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! II
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!"