I
The hot July sun shone dazzlingly over Smólkina, flooding its aged huts
with an abundant torrent of brilliant rays. There was an especially
great amount of sunlight on the roof of the village Elder's hut, which
had recently been covered afresh with smoothly planed boards, yellow
and fragrant. It was Sunday, and almost the entire population of the
village had come out into the street, thickly overgrown with grass, and
sprinkled with hillocks of dried mud. In front of the Elder's hut, a
large group of peasant men and women had assembled, some were sitting
on the earth, which was banked up around the foundation of the hut,
others flat on the ground, others, still, were standing; small children
were chasing one another in and out among them, every now and then
receiving from their elders angry shouts and raps.
The centre of the throng was a tall man, with long, drooping mustaches.
From his light-brown face, covered with a thick, blue mark of beard
and a network of deep wrinkles, from the locks of gray hair which hung
down beneath a dirty straw hat,--one might judge that this man was
fifty years of age. He was staring at the ground, and the nostrils of
his large, cartilaginous nose were quivering, and when he raised his
head, casting a glance at the windows of the Elder's hut, his eyes
became visible,--large, sad, even gloomy eyes, which were deeply sunken
in their orbits, while his thick eyebrows threw a shadow over the
dark pupils. He was clad in the cinnamon-brown, tattered cassock of
a monastic lay-brother, which barely covered his knees, and was girt
about him with a rope. On his back was a canvas wallet, in his right
hand, a long staff with an iron ferrule, with his left hand he clutched
at his breast. The people round about stared at him suspiciously,
sneeringly, with scorn, and, at last, with plain delight, that they had
succeeded in catching the wolf before he had managed to do any damage
to their flock. He had passed through the village, and, approaching
the window of the Elder's hut, he had asked for a drink. The Elder
had given him kvas[1] and had talked with him. But the wayfarer,
contrary to the habit of pilgrims, had answered very reluctantly....
The Elder had asked him if he had a passport, and it turned out that
he had not. And they had detained the wayfarer, resolved to send him
to the District Council. The Elder had selected the sótsky[2] as his
escort, and now, inside his hut, he was giving the latter instructions
concerning the journey, leaving the prisoner in the midst of the crowd,
who were making merry at his expense.
[1] See footnote on p. 13.--Translator.
[2] A sort of police-captain, elected by the peasants.--Translator.
As the prisoner had been brought to a halt at the trunk of a white
willow tree, so he remained standing, with his curved back resting
against it.
But now, on the porch of the hut, a wall-eyed old man, with a foxy
face, and a small, gray, wedge-shaped beard, made his appearance. He
lowered his booted feet sedately from step to step, and his round
little belly waggled solidly under his long shirt of sarpinka.[3] And
over his shoulders peered the square, bearded face of the policeman.
[3] See footnote on p. 242.
"You understand, Efímushka?" the Elder asked the policeman.
"What is there to understand? I understand all about it. That means,
that I, the policeman of Smólkina, am bound to conduct this man to the
Rural Chief, and--that's all there is to it!"--and having uttered his
speech with distinct articulation, and with comical importance, the
policeman winked at the spectators.
"And the document?"
"The document--lives in my breast."
"Well, all right!" said the Elder argumentatively, and he added, as he
scratched his ribs violently:
"Then go ahead, and God be with you!"
"Start up! Shall we march on, father?" the policeman smilingly asked
the prisoner.
"You might provide a conveyance," replied the latter, in a low tone to
the policeman's question. The Elder grinned.
"A con-ve-eyance! Get out with you! There are lots of tramps like you
cropping up in the fields and villages ... there wouldn't be horses
enough to go around for them all. So trot along on your own legs.
That's the way!"
"Never mind, father, we'll walk!"--said the policeman encouragingly....
"Do you think it's far from us? With God's blessing, not more than
twenty versts! Yes, and it can't be as much as that. You and I will
soon roll there. And there you can rest yourself."
"In the cooler..."[4] explained the Elder.
[4] This is not arbitrary slang, but a literal translation of the word,
_kholódnaya_--the cooler, or cold place.--Translator.
"That's nothing," the policeman hastened to remark ... "When a
man's tired he can rest even in jail. And then--the cooler--it's
refreshing ... after a hot day--it's very nice indeed there!"
The prisoner cast a surly glance at his escort--the latter smiled
frankly and cheerfully.
"Come on, now, respected father! Farewell, Vasíl Gavrílitch! Go along!"
"The Lord be with you, Efímushka!--Keep a sharp lookout!"
"Look as sharp--as though you had three eyes!" put in a young fellow in
the crowd.
"Lo-ook here now! Am I a baby, I'd like to know?"
And they set off, keeping close to the huts, in order to walk in the
strip of shade. The man in the cassock went first, with the loose but
swinging gait of a pedestrian accustomed to walking. The policeman,
with a stout cudgel in his hand, walked behind.
