The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

The Steppe

(THE STORY OF A JOURNEY)

I

Early one July morning a dilapidated springless brichka – one of those antediluvian carriages in which only merchants’ clerks, cattle dealers and impecunious priests travel in Russia these days – drove out of N—, the main town in Z— province and thundered along the post road. It rattled and squeaked at the slightest jolt – to the mournful accompaniment of a pail tied to the backboard. From these sounds alone and the pathetic leather strips dangling from its peeling chassis one could determine its great antiquity and fitness for the scrapheap.

Two residents of N— were seated in the brichka: a clean-shaven, bespectacled merchant in a straw hat by the name of Ivan Ivanych Kuzmichov who looked more like a civil servant than a merchant, and Father Khristofor Siriysky, senior priest of St Nicholas’s Church at N—, a small, long-haired old man wearing a grey canvas caftan, a broad-brimmed top hat and a colourful embroidered belt. The first was deep in thought and kept shaking his head to ward off sleep. His customary, cold, businesslike expression was at odds with the good humour of one who had just bid his family farewell and had drunk a glass or two. The second was gazing at God’s world in wonderment with his small moist eyes and with a smile so broad that it seemed even to take in the brim of his hat; his face was red and had a chilled look. Both Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor were on their way to sell wool. Just a few moments before, as they said farewell to their households, the two of them had heartily indulged themselves in cream doughnuts and despite the early hour had enjoyed a good drink… Both were in the best of moods.

Besides the above-mentioned gentlemen and Deniska, the coachman, who was tirelessly whipping the pair of sprightly bays, there was one other passenger in the carriage – a nine-year-old boy with a face that was brown from the sun and wet with tears. This was Yegorushka, Kuzmichov’s nephew. With his uncle’s permission and Father Khristofor’s blessing, he was on his way to grammar school. His mother, Olga Ivanovna – Kuzmichov’s sister and a minor civil servant’s widow, who doted on educated people and refined company – had prevailed upon her brother to take Yegorushka on his wool-selling trip and deliver him to the school. And now this boy, with no idea where or why he was travelling, was sitting on the box next to Deniska, clinging to his elbow to stop falling off and bobbing up and down like a kettle on the hob. The rapid motion made his red shirt billow out from his back like a balloon and his new, coachman-style hat with its peacock’s feather was constantly slipping onto the nape of his neck. He felt the most abject of mortals and just wanted to cry.

When the carriage passed the prison, Yegorushka looked at the guards slowly pacing up and down by the high white wall, at the small barred windows, at the glittering cross on the roof and he remembered how a week earlier, on the Day of Our Holy Lady of Kazan,¹ he had gone with his mother to the prison chapel to celebrate the festival. And before that, at Easter, he had visited the prison with Lyudmila, the cook, and Deniska, and taken Easter cakes, eggs, pies and roast beef. The convicts had thanked them and crossed themselves – and one of them had given Yegorushka a pair of hand-made tin studs.

The boy gazed at these familiar places as that hateful carriage flashed past them, leaving everything in its wake. After the prison, black, sooty smithies flew by, and then the snug green cemetery enclosed by a cobblestone wall. From behind this wall white crosses and tombstones nestling in the foliage of the cherry trees gaily peeped out and from the distance they resembled white patches. Yegorushka remembered that when the cherry trees were in bloom those white patches would merge with the blossoms in a sea of white. And when the cherries ripened the white tombstones and crosses would be flecked with crimson spots, like bloodstains. Under the cherry trees, behind the wall, Yegorushka’s father and his grandmother, Zinaida Danilovna, slept day and night. When Grandmother had died they put her in a long narrow coffin and placed two five-copeck pieces over her eyes that would not close. Before she died she had been very much alive and used to bring him poppy-seed rolls from the market, but now she just slept and slept…

Beyond the cemetery were the smoking brickyards. Dense black smoke rose in great clouds from the squat reed-thatched roofs and drifted lazily upwards. The sky above the yards was murky and the big shadows cast by the clouds of smoke crept over the fields and across the road. Men and horses, covered in red dust, were moving about in the smoke by the roofs.

The town came to an end with the brickyards and the open country began. For the last time Yegorushka looked back at the town, pressed his face to Deniska’s elbow and wept bitterly.

‘Still blubbering, eh? Little cry-baby!’ said Kuzmichov. ‘Mama’s darling’s snivelling again! If you don’t want to come you’d better stay behind. No one’s forcing you.’

‘Never mind, Yegor my boy, never mind,’ Father Khristofor said in a rapid patter. ‘Never mind, boy… Call on God. It’s for a good purpose you’re travelling, not an evil one. As they say, knowledge is light and ignorance is darkness. Verily it is so!’

‘Do you want to go back?’ asked Kuzmichov.

‘Ye-es I do!’ sobbed Yegorushka.

‘Then you should go back. No point in travelling all this way for nothing.’

‘Never mind, my boy, never mind,’ Father Khristofor continued. ‘You must call on God. Now, Lomonosov² travelled like this with the fishermen, but then he became famous all over Europe. Intellect conjoined with faith brings forth fruit that is pleasing to God. What does the prayer say? “For the glory of our Creator, for the solace of our parents and for the benefit of church and country…” Yes, that’s so.’

‘But there’s different kinds of benefit,’ Kuzmichov said as he lit a cheap cigar. ‘There’s some who study for twenty years but still get no benefit from it.’

‘That does happen.’

‘Some folk benefit from learning, but there’s others that get their brains all in a muddle. My sister’s got no sense at all, she’s always trying to be so refined and she wants Yegorushka to be a scholar. But she doesn’t understand that with me in my line of business I could set him up for life. I’m telling you all this because if everyone became scholars or gentlemen there’d be no one left to do the trading or sowing. Everyone would starve to death.’

‘But if everyone started trading or sowing there’d be no one left to acquire learning.’

Thinking that they had both said something weighty and compelling, Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor assumed solemn expressions and cleared their throats simultaneously. Having listened to their conversation and made nothing of it, Deniska shook his head, sat up and lashed both horses. There was silence.

