Bab Bab 8 · 第8章

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:

"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!"

Yegorushka looked into the speaker's mottled face and remembered

that this was Deniska.

"Your uncle and Father Christopher are in the inn now, drinking

tea; come along!"

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.

"Aha! Yegor Ni-ko-la-aitch!" chanted Father Christopher. "Mr.

Lomonosov!"

"Ah, our gentleman that is to be," said Kuzmitchov, "pleased to see

you!"

Yegorushka took off his great-coat, kissed his uncle's hand and

Father Christopher's, and sat down to the table.

"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."

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.

"Well, well," said Father Christopher in surprise. "What about your

tea?"

Still thinking what to complain of, Yegorushka leaned his head

against the wall and broke into sobs.

"Well, well!" repeated Father Christopher, getting up and going to

the sofa. "Yegory, what is the matter with you? Why are you crying?"

"I'm . . . I'm ill," Yegorushka brought out.

"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?"

He put his hand to Yegorushka's head, touched his cheek and said:

"Yes, your head's feverish. . . . You must have caught cold or else

have eaten something. . . . Pray to God."

"Should we give him quinine? . . ." said Ivan Ivanitch, troubled.

"No; he ought to have something hot. . . . Yegory, have a little

drop of soup? Eh?"

"I . . . don't want any," said Yegorushka.

"Are you feeling chilly?"

"I was chilly before, but now . . . now I am hot. And I ache all

over. . . ."

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.

"I tell you what, you undress and go to bed," said Father Christopher.

"What you want is sleep now."

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.

"Beat him, beat him!" shouted Yegorushka.

"He is delirious," said Father Christopher in an undertone.

"It's a nuisance!" sighed Ivan Ivanitch.

"He must be rubbed with oil and vinegar. Please God, he will be

better to-morrow."

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.

"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?"

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.

"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."

He yawned and put out the lamp. Now there was no light in the room

but the little lamp before the ikon.

"They say he can't receive visitors," Father Christopher went on,

undressing. "So I shall go away without seeing him."

He took off his full coat, and Yegorushka saw Robinson Crusoe

reappear. Robinson stirred something in a saucer, went up to

Yegorushka and whispered:

"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."

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.

"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."

"Yes."

"You might well fall ill! In the name of the Father, the Son, and

the Holy Ghost, . . . you might well fall ill!"

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.

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.

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:

"God has sent us blessings--well, how are you?"

"Quite well now," answered Yegorushka, kissing his hand.

"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!"

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.

"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. . . ."

The man in the white shirt brought in the samovar and a tray with

tea-things.

"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. . . ."

Father Christopher spread a little caviare on a piece of bread, put

it in his mouth and said:

"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."

Father Christopher sipped the tea from his saucer, wiped his

moustaches, and shook his head.

"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 . . ."

Father Christopher glanced apprehensively towards the door, and

went on in a whisper:

"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."

He looked grave, and whispered still more softly:

"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!"

Father Christopher raised his hand and repeated in a thin voice:

"Woe to you! Woe to you!"

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.

"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."

He rummaged in his pocket-book, found a crumpled note and read:

"'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!"

Soon after breakfast Ivan Ivanitch and Yegorushka left the inn.

"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. . . ."

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.

"Good-bye, chaise!" thought Yegorushka.

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.

"I say," said the policeman, with a grin, "it's a long way off, out

that way towards the town grazing ground."

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.

"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?"

"There is no one called Toskunov here," said the old man, after

pondering a moment. "Perhaps it's Timoshenko you want."

"No, Toskunov. . . ."

"Excuse me, there's no one called Toskunov. . . ."

Ivan Ivanitch shrugged his shoulders and trudged on farther.

"You needn't look," the old man called after them. "I tell you there

isn't, and there isn't."

"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?"

The old woman looked at him with surprise and laughed.

"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."

And her eyes expressed: "How is it you didn't know a simple thing

like that, you fools?"

"And where does she live now?" Ivan Ivanitch asked.

"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!"

She probably expected Ivan Ivanitch to be surprised, too, and to

exclaim: "You don't say so," but Ivan Ivanitch asked very calmly:

"Where does she live now?"

The old woman tucked up her sleeves and, stretching out her bare

arm to point, shouted in a shrill piercing voice:

"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. . . ."

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:

"Chick! . . . Chick! . . . Chick!"

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).

"Whom do you want?" asked the woman, putting up her hand to shade

her eyes from the sun.

"Good-morning!" Ivan Ivanitch shouted, too, waving off the red dog

with his stick. "Tell me, please, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunov

live here?"

"Yes! But what do you want with her?"

"Perhaps you are Nastasya Petrovna?"

"Well, yes, I am!"

"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. . . ."

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.

"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. . . ."

She embraced Yegorushka, wetted his face with her tears, and broke

down completely.

"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."

Crying, gasping for breath and talking as she went, she hurried

towards the house. Her visitors trudged after her.

"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!"

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:

"What's your name?"

The little girl moved her lips, looked as if she were going to cry,

and answered softly:

"Atka. . . ."

This meant Katka.

"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. . . ."

"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. . . ."

When Yegorushka was summoned back to the drawing-room Ivan Ivanitch

was standing with his hat in his hands, saying good-bye.

"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."

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.

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.

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:

"We have no time for tea! We are just setting off."

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.

"Well," began Ivan Ivanitch, getting up, "so you will stay. . . ."

All at once the look of business-like reserve vanished from his

face; he flushed a little and said with a mournful smile:

"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."

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.

Father Christopher, without haste, blessed Yegorushka.

"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. . . ."

Yegorushka kissed his hand, and shed tears; something whispered in

his heart that he would never see the old man again.

"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!"

"You might at least have had a cup of tea," wailed Nastasya Petrovna.

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. . . .

What would that life be like?

End of Project Gutenberg's The Bishop and Other Stories, by Anton Chekhov