Efímushka was a small peasant, low of stature, squarely built, with a
broad, kindly face, framed in a light-brown beard which fell in tufts,
and began just below his clear, gray eyes. He was almost always smiling
at something, displaying strong, yellow teeth, and wrinkling the skin
between his eyebrows, as though he were on the point of sneezing. He
was clad in a long, full smock, whose skirts were tucked into his
girdle, in order that they might not entangle his legs, on his head was
stuck a dark-green cap without a visor, which was pulled down over his
brows in front, and bore a strong resemblance to a prison-cap.
His companion walked on, paying no attention to him, as though he were
not even conscious of his presence behind him. Their way led along a
narrow country road; it wound, in serpentine curves, through a waving
sea of rye, and the shadows of the travellers crept over the gold of
the ears.
On the horizon the crest of a forest shone blue, on the wayfarers'
left, the sown fields stretched out into the endless distance, and
among them la; the dark blot of a village, and beyond it, again, were
fields, which vanished in pale-blue mist.
On their right, from behind a clump of willows, the spire of a belfry,
still surrounded by scaffoldings, and not yet painted, pierced the blue
sky--it gleamed so brilliantly in the sun, that it was painful to look
at.
Larks were trilling in the sky, corn-flowers smiled among the rye, and
the weather was hot--almost stifling. The dust flew up from under the
travellers' feet.
Efímushka began to feel bored. Being a great chatterer by nature,
he could not hold his tongue for long, and clearing his throat, he
suddenly struck up, in a falsetto voice:
"Hey--ekh--the-ere, and why-y is thi-i-is ...
An' why do-oth sor-row gnaw my heart?"
"If your voice gives out, blow it up to its limits! Hm--ye-es ... but I
did use to sing ... The Víshenki teacher used to say,--'come on, now,
Efímushka, strike up!' And he and I burst into a flood of song! he was
a just young fellow...."
"Who was he?" inquired the man in the cassock, with a bass voice.
"Why, the Víshenki teacher...."
"Víshenki--was that his name?"
"Víshenki is the name of a village, brother. But the teacher's name
was Pável Mikháïlitch. He was a first-class man. He died three years
ago...."
"Was he young?"
"He was under thirty...."
"What did he die of?...."
"Of grief, I suppose."
Efímushka's companion cast a sidelong glance at him, and burst out
laughing.
"You see, my dear man, this is the way it was--he taught, he taught
seven years in succession, and then he began to cough. He coughed, and
coughed, and began to grieve.... Well, and with the grief, of course,
he began to drink vódka. But Father Alexéi did not like him, and
when he took to drink, that Father Alexéi sent off a document to the
town--thus and so, says he--the teacher drinks, and 'tis nothing but
a scandal. Then they sent another document from the town, in reply,
and a woman teacher. She was a very long woman, and bony, with a huge
nose. Well Pável Mikháïlitch sees that his business is done for. He was
grieved; 'here I've taught and taught,' says he ... 'akh, you devils!'
He went from the school straight to the hospital, and five days later,
he gave up his soul to God.... That's all...."
They walked on for some time in silence. The forest drew nearer to
the pedestrians with every step, growing before their very eyes, and
turning green from blue.
"Are we going through the forest?" inquired Efímushka's companion.
"We shall cut across the corner of it, about half a verst. But why? Hey?
What are you up to? I perceive that you are a goose, respected father!"
And Efímushka laughed, and wagged his head.
"What do you mean?" inquired the prisoner.
"Why, nothing. Akh, you stupid!" Shall we go through the forest?9 says
he. You're simple, my dear man, nobody with any sense would have asked
that question. Any sensible man would have walked straight up to the
forest, and then...."
"What?"
"Nothing! I see through you, brother. Ekh, you dear, sly humbug!
No--you drop that idea--about the forest! Do you think you can get the
better of me? Why, I could manage three such as you, and I could whip
you with one hand, while the other was bound to my body ... Do you
understand?"
"Yes! You fool!--" said the prisoner, curtly and significantly.
"What? Did I guess you?"--said Efímushka triumphantly.
"Blockhead! What have you guessed?" said the prisoner, with a wry smile.
"About the forest ... I understand!... 'I,' says he--that is
you,--'when we come to the forest, will cut him down'--meaning
me,--'I'll cut him down, and make off across the fields, and the
forests?' Isn't that it?"
"You're stupid ..." said the man who had been divined, shrugging his
shoulders.--"Come now, where could I go to?"
"Well, wherever you please--that's your affair."
"But where?--" Efímushka's companion was either angry, or was very
anxious to hear from his escort precisely where he could go.
"Wherever you please, I tell you!" repeated Efímushka calmly.