And meanwhile a wide, endless plain encircled by a chain of hills was stretching out before the travellers. Huddling together and peeping out from behind each other, these hills melted away into the rising ground which extended from the right of the road to the very horizon and vanished in the lilac distance: here you can travel on and on without ever being able to make out where the plain begins or ends… Behind, the sun was already looking out over the town and quietly, without any fuss, it was beginning its work. At first, a long way ahead, where sky met earth, close to small barrows and a windmill which from the distance resembled a tiny man waving his arms, a broad, bright yellow band stole over the ground. A moment later a similar bright band lit up a little closer, crept off to the right and enfolded the hills. Something warm touched Yegorushka’s back, a band of light that had crept up from behind darted between the carriage and horses and rushed away to meet other bands – and suddenly the whole wide plain cast off its early morning penumbra, smiled and sparkled with dew.

Newly-mown rye, coarse steppe grass, spurge and wild hemp – everything that had been half-dead, reddish-brown and darkened by the intense heat, washed by the dew now and caressed by the sun – came to life, to blossom anew. Arctic petrels cheerfully cried as they skimmed over the road, gophers called to each other in the grass, from somewhere far to the left came the lapwings’ plaintive song. Frightened by the carriage, a covey of partridges took wing and flew towards the hills, softly trilling. Grasshoppers, cicadas, field-crickets and mole-crickets struck up their monotonous chirring in the grass.

But after a short while the dew evaporated, the air became stagnant and once more the disappointed steppe took on its cheerless July aspect. The grass drooped and life stood still. The brownish-green, sun-baked hills, appearing lilac from afar with their soft muted tints, the plain and the hazy distance, and that overarching sky – so breathtakingly deep and transparent in the steppes where there are no forests or high mountains – now seemed endless and numb with anguish…

How sultry, how forlorn! The carriage races along and all Yegorushka can see is that same sky, plain, hills… The music in the grass grows hushed. The petrels fly off, the partridges vanish. Rooks idly hover over the withered grass: all of them are alike and they make the steppe look even more monotonous.

A kite skims the earth with an even sweep of its wings, suddenly stops in mid-air as if brooding over the tedium of existence and then flaps its wings and shoots off like an arrow over the steppe. Why did it fly and what did it need? That was a mystery. Far away the windmill waved its sails.

Now and then brief glimpses of white skulls or boulders break the monotony; an ancient grey monumental stone or a parched willow with a dark-blue crow on its topmost branch looms up for a fleeting moment, a gopher darts across the road – and once again tall weeds, hills, rooks flash before the eye.

But now, thank heavens, a cart laden with sheaves of corn approaches. On the very top lies a young peasant girl. Sleepy and exhausted by the heat she raises her head to look at the people coming towards her. Deniska gapes at her, the bays stretch their muzzles towards the sheaves, the carriage screeches as it grazes the cart and prickly ears of corn brush Father Khristofor’s hat like a besom.

‘Can’t you see where you’re going, you fat lump!’ shouts Deniska. ‘Gawping like you bin stung by a bee!’

The girl smiles sleepily, moves her lips and lies down again… And then a solitary poplar appears on a hill. God alone knows who planted it and why it was there. It was hard to take one’s eyes from its graceful trunk and green attire. Was that beautiful tree happy? Scorching heat in summer, biting frosts and blizzards in winter, terrifying nights in autumn when you see only pitch darkness and hear nothing but the wayward, angrily howling wind. But worst of all, you are alone, alone all your life…

Beyond the poplar a bright yellow carpet of wheat stretched from the crest of the hill down to the road. Up on the hill the wheat had already been cut and gathered into sheaves, but at the bottom reaping was still in progress. Six reapers were standing side by side swishing their cheerfully gleaming scythes in unison. The movements of the women who were binding the sheaves and the gleaming scythes told of blistering, stifling heat. A black dog with its tongue hanging out ran from the reapers towards the carriage, probably meaning to bark, but stopped halfway and casually looked at Deniska as he threatened it with his whip: it was too hot for barking! One woman stood erect, clutched her tormented back with both hands and followed Yegorushka’s red calico shirt with her eyes. Whether it was the colour that pleased her or whether she was thinking of her children, she stood motionless for a long time watching him pass.

But now the wheat too had flashed by and once again there stretched that scorched plain, those sun-baked hills, the sultry sky; again a kite hovered over the earth. And in the distance that windmill was waving its arms again, still resembling a tiny man swinging his arms. One grew weary of looking at it and it seemed to be running away from the carriage, never to be reached.

Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov sat in silence. Deniska shouted as he whipped the bays. Yegorushka was no longer crying, but looked around apathetically. The burning heat and the tedium of the steppes had exhausted him. He felt that he had been travelling and bobbing up and down for ages, that the sun had been baking his back for an eternity. They had not even travelled seven miles, but already he was thinking: ‘It’s time we stopped for a rest!’ The good-humoured look had gradually faded from Uncle’s face, leaving only that matter-of-fact detachment which lends an implacable, inquisitorial expression to a lean, clean-shaven face, especially when it is bespectacled and when nose and temples are covered in dust. But Father Khristofor never stopped looking at God’s world in wonderment and smiling. Not saying a word, he was thinking about something agreeable and cheerful, and a kindly, genial smile was fixed on his face. The intense heat, it seemed, had made that agreeable, cheerful thought congeal in his brain…

‘Tell me, Deniska, do you think we’ll catch up with the carts today?’ asked Kuzmichov.

