. “My parents were poor Hebrews; they exist by buying and selling + in a small way; they live like beggars, you know, in filth. In fact, all + the people there are poor and superstitious; they don’t like education, + because education, very naturally, turns a man away from religion. . . . + They are fearful fanatics. . . . Nothing would induce my parents to let me + be educated, and they wanted me to take to trade, too, and to know nothing + but the Talmud. . . . But you will agree, it is not everyone who can spend + his whole life struggling for a crust of bread, wallowing in filth, and + mumbling the Talmud. At times officers and country gentlemen would put up + at papa’s inn, and they used to talk a great deal of things which in those + days I had never dreamed of; and, of course, it was alluring and moved me + to envy. I used to cry and entreat them to send me to school, but they + taught me to read Hebrew and nothing more. Once I found a Russian + newspaper, and took it home with me to make a kite of it. I was beaten for + it, though I couldn’t read Russian. Of course, fanaticism is inevitable, + for every people instinctively strives to preserve its nationality, but I + did not know that then and was very indignant. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Having made such an intellectual observation, Isaac, as he had been, + raised his right eyebrow higher than ever in his satisfaction and looked + at me, as it were, sideways, like a cock at a grain of corn, with an air + as though he would say: “Now at last you see for certain that I am an + intellectual man, don’t you?” After saying something more about fanaticism + and his irresistible yearning for enlightenment, he went on: + </p> + <p> + “What could I do? I ran away to Smolensk. And there I had a cousin who + relined saucepans and made tins. Of course, I was glad to work under him, + as I had nothing to live upon; I was barefoot and in rags. . . . I thought + I could work by day and study at night and on Saturdays. And so I did, but + the police found out I had no passport and sent me back by stages to my + father. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Alexandr Ivanitch shrugged one shoulder and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “What was one to do?” he went on, and the more vividly the past rose up + before his mind, the more marked his Jewish accent became. “My parents + punished me and handed me over to my grandfather, a fanatical old Jew, to + be reformed. But I went off at night to Shklov. And when my uncle tried to + catch me in Shklov, I went off to Mogilev; there I stayed two days and + then I went off to Starodub with a comrade.” + </p> + <p> + Later on he mentioned in his story Gonel, Kiev, Byelaya, Tserkov, Uman, + Balt, Bendery and at last reached Odessa. + </p> + <p> + “In Odessa I wandered about for a whole week, out of work and hungry, till + I was taken in by some Jews who went about the town buying second-hand + clothes. I knew how to read and write by then, and had done arithmetic up + to fractions, and I wanted to go to study somewhere, but I had not the + means. What was I to do? For six months I went about Odessa buying old + clothes, but the Jews paid me no wages, the rascals. I resented it and + left them. Then I went by steamer to Perekop.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing. A Greek promised me a job there. In short, till I was + sixteen I wandered about like that with no definite work and no roots till + I got to Poltava. There a student, a Jew, found out that I wanted to + study, and gave me a letter to the Harkov students. Of course, I went to + Harkov. The students consulted together and began to prepare me for the + technical school. And, you know, I must say the students that I met there + were such that I shall never forget them to the day of my death. To say + nothing of their giving me food and lodging, they set me on the right + path, they made me think, showed me the object of life. Among them were + intellectual remarkable people who by now are celebrated. For instance, + you have heard of Grumaher, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t! He wrote very clever articles in the <i>Harkov Gazette</i>, + and was preparing to be a professor. Well, I read a great deal and + attended the student’s societies, where you hear nothing that is + commonplace. I was working up for six months, but as one has to have been + through the whole high-school course of mathematics to enter the technical + school, Grumaher advised me to try for the veterinary institute, where + they admit high-school boys from the sixth form. Of course, I began + working for it. I did not want to be a veterinary surgeon but they told me + that after finishing the course at the veterinary institute I should be + admitted to the faculty of medicine without examination. I learnt all + Kühner; I could read Cornelius Nepos, <i>à livre ouvert</i>; and in Greek + I read through almost all Curtius. But, you know, one thing and another, . + . . the students leaving and the uncertainty of my position, and then I + heard that my mamma had come and was looking for me all over Harkov. Then + I went away. What was I to do? But luckily I learned that there was a + school of mines here on the Donets line. Why should I not enter that? You + know the school of mines qualifies one as a mining foreman—a + splendid berth. I know of mines where the foremen get a salary of fifteen + hundred a year. Capital. . . . I entered it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + With an expression of reverent awe on his face Alexandr Ivanitch + enumerated some two dozen abstruse sciences in which instruction was given + at the school of mines; he described the school itself, the construction + of the shafts, and the condition of the miners. . . . Then he told me a + terrible story which sounded like an invention, though I could not help + believing it, for his tone in telling it was too genuine and the + expression of horror on his Semitic face was too evidently sincere. + </p> + <p> + “While I was doing the practical work, I had such an accident one day!” he + said, raising both eyebrows. “I was at a mine here in the Donets district. + You have seen, I dare say, how people are let down into the mine. You + remember when they start the horse and set the gates moving one bucket on + the pulley goes down into the mine, while the other comes up; when the + first begins to come up, then the second goes down—exactly like a + well with two pails. Well, one day I got into the bucket, began going + down, and can you fancy, all at once I heard, Trrr! The chain had broken + and I flew to the devil together with the bucket and the broken bit of + chain. . . . I fell from a height of twenty feet, flat on my chest and + stomach, while the bucket, being heavier, reached the bottom before me, + and I hit this shoulder here against its edge. I lay, you know, stunned. I + thought I was killed, and all at once I saw a fresh calamity: the other + bucket, which was going up, having lost the counter-balancing weight, was + coming down with a crash straight upon me. . . . What was I to do? Seeing + the position, I squeezed closer to the wall, crouching and waiting for the + bucket to come full crush next minute on my head. I thought of papa and + mamma and Mogilev and Grumaher. . . . I prayed. . . . But happily . . . it + frightens me even to think of it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Alexandr Ivanitch gave a constrained smile and rubbed his forehead with + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “But happily it fell beside me and only caught this side a little. . . . + It tore off coat, shirt and skin, you know, from this side. . . . The + force of it was terrific. I was unconscious after it. They got me out and + sent me to the hospital. I was there four months, and the doctors there + said I should go into consumption. I always have a cough now and a pain in + my chest. And my psychic condition is terrible. . . . When I am alone in a + room I feel overcome with terror. Of course, with my health in that state, + to be a mining foreman is out of the question. I had to give up the school + of mines. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “And what are you doing now?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I have passed my examination as a village schoolmaster. Now I belong to + the orthodox church, and I have a right to be a teacher. In + Novotcherkassk, where I was baptized, they took a great interest in me and + promised me a place in a church parish school. I am going there in a + fortnight, and shall ask again.” + </p> + <p> + Alexandr Ivanitch took off his overcoat and remained in a shirt with an + embroidered Russian collar and a worsted belt. + </p> + <p> + “It is time for bed,” he said, folding his overcoat for a pillow, and + yawning. “Till lately, you know, I had no knowledge of God at all. I was + an atheist. When I was lying in the hospital I thought of religion, and + began reflecting on that subject. In my opinion, there is only one + religion possible for a thinking man, and that is the Christian religion. + If you don’t believe in Christ, then there is nothing else to believe in, + . . . is there? Judaism has outlived its day, and is preserved only owing + to the peculiarities of the Jewish race. When civilization reaches the + Jews there will not be a trace of Judaism left. All young Jews are + atheists now, observe. The New Testament is the natural continuation of + the Old, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + I began trying to find out the reasons which had led him to take so grave + and bold a step as the change of religion, but he kept repeating the same, + “The New Testament is the natural continuation of the Old”—a formula + obviously not his own, but acquired— which did not explain the + question in the least. In spite of my efforts and artifices, the reasons + remained obscure. If one could believe that he had embraced Orthodoxy from + conviction, as he said he had done, what was the nature and foundation of + this conviction it was impossible to grasp from his words. It was equally + impossible to assume that he had changed his religion from interested + motives: his cheap shabby clothes, his going on living at the expense of + the convent, and the uncertainty of his future, did not look like + interested motives. There was nothing for it but to accept the idea that + my companion had been impelled to change his religion by the same restless + spirit which had flung him like a chip of wood from town to town, and + which he, using the generally accepted formula, called the craving for + enlightenment. + </p> + <p> + Before going to bed I went into the corridor to get a drink of water. When + I came back my companion was standing in the middle of the room, and he + looked at me with a scared expression. His face looked a greyish white, + and there were drops of perspiration on his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “My nerves are in an awful state,” he muttered with a sickly smile,” + awful! It’s acute psychological disturbance. But that’s of no + consequence.” + </p> + <p> + And he began reasoning again that the New Testament was a natural + continuation of the Old, that Judaism has outlived its day. . . . Picking + out his phrases, he seemed to be trying to put together the forces of his + conviction and to smother with them the uneasiness of his soul, and to + prove to himself that in giving up the religion of his fathers he had done + nothing dreadful or peculiar, but had acted as a thinking man free from + prejudice, and that therefore he could boldly remain in a room all alone + with his conscience. He was trying to convince himself, and with his eyes + besought my assistance. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile a big clumsy wick had burned up on our tallow candle. It was by + now getting light. At the gloomy little window, which was turning blue, we + could distinctly see both banks of the Donets River and the oak copse + beyond the river. It was time to sleep. + </p> + <p> + “It will be very interesting here to-morrow,” said my companion when I put + out the candle and went to bed. “After early mass, the procession will go + in boats from the Monastery to the Hermitage.” + </p> + <p> + Raising his right eyebrow and putting his head on one side, he prayed + before the ikons, and, without undressing, lay down on his little sofa. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, turning over on the other side. + </p> + <p> + “Why yes?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “When I accepted orthodoxy in Novotcherkassk my mother was looking for me + in Rostov. She felt that I meant to change my religion,” he sighed, and + went on: “It is six years since I was there in the province of Mogilev. My + sister must be married by now.” + </p> + <p> + After a short silence, seeing that I was still awake, he began talking + quietly of how they soon, thank God, would give him a job, and that at + last he would have a home of his own, a settled position, his daily bread + secure. . . . And I was thinking that this man would never have a home of + his own, nor a settled position, nor his daily bread secure. He dreamed + aloud of a village school as of the Promised Land; like the majority of + people, he had a prejudice against a wandering life, and regarded it as + something exceptional, abnormal and accidental, like an illness, and was + looking for salvation in ordinary workaday life. The tone of his voice + betrayed that he was conscious of his abnormal position and regretted it. + He seemed as it were apologizing and justifying himself. + </p> + <p> + Not more than a yard from me lay a homeless wanderer; in the rooms of the + hostels and by the carts in the courtyard among the pilgrims some hundreds + of such homeless wanderers were waiting for the morning, and further away, + if one could picture to oneself the whole of Russia, a vast multitude of + such uprooted creatures was pacing at that moment along highroads and + side-tracks, seeking something better, or were waiting for the dawn, + asleep in wayside inns and little taverns, or on the grass under the open + sky. . . . As I fell asleep I imagined how amazed and perhaps even + overjoyed all these people would have been if reasoning and words could be + found to prove to them that their life was as little in need of + justification as any other. In my sleep I heard a bell ring outside as + plaintively as though shedding bitter tears, and the lay brother calling + out several times: + </p> + <p> + “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us! Come to mass!” + </p> + <p> + When I woke up my companion was not in the room. It was sunny and there + was a murmur of the crowds through the window. Going out, I learned that + mass was over and that the procession had set off for the Hermitage some + time before. The people were wandering in crowds upon the river bank and, + feeling at liberty, did not know what to do with themselves: they could + not eat or drink, as the late mass was not yet over at the Hermitage; the + Monastery shops where pilgrims are so fond of crowding and asking prices + were still shut. In spite of their exhaustion, many of them from sheer + boredom were trudging to the Hermitage. The path from the Monastery to the + Hermitage, towards which I directed my steps, twined like a snake along + the high steep bank, going up and down and threading in and out among the + oaks and pines. Below, the Donets gleamed, reflecting the sun; above, the + rugged chalk cliff stood up white with bright green on the top from the + young foliage of oaks and pines, which, hanging one above another, managed + somehow to grow on the vertical cliff without falling. The pilgrims + trailed along the path in single file, one behind another. The majority of + them were Little Russians from the neighbouring districts, but there were + many from a distance, too, who had come on foot from the provinces of + Kursk and Orel; in the long string of varied colours there were Greek + settlers, too, from Mariupol, strongly built, sedate and friendly people, + utterly unlike their weakly and degenerate compatriots who fill our + southern seaside towns. There were men from the Donets, too, with red + stripes on their breeches, and emigrants from the Tavritchesky province. + There were a good many pilgrims of a nondescript class, like my Alexandr + Ivanitch; what sort of people they were and where they came from it was + impossible to tell from their faces, from their clothes, or from their + speech. The path ended at the little landing-stage, from which a narrow + road went to the left to the Hermitage, cutting its way through the + mountain. At the landing-stage stood two heavy big boats of a forbidding + aspect, like the New Zealand pirogues which one may see in the works of + Jules Verne. One boat with rugs on the seats was destined for the clergy + and the singers, the other without rugs for the public. When the + procession was returning I found myself among the elect who had succeeded + in squeezing themselves into the second. There were so many of the elect + that the boat scarcely moved, and one had to stand all the way without + stirring and to be careful that one’s hat was not crushed. The route was + lovely. Both banks—one high, steep and white, with overhanging pines + and oaks, with the crowds hurrying back along the path, and the other + shelving, with green meadows and an oak copse bathed in sunshine—looked + as happy and rapturous as though the May morning owed its charm only to + them. The reflection of the sun in the rapidly flowing Donets quivered and + raced away in all directions, and its long rays played on the chasubles, + on the banners and on the drops splashed up by the oars. The singing of + the Easter hymns, the ringing of the bells, the splash of the oars in the + water, the calls of the birds, all mingled in the air into something + tender and harmonious. The boat with the priests and the banners led the + way; at its helm the black figure of a lay brother stood motionless as a + statue. + </p> + <p> + When the procession was getting near the Monastery, I noticed Alexandr + Ivanitch among the elect. He was standing in front of them all, and, his + mouth wide open with pleasure and his right eyebrow cocked up, was gazing + at the procession. His face was beaming; probably at such moments, when + there were so many people round him and it was so bright, he was satisfied + with himself, his new religion, and his conscience. + </p> + <p> + When a little later we were sitting in our room, drinking tea, he still + beamed with satisfaction; his face showed that he was satisfied both with + the tea and with me, that he fully appreciated my being an intellectual, + but that he would know how to play his part with credit if any + intellectual topic turned up. . . . + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, what psychology ought I to read?” he began an intellectual + conversation, wrinkling up his nose. + </p> + <p> + “Why, what do you want it for?” + </p> + <p> + “One cannot be a teacher without a knowledge of psychology. Before + teaching a boy I ought to understand his soul.” + </p> + <p> + I told him that psychology alone would not be enough to make one + understand a boy’s soul, and moreover psychology for a teacher who had not + yet mastered the technical methods of instruction in reading, writing, and + arithmetic would be a luxury as superfluous as the higher mathematics. He + readily agreed with me, and began describing how hard and responsible was + the task of a teacher, how hard it was to eradicate in the boy the + habitual tendency to evil and superstition, to make him think honestly and + independently, to instil into him true religion, the ideas of personal + dignity, of freedom, and so on. In answer to this I said something to him. + He agreed again. He agreed very readily, in fact. Obviously his brain had + not a very firm grasp of all these “intellectual subjects.” + </p> + <p> + Up to the time of my departure we strolled together about the Monastery, + whiling away the long hot day. He never left my side a minute; whether he + had taken a fancy to me or was afraid of solitude, God only knows! I + remember we sat together under a clump of yellow acacia in one of the + little gardens that are scattered on the mountain side. + </p> + <p> + “I am leaving here in a fortnight,” he said; “it is high time.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going on foot?” + </p> + <p> + “From here to Slavyansk I shall walk, then by railway to Nikitovka; from + Nikitovka the Donets line branches off, and along that branch line I shall + walk as far as Hatsepetovka, and there a railway guard, I know, will help + me on my way.” + </p> + <p> + I thought of the bare, deserted steppe between Nikitovka and Hatsepetovka, + and pictured to myself Alexandr Ivanitch striding along it, with his + doubts, his homesickness, and his fear of solitude . . . . He read boredom + in my face, and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “And my sister must be married by now,” he said, thinking aloud, and at + once, to shake off melancholy thoughts, pointed to the top of the rock and + said: + </p> + <p> + “From that mountain one can see Izyum.” + </p> + <p> + As we were walking up the mountain he had a little misfortune. I suppose + he stumbled, for he slit his cotton trousers and tore the sole of his + shoe. + </p> + <p> + “Tss!” he said, frowning as he took off a shoe and exposed a bare foot + without a stocking. “How unpleasant! . . . That’s a complication, you + know, which . . . Yes!” + </p> + <p> + Turning the shoe over and over before his eyes, as though unable to + believe that the sole was ruined for ever, he spent a long time frowning, + sighing, and clicking with his tongue. + </p> + <p> + I had in my trunk a pair of boots, old but fashionable, with pointed toes + and laces. I had brought them with me in case of need, and only wore them + in wet weather. When we got back to our room I made up a phrase as + diplomatic as I could and offered him these boots. He accepted them and + said with dignity: + </p> + <p> + “I should thank you, but I know that you consider thanks a convention.” + </p> + <p> + He was pleased as a child with the pointed toes and the laces, and even + changed his plans. + </p> + <p> + “Now I shall go to Novotcherkassk in a week, and not in a fortnight,” he + said, thinking aloud. “In shoes like these I shall not be ashamed to show + myself to my godfather. I was not going away from here just because I + hadn’t any decent clothes. . . .” + </p> + <p> + When the coachman was carrying out my trunk, a lay brother with a good + ironical face came in to sweep out the room. Alexandr Ivanitch seemed + flustered and embarrassed and asked him timidly: + </p> + <p> + “Am I to stay here or go somewhere else?” + </p> + <p> + He could not make up his mind to occupy a whole room to himself, and + evidently by now was feeling ashamed of living at the expense of the + Monastery. He was very reluctant to part from me; to put off being lonely + as long as possible, he asked leave to see me on my way. + </p> + <p> + The road from the Monastery, which had been excavated at the cost of no + little labour in the chalk mountain, moved upwards, going almost like a + spiral round the mountain, over roots and under sullen overhanging pines. + . . . + </p> + <p> + The Donets was the first to vanish from our sight, after it the Monastery + yard with its thousands of people, and then the green roofs. . . . Since I + was mounting upwards everything seemed vanishing into a pit. The cross on + the church, burnished by the rays of the setting sun, gleamed brightly in + the abyss and vanished. Nothing was left but the oaks, the pines, and the + white road. But then our carriage came out on a level country, and that + was all left below and behind us. Alexandr Ivanitch jumped out and, + smiling mournfully, glanced at me for the last time with his childish + eyes, and vanished from me for ever. . . . + </p> + <p> + The impressions of the Holy Mountains had already become memories, and I + saw something new: the level plain, the whitish-brown distance, the way + side copse, and beyond it a windmill which stood with out moving, and + seemed bored at not being allowed to wave its sails because it was a + holiday. + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <h2> + THE STEPPE + </h2> + <h3> + <i>The Story of a Journey</i> + </h3> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p class="pfirst"> + <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">E</span>ARLY one morning + in July a shabby covered chaise, one of those antediluvian chaises without + springs in which no one travels in Russia nowadays, except merchant’s + clerks, dealers and the less well-to-do among priests, drove out of N., + the principal town of the province of Z., and rumbled noisily along the + posting-track. It rattled and creaked at every movement; the pail, hanging + on behind, chimed in gruffly, and from these sounds alone and from the + wretched rags of leather hanging loose about its peeling body one could + judge of its decrepit age and readiness to drop to pieces. + </p> + <p> + Two of the inhabitants of N. were sitting in the chaise; they were a + merchant of N. called Ivan Ivanitch Kuzmitchov, a man with a shaven face + wearing glasses and a straw hat, more like a government clerk than a + merchant, and Father Christopher Sireysky, the priest of the Church of St. + Nikolay at N., a little old man with long hair, in a grey canvas cassock, + a wide-brimmed top-hat and a coloured embroidered girdle. The former was + absorbed in thought, and kept tossing his head to shake off drowsiness; in + his countenance an habitual business-like reserve was struggling with the + genial expression of a man who has just said good-bye to his relatives and + has had a good drink at parting. The latter gazed with moist eyes + wonderingly at God’s world, and his smile was so broad that it seemed to + embrace even the brim of his hat; his face was red and looked frozen. Both + of them, Father Christopher as well as Kuzmitchov, were going to sell + wool. At parting with their families they had just eaten heartily of + pastry puffs and cream, and although it was so early in the morning had + had a glass or two. . . . Both were in the best of humours. + </p> + <p> + Apart from the two persons described above and the coachman Deniska, who + lashed the pair of frisky bay horses, there was another figure in the + chaise—a boy of nine with a sunburnt face, wet with tears. This was + Yegorushka, Kuzmitchov’s nephew. With the sanction of his uncle and the + blessing of Father Christopher, he was now on his way to go to school. His + mother, Olga Ivanovna, the widow of a collegiate secretary, and + Kuzmitchov’s sister, who was fond of educated people and refined society, + had entreated her brother to take Yegorushka with him when he went to sell + wool and to put him to school; and now the boy was sitting on the box + beside the coachman Deniska, holding on to his elbow to keep from falling + off, and dancing up and down like a kettle on the hob, with no notion + where he was going or what he was going for. The rapid motion through the + air blew out his red shirt like a balloon on his back and made his new hat + with a peacock’s feather in it, like a coachman’s, keep slipping on to the + back of his head. He felt himself an intensely unfortunate person, and had + an inclination to cry. + </p> + <p> + When the chaise drove past the prison, Yegorushka glanced at the sentinels + pacing slowly by the high white walls, at the little barred windows, at + the cross shining on the roof, and remembered how the week before, on the + day of the Holy Mother of Kazan, he had been with his mother to the prison + church for the Dedication Feast, and how before that, at Easter, he had + gone to the prison with Deniska and Ludmila the cook, and had taken the + prisoners Easter bread, eggs, cakes and roast beef. The prisoners had + thanked them and made the sign of the cross, and one of them had given + Yegorushka a pewter buckle of his own making. + </p> + <p> + The boy gazed at the familiar places, while the hateful chaise flew by and + left them all behind. After the prison he caught glimpses of black grimy + foundries, followed by the snug green cemetery surrounded by a wall of + cobblestones; white crosses and tombstones, nestling among green + cherry-trees and looking in the distance like patches of white, peeped out + gaily from behind the wall. Yegorushka remembered that when the cherries + were in blossom those white patches melted with the flowers into a sea of + white; and that when the cherries were ripe the white tombstones and + crosses were dotted with splashes of red like bloodstains. Under the + cherry trees in the cemetery Yegorushka’s father and granny, Zinaida + Danilovna, lay sleeping day and night. When Granny had died she had been + put in a long narrow coffin and two pennies had been put upon her eyes, + which would not keep shut. Up to the time of her death she had been brisk, + and used to bring soft rolls covered with poppy seeds from the market. Now + she did nothing but sleep and sleep. . . . + </p> + <p> + Beyond the cemetery came the smoking brickyards. From under the long roofs + of reeds that looked as though pressed flat to the ground, a thick black + smoke rose in great clouds and floated lazily upwards. The sky was murky + above the brickyards and the cemetery, and great shadows from the clouds + of smoke crept over the fields and across the roads. Men and horses + covered with red dust were moving about in the smoke near the roofs. + </p> + <p> + The town ended with the brickyards and the open country began. Yegorushka + looked at the town for the last time, pressed his face against Deniska’s + elbow, and wept bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Come, not done howling yet, cry-baby!” cried Kuzmitchov. “You are + blubbering again, little milksop! If you don’t want to go, stay behind; no + one is taking you by force! + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, never mind, Yegor boy, never mind,” Father Christopher + muttered rapidly—“never mind, my boy. . . . Call upon God. . . . You + are not going for your harm, but for your good. Learning is light, as the + saying is, and ignorance is darkness. . . . That is so, truly.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to go back?” asked Kuzmitchov. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, . . . yes, . . .” answered Yegorushka, sobbing. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’d better go back then. Anyway, you are going for nothing; it’s + a day’s journey for a spoonful of porridge.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, never mind, my boy,” Father Christopher went on. “Call upon + God. . . . Lomonosov set off with the fishermen in the same way, and he + became a man famous all over Europe. Learning in conjunction with faith + brings forth fruit pleasing to God. What are the words of the prayer? For + the glory of our Maker, for the comfort of our parents, for the benefit of + our Church and our country. . . . Yes, indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “The benefit is not the same in all cases,” said Kuzmitchov, lighting a + cheap cigar; “some will study twenty years and get no sense from it.” + </p> + <p> + “That does happen.” + </p> + <p> + “Learning is a benefit to some, but others only muddle their brains. My + sister is a woman who does not understand; she is set upon refinement, and + wants to turn Yegorka into a learned man, and she does not understand that + with my business I could settle Yegorka happily for the rest of his life. + I tell you this, that if everyone were to go in for being learned and + refined there would be no one to sow the corn and do the trading; they + would all die of hunger.” + </p> + <p> + “And if all go in for trading and sowing corn there will be no one to + acquire learning.” + </p> + <p> + And considering that each of them had said something weighty and + convincing, Kuzmitchov and Father Christopher both looked serious and + cleared their throats simultaneously. + </p> + <p> + Deniska, who had been listening to their conversation without + understanding a word of it, shook his head and, rising in his seat, lashed + at both the bays. A silence followed. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile a wide boundless plain encircled by a chain of low hills lay + stretched before the travellers’ eyes. Huddling together and peeping out + from behind one another, these hills melted together into rising ground, + which stretched right to the very horizon and disappeared into the lilac + distance; one drives on and on and cannot discern where it begins or where + it ends. . . . The sun had already peeped out from beyond the town behind + them, and quietly, without fuss, set to its accustomed task. At first in + the distance before them a broad, bright, yellow streak of light crept + over the ground where the earth met the sky, near the little barrows and + the windmills, which in the distance looked like tiny men waving their + arms. A minute later a similar streak gleamed a little nearer, crept to + the right and embraced the hills. Something warm touched Yegorushka’s + spine; the streak of light, stealing up from behind, darted between the + chaise and the horses, moved to meet the other streak, and soon the whole + wide steppe flung off the twilight of early morning, and was smiling and + sparkling with dew. + </p> + <p> + The cut rye, the coarse steppe grass, the milkwort, the wild hemp, all + withered from the sultry heat, turned brown and half dead, now washed by + the dew and caressed by the sun, revived, to fade again. Arctic petrels + flew across the road with joyful cries; marmots called to one another in + the grass. Somewhere, far away to the left, lapwings uttered their + plaintive notes. A covey of partridges, scared by the chaise, fluttered up + and with their soft “trrrr!” flew off to the hills. In the grass crickets, + locusts and grasshoppers kept up their churring, monotonous music. + </p> + <p> + But a little time passed, the dew evaporated, the air grew stagnant, and + the disillusioned steppe began to wear its jaded July aspect. The grass + drooped, everything living was hushed. The sun-baked hills, brownish-green + and lilac in the distance, with their quiet shadowy tones, the plain with + the misty distance and, arched above them, the sky, which seems terribly + deep and transparent in the steppes, where there are no woods or high + hills, seemed now endless, petrified with dreariness. . . . + </p> + <p> + How stifling and oppressive it was! The chaise raced along, while + Yegorushka saw always the same—the sky, the plain, the low hills . . + . . The music in the grass was hushed, the petrels had flown away, the + partridges were out of sight, rooks hovered idly over the withered grass; + they were all alike and made the steppe even more monotonous. + </p> + <p> + A hawk flew just above the ground, with an even sweep of its wings, + suddenly halted in the air as though pondering on the dreariness of life, + then fluttered its wings and flew like an arrow over the steppe, and there + was no telling why it flew off and what it wanted. In the distance a + windmill waved its sails. . . . + </p> + <p> + Now and then a glimpse of a white potsherd or a heap of stones broke the + monotony; a grey stone stood out for an instant or a parched willow with a + blue crow on its top branch; a marmot would run across the road and—again + there flitted before the eyes only the high grass, the low hills, the + rooks. . . . + </p> + <p> + But at last, thank God, a waggon loaded with sheaves came to meet them; a + peasant wench was lying on the very top. Sleepy, exhausted by the heat, + she lifted her head and looked at the travellers. Deniska gaped, looking + at her; the horses stretched out their noses towards the sheaves; the + chaise, squeaking, kissed the waggon, and the pointed ears passed over + Father Christopher’s hat like a brush. + </p> + <p> + “You are driving over folks, fatty!” cried Deniska. “What a swollen lump + of a face, as though a bumble-bee had stung it!” + </p> + <p> + The girl smiled drowsily, and moving her lips lay down again; then a + solitary poplar came into sight on the low hill. Someone had planted it, + and God only knows why it was there. It was hard to tear the eyes away + from its graceful figure and green drapery. Was that lovely creature + happy? Sultry heat in summer, in winter frost and snowstorms, terrible + nights in autumn when nothing is to be seen but darkness and nothing is to + be heard but the senseless angry howling wind, and, worst of all, alone, + alone for the whole of life . . . . Beyond the poplar stretches of wheat + extended like a bright yellow carpet from the road to the top of the + hills. On the hills the corn was already cut and laid up in sheaves, while + at the bottom they were still cutting. . . . Six mowers were standing in a + row swinging their scythes, and the scythes gleamed gaily and uttered in + unison together “Vzhee, vzhee!” From the movements of the peasant women + binding the sheaves, from the faces of the mowers, from the glitter of the + scythes, it could be seen that the sultry heat was baking and stifling. A + black dog with its tongue hanging out ran from the mowers to meet the + chaise, probably with the intention of barking, but stopped halfway and + stared indifferently at Deniska, who shook his whip at him; it was too hot + to bark! One peasant woman got up and, putting both hands to her aching + back, followed Yegorushka’s red shirt with her eyes. Whether it was that + the colour pleased her or that he reminded her of her children, she stood + a long time motionless staring after him. + </p> + <p> + But now the wheat, too, had flashed by; again the parched plain, the + sunburnt hills, the sultry sky stretched before them; again a hawk hovered + over the earth. In the distance, as before, a windmill whirled its sails, + and still it looked like a little man waving his arms. It was wearisome to + watch, and it seemed as though one would never reach it, as though it were + running away from the chaise. + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher and Kuzmitchov were silent. Deniska lashed the horses + and kept shouting to them, while Yegorushka had left off crying, and gazed + about him listlessly. The heat and the tedium of the steppes overpowered + him. He felt as though he had been travelling and jolting up and down for + a very long time, that the sun had been baking his back a long time. + Before they had gone eight miles he began to feel “It must be time to + rest.” The geniality gradually faded out of his uncle’s face and nothing + else was left but the air of business reserve; and to a gaunt shaven face, + especially when it is adorned with spectacles and the nose and temples are + covered with dust, this reserve gives a relentless, inquisitorial + appearance. Father Christopher never left off gazing with wonder at God’s + world, and smiling. Without speaking, he brooded over something pleasant + and nice, and a kindly, genial smile remained imprinted on his face. It + seemed as though some nice and pleasant thought were imprinted on his + brain by the heat. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Deniska, shall we overtake the waggons to-day?” asked Kuzmitchov. + </p> + <p> + Deniska looked at the sky, rose in his seat, lashed at his horses and then + answered: + </p> + <p> + “By nightfall, please God, we shall overtake them.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of dogs barking. Half a dozen steppe sheep-dogs, + suddenly leaping out as though from ambush, with ferocious howling barks, + flew to meet the chaise. All of them, extraordinarily furious, surrounded + the chaise, with their shaggy spider-like muzzles and their eyes red with + anger, and jostling against one another in their anger, raised a hoarse + howl. They were filled with passionate hatred of the horses, of the + chaise, and of the human beings, and seemed ready to tear them into + pieces. Deniska, who was fond of teasing and beating, was delighted at the + chance of it, and with a malignant expression bent over and lashed at the + sheep-dogs with his whip. The brutes growled more than ever, the horses + flew on; and Yegorushka, who had difficulty in keeping his seat on the + box, realized, looking at the dogs’ eyes and teeth, that if he fell down + they would instantly tear him to bits; but he felt no fear and looked at + them as malignantly as Deniska, and regretted that he had no whip in his + hand. + </p> + <p> + The chaise came upon a flock of sheep. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” cried Kuzmitchov. “Pull up! Woa!” + </p> + <p> + Deniska threw his whole body backwards and pulled up the horses. + </p> + <p> + “Come here!” Kuzmitchov shouted to the shepherd. “Call off the dogs, curse + them!” + </p> + <p> + The old shepherd, tattered and barefoot, wearing a fur cap, with a dirty + sack round his loins and a long crook in his hand—a regular figure + from the Old Testament—called off the dogs, and taking off his cap, + went up to the chaise. Another similar Old Testament figure was standing + motionless at the other end of the flock, staring without interest at the + travellers. + </p> + <p> + “Whose sheep are these?” asked Kuzmitchov. + </p> + <p> + “Varlamov’s,” the old man answered in a loud voice. + </p> + <p> + “Varlamov’s,” repeated the shepherd standing at the other end of the + flock. + </p> + <p> + “Did Varlamov come this way yesterday or not?” + </p> + <p> + “He did not; his clerk came. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Drive on!” + </p> + <p> + The chaise rolled on and the shepherds, with their angry dogs, were left + behind. Yegorushka gazed listlessly at the lilac distance in front, and it + began to seem as though the windmill, waving its sails, were getting + nearer. It became bigger and bigger, grew quite large, and now he could + distinguish clearly its two sails. One sail was old and patched, the other + had only lately been made of new wood and glistened in the sun. The chaise + drove straight on, while the windmill, for some reason, began retreating + to the left. They drove on and on, and the windmill kept moving away to + the left, and still did not disappear. + </p> + <p> + “A fine windmill Boltva has put up for his son,” observed Deniska. + </p> + <p> + “And how is it we don’t see his farm?” + </p> + <p> + “It is that way, beyond the creek.” + </p> + <p> + Boltva’s farm, too, soon came into sight, but yet the windmill did not + retreat, did not drop behind; it still watched Yegorushka with its shining + sail and waved. What a sorcerer! + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Towards midday the chaise turned off the road to the right; it went on a + little way at walking pace and then stopped. Yegorushka heard a soft, very + caressing gurgle, and felt a different air breathe on his face with a cool + velvety touch. Through a little pipe of hemlock stuck there by some + unknown benefactor, water was running in a thin trickle from a low hill, + put together by nature of huge monstrous stones. It fell to the ground, + and limpid, sparkling gaily in the sun, and softly murmuring as though + fancying itself a great tempestuous torrent, flowed swiftly away to the + left. Not far from its source the little stream spread itself out into a + pool; the burning sunbeams and the parched soil greedily drank it up and + sucked away its strength; but a little further on it must have mingled + with another rivulet, for a hundred paces away thick reeds showed green + and luxuriant along its course, and three snipe flew up from them with a + loud cry as the chaise drove by. + </p> + <p> + The travellers got out to rest by the stream and feed the horses. + Kuzmitchov, Father Christopher and Yegorushka sat down on a mat in the + narrow strip of shade cast by the chaise and the unharnessed horses. The + nice pleasant thought that the heat had imprinted in Father Christopher’s + brain craved expression after he had had a drink of water and eaten a + hard-boiled egg. He bent a friendly look upon Yegorushka, munched, and + began: + </p> + <p> + “I studied too, my boy; from the earliest age God instilled into me good + sense and understanding, so that while I was just such a lad as you I was + beyond others, a comfort to my parents and preceptors by my good sense. + Before I was fifteen I could speak and make verses in Latin, just as in + Russian. I was the crosier-bearer to his Holiness Bishop Christopher. + After mass one day, as I remember it was the patron saint’s day of His + Majesty Tsar Alexandr Pavlovitch of blessed memory, he unrobed at the + altar, looked kindly at me and asked, ‘Puer bone, quam appelaris?’ And I + answered, ‘Christopherus sum;’ and he said, ‘Ergo connominati sumus’—that + is, that we were namesakes. . . Then he asked in Latin, ‘Whose son are + you?’ To which I answered, also in Latin, that I was the son of deacon + Sireysky of the village of Lebedinskoe. Seeing my readiness and the + clearness of my answers, his Holiness blessed me and said, ‘Write to your + father that I will not forget him, and that I will keep you in view.’ The + holy priests and fathers who were standing round the altar, hearing our + discussion in Latin, were not a little surprised, and everyone expressed + his pleasure in praise of me. Before I had moustaches, my boy, I could + read Latin, Greek, and French; I knew philosophy, mathematics, secular + history, and all the sciences. The Lord gave me a marvellous memory. + Sometimes, if I read a thing once or twice, I knew it by heart. My + preceptors and patrons were amazed, and so they expected I should make a + learned man, a luminary of the Church. I did think of going to Kiev to + continue my studies, but my parents did not approve. ‘You’ll be studying + all your life,’ said my father; ‘when shall we see you finished?’ Hearing + such words, I gave up study and took a post. . . . Of course, I did not + become a learned man, but then I did not disobey my parents; I was a + comfort to them in their old age and gave them a creditable funeral. + Obedience is more than fasting and prayer. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you have forgotten all your learning?” observed Kuzmitchov. + </p> + <p> + “I should think so! Thank God, I have reached my eightieth year! Something + of philosophy and rhetoric I do remember, but languages and mathematics I + have quite forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher screwed up his eyes, thought a minute and said in an + undertone: + </p> + <p> + “What is a substance? A creature is a self-existing object, not requiring + anything else for its completion.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head and laughed with feeling. + </p> + <p> + “Spiritual nourishment!” he said. “Of a truth matter nourishes the flesh + and spiritual nourishment the soul!” + </p> + <p> + “Learning is all very well,” sighed Kuzmitchov, “but if we don’t overtake + Varlamov, learning won’t do much for us.” + </p> + <p> + “A man isn’t a needle—we shall find him. He must be going his rounds + in these parts.” + </p> + <p> + Among the sedge were flying the three snipe they had seen before, and in + their plaintive cries there was a note of alarm and vexation at having + been driven away from the stream. The horses were steadily munching and + snorting. Deniska walked about by them and, trying to appear indifferent + to the cucumbers, pies, and eggs that the gentry were eating, he + concentrated himself on the gadflies and horseflies that were fastening + upon the horses’ backs and bellies; he squashed his victims apathetically, + emitting a peculiar, fiendishly triumphant, guttural sound, and when he + missed them cleared his throat with an air of vexation and looked after + every lucky one that escaped death. + </p> + <p> + “Deniska, where are you? Come and eat,” said Kuzmitchov, heaving a deep + sigh, a sign that he had had enough. + </p> + <p> + Deniska diffidently approached the mat and picked out five thick and + yellow cucumbers (he did not venture to take the smaller and fresher + ones), took two hard-boiled eggs that looked dark and were cracked, then + irresolutely, as though afraid he might get a blow on his outstretched + hand, touched a pie with his finger. + </p> + <p> + “Take them, take them,” Kuzmitchov urged him on. + </p> + <p> + Deniska took the pies resolutely, and, moving some distance away, sat down + on the grass with his back to the chaise. At once there was such a sound + of loud munching that even the horses turned round to look suspiciously at + Deniska. + </p> + <p> + After his meal Kuzmitchov took a sack containing something out of the + chaise and said to Yegorushka: + </p> + <p> + “I am going to sleep, and you mind that no one takes the sack from under + my head.” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher took off his cassock, his girdle, and his full coat, + and Yegorushka, looking at him, was dumb with astonishment. He had never + imagined that priests wore trousers, and Father Christopher had on real + canvas trousers thrust into high boots, and a short striped jacket. + Looking at him, Yegorushka thought that in this costume, so unsuitable to + his dignified position, he looked with his long hair and beard very much + like Robinson Crusoe. After taking off their outer garments Kuzmitchov and + Father Christopher lay down in the shade under the chaise, facing one + another, and closed their eyes. Deniska, who had finished munching, + stretched himself out on his back and also closed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You look out that no one takes away the horses!” he said to Yegorushka, + and at once fell asleep. + </p> + <p> + Stillness reigned. There was no sound except the munching and snorting of + the horses and the snoring of the sleepers; somewhere far away a lapwing + wailed, and from time to time there sounded the shrill cries of the three + snipe who had flown up to see whether their uninvited visitors had gone + away; the rivulet babbled, lisping softly, but all these sounds did not + break the stillness, did not stir the stagnation, but, on the contrary, + lulled all nature to slumber. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka, gasping with the heat, which was particularly oppressive after + a meal, ran to the sedge and from there surveyed the country. He saw + exactly the same as he had in the morning: the plain, the low hills, the + sky, the lilac distance; only the hills stood nearer; and he could not see + the windmill, which had been left far behind. From behind the rocky hill + from which the stream flowed rose another, smoother and broader; a little + hamlet of five or six homesteads clung to it. No people, no trees, no + shade were to be seen about the huts; it looked as though the hamlet had + expired in the burning air and was dried up. To while away the time + Yegorushka caught a grasshopper in the grass, held it in his closed hand + to his ear, and spent a long time listening to the creature playing on its + instrument. When he was weary of its music he ran after a flock of yellow + butterflies who were flying towards the sedge on the watercourse, and + found himself again beside the chaise, without noticing how he came there. + His uncle and Father Christopher were sound asleep; their sleep would be + sure to last two or three hours till the horses had rested. . . . How was + he to get through that long time, and where was he to get away from the + heat? A hard problem. . . . Mechanically Yegorushka put his lips to the + trickle that ran from the waterpipe; there was a chilliness in his mouth + and there was the smell of hemlock. He drank at first eagerly, then went + on with effort till the sharp cold had run from his mouth all over his + body and the water was spilt on his shirt. Then he went up to the chaise + and began looking at the sleeping figures. His uncle’s face wore, as + before, an expression of business-like reserve. Fanatically devoted to his + work, Kuzmitchov always, even in his sleep and at church when they were + singing, “Like the cherubim,” thought about his business and could never + forget it for a moment; and now he was probably dreaming about bales of + wool, waggons, prices, Varlamov. . . . Father Christopher, now, a soft, + frivolous and absurd person, had never all his life been conscious of + anything which could, like a boa-constrictor, coil about his soul and hold + it tight. In all the numerous enterprises he had undertaken in his day + what attracted him was not so much the business itself, but the bustle and + the contact with other people involved in every undertaking. Thus, in the + present expedition, he was not so much interested in wool, in Varlamov, + and in prices, as in the long journey, the conversations on the way, the + sleeping under a chaise, and the meals at odd times. . . . And now, + judging from his face, he must have been dreaming of Bishop Christopher, + of the Latin discussion, of his wife, of puffs and cream and all sorts of + things that Kuzmitchov could not possibly dream of. + </p> + <p> + While Yegorushka was watching their sleeping faces he suddenly heard a + soft singing; somewhere at a distance a woman was singing, and it was + difficult to tell where and in what direction. The song was subdued, + dreary and melancholy, like a dirge, and hardly audible, and seemed to + come first from the right, then from the left, then from above, and then + from underground, as though an unseen spirit were hovering over the steppe + and singing. Yegorushka looked about him, and could not make out where the + strange song came from. Then as he listened he began to fancy that the + grass was singing; in its song, withered and half-dead, it was without + words, but plaintively and passionately, urging that it was not to blame, + that the sun was burning it for no fault of its own; it urged that it + ardently longed to live, that it was young and might have been beautiful + but for the heat and the drought; it was guiltless, but yet it prayed + forgiveness and protested that it was in anguish, sad and sorry for + itself. . . . + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka listened for a little, and it began to seem as though this + dreary, mournful song made the air hotter, more suffocating and more + stagnant. . . . To drown the singing he ran to the sedge, humming to + himself and trying to make a noise with his feet. From there he looked + about in all directions and found out who was singing. Near the furthest + hut in the hamlet stood a peasant woman in a short petticoat, with long + thin legs like a heron. She was sowing something. A white dust floated + languidly from her sieve down the hillock. Now it was evident that she was + singing. A couple of yards from her a little bare-headed boy in nothing + but a smock was standing motionless. As though fascinated by the song, he + stood stock-still, staring away into the distance, probably at + Yegorushka’s crimson shirt. + </p> + <p> + The song ceased. Yegorushka sauntered back to the chaise, and to while + away the time went again to the trickle of water. + </p> + <p> + And again there was the sound of the dreary song. It was the same + long-legged peasant woman in the hamlet over the hill. Yegorushka’s + boredom came back again. He left the pipe and looked upwards. What he saw + was so unexpected that he was a little frightened. Just above his head on + one of the big clumsy stones stood a chubby little boy, wearing nothing + but a shirt, with a prominent stomach and thin legs, the same boy who had + been standing before by the peasant woman. He was gazing with open mouth + and unblinking eyes at Yegorushka’s crimson shirt and at the chaise, with + a look of blank astonishment and even fear, as though he saw before him + creatures of another world. The red colour of the shirt charmed and + allured him. But the chaise and the men sleeping under it excited his + curiosity; perhaps he had not noticed how the agreeable red colour and + curiosity had attracted him down from the hamlet, and now probably he was + surprised at his own boldness. For a long while Yegorushka stared at him, + and he at Yegorushka. Both were silent and conscious of some awkwardness. + After a long silence Yegorushka asked: + </p> + <p> + “What’s your name?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger’s cheeks puffed out more than ever; he pressed his back + against the rock, opened his eyes wide, moved his lips, and answered in a + husky bass: “Tit!” + </p> + <p> + The boys said not another word to each other; after a brief silence, still + keeping his eyes fixed on Yegorushka, the mysterious Tit kicked up one + leg, felt with his heel for a niche and clambered up the rock; from that + point he ascended to the next rock, staggering backwards and looking + intently at Yegorushka, as though afraid he might hit him from behind, and + so made his way upwards till he disappeared altogether behind the crest of + the hill. + </p> + <p> + After watching him out of sight, Yegorushka put his arms round his knees + and leaned his head on them. . . . The burning sun scorched the back of + his head, his neck, and his spine. The melancholy song died away, then + floated again on the stagnant stifling air. The rivulet gurgled + monotonously, the horses munched, and time dragged on endlessly, as though + it, too, were stagnant and had come to a standstill. It seemed as though a + hundred years had passed since the morning. Could it be that God’s world, + the chaise and the horses would come to a standstill in that air, and, + like the hills, turn to stone and remain for ever in one spot? Yegorushka + raised his head, and with smarting eyes looked before him; the lilac + distance, which till then had been motionless, began heaving, and with the + sky floated away into the distance. . . . It drew after it the brown + grass, the sedge, and with extraordinary swiftness Yegorushka floated + after the flying distance. Some force noiselessly drew him onwards, and + the heat and the wearisome song flew after in pursuit. Yegorushka bent his + head and shut his eyes. . . . + </p> + <p> + Deniska was the first to wake up. Something must have bitten him, for he + jumped up, quickly scratched his shoulder and said: + </p> + <p> + “Plague take you, cursed idolater!” + </p> + <p> + Then he went to the brook, had a drink and slowly washed. His splashing + and puffing roused Yegorushka from his lethargy. The boy looked at his wet + face with drops of water and big freckles which made it look like marble, + and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Shall we soon be going?” + </p> + <p> + Deniska looked at the height of the sun and answered: + </p> + <p> + “I expect so.” + </p> + <p> + He dried himself with the tail of his shirt and, making a very serious + face, hopped on one leg. + </p> + <p> + “I say, which of us will get to the sedge first?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka was exhausted by the heat and drowsiness, but he raced off + after him all the same. Deniska was in his twentieth year, was a coachman + and going to be married, but he had not left off being a boy. He was very + fond of flying kites, chasing pigeons, playing knuckle-bones, running + races, and always took part in children’s games and disputes. No sooner + had his master turned his back or gone to sleep than Deniska would begin + doing something such as hopping on one leg or throwing stones. It was hard + for any grown-up person, seeing the genuine enthusiasm with which he + frolicked about in the society of children, to resist saying, “What a + baby!” Children, on the other hand, saw nothing strange in the invasion of + their domain by the big coachman. “Let him play,” they thought, “as long + as he doesn’t fight!” In the same way little dogs see nothing strange in + it when a simple-hearted big dog joins their company uninvited and begins + playing with them. + </p> + <p> + Deniska outstripped Yegorushka, and was evidently very much pleased at + having done so. He winked at him, and to show that he could hop on one leg + any distance, suggested to Yegorushka that he should hop with him along + the road and from there, without resting, back to the chaise. Yegorushka + declined this suggestion, for he was very much out of breath and + exhausted. + </p> + <p> + All at once Deniska looked very grave, as he did not look even when + Kuzmitchov gave him a scolding or threatened him with a stick; listening + intently, he dropped quietly on one knee and an expression of sternness + and alarm came into his face, such as one sees in people who hear + heretical talk. He fixed his eyes on one spot, raised his hand curved into + a hollow, and suddenly fell on his stomach on the ground and slapped the + hollow of his hand down upon the grass. + </p> + <p> + “Caught!” he wheezed triumphantly, and, getting up, lifted a big + grasshopper to Yegorushka’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + The two boys stroked the grasshopper’s broad green back with their fingers + and touched his antenna, supposing that this would please the creature. + Then Deniska caught a fat fly that had been sucking blood and offered it + to the grasshopper. The latter moved his huge jaws, that were like the + visor of a helmet, with the utmost unconcern, as though he had been long + acquainted with Deniska, and bit off the fly’s stomach. They let him go. + With a flash of the pink lining of his wings, he flew down into the grass + and at once began his churring notes again. They let the fly go, too. It + preened its wings, and without its stomach flew off to the horses. + </p> + <p> + A loud sigh was heard from under the chaise. It was Kuzmitchov waking up. + He quickly raised his head, looked uneasily into the distance, and from + that look, which passed by Yegorushka and Deniska without sympathy or + interest, it could be seen that his thought on awaking was of the wool and + of Varlamov. + </p> + <p> + “Father Christopher, get up; it is time to start,” he said anxiously. + “Wake up; we’ve slept too long as it is! Deniska, put the horses in.” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher woke up with the same smile with which he had fallen + asleep; his face looked creased and wrinkled from sleep, and seemed only + half the size. After washing and dressing, he proceeded without haste to + take out of his pocket a little greasy psalter; and standing with his face + towards the east, began in a whisper repeating the psalms of the day and + crossing himself. + </p> + <p> + “Father Christopher,” said Kuzmitchov reproachfully, “it’s time to start; + the horses are ready, and here are you, . . . upon my word.” + </p> + <p> + “In a minute, in a minute,” muttered Father Christopher. “I must read the + psalms. . . . I haven’t read them to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “The psalms can wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Ivanitch, that is my rule every day. . . . I can’t . . .” + </p> + <p> + “God will overlook it.” + </p> + <p> + For a full quarter of an hour Father Christopher stood facing the east and + moving his lips, while Kuzmitchov looked at him almost with hatred and + impatiently shrugged his shoulders. He was particularly irritated when, + after every “Hallelujah,” Father Christopher drew a long breath, rapidly + crossed himself and repeated three times, intentionally raising his voice + so that the others might cross themselves, “Hallelujah, hallelujah, + hallelujah! Glory be to Thee, O Lord!” At last he smiled, looked upwards + at the sky, and, putting the psalter in his pocket, said: + </p> + <p> + “Finis!” + </p> + <p> + A minute later the chaise had started on the road. As though it were going + backwards and not forwards, the travellers saw the same scene as they had + before midday. + </p> + <p> + The low hills were still plunged in the lilac distance, and no end could + be seen to them. There were glimpses of high grass and heaps of stones; + strips of stubble land passed by them and still the same rooks, the same + hawk, moving its wings with slow dignity, moved over the steppe. The air + was more sultry than ever; from the sultry heat and the stillness + submissive nature was spellbound into silence . . . . No wind, no fresh + cheering sound, no cloud. + </p> + <p> + But at last, when the sun was beginning to sink into the west, the steppe, + the hills and the air could bear the oppression no longer, and, driven out + of all patience, exhausted, tried to fling off the yoke. A fleecy + ashen-grey cloud unexpectedly appeared behind the hills. It exchanged + glances with the steppe, as though to say, “Here I am,” and frowned. + Suddenly something burst in the stagnant air; there was a violent squall + of wind which whirled round and round, roaring and whistling over the + steppe. At once a murmur rose from the grass and last year’s dry herbage, + the dust curled in spiral eddies over the road, raced over the steppe, and + carrying with it straws, dragon flies and feathers, rose up in a whirling + black column towards the sky and darkened the sun. Prickly uprooted plants + ran stumbling and leaping in all directions over the steppe, and one of + them got caught in the whirlwind, turned round and round like a bird, flew + towards the sky, and turning into a little black speck, vanished from + sight. After it flew another, and then a third, and Yegorushka saw two of + them meet in the blue height and clutch at one another as though they were + wrestling. + </p> + <p> + A bustard flew up by the very road. Fluttering his wings and his tail, he + looked, bathed in the sunshine, like an angler’s glittering tin fish or a + waterfly flashing so swiftly over the water that its wings cannot be told + from its antenna, which seem to be growing before, behind and on all + sides. . . . Quivering in the air like an insect with a shimmer of bright + colours, the bustard flew high up in a straight line, then, probably + frightened by a cloud of dust, swerved to one side, and for a long time + the gleam of his wings could be seen. . . . + </p> + <p> + Then a corncrake flew up from the grass, alarmed by the hurricane and not + knowing what was the matter. It flew with the wind and not against it, + like all the other birds, so that all its feathers were ruffled up and it + was puffed out to the size of a hen and looked very angry and impressive. + Only the rooks who had grown old on the steppe and were accustomed to its + vagaries hovered calmly over the grass, or taking no notice of anything, + went on unconcernedly pecking with their stout beaks at the hard earth. + </p> + <p> + There was a dull roll of thunder beyond the hills; there came a whiff of + fresh air. Deniska gave a cheerful whistle and lashed his horses. Father + Christopher and Kuzmitchov held their hats and looked intently towards the + hills. . . . How pleasant a shower of rain would have been! + </p> + <p> + One effort, one struggle more, and it seemed the steppe would have got the + upper hand. But the unseen oppressive force gradually riveted its fetters + on the wind and the air, laid the dust, and the stillness came back again + as though nothing had happened, the cloud hid, the sun-baked hills frowned + submissively, the air grew calm, and only somewhere the troubled lapwings + wailed and lamented their destiny. . . . + </p> + <p> + Soon after that the evening came on. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + In the dusk of evening a big house of one storey, with a rusty iron roof + and with dark windows, came into sight. This house was called a + posting-inn, though it had nothing like a stableyard, and it stood in the + middle of the steppe, with no kind of enclosure round it. A little to one + side of it a wretched little cherry orchard shut in by a hurdle fence made + a dark patch, and under the windows stood sleepy sunflowers drooping their + heavy heads. From the orchard came the clatter of a little toy windmill, + set there to frighten away hares by the rattle. Nothing more could be seen + near the house, and nothing could be heard but the steppe. The chaise had + scarcely stopped at the porch with an awning over it, when from the house + there came the sound of cheerful voices, one a man’s, another a woman’s; + there was the creak of a swing-door, and in a flash a tall gaunt figure, + swinging its arms and fluttering its coat, was standing by the chaise. + This was the innkeeper, Moisey Moisevitch, a man no longer young, with a + very pale face and a handsome beard as black as charcoal. He was wearing a + threadbare black coat, which hung flapping on his narrow shoulders as + though on a hatstand, and fluttered its skirts like wings every time + Moisey Moisevitch flung up his hands in delight or horror. Besides his + coat the innkeeper was wearing full white trousers, not stuck into his + boots, and a velvet waistcoat with brown flowers on it that looked like + gigantic bugs. + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch was at first dumb with excess of feeling on recognizing + the travellers, then he clasped his hands and uttered a moan. His coat + swung its skirts, his back bent into a bow, and his pale face twisted into + a smile that suggested that to see the chaise was not merely a pleasure to + him, but actually a joy so sweet as to be painful. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear! oh dear!” he began in a thin sing-song voice, breathless, + fussing about and preventing the travellers from getting out of the chaise + by his antics. “What a happy day for me! Oh, what am I to do now? Ivan + Ivanitch! Father Christopher! What a pretty little gentleman sitting on + the box, God strike me dead! Oh, my goodness! why am I standing here + instead of asking the visitors indoors? Please walk in, I humbly beg you. + . . . You are kindly welcome! Give me all your things. . . . Oh, my + goodness me!” + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch, who was rummaging in the chaise and assisting the + travellers to alight, suddenly turned back and shouted in a voice as + frantic and choking as though he were drowning and calling for help: + </p> + <p> + “Solomon! Solomon!” + </p> + <p> + “Solomon! Solomon!” a woman’s voice repeated indoors. + </p> + <p> + The swing-door creaked, and in the doorway appeared a rather short young + Jew with a big beak-like nose, with a bald patch surrounded by rough red + curly hair; he was dressed in a short and very shabby reefer jacket, with + rounded lappets and short sleeves, and in short serge trousers, so that he + looked skimpy and short-tailed like an unfledged bird. This was Solomon, + the brother of Moisey Moisevitch. He went up to the chaise, smiling rather + queerly, and did not speak or greet the travellers. + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Ivanitch and Father Christopher have come,” said Moisey Moisevitch + in a tone as though he were afraid his brother would not believe him. + “Dear, dear! What a surprise! Such honoured guests to have come us so + suddenly! Come, take their things, Solomon. Walk in, honoured guests.” + </p> + <p> + A little later Kuzmitchov, Father Christopher, and Yegorushka were sitting + in a big gloomy empty room at an old oak table. The table was almost in + solitude, for, except a wide sofa covered with torn American leather and + three chairs, there was no other furniture in the room. And, indeed, not + everybody would have given the chairs that name. They were a pitiful + semblance of furniture, covered with American leather that had seen its + best days, and with backs bent backwards at an unnaturally acute angle, so + that they looked like children’s sledges. It was hard to imagine what had + been the unknown carpenter’s object in bending the chairbacks so + mercilessly, and one was tempted to imagine that it was not the + carpenter’s fault, but that some athletic visitor had bent the chairs like + this as a feat, then had tried to bend them back again and had made them + worse. The room looked gloomy, the walls were grey, the ceilings and the + cornices were grimy; on the floor were chinks and yawning holes that were + hard to account for (one might have fancied they were made by the heel of + the same athlete), and it seemed as though the room would still have been + dark if a dozen lamps had hung in it. There was nothing approaching an + ornament on the walls or the windows. On one wall, however, there hung a + list of regulations of some sort under a two-headed eagle in a grey wooden + frame, and on another wall in the same sort of frame an engraving with the + inscription, “The Indifference of Man.” What it was to which men were + indifferent it was impossible to make out, as the engraving was very dingy + with age and was extensively flyblown. There was a smell of something + decayed and sour in the room. + </p> + <p> + As he led the visitors into the room, Moisey Moisevitch went on wriggling, + gesticulating, shrugging and uttering joyful exclamations; he considered + these antics necessary in order to seem polite and agreeable. + </p> + <p> + “When did our waggons go by?” Kuzmitchov asked. + </p> + <p> + “One party went by early this morning, and the other, Ivan Ivanitch, put + up here for dinner and went on towards evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! . . . Has Varlamov been by or not?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Ivan Ivanitch. His clerk, Grigory Yegoritch, went by yesterday + morning and said that he had to be to-day at the Molokans’ farm.” + </p> + <p> + “Good! so we will go after the waggons directly and then on to the + Molokans’.” + </p> + <p> + “Mercy on us, Ivan Ivanitch!” Moisey Moisevitch cried in horror, flinging + up his hands. “Where are you going for the night? You will have a nice + little supper and stay the night, and to-morrow morning, please God, you + can go on and overtake anyone you like.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no time for that. . . . Excuse me, Moisey Moisevitch, another + time; but now I must make haste. We’ll stay a quarter of an hour and then + go on; we can stay the night at the Molokans’.” + </p> + <p> + “A quarter of an hour!” squealed Moisey Moisevitch. “Have you no fear of + God, Ivan Ivanitch? You will compel me to hide your caps and lock the + door! You must have a cup of tea and a snack of something, anyway.” + </p> + <p> + “We have no time for tea,” said Kuzmitchov. + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch bent his head on one side, crooked his knees, and put + his open hands before him as though warding off a blow, while with a smile + of agonized sweetness he began imploring: + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Ivanitch! Father Christopher! Do be so good as to take a cup of tea + with me. Surely I am not such a bad man that you can’t even drink tea in + my house? Ivan Ivanitch!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we may just as well have a cup of tea,” said Father Christopher, + with a sympathetic smile; “that won’t keep us long.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” Kuzmitchov assented. + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch, in a fluster uttered an exclamation of joy, and + shrugging as though he had just stepped out of cold weather into warm, ran + to the door and cried in the same frantic voice in which he had called + Solomon: + </p> + <p> + “Rosa! Rosa! Bring the samovar!” + </p> + <p> + A minute later the door opened, and Solomon came into the room carrying a + large tray in his hands. Setting the tray on the table, he looked away + sarcastically with the same queer smile as before. Now, by the light of + the lamp, it was possible to see his smile distinctly; it was very + complex, and expressed a variety of emotions, but the predominant element + in it was undisguised contempt. He seemed to be thinking of something + ludicrous and silly, to be feeling contempt and dislike, to be pleased at + something and waiting for the favourable moment to turn something into + ridicule and to burst into laughter. His long nose, his thick lips, and + his sly prominent eyes seemed tense with the desire to laugh. Looking at + his face, Kuzmitchov smiled ironically and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Solomon, why did you not come to our fair at N. this summer, and act some + Jewish scenes?” + </p> + <p> + Two years before, as Yegorushka remembered very well, at one of the booths + at the fair at N., Solomon had performed some scenes of Jewish life, and + his acting had been a great success. The allusion to this made no + impression whatever upon Solomon. Making no answer, he went out and + returned a little later with the samovar. + </p> + <p> + When he had done what he had to do at the table he moved a little aside, + and, folding his arms over his chest and thrusting out one leg, fixed his + sarcastic eyes on Father Christopher. There was something defiant, + haughty, and contemptuous in his attitude, and at the same time it was + comic and pitiful in the extreme, because the more impressive his attitude + the more vividly it showed up his short trousers, his bobtail coat, his + caricature of a nose, and his bird-like plucked-looking little figure. + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch brought a footstool from the other room and sat down a + little way from the table. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you a good appetite! Tea and sugar!” he began, trying to entertain + his visitors. “I hope you will enjoy it. Such rare guests, such rare ones; + it is years since I last saw Father Christopher. And will no one tell me + who is this nice little gentleman?” he asked, looking tenderly at + Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “He is the son of my sister, Olga Ivanovna,” answered Kuzmitchov. + </p> + <p> + “And where is he going?” + </p> + <p> + “To school. We are taking him to a high school.” + </p> + <p> + In his politeness, Moisey Moisevitch put on a look of wonder and wagged + his head expressively. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that is a fine thing,” he said, shaking his finger at the samovar. + “That’s a fine thing. You will come back from the high school such a + gentleman that we shall all take off our hats to you. You will be wealthy + and wise and so grand that your mamma will be delighted. Oh, that’s a fine + thing!” + </p> + <p> + He paused a little, stroked his knees, and began again in a jocose and + deferential tone. + </p> + <p> + “You must excuse me, Father Christopher, but I am thinking of writing to + the bishop to tell him you are robbing the merchants of their living. I + shall take a sheet of stamped paper and write that I suppose Father + Christopher is short of pence, as he has taken up with trade and begun + selling wool.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m, yes . . . it’s a queer notion in my old age,” said Father + Christopher, and he laughed. “I have turned from priest to merchant, + brother. I ought to be at home now saying my prayers, instead of galloping + about the country like a Pharaoh in his chariot. . . . Vanity!” + </p> + <p> + “But it will mean a lot of pence!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I dare say! More kicks than halfpence, and serve me right. The wool’s + not mine, but my son-in-law Mikhail’s!” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn’t he go himself?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, because . . . His mother’s milk is scarcely dry upon his lips. He + can buy wool all right, but when it comes to selling, he has no sense; he + is young yet. He has wasted all his money; he wanted to grow rich and cut + a dash, but he tried here and there, and no one would give him his price. + And so the lad went on like that for a year, and then he came to me and + said, ‘Daddy, you sell the wool for me; be kind and do it! I am no good at + the business!’ And that is true enough. As soon as there is anything wrong + then it’s ‘Daddy,’ but till then they could get on without their dad. When + he was buying he did not consult me, but now when he is in difficulties + it’s Daddy’s turn. And what does his dad know about it? If it were not for + Ivan Ivanitch, his dad could do nothing. I have a lot of worry with them.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; one has a lot of worry with one’s children, I can tell you that,” + sighed Moisey Moisevitch. “I have six of my own. One needs schooling, + another needs doctoring, and a third needs nursing, and when they grow up + they are more trouble still. It is not only nowadays, it was the same in + Holy Scripture. When Jacob had little children he wept, and when they grew + up he wept still more bitterly.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m, yes . . .” Father Christopher assented pensively, looking at his + glass. “I have no cause myself to rail against the Lord. I have lived to + the end of my days as any man might be thankful to live. . . . I have + married my daughters to good men, my sons I have set up in life, and now I + am free; I have done my work and can go where I like. I live in peace with + my wife. I eat and drink and sleep and rejoice in my grandchildren, and + say my prayers and want nothing more. I live on the fat of the land, and + don’t need to curry favour with anyone. I have never had any trouble from + childhood, and now suppose the Tsar were to ask me, ‘What do you need? + What would you like?’ why, I don’t need anything. I have everything I want + and everything to be thankful for. In the whole town there is no happier + man than I am. My only trouble is I have so many sins, but there —only + God is without sin. That’s right, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt it is.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no teeth, of course; my poor old back aches; there is one thing + and another, . . . asthma and that sort of thing. . . . I ache. . . . The + flesh is weak, but then think of my age! I am in the eighties! One can’t + go on for ever; one mustn’t outstay one’s welcome.” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher suddenly thought of something, spluttered into his + glass and choked with laughter. Moisey Moisevitch laughed, too, from + politeness, and he, too, cleared his throat. + </p> + <p> + “So funny!” said Father Christopher, and he waved his hand. “My eldest son + Gavrila came to pay me a visit. He is in the medical line, and is a + district doctor in the province of Tchernigov. . . . ‘Very well . . .’ I + said to him, ‘here I have asthma and one thing and another. . . . You are + a doctor; cure your father!’ He undressed me on the spot, tapped me, + listened, and all sorts of tricks, . . . kneaded my stomach, and then he + said, ‘Dad, you ought to be treated with compressed air.’” Father + Christopher laughed convulsively, till the tears came into his eyes, and + got up. + </p> + <p> + “And I said to him, ‘God bless your compressed air!’” he brought out + through his laughter, waving both hands. “God bless your compressed air!” + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch got up, too, and with his hands on his stomach, went off + into shrill laughter like the yap of a lap-dog. + </p> + <p> + “God bless the compressed air!” repeated Father Christopher, laughing. + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch laughed two notes higher and so violently that he could + hardly stand on his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Oh dear!” he moaned through his laughter. “Let me get my breath . . . . + You’ll be the death of me.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed and talked, though at the same time he was casting timorous and + suspicious looks at Solomon. The latter was standing in the same attitude + and still smiling. To judge from his eyes and his smile, his contempt and + hatred were genuine, but that was so out of keeping with his + plucked-looking figure that it seemed to Yegorushka as though he were + putting on his defiant attitude and biting sarcastic smile to play the + fool for the entertainment of their honoured guests. + </p> + <p> + After drinking six glasses of tea in silence, Kuzmitchov cleared a space + before him on the table, took his bag, the one which he kept under his + head when he slept under the chaise, untied the string and shook it. Rolls + of paper notes were scattered out of the bag on the table. + </p> + <p> + “While we have the time, Father Christopher, let us reckon up,” said + Kuzmitchov. + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch was embarrassed at the sight of the money. He got up, + and, as a man of delicate feeling unwilling to pry into other people’s + secrets, he went out of the room on tiptoe, swaying his arms. Solomon + remained where he was. + </p> + <p> + “How many are there in the rolls of roubles?” Father Christopher began. + </p> + <p> + “The rouble notes are done up in fifties, . . . the three-rouble notes in + nineties, the twenty-five and hundred roubles in thousands. You count out + seven thousand eight hundred for Varlamov, and I will count out for + Gusevitch. And mind you don’t make a mistake. . .” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka had never in his life seen so much money as was lying on the + table before him. There must have been a great deal of money, for the roll + of seven thousand eight hundred, which Father Christopher put aside for + Varlamov, seemed very small compared with the whole heap. At any other + time such a mass of money would have impressed Yegorushka, and would have + moved him to reflect how many cracknels, buns and poppy-cakes could be + bought for that money. Now he looked at it listlessly, only conscious of + the disgusting smell of kerosene and rotten apples that came from the heap + of notes. He was exhausted by the jolting ride in the chaise, tired out + and sleepy. His head was heavy, his eyes would hardly keep open and his + thoughts were tangled like threads. If it had been possible he would have + been relieved to lay his head on the table, so as not to see the lamp and + the fingers moving over the heaps of notes, and to have let his tired + sleepy thoughts go still more at random. When he tried to keep awake, the + light of the lamp, the cups and the fingers grew double, the samovar + heaved and the smell of rotten apples seemed even more acrid and + disgusting. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, money, money!” sighed Father Christopher, smiling. “You bring + trouble! Now I expect my Mihailo is asleep and dreaming that I am going to + bring him a heap of money like this.” + </p> + <p> + “Your Mihailo Timofevitch is a man who doesn’t understand business,” said + Kuzmitchov in an undertone; “he undertakes what isn’t his work, but you + understand and can judge. You had better hand over your wool to me, as I + have said already, and I would give you half a rouble above my own price—yes, + I would, simply out of regard for you. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “No, Ivan Ivanitch.” Father Christopher sighed. “I thank you for your + kindness. . . . Of course, if it were for me to decide, I shouldn’t think + twice about it; but as it is, the wool is not mine, as you know. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch came in on tiptoe. Trying from delicacy not to look at + the heaps of money, he stole up to Yegorushka and pulled at his shirt from + behind. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, little gentleman,” he said in an undertone, “come and see the + little bear I can show you! Such a queer, cross little bear. Oo-oo!” + </p> + <p> + The sleepy boy got up and listlessly dragged himself after Moisey + Moisevitch to see the bear. He went into a little room, where, before he + saw anything, he felt he could not breathe from the smell of something + sour and decaying, which was much stronger here than in the big room and + probably spread from this room all over the house. One part of the room + was occupied by a big bed, covered with a greasy quilt and another by a + chest of drawers and heaps of rags of all kinds from a woman’s stiff + petticoat to children’s little breeches and braces. A tallow candle stood + on the chest of drawers. + </p> + <p> + Instead of the promised bear, Yegorushka saw a big fat Jewess with her + hair hanging loose, in a red flannel skirt with black sprigs on it; she + turned with difficulty in the narrow space between the bed and the chest + of drawers and uttered drawn-out moaning as though she had toothache. On + seeing Yegorushka, she made a doleful, woe-begone face, heaved a long + drawn-out sigh, and before he had time to look round, put to his lips a + slice of bread smeared with honey. + </p> + <p> + “Eat it, dearie, eat it!” she said. “You are here without your mamma, and + no one to look after you. Eat it up.” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka did eat it, though after the goodies and poppy-cakes he had + every day at home, he did not think very much of the honey, which was + mixed with wax and bees’ wings. He ate while Moisey Moisevitch and the + Jewess looked at him and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going, dearie?” asked the Jewess. + </p> + <p> + “To school,” answered Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “And how many brothers and sisters have you got?” + </p> + <p> + “I am the only one; there are no others.” + </p> + <p> + “O-oh!” sighed the Jewess, and turned her eyes upward. “Poor mamma, poor + mamma! How she will weep and miss you! We are going to send our Nahum to + school in a year. O-oh!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Nahum, Nahum!” sighed Moisey Moisevitch, and the skin of his pale + face twitched nervously. “And he is so delicate.” + </p> + <p> + The greasy quilt quivered, and from beneath it appeared a child’s curly + head on a very thin neck; two black eyes gleamed and stared with curiosity + at Yegorushka. Still sighing, Moisey Moisevitch and the Jewess went to the + chest of drawers and began talking in Yiddish. Moisey Moisevitch spoke in + a low bass undertone, and altogether his talk in Yiddish was like a + continual “ghaal-ghaal-ghaal-ghaal, . . .” while his wife answered him in + a shrill voice like a turkeycock’s, and the whole effect of her talk was + something like “Too-too-too-too!” While they were consulting, another + little curly head on a thin neck peeped out of the greasy quilt, then a + third, then a fourth. . . . If Yegorushka had had a fertile imagination he + might have imagined that the hundred-headed hydra was hiding under the + quilt. + </p> + <p> + “Ghaal-ghaal-ghaal-ghaal!” said Moisey Moisevitch. + </p> + <p> + “Too-too-too-too!” answered the Jewess. + </p> + <p> + The consultation ended in the Jewess’s diving with a deep sigh into the + chest of drawers, and, unwrapping some sort of green rag there, she took + out a big rye cake made in the shape of a heart. + </p> + <p> + “Take it, dearie,” she said, giving Yegorushka the cake; “you have no + mamma now—no one to give you nice things.” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka stuck the cake in his pocket and staggered to the door, as he + could not go on breathing the foul, sour air in which the innkeeper and + his wife lived. Going back to the big room, he settled himself more + comfortably on the sofa and gave up trying to check his straying thoughts. + </p> + <p> + As soon as Kuzmitchov had finished counting out the notes he put them back + into the bag. He did not treat them very respectfully and stuffed them + into the dirty sack without ceremony, as indifferently as though they had + not been money but waste paper. + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher was talking to Solomon. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Solomon the Wise!” he said, yawning and making the sign of the + cross over his mouth. “How is business?” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of business are you talking about?” asked Solomon, and he + looked as fiendish, as though it were a hint of some crime on his part. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, things in general. What are you doing?” + </p> + <p> + “What am I doing?” Solomon repeated, and he shrugged his shoulders. “The + same as everyone else. . . . You see, I am a menial, I am my brother’s + servant; my brother’s the servant of the visitors; the visitors are + Varlamov’s servants; and if I had ten millions, Varlamov would be my + servant.” + </p> + <p> + “Why would he be your servant?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, because there isn’t a gentleman or millionaire who isn’t ready to + lick the hand of a scabby Jew for the sake of making a kopeck. Now, I am a + scabby Jew and a beggar. Everybody looks at me as though I were a dog, but + if I had money Varlamov would play the fool before me just as Moisey does + before you.” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher and Kuzmitchov looked at each other. Neither of them + understood Solomon. Kuzmitchov looked at him sternly and dryly, and asked: + </p> + <p> + “How can you compare yourself with Varlamov, you blockhead?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not such a fool as to put myself on a level with Varlamov,” answered + Solomon, looking sarcastically at the speaker. “Though Varlamov is a + Russian, he is at heart a scabby Jew; money and gain are all he lives for, + but I threw my money in the stove! I don’t want money, or land, or sheep, + and there is no need for people to be afraid of me and to take off their + hats when I pass. So I am wiser than your Varlamov and more like a man!” + </p> + <p> + A little later Yegorushka, half asleep, heard Solomon in a hoarse hollow + voice choked with hatred, in hurried stuttering phrases, talking about the + Jews. At first he talked correctly in Russian, then he fell into the tone + of a Jewish recitation, and began speaking as he had done at the fair with + an exaggerated Jewish accent. + </p> + <p> + “Stop! . . .” Father Christopher said to him. “If you don’t like your + religion you had better change it, but to laugh at it is a sin; it is only + the lowest of the low who will make fun of his religion.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand,” Solomon cut him short rudely. “I am talking of one + thing and you are talking of something else. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “One can see you are a foolish fellow,” sighed Father Christopher. “I + admonish you to the best of my ability, and you are angry. I speak to you + like an old man quietly, and you answer like a turkeycock: ‘Bla—-bla—-bla!’ + You really are a queer fellow. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch came in. He looked anxiously at Solomon and at his + visitors, and again the skin on his face quivered nervously. Yegorushka + shook his head and looked about him; he caught a passing glimpse of + Solomon’s face at the very moment when it was turned three-quarters + towards him and when the shadow of his long nose divided his left cheek in + half; the contemptuous smile mingled with that shadow; the gleaming + sarcastic eyes, the haughty expression, and the whole plucked-looking + little figure, dancing and doubling itself before Yegorushka’s eyes, made + him now not like a buffoon, but like something one sometimes dreams of, + like an evil spirit. + </p> + <p> + “What a ferocious fellow you’ve got here, Moisey Moisevitch! God bless + him!” said Father Christopher with a smile. “You ought to find him a place + or a wife or something. . . . There’s no knowing what to make of him. . . + .” + </p> + <p> + Kuzmitchov frowned angrily. Moisey Moisevitch looked uneasily and + inquiringly at his brother and the visitors again. + </p> + <p> + “Solomon, go away!” he said shortly. “Go away!” and he added something in + Yiddish. Solomon gave an abrupt laugh and went out. + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” Moisey Moisevitch asked Father Christopher anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “He forgets himself,” answered Kuzmitchov. “He’s rude and thinks too much + of himself.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew it!” Moisey Moisevitch cried in horror, clasping his hands. “Oh + dear, oh dear!” he muttered in a low voice. “Be so kind as to excuse it, + and don’t be angry. He is such a queer fellow, such a queer fellow! Oh + dear, oh dear! He is my own brother, but I have never had anything but + trouble from him. You know he’s. . .” + </p> + <p> + Moisey Moisevitch crooked his finger by his forehead and went on: + </p> + <p> + “He is not in his right mind; . . . he’s hopeless. And I don’t know what I + am to do with him! He cares for nobody, he respects nobody, and is afraid + of nobody. . . . You know he laughs at everybody, he says silly things, + speaks familiarly to anyone. You wouldn’t believe it, Varlamov came here + one day and Solomon said such things to him that he gave us both a taste + of his whip. . . . But why whip me? Was it my fault? God has robbed him of + his wits, so it is God’s will, and how am I to blame?” + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes passed and Moisey Moisevitch was still muttering in an + undertone and sighing: + </p> + <p> + “He does not sleep at night, and is always thinking and thinking and + thinking, and what he is thinking about God only knows. If you go to him + at night he is angry and laughs. He doesn’t like me either . . . . And + there is nothing he wants! When our father died he left us each six + thousand roubles. I bought myself an inn, married, and now I have + children; and he burnt all his money in the stove. Such a pity, such a + pity! Why burn it? If he didn’t want it he could give it to me, but why + burn it?” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the swing-door creaked and the floor shook under footsteps. + Yegorushka felt a draught of cold air, and it seemed to him as though some + big black bird had passed by him and had fluttered its wings close in his + face. He opened his eyes. . . . His uncle was standing by the sofa with + his sack in his hands ready for departure; Father Christopher, holding his + broad-brimmed top-hat, was bowing to someone and smiling—not his + usual soft kindly smile, but a respectful forced smile which did not suit + his face at all—while Moisey Moisevitch looked as though his body + had been broken into three parts, and he were balancing and doing his + utmost not to drop to pieces. Only Solomon stood in the corner with his + arms folded, as though nothing had happened, and smiled contemptuously as + before. + </p> + <p> + “Your Excellency must excuse us for not being tidy,” moaned Moisey + Moisevitch with the agonizingly sweet smile, taking no more notice of + Kuzmitchov or Father Christopher, but swaying his whole person so as to + avoid dropping to pieces. “We are plain folks, your Excellency.” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka rubbed his eyes. In the middle of the room there really was + standing an Excellency, in the form of a young plump and very beautiful + woman in a black dress and a straw hat. Before Yegorushka had time to + examine her features the image of the solitary graceful poplar he had seen + that day on the hill for some reason came into his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Has Varlamov been here to-day?” a woman’s voice inquired. + </p> + <p> + “No, your Excellency,” said Moisey Moisevitch. + </p> + <p> + “If you see him to-morrow, ask him to come and see me for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + All at once, quite unexpectedly, Yegorushka saw half an inch from his eyes + velvety black eyebrows, big brown eyes, delicate feminine cheeks with + dimples, from which smiles seemed radiating all over the face like + sunbeams. There was a glorious scent. + </p> + <p> + “What a pretty boy!” said the lady. “Whose boy is it? Kazimir Mihalovitch, + look what a charming fellow! Good heavens, he is asleep!” + </p> + <p> + And the lady kissed Yegorushka warmly on both cheeks, and he smiled and, + thinking he was asleep, shut his eyes. The swing-door squeaked, and there + was the sound of hurried footsteps, coming in and going out. + </p> + <p> + “Yegorushka, Yegorushka!” he heard two bass voices whisper. “Get up; it is + time to start.” + </p> + <p> + Somebody, it seemed to be Deniska, set him on his feet and led him by the + arm. On the way he half-opened his eyes and once more saw the beautiful + lady in the black dress who had kissed him. She was standing in the middle + of the room and watched him go out, smiling at him and nodding her head in + a friendly way. As he got near the door he saw a handsome, stoutly built, + dark man in a bowler hat and in leather gaiters. This must have been the + lady’s escort. + </p> + <p> + “Woa!” he heard from the yard. + </p> + <p> + At the front door Yegorushka saw a splendid new carriage and a pair of + black horses. On the box sat a groom in livery, with a long whip in his + hands. No one but Solomon came to see the travellers off. His face was + tense with a desire to laugh; he looked as though he were waiting + impatiently for the visitors to be gone, so that he might laugh at them + without restraint. + </p> + <p> + “The Countess Dranitsky,” whispered Father Christopher, clambering into + the chaise. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Countess Dranitsky,” repeated Kuzmitchov, also in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + The impression made by the arrival of the countess was probably very + great, for even Deniska spoke in a whisper, and only ventured to lash his + bays and shout when the chaise had driven a quarter of a mile away and + nothing could be seen of the inn but a dim light. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + Who was this elusive, mysterious Varlamov of whom people talked so much, + whom Solomon despised, and whom even the beautiful countess needed? + Sitting on the box beside Deniska, Yegorushka, half asleep, thought about + this person. He had never seen him. But he had often heard of him and + pictured him in his imagination. He knew that Varlamov possessed several + tens of thousands of acres of land, about a hundred thousand sheep, and a + great deal of money. Of his manner of life and occupation Yegorushka knew + nothing, except that he was always “going his rounds in these parts,” and + he was always being looked for. + </p> + <p> + At home Yegorushka had heard a great deal of the Countess Dranitsky, too. + She, too, had some tens of thousands of acres, a great many sheep, a stud + farm and a great deal of money, but she did not “go rounds,” but lived at + home in a splendid house and grounds, about which Ivan Ivanitch, who had + been more than once at the countess’s on business, and other acquaintances + told many marvellous tales; thus, for instance, they said that in the + countess’s drawing-room, where the portraits of all the kings of Poland + hung on the walls, there was a big table-clock in the form of a rock, on + the rock a gold horse with diamond eyes, rearing, and on the horse the + figure of a rider also of gold, who brandished his sword to right and to + left whenever the clock struck. They said, too, that twice a year the + countess used to give a ball, to which the gentry and officials of the + whole province were invited, and to which even Varlamov used to come; all + the visitors drank tea from silver samovars, ate all sorts of + extraordinary things (they had strawberries and raspberries, for instance, + in winter at Christmas), and danced to a band which played day and night. + . . . + </p> + <p> + “And how beautiful she is,” thought Yegorushka, remembering her face and + smile. + </p> + <p> + Kuzmitchov, too, was probably thinking about the countess. For when the + chaise had driven a mile and a half he said: + </p> + <p> + “But doesn’t that Kazimir Mihalovitch plunder her right and left! The year + before last when, do you remember, I bought some wool from her, he made + over three thousand from my purchase alone.” + </p> + <p> + “That is just what you would expect from a Pole,” said Father Christopher. + </p> + <p> + “And little does it trouble her. Young and foolish, as they say, her head + is full of nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka, for some reason, longed to think of nothing but Varlamov and + the countess, particularly the latter. His drowsy brain utterly refused + ordinary thoughts, was in a cloud and retained only fantastic fairy-tale + images, which have the advantage of springing into the brain of themselves + without any effort on the part of the thinker, and completely vanishing of + themselves at a mere shake of the head; and, indeed, nothing that was + around him disposed to ordinary thoughts. On the right there were the dark + hills which seemed to be screening something unseen and terrible; on the + left the whole sky about the horizon was covered with a crimson glow, and + it was hard to tell whether there was a fire somewhere, or whether it was + the moon about to rise. As by day the distance could be seen, but its + tender lilac tint had gone, quenched by the evening darkness, in which the + whole steppe was hidden like Moisey Moisevitch’s children under the quilt. + </p> + <p> + Corncrakes and quails do not call in the July nights, the nightingale does + not sing in the woodland marsh, and there is no scent of flowers, but + still the steppe is lovely and full of life. As soon as the sun goes down + and the darkness enfolds the earth, the day’s weariness is forgotten, + everything is forgiven, and the steppe breathes a light sigh from its + broad bosom. As though because the grass cannot see in the dark that it + has grown old, a gay youthful twitter rises up from it, such as is not + heard by day; chirruping, twittering, whistling, scratching, the basses, + tenors and sopranos of the steppe all mingle in an incessant, monotonous + roar of sound in which it is sweet to brood on memories and sorrows. The + monotonous twitter soothes to sleep like a lullaby; you drive and feel you + are falling asleep, but suddenly there comes the abrupt agitated cry of a + wakeful bird, or a vague sound like a voice crying out in wonder “A-ah, + a-ah!” and slumber closes one’s eyelids again. Or you drive by a little + creek where there are bushes and hear the bird, called by the steppe + dwellers “the sleeper,” call “Asleep, asleep, asleep!” while another + laughs or breaks into trills of hysterical weeping—that is the owl. + For whom do they call and who hears them on that plain, God only knows, + but there is deep sadness and lamentation in their cry. . . . There is a + scent of hay and dry grass and belated flowers, but the scent is heavy, + sweetly mawkish and soft. + </p> + <p> + Everything can be seen through the mist, but it is hard to make out the + colours and the outlines of objects. Everything looks different from what + it is. You drive on and suddenly see standing before you right in the + roadway a dark figure like a monk; it stands motionless, waiting, holding + something in its hands. . . . Can it be a robber? The figure comes closer, + grows bigger; now it is on a level with the chaise, and you see it is not + a man, but a solitary bush or a great stone. Such motionless expectant + figures stand on the low hills, hide behind the old barrows, peep out from + the high grass, and they all look like human beings and arouse suspicion. + </p> + <p> + And when the moon rises the night becomes pale and dim. The mist seems to + have passed away. The air is transparent, fresh and warm; one can see well + in all directions and even distinguish the separate stalks of grass by the + wayside. Stones and bits of pots can be seen at a long distance. The + suspicious figures like monks look blacker against the light background of + the night, and seem more sinister. More and more often in the midst of the + monotonous chirruping there comes the sound of the “A-ah, a-ah!” of + astonishment troubling the motionless air, and the cry of a sleepless or + delirious bird. Broad shadows move across the plain like clouds across the + sky, and in the inconceivable distance, if you look long and intently at + it, misty monstrous shapes rise up and huddle one against another. . . . + It is rather uncanny. One glances at the pale green, star-spangled sky on + which there is no cloudlet, no spot, and understands why the warm air is + motionless, why nature is on her guard, afraid to stir: she is afraid and + reluctant to lose one instant of life. Of the unfathomable depth and + infinity of the sky one can only form a conception at sea and on the + steppe by night when the moon is shining. It is terribly lonely and + caressing; it looks down languid and alluring, and its caressing sweetness + makes one giddy. + </p> + <p> + You drive on for one hour, for a second. . . . You meet upon the way a + silent old barrow or a stone figure put up God knows when and by whom; a + nightbird floats noiselessly over the earth, and little by little those + legends of the steppes, the tales of men you have met, the stories of some + old nurse from the steppe, and all the things you have managed to see and + treasure in your soul, come back to your mind. And then in the churring of + insects, in the sinister figures, in the ancient barrows, in the blue sky, + in the moonlight, in the flight of the nightbird, in everything you see + and hear, triumphant beauty, youth, the fulness of power, and the + passionate thirst for life begin to be apparent; the soul responds to the + call of her lovely austere fatherland, and longs to fly over the steppes + with the nightbird. And in the triumph of beauty, in the exuberance of + happiness you are conscious of yearning and grief, as though the steppe + knew she was solitary, knew that her wealth and her inspiration were + wasted for the world, not glorified in song, not wanted by anyone; and + through the joyful clamour one hears her mournful, hopeless call for + singers, singers! + </p> + <p> + “Woa! Good-evening, Panteley! Is everything all right?” + </p> + <p> + “First-rate, Ivan Ivanitch! + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you seen Varlamov, lads?” + </p> + <p> + “No, we haven’t.” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka woke up and opened his eyes. The chaise had stopped. On the + right the train of waggons stretched for a long way ahead on the road, and + men were moving to and fro near them. All the waggons being loaded up with + great bales of wool looked very high and fat, while the horses looked + short-legged and little. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, we shall go on to the Molokans’!” Kuzmitchov said aloud. “The + Jew told us that Varlamov was putting up for the night at the Molokans’. + So good-bye, lads! Good luck to you!” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Ivan Ivanitch,” several voices replied. + </p> + <p> + “I say, lads,” Kuzmitchov cried briskly, “you take my little lad along + with you! Why should he go jolting off with us for nothing? You put him on + the bales, Panteley, and let him come on slowly, and we shall overtake + you. Get down, Yegor! Go on; it’s all right. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka got down from the box-seat. Several hands caught him, lifted + him high into the air, and he found himself on something big, soft, and + rather wet with dew. It seemed to him now as though the sky were quite + close and the earth far away. + </p> + <p> + “Hey, take his little coat!” Deniska shouted from somewhere far below. + </p> + <p> + His coat and bundle flung up from far below fell close to Yegorushka. + Anxious not to think of anything, he quickly put his bundle under his head + and covered himself with his coat, and stretching his legs out and + shrinking a little from the dew, he laughed with content. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep, sleep, sleep, . . .” he thought. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be unkind to him, you devils!” he heard Deniska’s voice below. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, lads; good luck to you,” shouted Kuzmitchov. “I rely upon you!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you be uneasy, Ivan Ivanitch!” + </p> + <p> + Deniska shouted to the horses, the chaise creaked and started, not along + the road, but somewhere off to the side. For two minutes there was + silence, as though the waggons were asleep and there was no sound except + the clanking of the pails tied on at the back of the chaise as it slowly + died away in the distance. Then someone at the head of the waggons + shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Kiruha! Sta-art!” + </p> + <p> + The foremost of the waggons creaked, then the second, then the third. . . + . Yegorushka felt the waggon he was on sway and creak also. The waggons + were moving. Yegorushka took a tighter hold of the cord with which the + bales were tied on, laughed again with content, shifted the cake in his + pocket, and fell asleep just as he did in his bed at home. . . . + </p> + <p> + When he woke up the sun had risen, it was screened by an ancient barrow, + and, trying to shed its light upon the earth, it scattered its beams in + all directions and flooded the horizon with gold. It seemed to Yegorushka + that it was not in its proper place, as the day before it had risen behind + his back, and now it was much more to his left. . . . And the whole + landscape was different. There were no hills now, but on all sides, + wherever one looked, there stretched the brown cheerless plain; here and + there upon it small barrows rose up and rooks flew as they had done the + day before. The belfries and huts of some village showed white in the + distance ahead; as it was Sunday the Little Russians were at home baking + and cooking—that could be seen by the smoke which rose from every + chimney and hung, a dark blue transparent veil, over the village. In + between the huts and beyond the church there were blue glimpses of a + river, and beyond the river a misty distance. But nothing was so different + from yesterday as the road. Something extraordinarily broad, spread out + and titanic, stretched over the steppe by way of a road. It was a grey + streak well trodden down and covered with dust, like all roads. Its width + puzzled Yegorushka and brought thoughts of fairy tales to his mind. Who + travelled along that road? Who needed so much space? It was strange and + unintelligible. It might have been supposed that giants with immense + strides, such as Ilya Muromets and Solovy the Brigand, were still + surviving in Russia, and that their gigantic steeds were still alive. + Yegorushka, looking at the road, imagined some half a dozen high chariots + racing along side by side, like some he used to see in pictures in his + Scripture history; these chariots were each drawn by six wild furious + horses, and their great wheels raised a cloud of dust to the sky, while + the horses were driven by men such as one may see in one’s dreams or in + imagination brooding over fairy tales. And if those figures had existed, + how perfectly in keeping with the steppe and the road they would have + been! + </p> + <p> + Telegraph-poles with two wires on them stretched along the right side of + the road to its furthermost limit. Growing smaller and smaller they + disappeared near the village behind the huts and green trees, and then + again came into sight in the lilac distance in the form of very small thin + sticks that looked like pencils stuck into the ground. Hawks, falcons, and + crows sat on the wires and looked indifferently at the moving waggons. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka was lying in the last of the waggons, and so could see the + whole string. There were about twenty waggons, and there was a driver to + every three waggons. By the last waggon, the one in which Yegorushka was, + there walked an old man with a grey beard, as short and lean as Father + Christopher, but with a sunburnt, stern and brooding face. It is very + possible that the old man was not stern and not brooding, but his red + eyelids and his sharp long nose gave his face a stern frigid expression + such as is common with people in the habit of continually thinking of + serious things in solitude. Like Father Christopher he was wearing a + wide-brimmed top-hat, not like a gentleman’s, but made of brown felt, and + in shape more like a cone with the top cut off than a real top-hat. + Probably from a habit acquired in cold winters, when he must more than + once have been nearly frozen as he trudged beside the waggons, he kept + slapping his thighs and stamping with his feet as he walked. Noticing that + Yegorushka was awake, he looked at him and said, shrugging his shoulders + as though from the cold: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you are awake, youngster! So you are the son of Ivan Ivanitch?” + </p> + <p> + “No; his nephew. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Nephew of Ivan Ivanitch? Here I have taken off my boots and am hopping + along barefoot. My feet are bad; they are swollen, and it’s easier without + my boots . . . easier, youngster . . . without boots, I mean. . . . So you + are his nephew? He is a good man; no harm in him. . . . God give him + health. . . . No harm in him . . . I mean Ivan Ivanitch. . . . He has gone + to the Molokans’. . . . O Lord, have mercy upon us!” + </p> + <p> + The old man talked, too, as though it were very cold, pausing and not + opening his mouth properly; and he mispronounced the labial consonants, + stuttering over them as though his lips were frozen. As he talked to + Yegorushka he did not once smile, and he seemed stern. + </p> + <p> + Two waggons ahead of them there walked a man wearing a long reddish-brown + coat, a cap and high boots with sagging bootlegs and carrying a whip in + his hand. This was not an old man, only about forty. When he looked round + Yegorushka saw a long red face with a scanty goat-beard and a spongy + looking swelling under his right eye. Apart from this very ugly swelling, + there was another peculiar thing about him which caught the eye at once: + in his left hand he carried a whip, while he waved the right as though he + were conducting an unseen choir; from time to time he put the whip under + his arm, and then he conducted with both hands and hummed something to + himself. + </p> + <p> + The next driver was a long rectilinear figure with extremely sloping + shoulders and a back as flat as a board. He held himself as stiffly erect + as though he were marching or had swallowed a yard measure. His hands did + not swing as he walked, but hung down as if they were straight sticks, and + he strode along in a wooden way, after the manner of toy soldiers, almost + without bending his knees, and trying to take as long steps as possible. + While the old man or the owner of the spongy swelling were taking two + steps he succeeded in taking only one, and so it seemed as though he were + walking more slowly than any of them, and would drop behind. His face was + tied up in a rag, and on his head something stuck up that looked like a + monk’s peaked cap; he was dressed in a short Little Russian coat, with + full dark blue trousers and bark shoes. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka did not even distinguish those that were farther on. He lay on + his stomach, picked a little hole in the bale, and, having nothing better + to do, began twisting the wool into a thread. The old man trudging along + below him turned out not to be so stern as one might have supposed from + his face. Having begun a conversation, he did not let it drop. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” he asked, stamping with his feet. + </p> + <p> + “To school,” answered Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “To school? Aha! . . . Well, may the Queen of Heaven help you. Yes. One + brain is good, but two are better. To one man God gives one brain, to + another two brains, and to another three. . . . To another three, that is + true. . . . One brain you are born with, one you get from learning, and a + third with a good life. So you see, my lad, it is a good thing if a man + has three brains. Living is easier for him, and, what’s more, dying is, + too. Dying is, too. . . . And we shall all die for sure.” + </p> + <p> + The old man scratched his forehead, glanced upwards at Yegorushka with his + red eyes, and went on: + </p> + <p> + “Maxim Nikolaitch, the gentleman from Slavyanoserbsk, brought a little lad + to school, too, last year. I don’t know how he is getting on there in + studying the sciences, but he was a nice good little lad. . . . God give + them help, they are nice gentlemen. Yes, he, too, brought his boy to + school. . . . In Slavyanoserbsk there is no establishment, I suppose, for + study. No. . . . But it is a nice town. . . . There’s an ordinary school + for simple folks, but for the higher studies there is nothing. No, that’s + true. What’s your name? . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Yegorushka.” + </p> + <p> + “Yegory, then. . . . The holy martyr Yegory, the Bearer of Victory, whose + day is the twenty-third of April. And my christian name is Panteley, . . . + Panteley Zaharov Holodov. . . . We are Holodovs . . . . I am a native of—maybe + you’ve heard of it—Tim in the province of Kursk. My brothers are + artisans and work at trades in the town, but I am a peasant. . . . I have + remained a peasant. Seven years ago I went there—home, I mean. I + went to the village and to the town. . . . To Tim, I mean. Then, thank + God, they were all alive and well; . . . but now I don’t know. . . . Maybe + some of them are dead. . . . And it’s time they did die, for some of them + are older than I am. Death is all right; it is good so long, of course, as + one does not die without repentance. There is no worse evil than an + impenitent death; an impenitent death is a joy to the devil. And if you + want to die penitent, so that you may not be forbidden to enter the + mansions of the Lord, pray to the holy martyr Varvara. She is the + intercessor. She is, that’s the truth. . . . For God has given her such a + place in the heavens that everyone has the right to pray to her for + penitence.” + </p> + <p> + Panteley went on muttering, and apparently did not trouble whether + Yegorushka heard him or not. He talked listlessly, mumbling to himself, + without raising or dropping his voice, but succeeded in telling him a + great deal in a short time. All he said was made up of fragments that had + very little connection with one another, and quite uninteresting for + Yegorushka. Possibly he talked only in order to reckon over his thoughts + aloud after the night spent in silence, in order to see if they were all + there. After talking of repentance, he spoke about a certain Maxim + Nikolaitch from Slavyanoserbsk. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, he took his little lad; . . . he took him, that’s true . . .” + </p> + <p> + One of the waggoners walking in front darted from his place, ran to one + side and began lashing on the ground with his whip. He was a stalwart, + broad-shouldered man of thirty, with curly flaxen hair and a look of great + health and vigour. Judging from the movements of his shoulders and the + whip, and the eagerness expressed in his attitude, he was beating + something alive. Another waggoner, a short stubby little man with a bushy + black beard, wearing a waistcoat and a shirt outside his trousers, ran up + to him. The latter broke into a deep guffaw of laughter and coughing and + said: “I say, lads, Dymov has killed a snake!” + </p> + <p> + There are people whose intelligence can be gauged at once by their voice + and laughter. The man with the black beard belonged to that class of + fortunate individuals; impenetrable stupidity could be felt in his voice + and laugh. The flaxen-headed Dymov had finished, and lifting from the + ground with his whip something like a cord, flung it with a laugh into the + cart. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not a viper; it’s a grass snake!” shouted someone. + </p> + <p> + The man with the wooden gait and the bandage round his face strode up + quickly to the dead snake, glanced at it and flung up his stick-like arms. + </p> + <p> + “You jail-bird!” he cried in a hollow wailing voice. “What have you killed + a grass snake for? What had he done to you, you damned brute? Look, he has + killed a grass snake; how would you like to be treated so?” + </p> + <p> + “Grass snakes ought not to be killed, that’s true,” Panteley muttered + placidly, “they ought not. . . They are not vipers; though it looks like a + snake, it is a gentle, innocent creature. . . . It’s friendly to man, the + grass snake is.” + </p> + <p> + Dymov and the man with the black beard were probably ashamed, for they + laughed loudly, and not answering, slouched lazily back to their waggons. + When the hindmost waggon was level with the spot where the dead snake lay, + the man with his face tied up standing over it turned to Panteley and + asked in a tearful voice: + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, what did he want to kill the grass snake for?” + </p> + <p> + His eyes, as Yegorushka saw now, were small and dingy looking; his face + was grey, sickly and looked somehow dingy too while his chin was red and + seemed very much swollen. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, what did he kill it for?” he repeated, striding along beside + Panteley. + </p> + <p> + “A stupid fellow. His hands itch to kill, and that is why he does it,” + answered the old man; “but he oughtn’t to kill a grass snake, that’s true. + . . . Dymov is a ruffian, we all know, he kills everything he comes + across, and Kiruha did not interfere. He ought to have taken its part, but + instead of that, he goes off into ‘Ha-ha-ha!’ and ‘Ho-ho-ho!’ . . . But + don’t be angry, Vassya. . . . Why be angry? They’ve killed it—well, + never mind them. Dymov is a ruffian and Kiruha acted from foolishness—never + mind. . . . They are foolish people without understanding—but there, + don’t mind them. Emelyan here never touches what he shouldn’t; he never + does; . . . that is true, . . . because he is a man of education, while + they are stupid. . . . Emelyan, he doesn’t touch things.” + </p> + <p> + The waggoner in the reddish-brown coat and the spongy swelling on his + face, who was conducting an unseen choir, stopped. Hearing his name, and + waiting till Panteley and Vassya came up to him, he walked beside them. + </p> + <p> + “What are you talking about?” he asked in a husky muffled voice. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Vassya here is angry,” said Panteley. “So I have been saying things + to him to stop his being angry. . . . Oh, how my swollen feet hurt! Oh, + oh! They are more inflamed than ever for Sunday, God’s holy day!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s from walking,” observed Vassya. + </p> + <p> + “No, lad, no. It’s not from walking. When I walk it seems easier; when I + lie down and get warm, . . . it’s deadly. Walking is easier for me.” + </p> + <p> + Emelyan, in his reddish-brown coat, walked between Panteley and Vassya and + waved his arms, as though they were going to sing. After waving them a + little while he dropped them, and croaked out hopelessly: + </p> + <p> + “I have no voice. It’s a real misfortune. All last night and this morning + I have been haunted by the trio ‘Lord, have Mercy’ that we sang at the + wedding at Marionovsky’s. It’s in my head and in my throat. It seems as + though I could sing it, but I can’t; I have no voice.” + </p> + <p> + He paused for a minute, thinking, then went on: + </p> + <p> + “For fifteen years I was in the choir. In all the Lugansky works there + was, maybe, no one with a voice like mine. But, confound it, I bathed two + years ago in the Donets, and I can’t get a single note true ever since. I + took cold in my throat. And without a voice I am like a workman without + hands.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true,” Panteley agreed. + </p> + <p> + “I think of myself as a ruined man and nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + At that moment Vassya chanced to catch sight of Yegorushka. His eyes grew + moist and smaller than ever. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a little gentleman driving with us,” and he covered his nose with + his sleeve as though he were bashful. “What a grand driver! Stay with us + and you shall drive the waggons and sell wool.” + </p> + <p> + The incongruity of one person being at once a little gentleman and a + waggon driver seemed to strike him as very queer and funny, for he burst + into a loud guffaw, and went on enlarging upon the idea. Emelyan glanced + upwards at Yegorushka, too, but coldly and cursorily. He was absorbed in + his own thoughts, and had it not been for Vassya, would not have noticed + Yegorushka’s presence. Before five minutes had passed he was waving his + arms again, then describing to his companions the beauties of the wedding + anthem, “Lord, have Mercy,” which he had remembered in the night. He put + the whip under his arm and waved both hands. + </p> + <p> + A mile from the village the waggons stopped by a well with a crane. + Letting his pail down into the well, black-bearded Kiruha lay on his + stomach on the framework and thrust his shaggy head, his shoulders, and + part of his chest into the black hole, so that Yegorushka could see + nothing but his short legs, which scarcely touched the ground. Seeing the + reflection of his head far down at the bottom of the well, he was + delighted and went off into his deep bass stupid laugh, and the echo from + the well answered him. When he got up his neck and face were as red as + beetroot. The first to run up and drink was Dymov. He drank laughing, + often turning from the pail to tell Kiruha something funny, then he turned + round, and uttered aloud, to be heard all over the steppe, five very bad + words. Yegorushka did not understand the meaning of such words, but he + knew very well they were bad words. He knew the repulsion his friends and + relations silently felt for such words. He himself, without knowing why, + shared that feeling and was accustomed to think that only drunk and + disorderly people enjoy the privilege of uttering such words aloud. He + remembered the murder of the grass snake, listened to Dymov’s laughter, + and felt something like hatred for the man. And as ill-luck would have it, + Dymov at that moment caught sight of Yegorushka, who had climbed down from + the waggon and gone up to the well. He laughed aloud and shouted: + </p> + <p> + “I say, lads, the old man has been brought to bed of a boy in the night!” + </p> + <p> + Kiruha laughed his bass laugh till he coughed. Someone else laughed too, + while Yegorushka crimsoned and made up his mind finally that Dymov was a + very wicked man. + </p> + <p> + With his curly flaxen head, with his shirt opened on his chest and no hat + on, Dymov looked handsome and exceptionally strong; in every movement he + made one could see the reckless dare-devil and athlete, knowing his value. + He shrugged his shoulders, put his arms akimbo, talked and laughed louder + than any of the rest, and looked as though he were going to lift up + something very heavy with one hand and astonish the whole world by doing + so. His mischievous mocking eyes glided over the road, the waggons, and + the sky without resting on anything, and seemed looking for someone to + kill, just as a pastime, and something to laugh at. Evidently he was + afraid of no one, would stick at nothing, and most likely was not in the + least interested in Yegorushka’s opinion of him. . . . Yegorushka + meanwhile hated his flaxen head, his clear face, and his strength with his + whole heart, listened with fear and loathing to his laughter, and kept + thinking what word of abuse he could pay him out with. + </p> + <p> + Panteley, too, went up to the pail. He took out of his pocket a little + green glass of an ikon lamp, wiped it with a rag, filled it from the pail + and drank from it, then filled it again, wrapped the little glass in the + rag, and then put it back into his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, why do you drink out of a lamp?” Yegorushka asked him, + surprised. + </p> + <p> + “One man drinks out of a pail and another out of a lamp,” the old man + answered evasively. “Every man to his own taste. . . . You drink out of + the pail—well, drink, and may it do you good. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “You darling, you beauty!” Vassya said suddenly, in a caressing, plaintive + voice. “You darling!” + </p> + <p> + His eyes were fixed on the distance; they were moist and smiling, and his + face wore the same expression as when he had looked at Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it you are talking to?” asked Kiruha. + </p> + <p> + “A darling fox, . . . lying on her back, playing like a dog.” + </p> + <p> + Everyone began staring into the distance, looking for the fox, but no one + could see it, only Vassya with his grey muddy-looking eyes, and he was + enchanted by it. His sight was extraordinarily keen, as Yegorushka learnt + afterwards. He was so long-sighted that the brown steppe was for him + always full of life and interest. He had only to look into the distance to + see a fox, a hare, a bustard, or some other animal keeping at a distance + from men. There was nothing strange in seeing a hare running away or a + flying bustard—everyone crossing the steppes could see them; but it + was not vouchsafed to everyone to see wild animals in their own haunts + when they were not running nor hiding, nor looking about them in alarm. + Yet Vassya saw foxes playing, hares washing themselves with their paws, + bustards preening their wings and hammering out their hollow nests. Thanks + to this keenness of sight, Vassya had, besides the world seen by everyone, + another world of his own, accessible to no one else, and probably a very + beautiful one, for when he saw something and was in raptures over it it + was impossible not to envy him. + </p> + <p> + When the waggons set off again, the church bells were ringing for service. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + The train of waggons drew up on the bank of a river on one side of a + village. The sun was blazing, as it had been the day before; the air was + stagnant and depressing. There were a few willows on the bank, but the + shade from them did not fall on the earth, but on the water, where it was + wasted; even in the shade under the waggon it was stifling and wearisome. + The water, blue from the reflection of the sky in it, was alluring. + </p> + <p> + Styopka, a waggoner whom Yegorushka noticed now for the first time, a + Little Russian lad of eighteen, in a long shirt without a belt, and full + trousers that flapped like flags as he walked, undressed quickly, ran + along the steep bank and plunged into the water. He dived three times, + then swam on his back and shut his eyes in his delight. His face was + smiling and wrinkled up as though he were being tickled, hurt and amused. + </p> + <p> + On a hot day when there is nowhere to escape from the sultry, stifling + heat, the splash of water and the loud breathing of a man bathing sounds + like good music to the ear. Dymov and Kiruha, looking at Styopka, + undressed quickly and one after the other, laughing loudly in eager + anticipation of their enjoyment, dropped into the water, and the quiet, + modest little river resounded with snorting and splashing and shouting. + Kiruha coughed, laughed and shouted as though they were trying to drown + him, while Dymov chased him and tried to catch him by the leg. + </p> + <p> + “Ha-ha-ha!” he shouted. “Catch him! Hold him!” + </p> + <p> + Kiruha laughed and enjoyed himself, but his expression was the same as it + had been on dry land, stupid, with a look of astonishment on it as though + someone had, unnoticed, stolen up behind him and hit him on the head with + the butt-end of an axe. Yegorushka undressed, too, but did not let himself + down by the bank, but took a run and a flying leap from the height of + about ten feet. Describing an arc in the air, he fell into the water, sank + deep, but did not reach the bottom; some force, cold and pleasant to the + touch, seemed to hold him up and bring him back to the surface. He popped + out and, snorting and blowing bubbles, opened his eyes; but the sun was + reflected in the water quite close to his face. At first blinding spots of + light, then rainbow colours and dark patches, flitted before his eyes. He + made haste to dive again, opened his eyes in the water and saw something + cloudy-green like a sky on a moonlight night. Again the same force would + not let him touch the bottom and stay in the coolness, but lifted him to + the surface. He popped out and heaved a sigh so deep that he had a feeling + of space and freshness, not only in his chest, but in his stomach. Then, + to get from the water everything he possibly could get, he allowed himself + every luxury; he lay on his back and basked, splashed, frolicked, swam on + his face, on his side, on his back and standing up—just as he + pleased till he was exhausted. The other bank was thickly overgrown with + reeds; it was golden in the sun, and the flowers of the reeds hung + drooping to the water in lovely tassels. In one place the reeds were + shaking and nodding, with their flowers rustling— Styopka and Kiruha + were hunting crayfish. + </p> + <p> + “A crayfish, look, lads! A crayfish!” Kiruha cried triumphantly and + actually showed a crayfish. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka swam up to the reeds, dived, and began fumbling among their + roots. Burrowing in the slimy, liquid mud, he felt something sharp and + unpleasant—perhaps it really was a crayfish. But at that minute + someone seized him by the leg and pulled him to the surface. Spluttering + and coughing, Yegorushka opened his eyes and saw before him the wet + grinning face of the dare-devil Dymov. The impudent fellow was breathing + hard, and from a look in his eyes he seemed inclined for further mischief. + He held Yegorushka tight by the leg, and was lifting his hand to take hold + of his neck. But Yegorushka tore himself away with repulsion and terror, + as though disgusted at being touched and afraid that the bully would drown + him, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Fool! I’ll punch you in the face.” + </p> + <p> + Feeling that this was not sufficient to express his hatred, he thought a + minute and added: + </p> + <p> + “You blackguard! You son of a bitch!” + </p> + <p> + But Dymov, as though nothing were the matter, took no further notice of + Yegorushka, but swam off to Kiruha, shouting: + </p> + <p> + “Ha-ha-ha! Let us catch fish! Mates, let us catch fish.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure,” Kiruha agreed; “there must be a lot of fish here.” + </p> + <p> + “Styopka, run to the village and ask the peasants for a net! + </p> + <p> + “They won’t give it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “They will, you ask them. Tell them that they should give it to us for + Christ’s sake, because we are just the same as pilgrims.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true.” + </p> + <p> + Styopka clambered out of the water, dressed quickly, and without a cap on + he ran, his full trousers flapping, to the village. The water lost all its + charm for Yegorushka after his encounter with Dymov. He got out and began + dressing. Panteley and Vassya were sitting on the steep bank, with their + legs hanging down, looking at the bathers. Emelyan was standing naked, up + to his knees in the water, holding on to the grass with one hand to + prevent himself from falling while the other stroked his body. With his + bony shoulder-blades, with the swelling under his eye, bending down and + evidently afraid of the water, he made a ludicrous figure. His face was + grave and severe. He looked angrily at the water, as though he were just + going to upbraid it for having given him cold in the Donets and robbed him + of his voice. + </p> + <p> + “And why don’t you bathe?” Yegorushka asked Vassya. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t care for it, . . .” answered Vassya. + </p> + <p> + “How is it your chin is swollen?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s bad. . . . I used to work at the match factory, little sir. . . . + The doctor used to say that it would make my jaw rot. The air is not + healthy there. There were three chaps beside me who had their jaws + swollen, and with one of them it rotted away altogether.” + </p> + <p> + Styopka soon came back with the net. Dymov and Kiruha were already turning + blue and getting hoarse by being so long in the water, but they set about + fishing eagerly. First they went to a deep place beside the reeds; there + Dymov was up to his neck, while the water went over squat Kiruha’s head. + The latter spluttered and blew bubbles, while Dymov stumbling on the + prickly roots, fell over and got caught in the net; both flopped about in + the water, and made a noise, and nothing but mischief came of their + fishing. + </p> + <p> + “It’s deep,” croaked Kiruha. “You won’t catch anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t tug, you devil!” shouted Dymov trying to put the net in the proper + position. “Hold it up.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t catch anything here,” Panteley shouted from the bank. “You are + only frightening the fish, you stupids! Go more to the left! It’s + shallower there!” + </p> + <p> + Once a big fish gleamed above the net; they all drew a breath, and Dymov + struck the place where it had vanished with his fist, and his face + expressed vexation. + </p> + <p> + “Ugh!” cried Panteley, and he stamped his foot. “You’ve let the perch + slip! It’s gone!” + </p> + <p> + Moving more to the left, Dymov and Kiruha picked out a shallower place, + and then fishing began in earnest. They had wandered off some hundred + paces from the waggons; they could be seen silently trying to go as deep + as they could and as near the reeds, moving their legs a little at a time, + drawing out the nets, beating the water with their fists to drive them + towards the nets. From the reeds they got to the further bank; they drew + the net out, then, with a disappointed air, lifting their knees high as + they walked, went back into the reeds. They were talking about something, + but what it was no one could hear. The sun was scorching their backs, the + flies were stinging them, and their bodies had turned from purple to + crimson. Styopka was walking after them with a pail in his hands; he had + tucked his shirt right up under his armpits, and was holding it up by the + hem with his teeth. After every successful catch he lifted up some fish, + and letting it shine in the sun, shouted: + </p> + <p> + “Look at this perch! We’ve five like that!” + </p> + <p> + Every time Dymov, Kiruha and Styopka pulled out the net they could be seen + fumbling about in the mud in it, putting some things into the pail and + throwing other things away; sometimes they passed something that was in + the net from hand to hand, examined it inquisitively, then threw that, + too, away. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” they shouted to them from the bank. + </p> + <p> + Styopka made some answer, but it was hard to make out his words. Then he + climbed out of the water and, holding the pail in both hands, forgetting + to let his shirt drop, ran to the waggons. + </p> + <p> + “It’s full!” he shouted, breathing hard. “Give us another!” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka looked into the pail: it was full. A young pike poked its ugly + nose out of the water, and there were swarms of crayfish and little fish + round about it. Yegorushka put his hand down to the bottom and stirred up + the water; the pike vanished under the crayfish and a perch and a tench + swam to the surface instead of it. Vassya, too, looked into the pail. His + eyes grew moist and his face looked as caressing as before when he saw the + fox. He took something out of the pail, put it to his mouth and began + chewing it. + </p> + <p> + “Mates,” said Styopka in amazement, “Vassya is eating a live gudgeon! + Phoo!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not a gudgeon, but a minnow,” Vassya answered calmly, still + munching. + </p> + <p> + He took a fish’s tail out of his mouth, looked at it caressingly, and put + it back again. While he was chewing and crunching with his teeth it seemed + to Yegorushka that he saw before him something not human. Vassya’s swollen + chin, his lustreless eyes, his extraordinary sharp sight, the fish’s tail + in his mouth, and the caressing friendliness with which he crunched the + gudgeon made him like an animal. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka felt dreary beside him. And the fishing was over, too. He + walked about beside the waggons, thought a little, and, feeling bored, + strolled off to the village. + </p> + <p> + Not long afterwards he was standing in the church, and with his forehead + leaning on somebody’s back, listened to the singing of the choir. The + service was drawing to a close. Yegorushka did not understand church + singing and did not care for it. He listened a little, yawned, and began + looking at the backs and heads before him. In one head, red and wet from + his recent bathe, he recognized Emelyan. The back of his head had been + cropped in a straight line higher than is usual; the hair in front had + been cut unbecomingly high, and Emelyan’s ears stood out like two dock + leaves, and seemed to feel themselves out of place. Looking at the back of + his head and his ears, Yegorushka, for some reason, thought that Emelyan + was probably very unhappy. He remembered the way he conducted with his + hands, his husky voice, his timid air when he was bathing, and felt + intense pity for him. He longed to say something friendly to him. + </p> + <p> + “I am here, too,” he said, putting out his hand. + </p> + <p> + People who sing tenor or bass in the choir, especially those who have at + any time in their lives conducted, are accustomed to look with a stern and + unfriendly air at boys. They do not give up this habit, even when they + leave off being in a choir. Turning to Yegorushka, Emelyan looked at him + from under his brows and said: + </p> + <p> + “Don’t play in church!” + </p> + <p> + Then Yegorushka moved forwards nearer to the ikon-stand. Here he saw + interesting people. On the right side, in front of everyone, a lady and a + gentleman were standing on a carpet. There were chairs behind them. The + gentleman was wearing newly ironed shantung trousers; he stood as + motionless as a soldier saluting, and held high his bluish shaven chin. + There was a very great air of dignity in his stand-up collar, in his blue + chin, in his small bald patch and his cane. His neck was so strained from + excess of dignity, and his chin was drawn up so tensely, that it looked as + though his head were ready to fly off and soar upwards any minute. The + lady, who was stout and elderly and wore a white silk shawl, held her head + on one side and looked as though she had done someone a favour, and wanted + to say: “Oh, don’t trouble yourself to thank me; I don’t like it . . . .” + A thick wall of Little Russian heads stood all round the carpet. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka went up to the ikon-stand and began kissing the local ikons. + Before each image he slowly bowed down to the ground, without getting up, + looked round at the congregation, then got up and kissed the ikon. The + contact of his forehead with the cold floor afforded him great + satisfaction. When the beadle came from the altar with a pair of long + snuffers to put out the candles, Yegorushka jumped up quickly from the + floor and ran up to him. + </p> + <p> + “Have they given out the holy bread?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “There is none; there is none,” the beadle muttered gruffly. “It is no use + your. . .” + </p> + <p> + The service was over; Yegorushka walked out of the church in a leisurely + way, and began strolling about the market-place. He had seen a good many + villages, market-places, and peasants in his time, and everything that met + his eyes was entirely without interest for him. At a loss for something to + do, he went into a shop over the door of which hung a wide strip of red + cotton. The shop consisted of two roomy, badly lighted parts; in one half + they sold drapery and groceries, in the other there were tubs of tar, and + there were horse-collars hanging from the ceiling; from both came the + savoury smell of leather and tar. The floor of the shop had been watered; + the man who watered it must have been a very whimsical and original + person, for it was sprinkled in patterns and mysterious symbols. The + shopkeeper, an overfed-looking man with a broad face and round beard, + apparently a Great Russian, was standing, leaning his person over the + counter. He was nibbling a piece of sugar as he drank his tea, and heaved + a deep sigh at every sip. His face expressed complete indifference, but + each sigh seemed to be saying: + </p> + <p> + “Just wait a minute; I will give it you.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a farthing’s worth of sunflower seeds,” Yegorushka said, + addressing him. + </p> + <p> + The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows, came out from behind the counter, and + poured a farthing’s worth of sunflower seeds into Yegorushka’s pocket, + using an empty pomatum pot as a measure. Yegorushka did not want to go + away. He spent a long time in examining the box of cakes, thought a little + and asked, pointing to some little cakes covered with the mildew of age: + </p> + <p> + “How much are these cakes?” + </p> + <p> + “Two for a farthing.” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka took out of his pocket the cake given him the day before by the + Jewess, and asked him: + </p> + <p> + “And how much do you charge for cakes like this?” + </p> + <p> + The shopman took the cake in his hands, looked at it from all sides, and + raised one eyebrow. + </p> + <p> + “Like that?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Then he raised the other eyebrow, thought a minute, and answered: + </p> + <p> + “Two for three farthings. . . .” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed. + </p> + <p> + “Whose boy are you?” the shopman asked, pouring himself out some tea from + a red copper teapot. + </p> + <p> + “The nephew of Ivan Ivanitch.” + </p> + <p> + “There are all sorts of Ivan Ivanitchs,” the shopkeeper sighed. He looked + over Yegorushka’s head towards the door, paused a minute and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Would you like some tea?” + </p> + <p> + “Please. . . .” Yegorushka assented not very readily, though he felt an + intense longing for his usual morning tea. + </p> + <p> + The shopkeeper poured him out a glass and gave him with it a bit of sugar + that looked as though it had been nibbled. Yegorushka sat down on the + folding chair and began drinking it. He wanted to ask the price of a pound + of sugar almonds, and had just broached the subject when a customer walked + in, and the shopkeeper, leaving his glass of tea, attended to his + business. He led the customer into the other half, where there was a smell + of tar, and was there a long time discussing something with him. The + customer, a man apparently very obstinate and pig-headed, was continually + shaking his head to signify his disapproval, and retreating towards the + door. The shopkeeper tried to persuade him of something and began pouring + some oats into a big sack for him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you call those oats?” the customer said gloomily. “Those are not oats, + but chaff. It’s a mockery to give that to the hens; enough to make the + hens laugh. . . . No, I will go to Bondarenko.” + </p> + <p> + When Yegorushka went back to the river a small camp fire was smoking on + the bank. The waggoners were cooking their dinner. Styopka was standing in + the smoke, stirring the cauldron with a big notched spoon. A little on one + side Kiruha and Vassya, with eyes reddened from the smoke, were sitting + cleaning the fish. Before them lay the net covered with slime and water + weeds, and on it lay gleaming fish and crawling crayfish. + </p> + <p> + Emelyan, who had not long been back from the church, was sitting beside + Panteley, waving his arm and humming just audibly in a husky voice: “To + Thee we sing. . . .” Dymov was moving about by the horses. + </p> + <p> + When they had finished cleaning them, Kiruha and Vassya put the fish and + the living crayfish together in the pail, rinsed them, and from the pail + poured them all into the boiling water. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I put in some fat?” asked Styopka, skimming off the froth. + </p> + <p> + “No need. The fish will make its own gravy,” answered Kiruha. + </p> + <p> + Before taking the cauldron off the fire Styopka scattered into the water + three big handfuls of millet and a spoonful of salt; finally he tried it, + smacked his lips, licked the spoon, and gave a self-satisfied grunt, which + meant that the grain was done. + </p> + <p> + All except Panteley sat down near the cauldron and set to work with their + spoons. + </p> + <p> + “You there! Give the little lad a spoon!” Panteley observed sternly. “I + dare say he is hungry too!” + </p> + <p> + “Ours is peasant fare,” sighed Kiruha. + </p> + <p> + “Peasant fare is welcome, too, when one is hungry.” + </p> + <p> + They gave Yegorushka a spoon. He began eating, not sitting, but standing + close to the cauldron and looking down into it as in a hole. The grain + smelt of fish and fish-scales were mixed up with the millet. The crayfish + could not be hooked out with a spoon, and the men simply picked them out + of the cauldron with their hands; Vassya did so particularly freely, and + wetted his sleeves as well as his hands in the mess. But yet the stew + seemed to Yegorushka very nice, and reminded him of the crayfish soup + which his mother used to make at home on fast-days. Panteley was sitting + apart munching bread. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, why aren’t you eating?” Emelyan asked him. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t eat crayfish. . . . Nasty things,” the old man said, and turned + away with disgust. + </p> + <p> + While they were eating they all talked. From this conversation Yegorushka + gathered that all his new acquaintances, in spite of the differences of + their ages and their characters, had one point in common which made them + all alike: they were all people with a splendid past and a very poor + present. Of their past they all— every one of them—spoke with + enthusiasm; their attitude to the present was almost one of contempt. The + Russian loves recalling life, but he does not love living. Yegorushka did + not yet know that, and before the stew had been all eaten he firmly + believed that the men sitting round the cauldron were the injured victims + of fate. Panteley told them that in the past, before there were railways, + he used to go with trains of waggons to Moscow and to Nizhni, and used to + earn so much that he did not know what to do with his money; and what + merchants there used to be in those days! what fish! how cheap everything + was! Now the roads were shorter, the merchants were stingier, the peasants + were poorer, the bread was dearer, everything had shrunk and was on a + smaller scale. Emelyan told them that in old days he had been in the choir + in the Lugansky works, and that he had a remarkable voice and read music + splendidly, while now he had become a peasant and lived on the charity of + his brother, who sent him out with his horses and took half his earnings. + Vassya had once worked in a match factory; Kiruha had been a coachman in a + good family, and had been reckoned the smartest driver of a three-in-hand + in the whole district. Dymov, the son of a well-to-do peasant, lived at + ease, enjoyed himself and had known no trouble till he was twenty, when + his stern harsh father, anxious to train him to work, and afraid he would + be spoiled at home, had sent him to a carrier’s to work as a hired + labourer. Styopka was the only one who said nothing, but from his + beardless face it was evident that his life had been a much better one in + the past. + </p> + <p> + Thinking of his father, Dymov frowned and left off eating. Sullenly from + under his brows he looked round at his companions and his eye rested upon + Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “You heathen, take off your cap,” he said rudely. “You can’t eat with your + cap on, and you a gentleman too!” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka took off his hat and did not say a word, but the stew lost all + savour for him, and he did not hear Panteley and Vassya intervening on his + behalf. A feeling of anger with the insulting fellow was rankling + oppressively in his breast, and he made up his mind that he would do him + some injury, whatever it cost him. + </p> + <p> + After dinner everyone sauntered to the waggons and lay down in the shade. + </p> + <p> + “Are we going to start soon, grandfather?” Yegorushka asked Panteley. + </p> + <p> + “In God’s good time we shall set off. There’s no starting yet; it is too + hot. . . . O Lord, Thy will be done. Holy Mother. . . Lie down, little + lad.” + </p> + <p> + Soon there was a sound of snoring from under the waggons. Yegorushka meant + to go back to the village, but on consideration, yawned and lay down by + the old man. + </p> + <h3> + VI + </h3> + <p> + The waggons remained by the river the whole day, and set off again when + the sun was setting. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka was lying on the bales again; the waggon creaked softly and + swayed from side to side. Panteley walked below, stamping his feet, + slapping himself on his thighs and muttering. The air was full of the + churring music of the steppes, as it had been the day before. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka lay on his back, and, putting his hands under his head, gazed + upwards at the sky. He watched the glow of sunset kindle, then fade away; + guardian angels covering the horizon with their gold wings disposed + themselves to slumber. The day had passed peacefully; the quiet peaceful + night had come, and they could stay tranquilly at home in heaven. . . . + Yegorushka saw the sky by degrees grow dark and the mist fall over the + earth—saw the stars light up, one after the other. . . . + </p> + <p> + When you gaze a long while fixedly at the deep sky thoughts and feelings + for some reason merge in a sense of loneliness. One begins to feel + hopelessly solitary, and everything one used to look upon as near and akin + becomes infinitely remote and valueless; the stars that have looked down + from the sky thousands of years already, the mists and the + incomprehensible sky itself, indifferent to the brief life of man, oppress + the soul with their silence when one is left face to face with them and + tries to grasp their significance. One is reminded of the solitude + awaiting each one of us in the grave, and the reality of life seems awful + . . . full of despair. . . . + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka thought of his grandmother, who was sleeping now under the + cherry-trees in the cemetery. He remembered how she lay in her coffin with + pennies on her eyes, how afterwards she was shut in and let down into the + grave; he even recalled the hollow sound of the clods of earth on the + coffin lid. . . . He pictured his granny in the dark and narrow coffin, + helpless and deserted by everyone. His imagination pictured his granny + suddenly awakening, not understanding where she was, knocking upon the lid + and calling for help, and in the end swooning with horror and dying again. + He imagined his mother dead, Father Christopher, Countess Dranitsky, + Solomon. But however much he tried to imagine himself in the dark tomb, + far from home, outcast, helpless and dead, he could not succeed; for + himself personally he could not admit the possibility of death, and felt + that he would never die. . . . + </p> + <p> + Panteley, for whom death could not be far away, walked below and went on + reckoning up his thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “All right. . . . Nice gentlefolk, . . .” he muttered. “Took his little + lad to school—but how he is doing now I haven’t heard say —in + Slavyanoserbsk. I say there is no establishment for teaching them to be + very clever. . . . No, that’s true—a nice little lad, no harm in + him. . . . He’ll grow up and be a help to his father . . . . You, Yegory, + are little now, but you’ll grow big and will keep your father and mother. + . . . So it is ordained of God, ‘Honour your father and your mother.’ . . + . I had children myself, but they were burnt. . . . My wife was burnt and + my children, . . . that’s true. . . . The hut caught fire on the night of + Epiphany. . . . I was not at home, I was driving in Oryol. In Oryol. . . . + Marya dashed out into the street, but remembering that the children were + asleep in the hut, ran back and was burnt with her children. . . . Next + day they found nothing but bones.” + </p> + <p> + About midnight Yegorushka and the waggoners were again sitting round a + small camp fire. While the dry twigs and stems were burning up, Kiruha and + Vassya went off somewhere to get water from a creek; they vanished into + the darkness, but could be heard all the time talking and clinking their + pails; so the creek was not far away. The light from the fire lay a great + flickering patch on the earth; though the moon was bright, yet everything + seemed impenetrably black beyond that red patch. The light was in the + waggoners’ eyes, and they saw only part of the great road; almost unseen + in the darkness the waggons with the bales and the horses looked like a + mountain of undefined shape. Twenty paces from the camp fire at the edge + of the road stood a wooden cross that had fallen aslant. Before the camp + fire had been lighted, when he could still see things at a distance, + Yegorushka had noticed that there was a similar old slanting cross on the + other side of the great road. + </p> + <p> + Coming back with the water, Kiruha and Vassya filled the cauldron and + fixed it over the fire. Styopka, with the notched spoon in his hand, took + his place in the smoke by the cauldron, gazing dreamily into the water for + the scum to rise. Panteley and Emelyan were sitting side by side in + silence, brooding over something. Dymov was lying on his stomach, with his + head propped on his fists, looking into the fire. . . . Styopka’s shadow + was dancing over him, so that his handsome face was at one minute covered + with darkness, at the next lighted up. . . . Kiruha and Vassya were + wandering about at a little distance gathering dry grass and bark for the + fire. Yegorushka, with his hands in his pockets, was standing by Panteley, + watching how the fire devoured the grass. + </p> + <p> + All were resting, musing on something, and they glanced cursorily at the + cross over which patches of red light were dancing. There is something + melancholy, pensive, and extremely poetical about a solitary tomb; one + feels its silence, and the silence gives one the sense of the presence of + the soul of the unknown man who lies under the cross. Is that soul at + peace on the steppe? Does it grieve in the moonlight? Near the tomb the + steppe seems melancholy, dreary and mournful; the grass seems more + sorrowful, and one fancies the grasshoppers chirrup less freely, and there + is no passer-by who would not remember that lonely soul and keep looking + back at the tomb, till it was left far behind and hidden in the mists. . . + . + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, what is that cross for?” asked Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + Panteley looked at the cross and then at Dymov and asked: + </p> + <p> + “Nikola, isn’t this the place where the mowers killed the merchants?” + </p> + <p> + Dymov not very readily raised himself on his elbow, looked at the road and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it is. . . .” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed. Kiruha broke up some dry stalks, crushed them up + together and thrust them under the cauldron. The fire flared up brightly; + Styopka was enveloped in black smoke, and the shadow cast by the cross + danced along the road in the dusk beside the waggons. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they were killed,” Dymov said reluctantly. “Two merchants, father + and son, were travelling, selling holy images. They put up in the inn not + far from here that is now kept by Ignat Fomin. The old man had a drop too + much, and began boasting that he had a lot of money with him. We all know + merchants are a boastful set, God preserve us. . . . They can’t resist + showing off before the likes of us. And at the time some mowers were + staying the night at the inn. So they overheard what the merchants said + and took note of it.” + </p> + <p> + “O Lord! . . . Holy Mother!” sighed Panteley. + </p> + <p> + “Next day, as soon as it was light,” Dymov went on, “the merchants were + preparing to set off and the mowers tried to join them. ‘Let us go + together, your worships. It will be more cheerful and there will be less + danger, for this is an out-of-the-way place. . . .’ The merchants had to + travel at a walking pace to avoid breaking the images, and that just + suited the mowers. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Dymov rose into a kneeling position and stretched. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he went on, yawning. “Everything went all right till they reached + this spot, and then the mowers let fly at them with their scythes. The + son, he was a fine young fellow, snatched the scythe from one of them, and + he used it, too. . . . Well, of course, they got the best of it because + there were eight of them. They hacked at the merchants so that there was + not a sound place left on their bodies; when they had finished they + dragged both of them off the road, the father to one side and the son to + the other. Opposite that cross there is another cross on this side. . . . + Whether it is still standing, I don’t know. . . . I can’t see from here. . + . .” + </p> + <p> + “It is,” said Kiruha. + </p> + <p> + “They say they did not find much money afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” Panteley confirmed; “they only found a hundred roubles.” + </p> + <p> + “And three of them died afterwards, for the merchant had cut them badly + with the scythe, too. They died from loss of blood. One had his hand cut + off, so that they say he ran three miles without his hand, and they found + him on a mound close to Kurikovo. He was squatting on his heels, with his + head on his knees, as though he were lost in thought, but when they looked + at him there was no life in him and he was dead. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “They found him by the track of blood,” said Panteley. + </p> + <p> + Everyone looked at the cross, and again there was a hush. From somewhere, + most likely from the creek, floated the mournful cry of the bird: “Sleep! + sleep! sleep!” + </p> + <p> + “There are a great many wicked people in the world,” said Emelyan. + </p> + <p> + “A great many,” assented Panteley, and he moved up closer to the fire as + though he were frightened. “A great many,” he went on in a low voice. + “I’ve seen lots and lots of them. . . . Wicked people! . . . I have seen a + great many holy and just, too. . . . Queen of Heaven, save us and have + mercy on us. I remember once thirty years ago, or maybe more, I was + driving a merchant from Morshansk. The merchant was a jolly handsome + fellow, with money, too . . . the merchant was . . . a nice man, no harm + in him. . . . So we put up for the night at an inn. And in Russia the inns + are not what they are in these parts. There the yards are roofed in and + look like the ground floor, or let us say like barns in good farms. Only a + barn would be a bit higher. So we put up there and were all right. My + merchant was in a room, while I was with the horses, and everything was as + it should be. So, lads, I said my prayers before going to sleep and began + walking about the yard. And it was a dark night, I couldn’t see anything; + it was no good trying. So I walked about a bit up to the waggons, or + nearly, when I saw a light gleaming. What could it mean? I thought the + people of the inn had gone to bed long ago, and besides the merchant and + me there were no other guests in the inn. . . . Where could the light have + come from? I felt suspicious. . . . I went closer . . . towards the light. + . . . The Lord have mercy upon me! and save me, Queen of Heaven! I looked + and there was a little window with a grating, . . . close to the ground, + in the house. . . I lay down on the ground and looked in; as soon as I + looked in a cold chill ran all down me. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Kiruha, trying not to make a noise, thrust a handful of twigs into the + fire. After waiting for it to leave off crackling and hissing, the old man + went on: + </p> + <p> + “I looked in and there was a big cellar, black and dark. . . . There was a + lighted lantern on a tub. In the middle of the cellar were about a dozen + men in red shirts with their sleeves turned up, sharpening long knives. . + . . Ugh! So we had fallen into a nest of robbers. . . . What’s to be done? + I ran to the merchant, waked him up quietly, and said: ‘Don’t be + frightened, merchant,’ said I, ‘but we are in a bad way. We have fallen + into a nest of robbers,’ I said. He turned pale and asked: ‘What are we to + do now, Panteley? I have a lot of money that belongs to orphans. As for my + life,’ he said, ‘that’s in God’s hands. I am not afraid to die, but it’s + dreadful to lose the orphans’ money,’ said he. . . . What were we to do? + The gates were locked; there was no getting out. If there had been a fence + one could have climbed over it, but with the yard shut up! . . . ‘Come, + don’t be frightened, merchant,’ said I; ‘but pray to God. Maybe the Lord + will not let the orphans suffer. Stay still.’ said I, ‘and make no sign, + and meanwhile, maybe, I shall think of something. . . .’ Right! . . . I + prayed to God and the Lord put the thought into my mind. . . . I clambered + up on my chaise and softly, . . . softly so that no one should hear, began + pulling out the straw in the thatch, made a hole and crept out, crept out. + . . . Then I jumped off the roof and ran along the road as fast as I + could. I ran and ran till I was nearly dead. . . . I ran maybe four miles + without taking breath, if not more. Thank God I saw a village. I ran up to + a hut and began tapping at a window. ‘Good Christian people,’ I said, and + told them all about it, ‘do not let a Christian soul perish. . . .’ I + waked them all up. . . . The peasants gathered together and went with me, + . . one with a cord, one with an oakstick, others with pitchforks. . . . + We broke in the gates of the inn-yard and went straight to the cellar. . . + . And the robbers had just finished sharpening their knives and were going + to kill the merchant. The peasants took them, every one of them, bound + them and carried them to the police. The merchant gave them three hundred + roubles in his joy, and gave me five gold pieces and put my name down. + They said that they found human bones in the cellar afterwards, heaps and + heaps of them. . . . Bones! . . . So they robbed people and then buried + them, so that there should be no traces. . . . Well, afterwards they were + punished at Morshansk.” + </p> + <p> + Panteley had finished his story, and he looked round at his listeners. + They were gazing at him in silence. The water was boiling by now and + Styopka was skimming off the froth. + </p> + <p> + “Is the fat ready?” Kiruha asked him in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little. . . . Directly.” + </p> + <p> + Styopka, his eyes fixed on Panteley as though he were afraid that the + latter might begin some story before he was back, ran to the waggons; soon + he came back with a little wooden bowl and began pounding some lard in it. + </p> + <p> + “I went another journey with a merchant, too, . . .” Panteley went on + again, speaking as before in a low voice and with fixed unblinking eyes. + “His name, as I remember now, was Pyotr Grigoritch. He was a nice man, . . + . the merchant was. We stopped in the same way at an inn. . . . He indoors + and me with the horses. . . . The people of the house, the innkeeper and + his wife, seemed friendly good sort of people; the labourers, too, seemed + all right; but yet, lads, I couldn’t sleep. I had a queer feeling in my + heart, . . . a queer feeling, that was just it. The gates were open and + there were plenty of people about, and yet I felt afraid and not myself. + Everyone had been asleep long ago. It was the middle of the night; it + would soon be time to get up, and I was lying alone in my chaise and could + not close my eyes, as though I were some owl. And then, lads, I heard this + sound, ‘Toop! toop! toop!’ Someone was creeping up to the chaise. I poke + my head out, and there was a peasant woman in nothing but her shift and + with her feet bare. . . . ‘What do you want, good woman?’ I asked. And she + was all of a tremble; her face was terror-stricken. . . ‘Get up, good + man,’ said she; ‘the people are plotting evil. . . . They mean to kill + your merchant. With my own ears I heard the master whispering with his + wife. . . .’ So it was not for nothing, the foreboding of my heart! ‘And + who are you?’ I asked. ‘I am their cook,’ she said. . . . Right! . . . So + I got out of the chaise and went to the merchant. I waked him up and said: + ‘Things aren’t quite right, Pyotr Grigoritch. . . . Make haste and rouse + yourself from sleep, your worship, and dress now while there is still + time,’ I said; ‘and to save our skins, let us get away from trouble.’ He + had no sooner begun dressing when the door opened and, mercy on us! I saw, + Holy Mother! the innkeeper and his wife come into the room with three + labourers. . . . So they had persuaded the labourers to join them. ‘The + merchant has a lot of money, and we’ll go shares,’ they told them. Every + one of the five had a long knife in their hand each a knife. The innkeeper + locked the door and said: ‘Say your prayers, travellers, . . . and if you + begin screaming,’ they said, ‘we won’t let you say your prayers before you + die. . . .’ As though we could scream! I had such a lump in my throat I + could not cry out. . . . The merchant wept and said: ‘Good Christian + people! you have resolved to kill me because my money tempts you. Well, so + be it; I shall not be the first nor shall I be the last. Many of us + merchants have been murdered at inns. But why, good Christian brothers,’ + says he, ‘murder my driver? Why should he have to suffer for my money?’ + And he said that so pitifully! And the innkeeper answered him: ‘If we + leave him alive,’ said he, ‘he will be the first to bear witness against + us. One may just as well kill two as one. You can but answer once for + seven misdeeds. . . Say your prayers, that’s all you can do, and it is no + good talking!’ The merchant and I knelt down side by side and wept and + said our prayers. He thought of his children. I was young in those days; I + wanted to live. . . . We looked at the images and prayed, and so pitifully + that it brings a tear even now. . . . And the innkeeper’s wife looks at us + and says: ‘Good people,’ said she, ‘don’t bear a grudge against us in the + other world and pray to God for our punishment, for it is want that drives + us to it.’ We prayed and wept and prayed and wept, and God heard us. He + had pity on us, I suppose. . . . At the very minute when the innkeeper had + taken the merchant by the beard to rip open his throat with his knife + suddenly someone seemed to tap at the window from the yard! We all + started, and the innkeeper’s hands dropped. . . . Someone was tapping at + the window and shouting: ‘Pyotr Grigoritch,’ he shouted, ‘are you here? + Get ready and let’s go!’ The people saw that someone had come for the + merchant; they were terrified and took to their heels. . . . And we made + haste into the yard, harnessed the horses, and were out of sight in a + minute. . .” + </p> + <p> + “Who was it knocked at the window?” asked Dymov. + </p> + <p> + “At the window? It must have been a holy saint or angel, for there was no + one else. . . . When we drove out of the yard there wasn’t a soul in the + street. . . . It was the Lord’s doing.” + </p> + <p> + Panteley told other stories, and in all of them “long knives” figured and + all alike sounded made up. Had he heard these stories from someone else, + or had he made them up himself in the remote past, and afterwards, as his + memory grew weaker, mixed up his experiences with his imaginations and + become unable to distinguish one from the other? Anything is possible, but + it is strange that on this occasion and for the rest of the journey, + whenever he happened to tell a story, he gave unmistakable preference to + fiction, and never told of what he really had experienced. At the time + Yegorushka took it all for the genuine thing, and believed every word; + later on it seemed to him strange that a man who in his day had travelled + all over Russia and seen and known so much, whose wife and children had + been burnt to death, so failed to appreciate the wealth of his life that + whenever he was sitting by the camp fire he was either silent or talked of + what had never been. + </p> + <p> + Over their porridge they were all silent, thinking of what they had just + heard. Life is terrible and marvellous, and so, however terrible a story + you tell in Russia, however you embroider it with nests of robbers, long + knives and such marvels, it always finds an echo of reality in the soul of + the listener, and only a man who has been a good deal affected by + education looks askance distrustfully, and even he will be silent. The + cross by the roadside, the dark bales of wool, the wide expanse of the + plain, and the lot of the men gathered together by the camp fire—all + this was of itself so marvellous and terrible that the fantastic colours + of legend and fairy-tale were pale and blended with life. + </p> + <p> + All the others ate out of the cauldron, but Panteley sat apart and ate his + porridge out of a wooden bowl. His spoon was not like those the others + had, but was made of cypress wood, with a little cross on it. Yegorushka, + looking at him, thought of the little ikon glass and asked Styopka softly: + </p> + <p> + “Why does Grandfather sit apart?” + </p> + <p> + “He is an Old Believer,” Styopka and Vassya answered in a whisper. And as + they said it they looked as though they were speaking of some secret vice + or weakness. + </p> + <p> + All sat silent, thinking. After the terrible stories there was no + inclination to speak of ordinary things. All at once in the midst of the + silence Vassya drew himself up and, fixing his lustreless eyes on one + point, pricked up his ears. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” Dymov asked him. + </p> + <p> + “Someone is coming,” answered Vassya. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you see him?” + </p> + <p> + “Yo-on-der! There’s something white. . .” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing to be seen but darkness in the direction in which Vassya + was looking; everyone listened, but they could hear no sound of steps. + </p> + <p> + “Is he coming by the highroad?” asked Dymov. + </p> + <p> + “No, over the open country. . . . He is coming this way.” + </p> + <p> + A minute passed in silence. + </p> + <p> + “And maybe it’s the merchant who was buried here walking over the steppe,” + said Dymov. + </p> + <p> + All looked askance at the cross, exchanged glances and suddenly broke into + a laugh. They felt ashamed of their terror. + </p> + <p> + “Why should he walk?” asked Panteley. “It’s only those walk at night whom + the earth will not take to herself. And the merchants were all right. . . + . The merchants have received the crown of martyrs.” + </p> + <p> + But all at once they heard the sound of steps; someone was coming in + haste. + </p> + <p> + “He’s carrying something,” said Vassya. + </p> + <p> + They could hear the grass rustling and the dry twigs crackling under the + feet of the approaching wayfarer. But from the glare of the camp fire + nothing could be seen. At last the steps sounded close by, and someone + coughed. The flickering light seemed to part; a veil dropped from the + waggoners’ eyes, and they saw a man facing them. + </p> + <p> + Whether it was due to the flickering light or because everyone wanted to + make out the man’s face first of all, it happened, strangely enough, that + at the first glance at him they all saw, first of all, not his face nor + his clothes, but his smile. It was an extraordinarily good-natured, broad, + soft smile, like that of a baby on waking, one of those infectious smiles + to which it is difficult not to respond by smiling too. The stranger, when + they did get a good look at him, turned out to be a man of thirty, ugly + and in no way remarkable. He was a tall Little Russian, with a long nose, + long arms and long legs; everything about him seemed long except his neck, + which was so short that it made him seem stooping. He was wearing a clean + white shirt with an embroidered collar, white trousers, and new high + boots, and in comparison with the waggoners he looked quite a dandy. In + his arms he was carrying something big, white, and at the first glance + strange-looking, and the stock of a gun also peeped out from behind his + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Coming from the darkness into the circle of light, he stopped short as + though petrified, and for half a minute looked at the waggoners as though + he would have said: “Just look what a smile I have!” + </p> + <p> + Then he took a step towards the fire, smiled still more radiantly and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Bread and salt, friends!” + </p> + <p> + “You are very welcome!” Panteley answered for them all. + </p> + <p> + The stranger put down by the fire what he was carrying in his arms —it + was a dead bustard—and greeted them once more. + </p> + <p> + They all went up to the bustard and began examining it. + </p> + <p> + “A fine big bird; what did you kill it with?” asked Dymov. + </p> + <p> + “Grape-shot. You can’t get him with small shot, he won’t let you get near + enough. Buy it, friends! I will let you have it for twenty kopecks.” + </p> + <p> + “What use would it be to us? It’s good roast, but I bet it would be tough + boiled; you could not get your teeth into it. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a pity! I would take it to the gentry at the farm; they would + give me half a rouble for it. But it’s a long way to go— twelve + miles!” + </p> + <p> + The stranger sat down, took off his gun and laid it beside him. + </p> + <p> + He seemed sleepy and languid; he sat smiling, and, screwing up his eyes at + the firelight, apparently thinking of something very agreeable. They gave + him a spoon; he began eating. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” Dymov asked him. + </p> + <p> + The stranger did not hear the question; he made no answer, and did not + even glance at Dymov. Most likely this smiling man did not taste the + flavour of the porridge either, for he seemed to eat it mechanically, + lifting the spoon to his lips sometimes very full and sometimes quite + empty. He was not drunk, but he seemed to have something nonsensical in + his head. + </p> + <p> + “I ask you who you are?” repeated Dymov. + </p> + <p> + “I?” said the unknown, starting. “Konstantin Zvonik from Rovno. It’s three + miles from here.” + </p> + <p> + And anxious to show straight off that he was not quite an ordinary + peasant, but something better, Konstantin hastened to add: + </p> + <p> + “We keep bees and fatten pigs.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you live with your father or in a house of your own?” + </p> + <p> + “No; now I am living in a house of my own. I have parted. This month, just + after St. Peter’s Day, I got married. I am a married man now! . . . It’s + eighteen days since the wedding.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a good thing,” said Panteley. “Marriage is a good thing . . . . + God’s blessing is on it.” + </p> + <p> + “His young wife sits at home while he rambles about the steppe,” laughed + Kiruha. “Queer chap!” + </p> + <p> + As though he had been pinched on the tenderest spot, Konstantin started, + laughed and flushed crimson. + </p> + <p> + “But, Lord, she is not at home!” he said quickly, taking the spoon out of + his mouth and looking round at everyone with an expression of delight and + wonder. “She is not; she has gone to her mother’s for three days! Yes, + indeed, she has gone away, and I feel as though I were not married. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Konstantin waved his hand and turned his head; he wanted to go on + thinking, but the joy which beamed in his face prevented him. As though he + were not comfortable, he changed his attitude, laughed, and again waved + his hand. He was ashamed to share his happy thoughts with strangers, but + at the same time he had an irresistible longing to communicate his joy. + </p> + <p> + “She has gone to Demidovo to see her mother,” he said, blushing and moving + his gun. “She’ll be back to-morrow. . . . She said she would be back to + dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you miss her?” said Dymov. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord, yes; I should think so. We have only been married such a little + while, and she has gone away. . . . Eh! Oh, but she is a tricky one, God + strike me dead! She is such a fine, splendid girl, such a one for laughing + and singing, full of life and fire! When she is there your brain is in a + whirl, and now she is away I wander about the steppe like a fool, as + though I had lost something. I have been walking since dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Konstantin rubbed his eyes, looked at the fire and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “You love her, then, . . .” said Panteley. + </p> + <p> + “She is so fine and splendid,” Konstantin repeated, not hearing him; “such + a housewife, clever and sensible. You wouldn’t find another like her among + simple folk in the whole province. She has gone away. . . . But she is + missing me, I kno-ow! I know the little magpie. She said she would be back + to-morrow by dinner-time. . . . And just think how queer!” Konstantin + almost shouted, speaking a note higher and shifting his position. “Now she + loves me and is sad without me, and yet she would not marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “But eat,” said Kiruha. + </p> + <p> + “She would not marry me,” Konstantin went on, not heeding him. “I have + been struggling with her for three years! I saw her at the Kalatchik fair; + I fell madly in love with her, was ready to hang myself. . . . I live at + Rovno, she at Demidovo, more than twenty miles apart, and there was + nothing I could do. I sent match-makers to her, and all she said was: ‘I + won’t!’ Ah, the magpie! I sent her one thing and another, earrings and + cakes, and twenty pounds of honey—but still she said: ‘I won’t!’ And + there it was. If you come to think of it, I was not a match for her! She + was young and lovely, full of fire, while I am old: I shall soon be + thirty, and a regular beauty, too; a fine beard like a goat’s, a clear + complexion all covered with pimples—how could I be compared with + her! The only thing to be said is that we are well off, but then the + Vahramenkys are well off, too. They’ve six oxen, and they keep a couple of + labourers. I was in love, friends, as though I were plague-stricken. I + couldn’t sleep or eat; my brain was full of thoughts, and in such a maze, + Lord preserve us! I longed to see her, and she was in Demidovo. What do + you think? God be my witness, I am not lying, three times a week I walked + over there on foot just to have a look at her. I gave up my work! I was so + frantic that I even wanted to get taken on as a labourer in Demidovo, so + as to be near her. I was in misery! My mother called in a witch a dozen + times; my father tried thrashing me. For three years I was in this + torment, and then I made up my mind. ‘Damn my soul!’ I said. ‘I will go to + the town and be a cabman. . . . It seems it is fated not to be.’ At Easter + I went to Demidovo to have a last look at her. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Konstantin threw back his head and went off into a mirthful tinkling + laugh, as though he had just taken someone in very cleverly. + </p> + <p> + “I saw her by the river with the lads,” he went on. “I was overcome with + anger. . . . I called her aside and maybe for a full hour I said all + manner of things to her. She fell in love with me! For three years she did + not like me! she fell in love with me for what I said to her. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say to her?” asked Dymov. + </p> + <p> + “What did I say? I don’t remember. . . How could one remember? My words + flowed at the time like water from a tap, without stopping to take breath. + Ta-ta-ta! And now I can’t utter a word. . . . Well, so she married me. . . + . She’s gone now to her mother’s, the magpie, and while she is away here I + wander over the steppe. I can’t stay at home. It’s more than I can do!” + </p> + <p> + Konstantin awkwardly released his feet, on which he was sitting, stretched + himself on the earth, and propped his head in his fists, then got up and + sat down again. Everyone by now thoroughly understood that he was in love + and happy, poignantly happy; his smile, his eyes, and every movement, + expressed fervent happiness. He could not find a place for himself, and + did not know what attitude to take to keep himself from being overwhelmed + by the multitude of his delightful thoughts. Having poured out his soul + before these strangers, he settled down quietly at last, and, looking at + the fire, sank into thought. + </p> + <p> + At the sight of this happy man everyone felt depressed and longed to be + happy, too. Everyone was dreamy. Dymov got up, walked about softly by the + fire, and from his walk, from the movement of his shoulder-blades, it + could be seen that he was weighed down by depression and yearning. He + stood still for a moment, looked at Konstantin and sat down. + </p> + <p> + The camp fire had died down by now; there was no flicker, and the patch of + red had grown small and dim. . . . And as the fire went out the moonlight + grew clearer and clearer. Now they could see the full width of the road, + the bales of wool, the shafts of the waggons, the munching horses; on the + further side of the road there was the dim outline of the second cross. . + . . + </p> + <p> + Dymov leaned his cheek on his hand and softly hummed some plaintive song. + Konstantin smiled drowsily and chimed in with a thin voice. They sang for + half a minute, then sank into silence. Emelyan started, jerked his elbows + and wriggled his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Lads,” he said in an imploring voice, “let’s sing something sacred!” + Tears came into his eyes. “Lads,” he repeated, pressing his hands on his + heart, “let’s sing something sacred!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know anything,” said Konstantin. + </p> + <p> + Everyone refused, then Emelyan sang alone. He waved both arms, nodded his + head, opened his mouth, but nothing came from his throat but a discordant + gasp. He sang with his arms, with his head, with his eyes, even with the + swelling on his face; he sang passionately with anguish, and the more he + strained his chest to extract at least one note from it, the more + discordant were his gasps. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka, like the rest, was overcome with depression. He went to his + waggon, clambered up on the bales and lay down. He looked at the sky, and + thought of happy Konstantin and his wife. Why did people get married? What + were women in the world for? Yegorushka put the vague questions to + himself, and thought that a man would certainly be happy if he had an + affectionate, merry and beautiful woman continually living at his side. + For some reason he remembered the Countess Dranitsky, and thought it would + probably be very pleasant to live with a woman like that; he would perhaps + have married her with pleasure if that idea had not been so shameful. He + recalled her eyebrows, the pupils of her eyes, her carriage, the clock + with the horseman. . . . The soft warm night moved softly down upon him + and whispered something in his ear, and it seemed to him that it was that + lovely woman bending over him, looking at him with a smile and meaning to + kiss him. . . . + </p> + <p> + Nothing was left of the fire but two little red eyes, which kept on + growing smaller and smaller. Konstantin and the waggoners were sitting by + it, dark motionless figures, and it seemed as though there were many more + of them than before. The twin crosses were equally visible, and far, far + away, somewhere by the highroad there gleamed a red light—other + people cooking their porridge, most likely. + </p> + <p> + “Our Mother Russia is the he-ad of all the world!” Kiruha sang out + suddenly in a harsh voice, choked and subsided. The steppe echo caught up + his voice, carried it on, and it seemed as though stupidity itself were + rolling on heavy wheels over the steppe. + </p> + <p> + “It’s time to go,” said Panteley. “Get up, lads.” + </p> + <p> + While they were putting the horses in, Konstantin walked by the waggons + and talked rapturously of his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, mates!” he cried when the waggons started. “Thank you for your + hospitality. I shall go on again towards that light. It’s more than I can + stand.” + </p> + <p> + And he quickly vanished in the mist, and for a long time they could hear + him striding in the direction of the light to tell those other strangers + of his happiness. + </p> + <p> + When Yegorushka woke up next day it was early morning; the sun had not yet + risen. The waggons were at a standstill. A man in a white cap and a suit + of cheap grey material, mounted on a little Cossack stallion, was talking + to Dymov and Kiruha beside the foremost waggon. A mile and a half ahead + there were long low white barns and little houses with tiled roofs; there + were neither yards nor trees to be seen beside the little houses. + </p> + <p> + “What village is that, Grandfather?” asked Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the Armenian Settlement, youngster,” answered Panteley. “The + Armenians live there. They are a good sort of people, . . . the Arnienians + are.” + </p> + <p> + The man in grey had finished talking to Dymov and Kiruha; he pulled up his + little stallion and looked across towards the settlement. + </p> + <p> + “What a business, only think!” sighed Panteley, looking towards the + settlement, too, and shuddering at the morning freshness. “He has sent a + man to the settlement for some papers, and he doesn’t come . . . . He + should have sent Styopka.