第 二 章 · 第2章

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.

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:

"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.

"I suppose you have forgotten all your learning?" observed Kuzmitchov.

"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."

Father Christopher screwed up his eyes, thought a minute and said

in an undertone:

"What is a substance? A creature is a self-existing object, not

requiring anything else for its completion."

He shook his head and laughed with feeling.

"Spiritual nourishment!" he said. "Of a truth matter nourishes the

flesh and spiritual nourishment the soul!"

"Learning is all very well," sighed Kuzmitchov, "but if we don't

overtake Varlamov, learning won't do much for us."

"A man isn't a needle--we shall find him. He must be going his

rounds in these parts."

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.

"Deniska, where are you? Come and eat," said Kuzmitchov, heaving a

deep sigh, a sign that he had had enough.

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.

"Take them, take them," Kuzmitchov urged him on.

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.

After his meal Kuzmitchov took a sack containing something out of

the chaise and said to Yegorushka:

"I am going to sleep, and you mind that no one takes the sack from

under my head."

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.

"You look out that no one takes away the horses!" he said to

Yegorushka, and at once fell asleep.

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.

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.

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. . . .

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.

The song ceased. Yegorushka sauntered back to the chaise, and to

while away the time went again to the trickle of water.

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:

"What's your name?"

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!"

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.

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. . . .

Deniska was the first to wake up. Something must have bitten him,

for he jumped up, quickly scratched his shoulder and said:

"Plague take you, cursed idolater!"

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:

"Shall we soon be going?"

Deniska looked at the height of the sun and answered:

"I expect so."

He dried himself with the tail of his shirt and, making a very

serious face, hopped on one leg.

"I say, which of us will get to the sedge first?" he said.

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.

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.

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.

"Caught!" he wheezed triumphantly, and, getting up, lifted a big

grasshopper to Yegorushka's eyes.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"Father Christopher," said Kuzmitchov reproachfully, "it's time to

start; the horses are ready, and here are you, . . . upon my word."

"In a minute, in a minute," muttered Father Christopher. "I must

read the psalms. . . . I haven't read them to-day."

"The psalms can wait."

"Ivan Ivanitch, that is my rule every day. . . . I can't . . ."

"God will overlook it."

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:

"Finis!"

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.

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.

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.

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. . . .

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.

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!

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. . . .

Soon after that the evening came on.