Deniska glanced at the sky, sat up, whipped the horses and replied, ‘We’ll catch ’em up by nightfall, God willing…’

There was a sound of barking. Six huge steppe sheepdogs suddenly leapt out as if they had been lying in ambush and rushed to meet the carriage with ferocious howls. All of them, exceptionally vicious, with shaggy spiderish muzzles and red-eyed with malice, surrounded the carriage, jealously hustled each other and set up a hoarse baying. They were filled with passionate loathing and seemed ready to tear horses, carriage and men to shreds. Deniska, who loved to tease and wield his whip, rejoiced at the opportunity, assumed an expression of malicious glee, leant over and lashed out at one of the dogs. This made them howl even more and the horses raced off. Yegorushka, who could barely hold on to the box, realized as he looked at the dogs’ eyes and teeth that he would be torn to pieces in a trice should he fall off. But he felt no fear, looked at them with the same malicious glee as Deniska and only regretted that he had no whip in his hands.

The carriage drew level with a flock of sheep.

‘Stop!’ cried Kuzmichov. ‘Whoa!’

Deniska flung his whole body backwards and reined in the horses. The carriage came to a halt.

‘Come here!’ Kuzmichov shouted at the drover. ‘Get those blasted dogs off will you!’

The old drover, ragged and barefoot, with a warm fur cap, a filthy bag on his thigh and a long crook in his hands – a regular Old Testament figure – called off the dogs, doffed his cap and went over to the carriage. An identical patriarchal figure was standing stock-still on the other side of the flock, impassively surveying the travellers.

‘Whose flock is this?’ asked Kuzmichov.

‘Why, it’s Varlamov’s!’ the old man replied in a loud voice.

‘It’s Varlamov’s!’ repeated the drover on the other side of the flock.

‘Tell me, did Varlamov pass this way yesterday or didn’t he?’

‘No, he didn’t. But his bailiff did… that’s a fact…’

‘Let’s go!’

The carriage rolled on, leaving the drovers and their vicious dogs behind. Yegorushka reluctantly peered at the lilac distance ahead and now he had the feeling that the turning windmill was getting nearer. It grew larger and larger until it loomed up in all its bulk and he could see its two sails quite clearly. One was old and patched, the other had been made from new wood only recently and was gleaming in the sun.

Although the carriage was travelling in a straight line, for some reason the windmill began to recede to the left. On and on they drove, but still it kept moving to the left, never disappearing from view.

‘That’s a fine windmill Boltva’s built for his son!’ remarked Deniska.

‘But I can’t see his farm.’

‘It’s over there, on the other side of the gully.’

Boltva’s farmstead soon appeared, but the windmill still did not recede and kept up with them, looking at Yegorushka and waving its shiny sail at him. What a sorcerer that windmill was!

II

Towards noon the carriage turned off the road to the right, continued for a short distance at walking pace and came to a stop. Yegorushka heard a most delicious, soft gurgling, and he felt as though some totally different kind of air had brushed his face like cool velvet. From a hill stuck together by nature from colossal unsightly rocks a thin stream of water was running through a pipe of hemlock wood put there by some unidentified philanthropist. Limpid, gaily sparkling in the sunlight and softly murmuring, as if it imagined itself a powerful raging torrent, it swiftly ran away somewhere to the left. Not far from the hill the little stream broadened out into a small pool. The sun’s scorching rays and the burning soil drained its strength as they thirstily drank from it, but a little further on it had most probably joined up with another similar small stream, since about a hundred steps from the hill there grew along its course lush green sedge, from which three snipe flew up crying when the carriage approached.

The travellers settled down by the stream for a rest and to feed the horses. Kuzmichov, Father Khristofor and Yegorushka sat down on a felt mat they had spread out in the sparse shade produced by the carriage and the unharnessed horses and started eating. That agreeable, cheerful thought which had congealed in Father Khristofor’s brain from the heat simply craved expression after he had slaked his thirst with water and eaten a hard-boiled egg. He glanced at Yegorushka affectionately, chewed for a while and began:

‘I was student too, my boy. From my earliest years God endowed me with intelligence and understanding, so that I wasn’t like the others when I was your age and I gladdened my parents’ and tutors’ hearts with my powers of comprehension. Before I was fifteen I already spoke Latin and composed verses in Latin as well as in Russian. As I remember, I was crosier-bearer to Bishop Khristofor. One day after Mass – as I recall it was the name-day of the most pious Tsar Alexander Pavlovich of Blessed Memory – as the bishop was unrobing in the chancel he looked kindly at me and asked, “Puer bone, quam appellaris?” And I replied, “Christophorus sum.”³ And he replied, “Ergo connominati sumus” – that is, we were namesakes, so to speak. Then he asked in Latin whose son I was and I replied – in Latin too – that I was the son of Deacon Siryisky, of Lebedinskoye village. Seeing how quick and lucid my replies were the bishop blessed me and said, “Write and tell your father that I shan’t forget him and that I’ll keep you in mind.” When the priests and holy fathers who were in the chancel heard this exchange in Latin they were not a little surprised either and each one showed his pleasure by praising me. I hadn’t grown whiskers yet, but I could read Latin, French and Greek, I knew philosophy, mathematics, secular history and all the sciences. The Lord gave me the most wondrous memory. I only had to read something once or twice and I knew it by heart. My tutors and patrons were astonished and assumed that I would become an outstanding scholar, a luminary of the church. I did contemplate going to Kiev to continue my studies, but my parents wouldn’t agree to this. “You’ll be studying all your life,” my father said, “so when can we expect to see you again?” Hearing this, I gave up my studies and took up a church appointment. Of course, I never became a scholar – but then, I didn’t disobey my parents. I was a comfort to them in their old age and gave them a decent funeral. Obedience means more than fasting and prayers!’

‘I reckon you must have forgotten every single thing you learnt!’ observed Kuzmichov.

‘And is it surprising? Praise be to God, I’m in my seventies now. I still remember a little bit of philosophy and rhetoric, but I’ve completely forgotten languages and mathematics.’

Father Khristofor screwed up his eyes, reflected for a moment and softly said:

‘What is substance? Substance is an independent entity needing no other for its effectuation!’

He twisted his head round and laughed from emotion.

‘Nourishment for the spirit!’ he said. ‘Verily, matter nourishes the flesh, but spiritual sustenance feeds the soul!’

