He began to feel drowsy, thanks to the vodka, what he had eaten,
and his incoherent thoughts. Without undressing, merely pulling his
muddy boots off by the simple expedient of rubbing one foot against
the other, he threw himself on his bed. But he was disturbed by the
necessity of rising again almost immediately: before night oat-straw
must be given to the horses, the cows, and the sheep, and also to the
stallion--or, no, it would be better to mix it with hay and moisten
and salt it well. Only, if he let himself go he would certainly fall
asleep. Tikhon Ilitch reached out to the chest of drawers, grasped the
alarm-clock, and began to wind it up. And the alarm-clock came to life
and began to tick--and the atmosphere in the chamber seemed to become
more tranquil, more cheerful, under the influence of its rapid, even
ticking. His thoughts began to get confused.
But no sooner had they become drowsily obscure than a rough, loud
sound of ecclesiastical chanting suddenly made itself audible. Opening
his eyes with a start, Tikhon Ilitch at first could make out only
one thing: two peasants were roaring through their noses, and a gust
of cold air mingled with the odour of wet great-coats penetrated
from the ante-room. Then he sprang up, sat on the side of his bed,
and scrutinized the peasants to see what sort of men they were, and
suddenly became conscious that his heart had started beating. One was
blind--a big pock-marked fellow with a small nose, a long upper lip,
and a large round skull--and the second was none other than Makar
Ivanovitch!
Makar Ivanovitch had been known, once on a time, as Makarka--everybody
called him “Makar-the-Pilgrim”--and one day he entered Tikhon Ilitch’s
dram-shop. He was roaming somewhither along the highway, arrayed in
bast-slippers, a pointed skull-cap of ecclesiastical cut, and a dirty
under-cassock--and he had entered. In his hand was a long staff,
painted the hue of verdigris, with a cross on its upper extremity and
a spear-like point at its lower, a wallet and a soldier’s canteen on
his back; his face was broad and the colour of cement, his nostrils
were like two gun-barrels, his nose was broken across the middle like a
saddle-tree, and his eyes were of the sort which often goes with such
noses, light-hued and sharply brilliant. Shameless, shrewd, greedily
smoking one cigarette after another and emitting the smoke through his
nostrils, speaking in a rough, abrupt tone which completely excluded
any reply, he had made an extremely pleasant impression on Tikhon
Ilitch, in particular by that tone, because it was immediately evident
that he was “a thoroughgoing rascal.”
So Tikon Ilitch kept him with him as his assistant. He removed his
tramp’s garb and kept him. But Makarka turned out to be such a thief
that it became necessary to give him a severe thrashing and turn him
out. A year later Makarka rendered himself famous throughout the
entire county by his prophecies--prophecies so ill-omened that people
began to dread his visits as they dreaded fire. He would walk up under
some one’s window and snufflingly strike up, “Give rest with the
Saints,” or would make a present of a fragment of incense or a pinch of
dust--and, infallibly, that house soon had a corpse.
Now Makarka, in his original garb, staff in hand, was standing on the
threshold and chanting. The blind man was chiming in, rolling his
milky eyes up under his lids the while, and Tikhon Ilitch, judging
merely from his ill-proportioned features, immediately set him down as
a runaway convict, a terrible and ruthless wild beast. But what these
vagabonds were singing was even more terrible. The blind man, gloomily
twitching his uplifted brows, sang out boldly, in a nasty, snuffling
tenor voice. Makarka, his immovable eyes flashing, boomed along in a
savage basso. The effect was immeasurably loud, roughly melodious,
antiquely ecclesiastical, powerful, and menacing:
“Damp Mother-Earth is weeping heavily, is sobbing!”
sang the blind man.
“Is Wee-p-i-i-ng hea-vi-ly, is sob-bing!”
Makarka repeated sharply, with conviction.
“Before the Saviour, before His image--”
roared the blind man.
“Perchance the sinners will repent!”
threatened Makarka, inflating his insolent nostrils And merging his
basso with the blind man’s tenor, he articulated distinctly:
“They shall not escape God’s judgment!
They shall not escape the fires eternal!”
And suddenly he broke off--in accord with the blind man--cleared his
throat, and simply, in his habitual insolent tone, demanded: “Give us
a contribution, merchant, to warm us up.” Thereupon, without waiting
for a reply, he strode across the threshold, marched up to the bed, and
thrust a small picture into Tikhon Ilitch’s hand.
It was a simple clipping from an illustrated journal, but, as he
glanced at it, Tikhon Ilitch felt a sudden pain in his lower breast.
Beneath the picture, which depicted trees bending before the tempest,
a white zig-zag athwart the storm-cloud, and a falling man, was the
inscription: “Jean-Paul Richter, killed by lightning.”
And Tikhon Ilitch was dumbfounded.
But he immediately recovered himself. “Akh, the scoundrel!” he said to
himself, and he slowly tore the picture into tiny bits. Then he got
out of bed and, drawing on his boots, said: “Go scare some one who
is a bigger fool than I am. I know you well, you see, my good man!
Here--take what’s right, and--God be with you!” Then he went into the
shop, carried out to Makarka, who was standing with the blind man near
the porch, a couple of pounds of cracknels and a couple of herrings,
and repeated once more, sternly: “The Lord be with you!”
“And how about some tobacco?” audaciously demanded Makarka.
“I have only a scant supply of it on hand for myself.”
Makarka grinned.
“Correct!” said he. “That means--furnish your own tobacco, I’ll give
the paper--and let’s have a smoke!”
“Behind the dram-shop in the town tobacco grows on the bushes,”
retorted Tikhon Ilitch curtly. “You can’t outdo me in foul language, my
good man!” And, after a pause, he added: “Hanging’s too good for you,
Makarka, after the tricks you’ve played!”
Makarka surveyed the blind man, who was standing erect, firmly planted
with brows elevated, and asked him: “Man of God, what ought we to do,
think you? Strangle him or shoot him?”
“Shooting’s surer,” replied the blind man gravely. “At any rate, that’s
the most direct road.”