Chương Chương 1 · 第1章

EARLY 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.

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.

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.

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.

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. . . .

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.

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.

"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!

"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."

"Do you want to go back?" asked Kuzmitchov.

"Yes, . . . yes, . . ." answered Yegorushka, sobbing.

"Well, you'd better go back then. Anyway, you are going for nothing;

it's a day's journey for a spoonful of porridge."

"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!"

"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."

"That does happen."

"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."

"And if all go in for trading and sowing corn there will be no one

to acquire learning."

And considering that each of them had said something weighty and

convincing, Kuzmitchov and Father Christopher both looked serious

and cleared their throats simultaneously.

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.

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.

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.

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. . . .

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.

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. . . .

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. . . .

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.

"You are driving over folks, fatty!" cried Deniska. "What a swollen

lump of a face, as though a bumble-bee had stung it!"

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.

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.

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.

"Well, Deniska, shall we overtake the waggons to-day?" asked

Kuzmitchov.

Deniska looked at the sky, rose in his seat, lashed at his horses

and then answered:

"By nightfall, please God, we shall overtake them."

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.

The chaise came upon a flock of sheep.

"Stop!" cried Kuzmitchov. "Pull up! Woa!"

Deniska threw his whole body backwards and pulled up the horses.

"Come here!" Kuzmitchov shouted to the shepherd. "Call off the dogs,

curse them!"

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.

"Whose sheep are these?" asked Kuzmitchov.

"Varlamov's," the old man answered in a loud voice.

"Varlamov's," repeated the shepherd standing at the other end of

the flock.

"Did Varlamov come this way yesterday or not?"

"He did not; his clerk came. . . ."

"Drive on!"

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.

"A fine windmill Boltva has put up for his son," observed Deniska.

"And how is it we don't see his farm?"

"It is that way, beyond the creek."

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!