‘Learning’s all very well,’ sighed Kuzmichov, ‘but we’ll have learned our lessons all right if we don’t catch up with Varlamov!’

‘That man’s not a needle in a haystack, we’ll find him. He’s wandering around somewhere in these parts.’

The familiar three snipe flew over the sedge and in their shrill cries there was a note of alarm and annoyance at having been driven off the stream. The horses steadily champed and whinnied; Deniska bustled around. Trying to demonstrate how completely indifferent he was to the cucumbers, pies and eggs that his masters were eating he embarked upon the slaughter of the horseflies and common flies that were clinging to the horses’ bellies and backs. Uttering peculiar, viciously exultant cries of triumph from deep in his throat, he swatted his victims with gusto and when he missed he grunted with frustration, following with his eyes every single one that was fortunate enough to escape death.

‘Deniska! What are you up to? Come and eat!’ Kuzmichov said with a deep sigh to show he had eaten his fill.

Deniska meekly went over to the felt mat and selected five large yellow gherkins known as ‘yellties’ (he did not dare take any of the smaller, fresher ones), picked out two hard-boiled eggs that were black and cracked, after which he timidly, as if afraid of being struck on his outstretched arm, touched a small pie with his finger.

‘Help yourself! Go on!’ urged Kuzmichov.

Deniska took the pie with determination, walked some distance away and sat down on the ground with his back to the carriage, whereupon such a loud chewing was heard that even the horses turned round and eyed Deniska suspiciously.

When he had eaten, Kuzmichov took a sack containing something out of the carriage.

‘I’m going to sleep now,’ he told Yegorushka. ‘Now, mind no one takes this sack from under my head.’

Father Khristofor removed his cassock, belt and caftan. Yegorushka took one look and was absolutely amazed. Not for one moment had he supposed that priests wore trousers, but Father Khristofor was wearing real canvas trousers tucked into his high boots and a short, coarse cotton jacket. Seeing him in a costume that was totally unbecoming to someone in holy orders and with that long hair and beard, Yegorushka thought he bore a striking resemblance to Robinson Crusoe. When he had unrobed, Father Khristofor lay down face to face with Kuzmichov in the shade under the carriage and they closed their eyes. After he had finished chewing Deniska stretched himself out belly upwards in the full glare of the sun and closed his eyes too.

‘Mind no one steals the horses!’ he told Yegorushka and immediately fell asleep.

Silence fell. All that could be heard was the snorting and champing of the horses and the snores of the sleepers. Some way off a solitary lapwing wailed and there was an occasional squeak from the three snipe that had flown up to see if the uninvited guests had left. The stream softly lisped and gurgled, but none of these sounds broke the silence or stirred the lifeless air – on the contrary, they made nature still drowsier.

Gasping from the heat which he found particularly oppressive after his meal, Yegorushka ran to the sedge and from there he surveyed the locality. He saw exactly what he had seen that morning: the plain, hills, sky, the lilac distance. Only, the hills were nearer and there was no sign of the windmill which had been left far behind by now. From behind the rocky hill where the stream was flowing rose another, smoother and wider, with a tiny hamlet of five or six farmsteads clinging to it. Around the huts there were no people, trees or shade to be seen and it was as if the hamlet had choked in the burning air and withered away. For want of something to do Yegorushka caught a fiddler-cricket in the grass, raised it to his ear in his fist and for a long time he listened to it playing its fiddle. Tiring of this music, he chased a swarm of yellow butterflies that had flown to the sedge to drink and he did not notice that he had come back to the carriage again. Uncle and Father Khristofor were fast asleep; now they would be sleeping for another two or three hours until the horses had rested. How could he pass the long hours and where could he escape the heat? No easy task… Without thinking, Yegorushka put his lips under the stream that was flowing from the pipe. His mouth became cold and there was a smell of hemlock. At first he drank eagerly, then he forced himself until the sharp coldness had spread from his mouth all over his body and the water had streamed over his shirt. Then he went to the carriage and watched the sleeping men. Uncle’s face still expressed that same cool detachment. A fanatical businessman – even in his sleep or at church prayers when they sang ‘And the Cherubim’⁴ – Kuzmichov was constantly thinking about deals and he could not put them out of his mind for one minute. And now he was probably dreaming of bales of wool, wagons, prices, Varlamov… But Father Khristofor, a gentle, easy-going, easily-amused man, had never in his whole life been involved in a single deal that might have coiled itself around his soul like a boa constrictor. In all the numerous business deals he had undertaken in his time he was attracted less by the business itself than by the bustle and social contact – part and parcel of every undertaking. Therefore, in the present expedition, he was not so much interested in the wool, Varlamov, prices, as in the long journey, the wayside conversations, sleeping under a carriage and eating at odd hours… And now, judging from his expression, he was most probably dreaming of Bishop Khristofor, Latin disputations, his wife, cream doughnuts and everything that Kuzmichov could not have been dreaming of.

While Yegorushka was watching those sleepy faces, suddenly there came the unexpected sound of quiet singing. A woman was singing, some way off, but where the song was coming from and from which direction was difficult to determine. That soft, lingering, dirge-like song could be heard first to the right, then to the left, then up above, then from under the ground, as if some invisible spirit were hovering over the steppe and singing. As he looked around, Yegorushka could not make out where that strange singing was coming from. But then, when he had grown used to it, he fancied that the grass might be singing. Through its song, the half-dead, already doomed grass, plaintively and earnestly – and without any words – was trying to convince someone that it was guilty of no crime, that the sun had scorched it without reason. It insisted that it passionately wanted to live, that it was still young and would have been beautiful but for the burning heat and drought. Although guilty of no crime, it still begged someone for forgiveness and swore that it was suffering intolerable pain, melancholy, self-pity…

Yegorushka listened for a while and now it seemed that the doleful, lingering song had made the air even more sultry, hot and motionless. To drown the sound he ran to the sedge, humming and trying to stamp his feet. From there he looked in every direction – and then he saw the singer. Near the last hut in the hamlet stood a peasant woman in a short petticoat, as long-legged as a heron; she was sowing. White dust lazily floated down the hill from her sieve. Now it was obvious that she was the singer. A few yards from her a small boy, wearing only a smock and with no cap on his head, was standing quite still. As though bewitched by her song he did not move and kept looking downwards at something – most likely Yegorushka’s red shirt.