"I have no place to run to, brother, none!"--said his companion quietly.
"Oh, co-ome now!" ejaculated the escort incredulously, and even waved
his hand. "There's always some place to run to. The earth is big.
There's always room for one man on it."
"Well, what do you mean? Do you mean that I am to run away?"--inquired
the prisoner with curiosity, and he laughed.
"What a man you are! You're very fine! Is that proper? If you run away,
whom can they put in prison, instead of you? They'll put me there in
your place. No, I only said that by way of talking...."
"You're a blessed fool.. yet you seem a good sort of peasant,--" said
Efímushka's travelling-companion with a sigh. Efímushka hastened to
agree with him.
"That's just what some folks do call me, a blessed fool ... and
as for my being a good sort of a peasant--that's true too. I'm
straightforward, that's the chief thing. Some folks always act in
a roundabout way, with guile, but what's that to me? I'm a man who
is alone in the world. If you're guileful, you die, and if you live
uprightly, you die. So I try to be as straightforward as possible."
"You do well!"--remarked Efímushka's companion indifferently.
"Why not? Why should I begin to squirm in my soul, when I'm alone,
that's all there is to it. I'm a free man, brother. As I like, so I
live, I pass my life according to the law.... Ye-es.... And what is
your name?"
"My name? Well.. call me Pável Ivánoff, if you like...."
"Very well! Are you an ecclesiastic?"
"N-no...."
"Well, now? Why, I thought you were...."
"Did you think so from my dress?"
"Yes, exactly so! You're for all the world like a runaway monk, or a
disfrocked priest.... But your face doesn't suit, in the face you look
more like a soldier.... God knows what sort of a man you are"--and
Efímushka cast an inquisitive glance at the pilgrim. The latter sighed,
adjusted his hat on his head, mopped his perspiring brow, and asked the
policeman:
"Do you smoke tobacco?"
"Oh, mercy me! Of course I smoke!"
He pulled a dirty tobacco-pouch out of his bosom, and bending his head,
but not halting, he began to stuff tobacco into a clay pipe.
"There now, smoke that!"--The prisoner stopped, and bending toward
a match which his escort lighted, he drew in his cheeks. Blue smoke
floated up into the air.
"From what class do you come? Are you a petty burgher?"
"A noble...." said the prisoner briefly, and spat to one side, on the
ears of rye, already clothed in a golden glow.
"E-eh! That's clever! Then how do you come to be going about without a
passport?"
"Why, I'm just roaming."
"Well--well! That's practical! Your nobility is accustomed to this
wolfs life, I guess? E-ekh, you unfortunate!"
"Well, that will do ... stop your chatter,"--said the unfortunate
curtly.
But Efímushka, with growing curiosity and sympathy, scrutinized the
passportless man, and wagging his head thoughtfully, he went on:
"A-aï! How Fate does play with a man, when you come to think of it!
How, I suppose it is true that you are a nobleman, because you carry
yourself so magnificently. Have you been living long in this manner?"
The man with the magnificent carriage cast a surly glance at Efímushka,
and waved him off with his hand, as he would have treated a troublesome
wasp.
"Drop it, I say! Why are you persisting, like a woman?"
"Now, don't you get angry!"--remarked Efímushka soothingly. "I'm
speaking with pure motives ... I have a very kind heart...."
"Well, that's lucky for you ... But your tongue wags
incessantly--that's unlucky for me."
"Well, all right! I can hold my tongue ... a man can hold his tongue
if people don't want to listen to his conversation. But you're getting
angry without any cause.... Is it my fault that you have been compelled
to live the life of a vagabond?"
The prisoner halted, and set his teeth so tightly, that his cheek-bones
stood out like two acute angles, and the gray bristles on them stood
on end. He eyed Efímushka from head to foot, with eyes puckered up and
blazing with wrath.
But before Efímushka observed this pantomime, he began again to cover
the ground with long strides.
On the countenance of the loquacious policeman lay an impress of
pensiveness. He stared upward, at the spot whence the trills of the
larks poured forth, and whistled to them through his teeth, brandishing
his cudgel in time with his steps. They reached the edge of the forest.
It stood like a dark, motionless wall--not a sound was wafted from it
to greet the travellers. The sun was already setting, and its slanting
rays dyed the crests of the trees with crimson and gold. From the trees
breathed forth a fragrant dampness, the twilight, and concentrated
silence, which filled the forest gave birth to a feeling of awe.
When a forest stands before one's eyes, dark and motionless, when it
is completely submerged in mysterious stillness, and every tree seems
to be listening keenly to something--then the forest appears to be
full of something living, which is only temporarily keeping quiet. And
one waits, with the expectation that the next moment something vast
and incomprehensible to human understanding will emerge from it, will
emerge, and begin to speak in a mighty voice about the great mysteries
of Nature's creation....