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is that, Grandfather?” asked Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “Varlamov.” + </p> + <p> + My goodness! Yegorushka jumped up quickly, getting upon his knees, and + looked at the white cap. It was hard to recognize the mysterious elusive + Varlamov, who was sought by everyone, who was always “on his rounds,” and + who had far more money than Countess Dranitsky, in the short, grey little + man in big boots, who was sitting on an ugly little nag and talking to + peasants at an hour when all decent people were asleep. + </p> + <p> + “He is all right, a good man,” said Panteley, looking towards the + settlement. “God give him health—a splendid gentleman, Semyon + Alexandritch. . . . It’s people like that the earth rests upon. That’s + true. . . . The cocks are not crowing yet, and he is already up and about. + . . . Another man would be asleep, or gallivanting with visitors at home, + but he is on the steppe all day, . . . on his rounds. . . . He does not + let things slip. . . . No-o! He’s a fine fellow. . .” + </p> + <p> + Varlamov was talking about something, while he kept his eyes fixed. The + little stallion shifted from one leg to another impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Semyon Alexandritch!” cried Panteley, taking off his hat. “Allow us to + send Styopka! Emelyan, call out that Styopka should be sent.” + </p> + <p> + But now at last a man on horseback could be seen coming from the + settlement. Bending very much to one side and brandishing his whip above + his head like a gallant young Caucasian, and wanting to astonish everyone + by his horsemanship, he flew towards the waggons with the swiftness of a + bird. + </p> + <p> + “That must be one of his circuit men,” said Panteley. “He must have a + hundred such horsemen or maybe more.” + </p> + <p> + Reaching the first waggon, he pulled up his horse, and taking off his hat, + handed Varlamov a little book. Varlamov took several papers out of the + book, read them and cried: + </p> + <p> + “And where is Ivantchuk’s letter?” + </p> + <p> + The horseman took the book back, looked at the papers and shrugged his + shoulders. He began saying something, probably justifying himself and + asking to be allowed to ride back to the settlement again. The little + stallion suddenly stirred as though Varlamov had grown heavier. Varlamov + stirred too. + </p> + <p> + “Go along!” he cried angrily, and he waved his whip at the man. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned his horse round and, looking through the papers in the + book, moved at a walking pace alongside the waggons. When he reached the + hindmost, Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a better look at him. + Varlamov was an elderly man. His face, a simple Russian sunburnt face with + a small grey beard, was red, wet with dew and covered with little blue + veins; it had the same expression of businesslike coldness as Ivan + Ivanitch’s face, the same look of fanatical zeal for business. But yet + what a difference could be felt between him and Kuzmitchov! Uncle Ivan + Ivanitch always had on his face, together with his business-like reserve, + a look of anxiety and apprehension that he would not find Varlamov, that + he would be late, that he would miss a good price; nothing of that sort, + so characteristic of small and dependent persons, could be seen in the + face or figure of Varlamov. This man made the price himself, was not + looking for anyone, and did not depend on anyone; however ordinary his + exterior, yet in everything, even in the manner of holding his whip, there + was a sense of power and habitual authority over the steppe. + </p> + <p> + As he rode by Yegorushka he did not glance at him. Only the little + stallion deigned to notice Yegorushka; he looked at him with his large + foolish eyes, and even he showed no interest. Panteley bowed to Varlamov; + the latter noticed it, and without taking his eyes off the sheets of + paper, said lisping: + </p> + <p> + “How are you, old man?” + </p> + <p> + Varlamov’s conversation with the horseman and the way he had brandished + his whip had evidently made an overwhelming impression on the whole party. + Everyone looked grave. The man on horseback, cast down at the anger of the + great man, remained stationary, with his hat off, and the rein loose by + the foremost waggon; he was silent, and seemed unable to grasp that the + day had begun so badly for him. + </p> + <p> + “He is a harsh old man, . .” muttered Panteley. “It’s a pity he is so + harsh! But he is all right, a good man. . . . He doesn’t abuse men for + nothing. . . . It’s no matter. . . .” + </p> + <p> + After examining the papers, Varlamov thrust the book into his pocket; the + little stallion, as though he knew what was in his mind, without waiting + for orders, started and dashed along the highroad. + </p> + <h3> + VII + </h3> + <p> + On the following night the waggoners had halted and were cooking their + porridge. On this occasion there was a sense of overwhelming oppression + over everyone. It was sultry; they all drank a great deal, but could not + quench their thirst. The moon was intensely crimson and sullen, as though + it were sick. The stars, too, were sullen, the mist was thicker, the + distance more clouded. Nature seemed as though languid and weighed down by + some foreboding. + </p> + <p> + There was not the same liveliness and talk round the camp fire as there + had been the day before. All were dreary and spoke listlessly and without + interest. Panteley did nothing but sigh and complain of his feet, and + continually alluded to impenitent deathbeds. + </p> + <p> + Dymov was lying on his stomach, chewing a straw in silence; there was an + expression of disgust on his face as though the straw smelt unpleasant, a + spiteful and exhausted look. . . . Vassya complained that his jaw ached, + and prophesied bad weather; Emelyan was not waving his arms, but sitting + still and looking gloomily at the fire. Yegorushka, too, was weary. This + slow travelling exhausted him, and the sultriness of the day had given him + a headache. + </p> + <p> + While they were cooking the porridge, Dymov, to relieve his boredom, began + quarrelling with his companions. + </p> + <p> + “Here he lolls, the lumpy face, and is the first to put his spoon in,” he + said, looking spitefully at Emelyan. “Greedy! always contrives to sit next + the cauldron. He’s been a church-singer, so he thinks he is a gentleman! + There are a lot of singers like you begging along the highroad!” + </p> + <p> + “What are you pestering me for?” asked Emelyan, looking at him angrily. + </p> + <p> + “To teach you not to be the first to dip into the cauldron. Don’t think + too much of yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “You are a fool, and that is all about it!” wheezed out Emelyan. + </p> + <p> + Knowing by experience how such conversations usually ended, Panteley and + Vassya intervened and tried to persuade Dymov not to quarrel about + nothing. + </p> + <p> + “A church-singer!” The bully would not desist, but laughed contemptuously. + “Anyone can sing like that—sit in the church porch and sing ‘Give me + alms, for Christ’s sake!’ Ugh! you are a nice fellow!” + </p> + <p> + Emelyan did not speak. His silence had an irritating effect on Dymov. He + looked with still greater hatred at the ex-singer and said: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care to have anything to do with you, or I would show you what to + think of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “But why are you pushing me, you Mazeppa?” Emelyan cried, flaring up. “Am + I interfering with you?” + </p> + <p> + “What did you call me?” asked Dymov, drawing himself up, and his eyes were + suffused with blood. “Eh! I am a Mazeppa? Yes? Take that, then; go and + look for it.” + </p> + <p> + Dymov snatched the spoon out of Emelyan’s hand and flung it far away. + Kiruha, Vassya, and Styopka ran to look for it, while Emelyan fixed an + imploring and questioning look on Panteley. His face suddenly became small + and wrinkled; it began twitching, and the ex-singer began to cry like a + child. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka, who had long hated Dymov, felt as though the air all at once + were unbearably stifling, as though the fire were scorching his face; he + longed to run quickly to the waggons in the darkness, but the bully’s + angry bored eyes drew the boy to him. With a passionate desire to say + something extremely offensive, he took a step towards Dymov and brought + out, gasping for breath: + </p> + <p> + “You are the worst of the lot; I can’t bear you!” + </p> + <p> + After this he ought to have run to the waggons, but he could not stir from + the spot and went on: + </p> + <p> + “In the next world you will burn in hell! I’ll complain to Ivan Ivanitch. + Don’t you dare insult Emelyan!” + </p> + <p> + “Say this too, please,” laughed Dyrnov: “‘every little sucking-pig wants + to lay down the law.’ Shall I pull your ear?” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka felt that he could not breathe; and something which had never + happened to him before—he suddenly began shaking all over, stamping + his feet and crying shrilly: + </p> + <p> + “Beat him, beat him!” + </p> + <p> + Tears gushed from his eyes; he felt ashamed, and ran staggering back to + the waggon. The effect produced by his outburst he did not see. Lying on + the bales and twitching his arms and legs, he whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Mother, mother!” + </p> + <p> + And these men and the shadows round the camp fire, and the dark bales and + the far-away lightning, which was flashing every minute in the distance—all + struck him now as terrible and unfriendly. He was overcome with terror and + asked himself in despair why and how he had come into this unknown land in + the company of terrible peasants? Where was his uncle now, where was + Father Christopher, where was Deniska? Why were they so long in coming? + Hadn’t they forgotten him? At the thought that he was forgotten and cast + out to the mercy of fate, he felt such a cold chill of dread that he had + several times an impulse to jump off the bales of wool, and run back full + speed along the road; but the thought of the huge dark crosses, which + would certainly meet him on the way, and the lightning flashing in the + distance, stopped him. . . . And only when he whispered, “Mother, mother!” + he felt as it were a little better. + </p> + <p> + The waggoners must have been full of dread, too. After Yegorushka had run + away from the camp fire they sat at first for a long time in silence, then + they began speaking in hollow undertones about something, saying that it + was coming and that they must make haste and get away from it. . . . They + quickly finished supper, put out the fire and began harnessing the horses + in silence. From their fluster and the broken phrases they uttered it was + apparent they foresaw some trouble. Before they set off on their way, + Dymov went up to Panteley and asked softly: + </p> + <p> + “What’s his name?” + </p> + <p> + “Yegory,” answered Panteley. + </p> + <p> + Dymov put one foot on the wheel, caught hold of the cord which was tied + round the bales and pulled himself up. Yegorushka saw his face and curly + head. The face was pale and looked grave and exhausted, but there was no + expression of spite in it. + </p> + <p> + “Yera!” he said softly, “here, hit me!” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka looked at him in surprise. At that instant there was a flash of + lightning. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, hit me,” repeated Dymov. And without waiting for + Yegorushka to hit him or to speak to him, he jumped down and said: “How + dreary I am!” + </p> + <p> + Then, swaying from one leg to the other and moving his shoulder-blades, he + sauntered lazily alongside the string of waggons and repeated in a voice + half weeping, half angry: + </p> + <p> + “How dreary I am! O Lord! Don’t you take offence, Emelyan,” he said as he + passed Emelyan. “Ours is a wretched cruel life!” + </p> + <p> + There was a flash of lightning on the right, and, like a reflection in the + looking-glass, at once a second flash in the distance. + </p> + <p> + “Yegory, take this,” cried Panteley, throwing up something big and dark. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “A mat. There will be rain, so cover yourself up.” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka sat up and looked about him. The distance had grown perceptibly + blacker, and now oftener than every minute winked with a pale light. The + blackness was being bent towards the right as though by its own weight. + </p> + <p> + “Will there be a storm, Grandfather?” asked Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my poor feet, how they ache!” Panteley said in a high-pitched voice, + stamping his feet and not hearing the boy. + </p> + <p> + On the left someone seemed to strike a match in the sky; a pale + phosphorescent streak gleamed and went out. There was a sound as though + someone very far away were walking over an iron roof, probably barefoot, + for the iron gave a hollow rumble. + </p> + <p> + “It’s set in!” cried Kiruha. + </p> + <p> + Between the distance and the horizon on the right there was a flash of + lightning so vivid that it lighted up part of the steppe and the spot + where the clear sky met the blackness. A terrible cloud was swooping down, + without haste, a compact mass; big black shreds hung from its edge; + similar shreds pressing one upon another were piling up on the right and + left horizon. The tattered, ragged look of the storm-cloud gave it a + drunken disorderly air. There was a distinct, not smothered, growl of + thunder. Yegorushka crossed himself and began quickly putting on his + great-coat. + </p> + <p> + “I am dreary!” Dymov’s shout floated from the foremost waggon, and it + could be told from his voice that he was beginning to be ill-humoured + again. “I am so dreary!” + </p> + <p> + All at once there was a squall of wind, so violent that it almost snatched + away Yegorushka’s bundle and mat; the mat fluttered in all directions and + flapped on the bale and on Yegorushka’s face. The wind dashed whistling + over the steppe, whirled round in disorder and raised such an uproar from + the grass that neither the thunder nor the creaking of the wheels could be + heard; it blew from the black storm-cloud, carrying with it clouds of dust + and the scent of rain and wet earth. The moonlight grew mistier, as it + were dirtier; the stars were even more overcast; and clouds of dust could + be seen hurrying along the edge of the road, followed by their shadows. By + now, most likely, the whirlwind eddying round and lifting from the earth + dust, dry grass and feathers, was mounting to the very sky; uprooted + plants must have been flying by that very black storm-cloud, and how + frightened they must have been! But through the dust that clogged the eyes + nothing could be seen but the flash of lightning. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka, thinking it would pour with rain in a minute, knelt up and + covered himself with the mat. + </p> + <p> + “Panteley-ey!” someone shouted in the front. “A. . . a. . . va!” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t!” Panteley answered in a loud high voice. “A . . . a . . . va! + Arya . . . a!” + </p> + <p> + There was an angry clap of thunder, which rolled across the sky from right + to left, then back again, and died away near the foremost waggon. + </p> + <p> + “Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth,” whispered Yegorushka, crossing + himself. “Fill heaven and earth with Thy glory.” + </p> + <p> + The blackness in the sky yawned wide and breathed white fire. At once + there was another clap of thunder. It had scarcely ceased when there was a + flash of lightning so broad that Yegorushka suddenly saw through a slit in + the mat the whole highroad to the very horizon, all the waggoners and even + Kiruha’s waistcoat. The black shreds had by now moved upwards from the + left, and one of them, a coarse, clumsy monster like a claw with fingers, + stretched to the moon. Yegorushka made up his mind to shut his eyes tight, + to pay no attention to it, and to wait till it was all over. + </p> + <p> + The rain was for some reason long in coming. Yegorushka peeped out from + the mat in the hope that perhaps the storm-cloud was passing over. It was + fearfully dark. Yegorushka could see neither Panteley, nor the bale of + wool, nor himself; he looked sideways towards the place where the moon had + lately been, but there was the same black darkness there as over the + waggons. And in the darkness the flashes of lightning seemed more violent + and blinding, so that they hurt his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Panteley!” called Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + No answer followed. But now a gust of wind for the last time flung up the + mat and hurried away. A quiet regular sound was heard. A big cold drop + fell on Yegorushka’s knee, another trickled over his hand. He noticed that + his knees were not covered, and tried to rearrange the mat, but at that + moment something began pattering on the road, then on the shafts and the + bales. It was the rain. As though they understood one another, the rain + and the mat began prattling of something rapidly, gaily and most + annoyingly like two magpies. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka knelt up or rather squatted on his boots. While the rain was + pattering on the mat, he leaned forward to screen his knees, which were + suddenly wet. He succeeded in covering his knees, but in less than a + minute was aware of a penetrating, unpleasant dampness behind on his back + and the calves of his legs. He returned to his former position, exposing + his knees to the rain, and wondered what to do to rearrange the mat which + he could not see in the darkness. But his arms were already wet, the water + was trickling up his sleeves and down his collar, and his shoulder-blades + felt chilly. And he made up his mind to do nothing but sit motionless and + wait till it was all over. + </p> + <p> + “Holy, holy, holy!” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, exactly over his head, the sky cracked with a fearful deafening + din; he huddled up and held his breath, waiting for the fragments to fall + upon his head and back. He inadvertently opened his eyes and saw a + blinding intense light flare out and flash five times on his fingers, his + wet sleeves, and on the trickles of water running from the mat upon the + bales and down to the ground. There was a fresh peal of thunder as violent + and awful; the sky was not growling and rumbling now, but uttering short + crashing sounds like the crackling of dry wood. + </p> + <p> + “Trrah! tah! tah! tah!” the thunder rang out distinctly, rolled over the + sky, seemed to stumble, and somewhere by the foremost waggons or far + behind to fall with an abrupt angry “Trrra!” + </p> + <p> + The flashes of lightning had at first been only terrible, but with such + thunder they seemed sinister and menacing. Their magic light pierced + through closed eyelids and sent a chill all over the body. What could he + do not to see them? Yegorushka made up his mind to turn over on his face. + Cautiously, as though afraid of being watched, he got on all fours, and + his hands slipping on the wet bale, he turned back again. + </p> + <p> + “Trrah! tah! tah!” floated over his head, rolled under the waggons and + exploded “Kraa!” + </p> + <p> + Again he inadvertently opened his eyes and saw a new danger: three huge + giants with long pikes were following the waggon! A flash of lightning + gleamed on the points of their pikes and lighted up their figures very + distinctly. They were men of huge proportions, with covered faces, bowed + heads, and heavy footsteps. They seemed gloomy and dispirited and lost in + thought. Perhaps they were not following the waggons with any harmful + intent, and yet there was something awful in their proximity. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka turned quickly forward, and trembling all over cried: + “Panteley! Grandfather!” + </p> + <p> + “Trrah! tah! tah!” the sky answered him. + </p> + <p> + He opened his eyes to see if the waggoners were there. There were flashes + of lightning in two places, which lighted up the road to the far distance, + the whole string of waggons and all the waggoners. Streams of water were + flowing along the road and bubbles were dancing. Panteley was walking + beside the waggon; his tall hat and his shoulder were covered with a small + mat; his figure expressed neither terror nor uneasiness, as though he were + deafened by the thunder and blinded by the lightning. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, the giants!” Yegorushka shouted to him in tears. + </p> + <p> + But the old man did not hear. Further away walked Emelyan. He was covered + from head to foot with a big mat and was triangular in shape. Vassya, + without anything over him, was walking with the same wooden step as usual, + lifting his feet high and not bending his knees. In the flash of lightning + it seemed as though the waggons were not moving and the men were + motionless, that Vassya’s lifted foot was rigid in the same position. . . + . + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka called the old man once more. Getting no answer, he sat + motionless, and no longer waited for it all to end. He was convinced that + the thunder would kill him in another minute, that he would accidentally + open his eyes and see the terrible giants, and he left off crossing + himself, calling the old man and thinking of his mother, and was simply + numb with cold and the conviction that the storm would never end. + </p> + <p> + But at last there was the sound of voices. + </p> + <p> + “Yegory, are you asleep?” Panteley cried below. “Get down! Is he deaf, the + silly little thing? . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Something like a storm!” said an unfamiliar bass voice, and the stranger + cleared his throat as though he had just tossed off a good glass of vodka. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka opened his eyes. Close to the waggon stood Panteley, Emelyan, + looking like a triangle, and the giants. The latter were by now much + shorter, and when Yegorushka looked more closely at them they turned out + to be ordinary peasants, carrying on their shoulders not pikes but + pitchforks. In the space between Panteley and the triangular figure, + gleamed the window of a low-pitched hut. So the waggons were halting in + the village. Yegorushka flung off the mat, took his bundle and made haste + to get off the waggon. Now when close to him there were people talking and + a lighted window he no longer felt afraid, though the thunder was crashing + as before and the whole sky was streaked with lightning. + </p> + <p> + “It was a good storm, all right, . . .” Panteley was muttering. “Thank + God, . . . my feet are a little softened by the rain. It was all right. . + . . Have you got down, Yegory? Well, go into the hut; it is all right. . . + .” + </p> + <p> + “Holy, holy, holy!” wheezed Emelyan, “it must have struck something . . . + . Are you of these parts?” he asked the giants. + </p> + <p> + “No, from Glinovo. We belong to Glinovo. We are working at the Platers’.” + </p> + <p> + “Threshing?” + </p> + <p> + “All sorts. Just now we are getting in the wheat. The lightning, the + lightning! It is long since we have had such a storm. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka went into the hut. He was met by a lean hunchbacked old woman + with a sharp chin. She stood holding a tallow candle in her hands, + screwing up her eyes and heaving prolonged sighs. + </p> + <p> + “What a storm God has sent us!” she said. “And our lads are out for the + night on the steppe; they’ll have a bad time, poor dears! Take off your + things, little sir, take off your things.” + </p> + <p> + Shivering with cold and shrugging squeamishly, Yegorushka pulled off his + drenched overcoat, then stretched out his arms and straddled his legs, and + stood a long time without moving. The slightest movement caused an + unpleasant sensation of cold and wetness. His sleeves and the back of his + shirt were sopped, his trousers stuck to his legs, his head was dripping. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use of standing there, with your legs apart, little lad?” said + the old woman. “Come, sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Holding his legs wide apart, Yegorushka went up to the table and sat down + on a bench near somebody’s head. The head moved, puffed a stream of air + through its nose, made a chewing sound and subsided. A mound covered with + a sheepskin stretched from the head along the bench; it was a peasant + woman asleep. + </p> + <p> + The old woman went out sighing, and came back with a big water melon and a + little sweet melon. + </p> + <p> + “Have something to eat, my dear! I have nothing else to offer you, . . .” + she said, yawning. She rummaged in the table and took out a long sharp + knife, very much like the one with which the brigands killed the merchants + in the inn. “Have some, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka, shivering as though he were in a fever, ate a slice of sweet + melon with black bread and then a slice of water melon, and that made him + feel colder still. + </p> + <p> + “Our lads are out on the steppe for the night, . . .” sighed the old woman + while he was eating. “The terror of the Lord! I’d light the candle under + the ikon, but I don’t know where Stepanida has put it. Have some more, + little sir, have some more. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The old woman gave a yawn and, putting her right hand behind her, + scratched her left shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “It must be two o’clock now,” she said; “it will soon be time to get up. + Our lads are out on the steppe for the night; they are all wet through for + sure. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Granny,” said Yegorushka. “I am sleepy.” + </p> + <p> + “Lie down, my dear, lie down,” the old woman sighed, yawning. “Lord Jesus + Christ! I was asleep, when I heard a noise as though someone were + knocking. I woke up and looked, and it was the storm God had sent us. . . + . I’d have lighted the candle, but I couldn’t find it.” + </p> + <p> + Talking to herself, she pulled some rags, probably her own bed, off the + bench, took two sheepskins off a nail by the stove, and began laying them + out for a bed for Yegorushka. “The storm doesn’t grow less,” she muttered. + “If only nothing’s struck in an unlucky hour. Our lads are out on the + steppe for the night. Lie down and sleep, my dear. . . . Christ be with + you, my child. . . . I won’t take away the melon; maybe you’ll have a bit + when you get up.” + </p> + <p> + The sighs and yawns of the old woman, the even breathing of the sleeping + woman, the half-darkness of the hut, and the sound of the rain outside, + made one sleepy. Yegorushka was shy of undressing before the old woman. He + only took off his boots, lay down and covered himself with the sheepskin. + </p> + <p> + “Is the little lad lying down?” he heard Panteley whisper a little later. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered the old woman in a whisper. “The terror of the Lord! It + thunders and thunders, and there is no end to it.” + </p> + <p> + “It will soon be over,” wheezed Panteley, sitting down; “it’s getting + quieter. . . . The lads have gone into the huts, and two have stayed with + the horses. The lads have. . . . They can’t; . . . the horses would be + taken away. . . . I’ll sit here a bit and then go and take my turn. . . . + We can’t leave them; they would be taken. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Panteley and the old woman sat side by side at Yegorushka’s feet, talking + in hissing whispers and interspersing their speech with sighs and yawns. + And Yegorushka could not get warm. The warm heavy sheepskin lay on him, + but he was trembling all over; his arms and legs were twitching, and his + whole inside was shivering. . . . He undressed under the sheepskin, but + that was no good. His shivering grew more and more acute. + </p> + <p> + Panteley went out to take his turn with the horses, and afterwards came + back again, and still Yegorushka was shivering all over and could not get + to sleep. Something weighed upon his head and chest and oppressed him, and + he did not know what it was, whether it was the old people whispering, or + the heavy smell of the sheepskin. The melon he had eaten had left an + unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth. Moreover he was being bitten by + fleas. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, I am cold,” he said, and did not know his own voice. + </p> + <p> + “Go to sleep, my child, go to sleep,” sighed the old woman. + </p> + <p> + Tit came up to the bedside on his thin little legs and waved his arms, + then grew up to the ceiling and turned into a windmill. . . . Father + Christopher, not as he was in the chaise, but in his full vestments with + the sprinkler in his hand, walked round the mill, sprinkling it with holy + water, and it left off waving. Yegorushka, knowing this was delirium, + opened his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather,” he called, “give me some water.” + </p> + <p> + No one answered. Yegorushka felt it insufferably stifling and + uncomfortable lying down. He got up, dressed, and went out of the hut. + Morning was beginning. The sky was overcast, but it was no longer raining. + Shivering and wrapping himself in his wet overcoat, Yegorushka walked + about the muddy yard and listened to the silence; he caught sight of a + little shed with a half-open door made of reeds. He looked into this shed, + went into it, and sat down in a dark corner on a heap of dry dung. + </p> + <p> + There was a tangle of thoughts in his heavy head; his mouth was dry and + unpleasant from the metallic taste. He looked at his hat, straightened the + peacock’s feather on it, and thought how he had gone with his mother to + buy the hat. He put his hand into his pocket and took out a lump of + brownish sticky paste. How had that paste come into his pocket? He thought + a minute, smelt it; it smelt of honey. Aha! it was the Jewish cake! How + sopped it was, poor thing! + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka examined his coat. It was a little grey overcoat with big bone + buttons, cut in the shape of a frock-coat. At home, being a new and + expensive article, it had not been hung in the hall, but with his mother’s + dresses in her bedroom; he was only allowed to wear it on holidays. + Looking at it, Yegorushka felt sorry for it. He thought that he and the + great-coat were both abandoned to the mercy of destiny; he thought that he + would never get back home, and began sobbing so violently that he almost + fell off the heap of dung. + </p> + <p> + A big white dog with woolly tufts like curl-papers about its face, sopping + from the rain, came into the shed and stared with curiosity at Yegorushka. + It seemed to be hesitating whether to bark or not. Deciding that there was + no need to bark, it went cautiously up to Yegorushka, ate the sticky + plaster and went out again. + </p> + <p> + “There are Varlamov’s men!” someone shouted in the street. + </p> + <p> + After having his cry out, Yegorushka went out of the shed and, walking + round a big puddle, made his way towards the street. The waggons were + standing exactly opposite the gateway. The drenched waggoners, with their + muddy feet, were sauntering beside them or sitting on the shafts, as + listless and drowsy as flies in autumn. Yegorushka looked at them and + thought: “How dreary and comfortless to be a peasant!” He went up to + Panteley and sat down beside him on the shaft. + </p> + <p> + “Grandfather, I’m cold,” he said, shivering and thrusting his hands up his + sleeves. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, we shall soon be there,” yawned Panteley. “Never mind, you + will get warm.” + </p> + <p> + It must have been early when the waggons set off, for it was not hot. + Yegorushka lay on the bales of wool and shivered with cold, though the sun + soon came out and dried his clothes, the bales, and the earth. As soon as + he closed his eyes he saw Tit and the windmill again. Feeling a sickness + and heaviness all over, he did his utmost to drive away these images, but + as soon as they vanished the dare-devil Dymov, with red eyes and lifted + fists, rushed at Yegorushka with a roar, or there was the sound of his + complaint: “I am so dreary!” Varlamov rode by on his little Cossack + stallion; happy Konstantin passed, with a smile and the bustard in his + arms. And how tedious these people were, how sickening and unbearable! + </p> + <p> + Once—it was towards evening—he raised his head to ask for + water. The waggons were standing on a big bridge across a broad river. + There was black smoke below over the river, and through it could be seen a + steamer with a barge in tow. Ahead of them, beyond the river, was a huge + mountain dotted with houses and churches; at the foot of the mountain an + engine was being shunted along beside some goods trucks. + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka had never before seen steamers, nor engines, nor broad rivers. + Glancing at them now, he was not alarmed or surprised; there was not even + a look of anything like curiosity in his face. He merely felt sick, and + made haste to turn over to the edge of the bale. He was sick. Panteley, + seeing this, cleared his throat and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Our little lad’s taken ill,” he said. “He must have got a chill to the + stomach. The little lad must. . . away from home; it’s a bad lookout!” + </p> + <h3> + VIII + </h3> + <p> + The waggons stopped at a big inn for merchants, not far from the quay. As + Yegorushka climbed down from the waggon he heard a very familiar voice. + Someone was helping him to get down, and saying: + </p> + <p> + “We arrived yesterday evening. . . . We have been expecting you all day. + We meant to overtake you yesterday, but it was out of our way; we came by + the other road. I say, how you have crumpled your coat! You’ll catch it + from your uncle!” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka looked into the speaker’s mottled face and remembered that this + was Deniska. + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle and Father Christopher are in the inn now, drinking tea; come + along!” + </p> + <p> + And he led Yegorushka to a big two-storied building, dark and gloomy like + the almshouse at N. After going across the entry, up a dark staircase and + through a narrow corridor, Yegorushka and Deniska reached a little room in + which Ivan Ivanitch and Father Christopher were sitting at the tea-table. + Seeing the boy, both the old men showed surprise and pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Aha! Yegor Ni-ko-la-aitch!” chanted Father Christopher. “Mr. Lomonosov!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, our gentleman that is to be,” said Kuzmitchov, “pleased to see you!” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka took off his great-coat, kissed his uncle’s hand and Father + Christopher’s, and sat down to the table. + </p> + <p> + “Well, how did you like the journey, puer bone?” Father Christopher pelted + him with questions as he poured him out some tea, with his radiant smile. + “Sick of it, I’ve no doubt? God save us all from having to travel by + waggon or with oxen. You go on and on, God forgive us; you look ahead and + the steppe is always lying stretched out the same as it was—you + can’t see the end of it! It’s not travelling but regular torture. Why + don’t you drink your tea? Drink it up; and in your absence, while you have + been trailing along with the waggons, we have settled all our business + capitally. Thank God we have sold our wool to Tcherepahin, and no one + could wish to have done better. . . . We have made a good bargain.” + </p> + <p> + At the first sight of his own people Yegorushka felt an overwhelming + desire to complain. He did not listen to Father Christopher, but thought + how to begin and what exactly to complain of. But Father Christopher’s + voice, which seemed to him harsh and unpleasant, prevented him from + concentrating his attention and confused his thoughts. He had not sat at + the table five minutes before he got up, went to the sofa and lay down. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” said Father Christopher in surprise. “What about your tea?” + </p> + <p> + Still thinking what to complain of, Yegorushka leaned his head against the + wall and broke into sobs. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well!” repeated Father Christopher, getting up and going to the + sofa. “Yegory, what is the matter with you? Why are you crying?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m . . . I’m ill,” Yegorushka brought out. + </p> + <p> + “Ill?” said Father Christopher in amazement. “That’s not the right thing, + my boy. . . . One mustn’t be ill on a journey. Aie, aie, what are you + thinking about, boy . . . eh?” + </p> + <p> + He put his hand to Yegorushka’s head, touched his cheek and said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, your head’s feverish. . . . You must have caught cold or else have + eaten something. . . . Pray to God.” + </p> + <p> + “Should we give him quinine? . . .” said Ivan Ivanitch, troubled. + </p> + <p> + “No; he ought to have something hot. . . . Yegory, have a little drop of + soup? Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I . . . don’t want any,” said Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “Are you feeling chilly?” + </p> + <p> + “I was chilly before, but now . . . now I am hot. And I ache all over. . . + .” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch went up to the sofa, touched Yegorushka on the head, cleared + his throat with a perplexed air, and went back to the table. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you what, you undress and go to bed,” said Father Christopher. + “What you want is sleep now.” + </p> + <p> + He helped Yegorushka to undress, gave him a pillow and covered him with a + quilt, and over that Ivan Ivanitch’s great-coat. Then he walked away on + tiptoe and sat down to the table. Yegorushka shut his eyes, and at once it + seemed to him that he was not in the hotel room, but on the highroad + beside the camp fire. Emelyan waved his hands, and Dymov with red eyes lay + on his stomach and looked mockingly at Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “Beat him, beat him!” shouted Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “He is delirious,” said Father Christopher in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a nuisance!” sighed Ivan Ivanitch. + </p> + <p> + “He must be rubbed with oil and vinegar. Please God, he will be better + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + To be rid of bad dreams, Yegorushka opened his eyes and began looking + towards the fire. Father Christopher and Ivan Ivanitch had now finished + their tea and were talking in a whisper. The first was smiling with + delight, and evidently could not forget that he had made a good bargain + over his wool; what delighted him was not so much the actual profit he had + made as the thought that on getting home he would gather round him his big + family, wink slyly and go off into a chuckle; at first he would deceive + them all, and say that he had sold the wool at a price below its value, + then he would give his son-in-law, Mihail, a fat pocket-book and say: + “Well, take it! that’s the way to do business!” Kuzmitchov did not seem + pleased; his face expressed, as before, a business-like reserve and + anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “If I could have known that Tcherepahin would give such a price,” he said + in a low voice, “I wouldn’t have sold Makarov those five tons at home. It + is vexatious! But who could have told that the price had gone up here?” + </p> + <p> + A man in a white shirt cleared away the samovar and lighted the little + lamp before the ikon in the corner. Father Christopher whispered something + in his ear; the man looked, made a serious face like a conspirator, as + though to say, “I understand,” went out, and returned a little while + afterwards and put something under the sofa. Ivan Ivanitch made himself a + bed on the floor, yawned several times, said his prayers lazily, and lay + down. + </p> + <p> + “I think of going to the cathedral to-morrow,” said Father Christopher. “I + know the sacristan there. I ought to go and see the bishop after mass, but + they say he is ill.” + </p> + <p> + He yawned and put out the lamp. Now there was no light in the room but the + little lamp before the ikon. + </p> + <p> + “They say he can’t receive visitors,” Father Christopher went on, + undressing. “So I shall go away without seeing him.” + </p> + <p> + He took off his full coat, and Yegorushka saw Robinson Crusoe reappear. + Robinson stirred something in a saucer, went up to Yegorushka and + whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Lomonosov, are you asleep? Sit up; I’m going to rub you with oil and + vinegar. It’s a good thing, only you must say a prayer.” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka roused himself quickly and sat up. Father Christopher pulled + down the boy’s shirt, and shrinking and breathing jerkily, as though he + were being tickled himself, began rubbing Yegorushka’s chest. + </p> + <p> + “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” he whispered, + “lie with your back upwards—that’s it. . . . You’ll be all right + to-morrow, but don’t do it again. . . . You are as hot as fire. I suppose + you were on the road in the storm.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You might well fall ill! In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy + Ghost, . . . you might well fall ill!” + </p> + <p> + After rubbing Yegorushka, Father Christopher put on his shirt again, + covered him, made the sign of the cross over him, and walked away. Then + Yegorushka saw him saying his prayers. Probably the old man knew a great + many prayers by heart, for he stood a long time before the ikon murmuring. + After saying his prayers he made the sign of the cross over the window, + the door, Yegorushka, and Ivan Ivanitch, lay down on the little sofa + without a pillow, and covered himself with his full coat. A clock in the + corridor struck ten. Yegorushka thought how long a time it would be before + morning; feeling miserable, he pressed his forehead against the back of + the sofa and left off trying to get rid of the oppressive misty dreams. + But morning came much sooner than he expected. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him that he had not been lying long with his head pressed to + the back of the sofa, but when he opened his eyes slanting rays of + sunlight were already shining on the floor through the two windows of the + little hotel room. Father Christopher and Ivan Ivanitch were not in the + room. The room had been tidied; it was bright, snug, and smelt of Father + Christopher, who always smelt of cypress and dried cornflowers (at home he + used to make the holy-water sprinklers and decorations for the ikonstands + out of cornflowers, and so he was saturated with the smell of them). + Yegorushka looked at the pillow, at the slanting sunbeams, at his boots, + which had been cleaned and were standing side by side near the sofa, and + laughed. It seemed strange to him that he was not on the bales of wool, + that everything was dry around him, and that there was no thunder and + lightning on the ceiling. + </p> + <p> + He jumped off the sofa and began dressing. He felt splendid; nothing was + left of his yesterday’s illness but a slight weakness in his legs and + neck. So the vinegar and oil had done good. He remembered the steamer, the + railway engine, and the broad river, which he had dimly seen the day + before, and now he made haste to dress, to run to the quay and have a look + at them. When he had washed and was putting on his red shirt, the latch of + the door clicked, and Father Christopher appeared in the doorway, wearing + his top-hat and a brown silk cassock over his canvas coat and carrying his + staff in his hand. Smiling and radiant (old men are always radiant when + they come back from church), he put a roll of holy bread and a parcel of + some sort on the table, prayed before the ikon, and said: + </p> + <p> + “God has sent us blessings—well, how are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite well now,” answered Yegorushka, kissing his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God. . . . I have come from mass. I’ve been to see a sacristan I + know. He invited me to breakfast with him, but I didn’t go. I don’t like + visiting people too early, God bless them!” + </p> + <p> + He took off his cassock, stroked himself on the chest, and without haste + undid the parcel. Yegorushka saw a little tin of caviare, a piece of dry + sturgeon, and a French loaf. + </p> + <p> + “See; I passed a fish-shop and brought this,” said Father Christopher. + “There is no need to indulge in luxuries on an ordinary weekday; but I + thought, I’ve an invalid at home, so it is excusable. And the caviare is + good, real sturgeon. . . .” + </p> + <p> + The man in the white shirt brought in the samovar and a tray with + tea-things. + </p> + <p> + “Eat some,” said Father Christopher, spreading the caviare on a slice of + bread and handing it to Yegorushka. “Eat now and enjoy yourself, but the + time will soon come for you to be studying. Mind you study with attention + and application, so that good may come of it. What you have to learn by + heart, learn by heart, but when you have to tell the inner sense in your + own words, without regard to the outer form, then say it in your own + words. And try to master all subjects. One man knows mathematics + excellently, but has never heard of Pyotr Mogila; another knows about + Pyotr Mogila, but cannot explain about the moon. But you study so as to + understand everything. Study Latin, French, German, . . . geography, of + course, history, theology, philosophy, mathematics, . . . and when you + have mastered everything, not with haste but with prayer and with zeal, + then go into the service. When you know everything it will be easy for you + in any line of life. . . . You study and strive for the divine blessing, + and God will show you what to be. Whether a doctor, a judge or an + engineer. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher spread a little caviare on a piece of bread, put it in + his mouth and said: + </p> + <p> + “The Apostle Paul says: ‘Do not apply yourself to strange and diverse + studies.’ Of course, if it is black magic, unlawful arts, or calling up + spirits from the other world, like Saul, or studying subjects that can be + of no use to yourself or others, better not learn them. You must undertake + only what God has blessed. Take example . . . the Holy Apostles spoke in + all languages, so you study languages. Basil the Great studied mathematics + and philosophy—so you study them; St. Nestor wrote history—so + you study and write history. Take example from the saints.” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher sipped the tea from his saucer, wiped his moustaches, + and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” he said. “I was educated in the old-fashioned way; I have + forgotten a great deal by now, but still I live differently from other + people. Indeed, there is no comparison. For instance, in company at a + dinner, or at an assembly, one says something in Latin, or makes some + allusion from history or philosophy, and it pleases people, and it pleases + me myself. . . . Or when the circuit court comes and one has to take the + oath, all the other priests are shy, but I am quite at home with the + judges, the prosecutors, and the lawyers. I talk intellectually, drink a + cup of tea with them, laugh, ask them what I don’t know, . . . and they + like it. So that’s how it is, my boy. Learning is light and ignorance is + darkness. Study! It’s hard, of course; nowadays study is expensive. . . . + Your mother is a widow; she lives on her pension, but there, of course . . + .” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher glanced apprehensively towards the door, and went on in + a whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Ivan Ivanitch will assist. He won’t desert you. He has no children of his + own, and he will help you. Don’t be uneasy.” + </p> + <p> + He looked grave, and whispered still more softly: + </p> + <p> + “Only mind, Yegory, don’t forget your mother and Ivan Ivanitch, God + preserve you from it. The commandment bids you honour your mother, and + Ivan Ivanitch is your benefactor and takes the place of a father to you. + If you become learned, God forbid you should be impatient and scornful + with people because they are not so clever as you, then woe, woe to you!” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher raised his hand and repeated in a thin voice: + </p> + <p> + “Woe to you! Woe to you!” + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher’s tongue was loosened, and he was, as they say, warming + to his subject; he would not have finished till dinnertime but the door + opened and Ivan Ivanitch walked in. He said good-morning hurriedly, sat + down to the table, and began rapidly swallowing his tea. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have settled all our business,” he said. “We might have gone home + to-day, but we have still to think about Yegor. We must arrange for him. + My sister told me that Nastasya Petrovna, a friend of hers, lives + somewhere here, so perhaps she will take him in as a boarder.” + </p> + <p> + He rummaged in his pocket-book, found a crumpled note and read: + </p> + <p> + “‘Little Lower Street: Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov, living in a house of + her own.’ We must go at once and try to find her. It’s a nuisance!” + </p> + <p> + Soon after breakfast Ivan Ivanitch and Yegorushka left the inn. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a nuisance,” muttered his uncle. “You are sticking to me like a + burr. You and your mother want education and gentlemanly breeding and I + have nothing but worry with you both. . . .” + </p> + <p> + When they crossed the yard, the waggons and the drivers were not there. + They had all gone off to the quay early in the morning. In a far-off dark + corner of the yard stood the chaise. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, chaise!” thought Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + At first they had to go a long way uphill by a broad street, then they had + to cross a big marketplace; here Ivan Ivanitch asked a policeman for + Little Lower Street. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” said the policeman, with a grin, “it’s a long way off, out that + way towards the town grazing ground.” + </p> + <p> + They met several cabs but Ivan Ivanitch only permitted himself such a + weakness as taking a cab in exceptional cases and on great holidays. + Yegorushka and he walked for a long while through paved streets, then + along streets where there were only wooden planks at the sides and no + pavements, and in the end got to streets where there were neither planks + nor pavements. When their legs and their tongues had brought them to + Little Lower Street they were both red in the face, and taking off their + hats, wiped away the perspiration. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, please,” said Ivan Ivanitch, addressing an old man sitting on a + little bench by a gate, “where is Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov’s house?” + </p> + <p> + “There is no one called Toskunov here,” said the old man, after pondering + a moment. “Perhaps it’s Timoshenko you want.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Toskunov. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, there’s no one called Toskunov. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch shrugged his shoulders and trudged on farther. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t look,” the old man called after them. “I tell you there + isn’t, and there isn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Listen, auntie,” said Ivan Ivanitch, addressing an old woman who was + sitting at a corner with a tray of pears and sunflower seeds, “where is + Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov’s house?” + </p> + <p> + The old woman looked at him with surprise and laughed. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Nastasya Petrovna live in her own house now!” she cried. “Lord! it + is eight years since she married her daughter and gave up the house to her + son-in-law! It’s her son-in-law lives there now.” + </p> + <p> + And her eyes expressed: “How is it you didn’t know a simple thing like + that, you fools?” + </p> + <p> + “And where does she live now?” Ivan Ivanitch asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord!” cried the old woman, flinging up her hands in surprise. “She + moved ever so long ago! It’s eight years since she gave up her house to + her son-in-law! Upon my word!” + </p> + <p> + She probably expected Ivan Ivanitch to be surprised, too, and to exclaim: + “You don’t say so,” but Ivan Ivanitch asked very calmly: + </p> + <p> + “Where does she live now?” + </p> + <p> + The old woman tucked up her sleeves and, stretching out her bare arm to + point, shouted in a shrill piercing voice: + </p> + <p> + “Go straight on, straight on, straight on. You will pass a little red + house, then you will see a little alley on your left. Turn down that + little alley, and it will be the third gate on the right. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Ivan Ivanitch and Yegorushka reached the little red house, turned to the + left down the little alley, and made for the third gate on the right. On + both sides of this very old grey gate there was a grey fence with big gaps + in it. The first part of the fence was tilting forwards and threatened to + fall, while on the left of the gate it sloped backwards towards the yard. + The gate itself stood upright and seemed to be still undecided which would + suit it best —to fall forwards or backwards. Ivan Ivanitch opened + the little gate at the side, and he and Yegorushka saw a big yard + overgrown with weeds and burdocks. A hundred paces from the gate stood a + little house with a red roof and green shutters. A stout woman with her + sleeves tucked up and her apron held out was standing in the middle of the + yard, scattering something on the ground and shouting in a voice as shrill + as that of the woman selling fruit: + </p> + <p> + “Chick! . . . Chick! . . . Chick!” + </p> + <p> + Behind her sat a red dog with pointed ears. Seeing the strangers, he ran + to the little gate and broke into a tenor bark (all red dogs have a tenor + bark). + </p> + <p> + “Whom do you want?” asked the woman, putting up her hand to shade her eyes + from the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Good-morning!” Ivan Ivanitch shouted, too, waving off the red dog with + his stick. “Tell me, please, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov live here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! But what do you want with her?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are Nastasya Petrovna?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes, I am!” + </p> + <p> + “Very pleased to see you. . . . You see, your old friend Olga Ivanovna + Knyasev sends her love to you. This is her little son. And I, perhaps you + remember, am her brother Ivan Ivanitch. . . . You are one of us from N. . + . . You were born among us and married there. . . .” + </p> + <p> + A silence followed. The stout woman stared blankly at Ivan Ivanitch, as + though not believing or not understanding him, then she flushed all over, + and flung up her hands; the oats were scattered out of her apron and tears + spurted from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Olga Ivanovna!” she screamed, breathless with excitement. “My own + darling! Ah, holy saints, why am I standing here like a fool? My pretty + little angel. . . .” + </p> + <p> + She embraced Yegorushka, wetted his face with her tears, and broke down + completely. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens!” she said, wringing her hands, “Olga’s little boy! How + delightful! He is his mother all over! The image of his mother! But why + are you standing in the yard? Come indoors.” + </p> + <p> + Crying, gasping for breath and talking as she went, she hurried towards + the house. Her visitors trudged after her. + </p> + <p> + “The room has not been done yet,” she said, ushering the visitors into a + stuffy little drawing-room adorned with many ikons and pots of flowers. + “Oh, Mother of God! Vassilisa, go and open the shutters anyway! My little + angel! My little beauty! I did not know that Olitchka had a boy like + that!” + </p> + <p> + When she had calmed down and got over her first surprise Ivan Ivanitch + asked to speak to her alone. Yegorushka went into another room; there was + a sewing-machine; in the window was a cage with a starling in it, and + there were as many ikons and flowers as in the drawing-room. Near the + machine stood a little girl with a sunburnt face and chubby cheeks like + Tit’s, and a clean cotton dress. She stared at Yegorushka without + blinking, and apparently felt very awkward. Yegorushka looked at her and + after a pause asked: + </p> + <p> + “What’s your name?” + </p> + <p> + The little girl moved her lips, looked as if she were going to cry, and + answered softly: + </p> + <p> + “Atka. . . .” + </p> + <p> + This meant Katka. + </p> + <p> + “He will live with you,” Ivan Ivanitch was whispering in the drawing-room, + “if you will be so kind, and we will pay ten roubles a month for his keep. + He is not a spoilt boy; he is quiet. . . .” + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know what to say, Ivan Ivanitch!” Nastasya Petrovna sighed + tearfully. “Ten roubles a month is very good, but it is a dreadful thing + to take another person’s child! He may fall ill or something. . . .” + </p> + <p> + When Yegorushka was summoned back to the drawing-room Ivan Ivanitch was + standing with his hat in his hands, saying good-bye. + </p> + <p> + “Well, let him stay with you now, then,” he said. “Good-bye! You stay, + Yegor!” he said, addressing his nephew. “Don’t be troublesome; mind you + obey Nastasya Petrovna. . . . Good-bye; I am coming again to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + And he went away. Nastasya once more embraced Yegorushka, called him a + little angel, and with a tear-stained face began preparing for dinner. + Three minutes later Yegorushka was sitting beside her, answering her + endless questions and eating hot savoury cabbage soup. + </p> + <p> + In the evening he sat again at the same table and, resting his head on his + hand, listened to Nastasya Petrovna. Alternately laughing and crying, she + talked of his mother’s young days, her own marriage, her children. . . . A + cricket chirruped in the stove, and there was a faint humming from the + burner of the lamp. Nastasya Petrovna talked in a low voice, and was + continually dropping her thimble in her excitement; and Katka her + granddaughter, crawled under the table after it and each time sat a long + while under the table, probably examining Yegorushka’s feet; and + Yegorushka listened, half dozing and looking at the old woman’s face, her + wart with hairs on it, and the stains of tears, and he felt sad, very sad. + He was put to sleep on a chest and told that if he were hungry in the + night he must go out into the little passage and take some chicken, put + there under a plate in the window. + </p> + <p> + Next morning Ivan Ivanitch and Father Christopher came to say good-bye. + Nastasya Petrovna was delighted to see them, and was about to set the + samovar; but Ivan Ivanitch, who was in a great hurry, waved his hands and + said: + </p> + <p> + “We have no time for tea! We are just setting off.” + </p> + <p> + Before parting they all sat down and were silent for a minute. Nastasya + Petrovna heaved a deep sigh and looked towards the ikon with tear-stained + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” began Ivan Ivanitch, getting up, “so you will stay. . . .” + </p> + <p> + All at once the look of business-like reserve vanished from his face; he + flushed a little and said with a mournful smile: + </p> + <p> + “Mind you work hard. . . . Don’t forget your mother, and obey Nastasya + Petrovna. . . . If you are diligent at school, Yegor, I’ll stand by you.” + </p> + <p> + He took his purse out of his pocket, turned his back to Yegorushka, + fumbled for a long time among the smaller coins, and, finding a ten-kopeck + piece, gave it to Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + Father Christopher, without haste, blessed Yegorushka. + </p> + <p> + “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. . . . Study,” he + said. “Work hard, my lad. If I die, remember me in your prayers. Here is a + ten-kopeck piece from me, too. . . .” + </p> + <p> + Yegorushka kissed his hand, and shed tears; something whispered in his + heart that he would never see the old man again. + </p> + <p> + “I have applied at the high school already,” said Ivan Ivanitch in a voice + as though there were a corpse in the room. “You will take him for the + entrance examination on the seventh of August. . . . Well, good-bye; God + bless you, good-bye, Yegor!” + </p> + <p> + “You might at least have had a cup of tea,” wailed Nastasya Petrovna. + </p> + <p> + Through the tears that filled his eyes Yegorushka could not see his uncle + and Father Christopher go out. He rushed to the window, but they were not + in the yard, and the red dog, who had just been barking, was running back + from the gate with the air of having done his duty. When Yegorushka ran + out of the gate Ivan Ivanitch and Father Christopher, the former waving + his stick with the crook, the latter his staff, were just turning the + corner. Yegorushka felt that with these people all that he had known till + then had vanished from him for ever. He sank helplessly on to the little + bench, and with bitter tears greeted the new unknown life that was + beginning for him now. . . . + </p> + <p> + What would that life be like? + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <pre> + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Bishop and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BISHOP AND OTHER STORIES *** + +***** This file should be named 13419-h.htm or 13419-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/3/4/1/13419/ + +Produced by James Rusk + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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