The singing stopped. Yegorushka wearily made his way to the carriage and to while away the time played with the stream of water again.

Again he heard that droning song. That same long-legged woman was still singing in the hamlet, beyond the hill. But then he suddenly grew bored again. He left the pipe and looked up. What he saw was so unexpected that it rather scared him. On one of the large, cumbersome boulders above his head stood a small chubby boy wearing only a smock, with a large protruding stomach and thin little legs – the same boy who had been standing near the peasant woman. In blank amazement, open-mouthed, unblinking and not without some apprehension, as though he was seeing an apparition, he was inspecting Yegorushka’s red shirt and the carriage. The colour of the shirt attracted and delighted him, whilst the carriage and the sleepers underneath made him curious. Perhaps he himself did not realize that the pleasant red colour and his curiosity had lured him down from the hamlet and now he was probably surprised at his own daring. For a long time Yegorushka looked him up and down – and he in turn Yegorushka. Neither said a word and both felt rather awkward. After a long silence Yegorushka asked, ‘What’s your name?’

The stranger’s cheeks puffed out even more. He flattened his back against a rock, opened his eyes wide, moved his lips and replied huskily, ‘Titus.’

The boys said nothing more to each other. After another silence and without taking his eyes off Yegorushka, the mysterious Titus hauled one leg up, felt around with his heel for a point of support and scrambled up the rock. From there, staring at Yegorushka as he retreated and apparently afraid he might be struck from behind, he clambered up onto the next rock and carried on climbing until he disappeared altogether over the crest of the hill.

As he followed him with his eyes Yegorushka clasped his knees and lowered his head. The sun’s burning rays were scorching the nape of his neck and his back. Now that doleful song would die away and then waft towards him in the stagnant, sultry air; the stream gurgled monotonously, the horses champed and time seemed to be dragging on endlessly, as if it too had congealed and come to a stop. A hundred years seemed to have passed since morning… Was it not God’s wish that Yegorushka, the carriage and the horses should become transfixed in that air, turn to stone like the hills and remain in that same place for eternity?

Yegorushka raised his head and looked ahead with glazed eyes. The lilac distance which until then had been motionless suddenly gave a wild lurch and together with the sky raced somewhere even further off. It dragged the brown grass and sedge after it and Yegorushka was whisked away with extraordinary speed in the wake of the fast-receding distance. Some mysterious force was silently bearing him somewhere and the stifling heat and that wearisome song were following in hot pursuit. Yegorushka bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Deniska was first to awake. Something had bitten him, because he jumped up, quickly scratched his shoulder and muttered, ‘You rotten brute, damn and blast you!’

Then he went to the stream, slaked his thirst and took a long time to wash himself. His snorting and splashing roused Yegorushka from his drowsiness. The boy looked at Deniska’s wet face covered with drops of water and large freckles, which created a marbled effect, and asked, ‘Are we leaving soon?’

Deniska looked up to see how high the sun was.

‘Shouldn’t be long,’ he replied.

He dried himself on his shirt-tail, assumed a very solemn expression and started hopping about on one foot.

‘Come on, I’ll race you to the sedge!’ he said.

Although Yegorushka was utterly exhausted by the heat and drowsiness he still hopped after him. Deniska was about twenty and employed as a coachman. He was intending to get married – but he behaved like a little boy. He adored flying kites, racing pigeons, playing knucklebones and tag, and was always getting involved in children’s games and quarrels. His masters had only to go out or fall asleep for him to start amusing himself with some sport such as hopping on one foot or throwing stones. Every adult, on seeing the genuine enthusiasm with which he romped about in children’s company, found it hard to refrain from commenting ‘What an oaf!’ But children found nothing strange in this invasion of their domain by the big coachman: ‘He can play with us as long as he doesn’t start fighting!’ they would say. Similarly, small dogs don’t find it at all strange when large, well-meaning dogs intrude on them and start playing with them.

Deniska outstripped Yegorushka and this evidently gave him great satisfaction. He winked and to prove that he could hop on one foot over any distance suggested that Yegorushka hop with him along the road and back to the carriage without stopping.

Yegorushka declined this proposal, since he was already feeling terribly weak and breathless.

Suddenly Deniska pulled an extremely grave face – something he didn’t do even when Kuzmichov gave him a severe telling-off or brandished his stick at him. Listening hard, he slowly went down on one knee and his face took on that fearful, stern expression that people display when they hear heretical talk. He fixed his eyes on one spot, slowly raised his hands above his wrists in the form of a scoop and then suddenly dropped on his stomach and clapped his hands together.

‘Got him!’ he cried in a husky, exultant voice, stood up and placed a large grasshopper before Yegorushka’s eyes. Convinced that this must be enjoyable for the grasshopper, Yegorushka and Deniska stroked its broad green back with their fingers and touched its whiskers. Then Deniska caught a fat fly that had gorged itself on blood and offered it to the grasshopper. With the utmost nonchalance, as if it had been friends with Deniska for a very long time, the grasshopper moved its large visor-like jaws and bit off the fly’s belly. Then they released the grasshopper and the pink lining of its wings glittered as it settled in the grass and immediately began trilling its song. They released the fly too; it preened its wings and flew off towards the horses minus its belly.

A deep sigh came from under the carriage. Kuzmichov had woken up. He quickly raised his head, anxiously peered into the distance and one could tell from his glance, which indifferently by-passed both Yegorushka and Deniska, that his first thoughts on waking were about wool and Varlamov.

‘Get up, Father Khristofor! It’s time to go!’ he said in alarm. ‘You’ve slept enough – we’ve probably missed out on the deal now anyway. Deniska! Harness the horses!’

Father Khristofor awoke with the same smile as when he had fallen asleep. His face was crumpled and wrinkled from sleep and seemed half its normal size. After washing and dressing he unhurriedly took a small soiled psalter from his pocket, turned his face to the east and started reading in a whisper and crossing himself.

‘Father Khristofor!’ Kuzmichov said reproachfully. ‘It’s time to go, the horses are ready, but you… for heaven’s sake!’

‘Won’t be long,’ Father Khristofor muttered. ‘I must read today’s portion of the Psalms first – I didn’t get round to it earlier.’

‘Your psalms can wait!’

‘Ivan Ivanych, I have to read a portion every day. I mustn’t neglect it.’

‘God won’t call you to account for it.’

For a full quarter of an hour Father Khristofor stood still, facing the east and moving his lips, while Kuzmichov looked at him almost with loathing and kept impatiently twitching his shoulders. He was particularly incensed when after each ‘Glory’ Father Khristofor took a deep breath, quickly crossed himself and repeated three times in a deliberately loud voice so that the others had to cross themselves as well:

‘Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, Glory to Thee, Oh Lord!’

Finally he smiled, glanced up at the sky, put the psalter back in his pocket and said, ‘Fini!’

A minute later the carriage moved off. It was just as if it were travelling backwards, not forwards, for the passengers saw the same scenes as in the morning. The hills were still sinking in the lilac distance and there seemed no end to them. There were fleeting glimpses of tall grass and small stones, strips of stubble flashed by and those same rooks, together with a kite which was steadily flapping its wings, flew over the steppe. The air became even more immobile from the heat and the silence, and submissive nature was numbed in that deathly hush. No wind, not one bright fresh sound, not even one small cloud.

But now at last, when the sun was sinking in the west, the steppe, the hills and the air could bear the oppressiveness no more: exhausted, all patience gone, they endeavoured to cast off the yoke. From beyond the hills there suddenly appeared an ash-grey, fleecy cloud. It exchanged glances with the steppe, said ‘I’m ready’, and frowned. All of a sudden something seemed to snap in the stagnant air, there was a violent gust and the wind whirled over the steppe, whistling and roaring. At once the grass and last year’s weeds began to murmur, while along the road dust eddied and spiralled, raced over the steppe and, drawing after it straw, dragonflies and feathers, soared towards the heavens in a black rotating column and darkened the sun. Far and wide over the steppe dashed tumbleweeds, stumbling and leaping; one of them, caught up in the whirlwind, span round and round like a bird and flew into the sky, where it turned into a black speck and vanished from sight. A second, then a third sailed after it and Yegorushka could see two of them colliding in the azure heights and grappling like wrestlers.

A bustard took flight just by the roadside. Bathed in sunlight, its wings and tail flashing, it resembled an angler’s bait or a pond moth whose wings appear to blend with its antennae when it darts over the water, so that it seems to have antennae growing at the front, at the back and along its sides… Quivering in the air like an insect and displaying all its many colours, the bustard soared to a great height in a straight line and then, probably taking fright at the cloud of dust, flew off to one side – and its flashing could be seen for a long time afterwards…

And then a corncrake, alarmed by the whirlwind and unable to understand what was happening, rose from the grass. It flew after the wind and not into it – unlike all other birds. As a result its feathers grew ruffled, it swelled to the size of a hen and took on a very angry, intimidating look. Only the rooks, which had grown old on the steppe and were used to all its commotions, calmly hovered over the grass or, ignoring all else, casually pecked away at the hard earth with their thick beaks.

From beyond the hills came the dull roar of thunder; there was a sudden breath of freshness in the air. Deniska cheerfully whistled and whipped the horses. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov held on to their hats and strained their eyes towards the hills. How welcome a light shower would be!

Just one small effort, it seemed, just one more exertion and the steppe would have prevailed. But an invisible, oppressive force gradually fettered both wind and air and settled the dust; and once again silence fell, as if nothing had happened. The cloud went into hiding, the sun-baked hills frowned, the air humbly grew still and somewhere only frightened lapwings wailed and bemoaned their fate…

Evening quickly set in.

III

A large single-storey building with a rusty iron roof and dark windows appeared in the twilight gloom. It was called an inn although it had no stable-yard and stood completely exposed in the middle of the steppe. A little to one side was the dark patch of a miserable little cherry orchard with a hurdle fence, while beneath the windows stood drowsy sunflowers, their heads heavy with sleep. A miniature windmill set up to frighten the hares off was rattling away in the orchard. Around the inn there was nothing to be seen or heard but the steppe.

No sooner had the carriage stopped by the canopied porch than joyful voices came from the inn – one a man’s, the other a woman’s. The door creaked on its block and in the twinkling of an eye a tall skinny figure loomed up by the carriage, swinging its arms and coat-skirts. It was Moses Moisevich the innkeeper, a middle-aged, extremely pale-faced man with a handsome jet-black beard. He was wearing a black, threadbare frock-coat which dangled loosely from his narrow shoulders as if suspended from a clothespeg and every time he threw up his hands, whether in joy or horror, its skirts flapped like wings. Besides this frock-coat, the innkeeper was wearing broad white trousers that were not tucked into his boots and a velvet waistcoat with a pattern of reddish-brown flowers resembling gigantic bed-bugs.

When he recognized his visitors, Moses at first stood rooted to the spot from a rush of emotion, then he threw up his hands and groaned. The skirts of his frock-coat flapped, his back bent double and his pale face twisted into a smile that seemed to be saying that the sight of the carriage was not only agreeable but excruciatingly sweet.

‘Ah, goodness me, goodness me!’ he gasped in a thin singsong voice, fussing so much that his wild contortions prevented the passengers from leaving the carriage. ‘Such happy day this for me! Ah, what ever shall I do first! Ivan Kuzmichov! Father Khristofor! What pretty young gentleman is sitting on the box – or may God punish me! Ah, goodness me, why am I standing here like this and not inviting guests into parlour? Come in, I most humbly beg you! Welcome! Let me take your luggage… Ah, goodness me!’

As Moses was rummaging around in the carriage and helping the guests out, he suddenly turned around and cried, ‘Solomon! Solomon!’ in such a frenzied, strangled voice that he sounded like a drowning man calling for help.

‘Solomon! Solomon!’ a woman’s voice repeated from inside the inn.

The door creaked on its block and in the doorway appeared a shortish, young red-headed Jew with a large beaked nose and a bald patch surrounded by wiry, curly hair. He was wearing a short, exceedingly shabby jacket with cutaway flaps and short sleeves, and short woollen trousers – all of which made him look as short and skimpy as a plucked fowl. This was Solomon, Moses’ brother. Without a word of greeting and with a rather strange smile he approached the carriage.

‘Ivan Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor are here!’ Moses told him in a tone that intimated he was afraid Solomon might not believe him. ‘Ay vay, what surprise to have such lovely people suddenly dropping in on us like this! Come on, Solomon, take their things. This way, my honoured guests!’

Shortly afterwards Kuzmichov, Father Khristofor and Yegorushka were sitting at an ancient oak table in a large, gloomy, empty room. This table was almost totally isolated, since, apart from the wide sofa upholstered in oil-cloth that was full of holes and three chairs there was no other furniture in that large room. As for the chairs, not everyone would have dignified them by that name. They were a pathetic semblance of furniture, covered with oil-cloth that had seen better days and with backs that had been bevelled with such unnatural severity they closely resembled children’s toboggans. It was hard to imagine what comforts that mysterious carpenter who had so mercilessly bent those chairs’ backs had in mind and one was inclined to think that it was not the carpenter who was to blame, but some vagrant Hercules who, intent on vaunting his strength, had first bent the chairs’ backs, tried to straighten them but had only bent them even more. The room had a sombre look. The walls were grey, the ceiling and cornices grimy and the floor was full of cracks and gaping holes of unfathomable provenance (one was inclined to think they had been produced by the heel of that same Hercules), and you felt that even if a dozen lamps were to be hung in that room it would still be as dark as ever. Neither walls nor windows displayed anything remotely resembling decoration. However, on one wall, in a grey wooden frame, hung a list of regulations under a two-headed eagle⁵ and on another, in a similar frame, there was some kind of engraving with the inscription ‘Man’s Indifference’. To what men were indifferent was impossible to ascertain, since the engraving had faded appreciably with time and was considerably fly-blown. There was a musty, sour smell in the room.

After leading his guests into the room, Moses renewed his contortions, throwing his arms up, bending up and down and uttering joyful exclamations – all this he considered essential in order to give an exceptionally courteous, friendly impression.

‘When did our wagons pass by?’ Kuzmichov asked him.

‘One wagon train came past this morning, Ivan Kuzmichov, and another stopped for rest and meal and left in early evening.’

‘Oh… did Varlamov come by or didn’t he?’

‘No, he didn’t, Ivan Kuzmichov. But yesterday morning his bailiff Grigory passed by and he told me that Varlamov had most likely gone over to the Molokan’s⁶ farm.’

‘Excellent. That means we’ll catch the wagons up in no time at all – then we’ll go on to the Molokan’s.’

‘But what you thinking of, Ivan Kuzmichov?’ Moses said in horror, throwing up his hands. ‘Where are you going to spend night? Now, you can enjoy nice little supper and stay here for night and tomorrow, God willing, you can drive off and catch up with anyone you have to!’

‘I’m sorry, Moses, but we just haven’t the time. Some other occasion, perhaps. We’ll stay another quarter of an hour, but then we must be off. We can stay at the Molokan’s overnight.’

‘Quarter of hour!’ shrieked Moses. ‘Do you have no fear of God! Now, don’t force me to hide your caps and lock door! At least have a bite to eat and some tea!’

‘We’ve no time for tea and sugar and all that stuff,’ said Kuzmichov.

Moses leaned his head to one side, crooked his knees and spread his hands out as if warding off blows; with that same painfully cloying smile he started begging them:

‘Ivan Kuzmichov! Father Khristofor! Please do me favour and have tea with me! Am I really such wicked man that you refuse to drink tea with me? Ivan Kuzmichov!’

‘All right then, we’ll have some tea,’ Father Khristofor sighed sympathetically. ‘That won’t hold us up.’

‘Oh, all right,’ agreed Kuzmichov.

Moses sprang into action, gasped joyfully, cringed – just as if he had leapt from cold water into the warm – and ran to the door.

‘Rosa! Rosa!’ he cried in that frenzied, strangled voice in which he had summoned Solomon.

A minute later the door opened and in came Solomon with a large tray. After putting it on the table he looked sarcastically to one side and then smiled as strangely as before. Now, by the light of the small lamp, one could see every detail of his smile. It was extremely complex and expressed a variety of feelings – but predominant was one of blatant contempt. It seemed that he was thinking about something both funny and stupid, that there was someone whom he despised and just could not bear, and that he was pleased about something and was waiting for the right moment to produce a hurtful sneer and then laugh his head off. His long nose, fat lips and cunning, protruding eyes seemed tense from this urge to roar with laughter.

‘Solomon, why didn’t you come over to the fair at N— this summer to do your Jewish impersonations?’ asked Kuzmichov, peering at his face and smiling sarcastically.

Two years before, as Yegorushka also remembered very well, Solomon had performed scenes from Jewish life in one of the booths and enjoyed great success. The mention of this made no impression whatsoever on Solomon. Without a word of reply he went out and soon returned with the samovar.

When he had completed his duties at the table he stepped to one side, folded his arms on his chest, stuck one leg out and fixed his sarcastic eyes on Father Khristofor. In his posture there was something provocative, overbearing and contemptuous and at the same time extremely pathetic and comic, because the more threatening it became the more sharply it accentuated his short trousers, docked jacket, grotesque nose and his whole wretched plucked, bird-like figure.

Moses brought a stool from another room and sat down a little way from the table.

‘Good appetites! Here’s the tea and sugar!’ he said, attending to his guests. ‘Drink your fills! Such rare visitors, so rare! Really, it must be five years since I saw Father Khristofor! And is no one going to tell me who that handsome little gentleman is?’ he asked, tenderly looking at Yegorushka.

‘He’s my sister Olga’s son,’ Kuzmichov replied.

‘And where’s he off to?’

‘To school. We’re taking him to the grammar school.’

Out of politeness Moses showed surprise and meaningfully twisted his head.

‘That’s very good!’ he said, wagging his finger at the samovar. ‘That’s good! And you’ll be such fine gentleman when you leave school that we’ll all have to take hat off to you! You’ll be clever, rich – and so grand! And Mama will be so pleased! Oh, that’s very good!’

He was silent for a while, stroked his knees and then continued in a politely jocular tone, ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Father Khristofor, but I must report you to the Bishop for robbing merchants of their livelihood! I’ll get myself an official form and write and tell him that Father Khristofor doesn’t have much money, so he’s gone into business and started selling wool!’

‘Well, it’s something I thought up in my twilight years,’ laughed Father Khristofor. ‘I’ve changed profession from priest to merchant, my friend. Actually I should be at home now saying my prayers, but here I am galloping around like a Pharaoh in his chariot… Ah, vanity…!’

‘But you’ll make plenty money!’

‘Do you think so? I’ll get more kicks than copecks! The wool isn’t mine, it’s my son-in-law’s, Mikhail’s!’

‘But why didn’t he go himself?’

‘Why?… because he’s still wet behind the ears. It’s all very well buying wool, but when it comes to selling it he has no idea – he’s still very young. He spent all his money, wanted to make a bundle and then go and cut a dash, but he’s been running around all over the place and no one will even give him what he paid for it. For a whole year the lad knocks around and then he comes to me and asks, “Papa, do me a favour, please sell the wool for me. I haven’t a clue about these things!” So true! Yes, the moment things go wrong he comes running to Papa, but before that he managed very nicely without him! He didn’t come to me for advice when he was buying it, but now it’s Papa he wants! But what can Papa do? If it weren’t for Kuzmichov, Papa wouldn’t have done a thing. Children are nothing but trouble!’

‘Yes, big trouble, I can tell you!’ sighed Moses. ‘I’ve got six of my own. This one to school, another to the doctor’s, a third needs coddling – and when they grow up they give you even more trouble. But it’s nothing new – it was the same in the Holy Scriptures. When Jacob had little childrens he wept, but when they grew up he wept even more!’

‘Hm… yes,’ agreed Father Khristofor, pensively glancing into his glass. ‘Personally speaking, I’ve done nothing to anger God. I’ve lived my allotted span as happy as anything… I’ve fixed my daughters up with good husbands, set my sons up in life. And now I’m free. I’ve done my duty and I can go wherever I like. I live nice and quietly with my wife, eat, drink and sleep, enjoy my grandchildren, say my prayers and I ask for nothing more. I live off the fat of the land and I don’t need anything from anybody. Never in my life have I known sorrow and if the Tsar for example were to ask me now, “Is there anything you need? What would you like?” I’d tell him nothing! I want for nothing – and I can thank God for that. There’s no happier man than me in the whole town. Only, I’ve sinned a lot – but after all, only God is sinless. Isn’t that true?’

‘Of course it’s true.’

‘Well then, I’ve lost my teeth of course, my poor back aches from old age, I get short of breath and all that… I do have illnesses – the flesh is weak! But as you can see for yourself I’ve lived my life to the full. I’m in my seventies! You can’t go on for ever – you mustn’t outstay your welcome!’

Father Khristofor suddenly remembered something, snorted into his glass and laughed so much he had a coughing fit. Moses laughed as well – and he too had a coughing fit, out of politeness.

‘It’s an absolute scream!’ Father Khristofor said with a helpless wave of the arm. ‘My eldest son Gabriel comes to stay with me. His line is medicine – he’s a district doctor down in Chernigov⁷… Right, so I tell him, “I’m a bit short-winded… and there’s one thing and another… Well, you’re a doctor, so cure your father!” He immediately makes me undress, does some tapping and listening, kneads my stomach, performs different tricks and then he tells me, “Papa, you need compressed air treatment”.’

Father Khristofor laughed convulsively until the tears came, and then he got up.

‘ “Confound your compressed air!” I said. “Confound your compressed air!” ’ As he said this he laughed and waved his arms. Moses stood up, too, hands on stomach, and burst into peals of shrill laughter, just like a yapping lapdog.

‘Confound your compressed air!’ repeated Father Khristofor, guffawing.

Laughing two notes higher, Moses had such a paroxysm of mirth he could barely keep his footing.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ he groaned in mid guffaw. ‘Let me get my breath… You’re real comedian you are. Oh, you’ll be death of me!’

He laughed and talked, but at the same time he kept giving Solomon timorous, suspicious looks. The latter was standing in the same posture as before and smiling. Judging from his eyes and his grin he genuinely despised and hated people, but this was so at odds with his plucked-hen appearance that Yegorushka construed his defiant attitude and sarcastic, supercilious expression as deliberate clowning, calculated to amuse the honoured guests.

After drinking about six glasses of tea in silence, Kuzmichov cleared a place in front of him on the table, picked up his bag – that same bag he had kept under his head when he slept under the carriage – untied the string and shook it. Bundles of banknotes tumbled out onto the table.

‘Let’s count them while we have the time, Father Khristofor,’ said Kuzmichov.

Moses was embarrassed at the sight of the money, stood up and, since he was a sensitive man reluctant to pry into others’ secrets, he tiptoed from the room, balancing himself with his arms. Solomon stayed where he was.

‘How many in the one-rouble packets?’ Father Khristofor began.

‘They’re in fifties. The three-rouble notes are in nineties, the twenty-fives and hundreds are in thousands. You can count seven thousand eight hundred out for Varlamov and I’ll count Gusevich’s. Now, mind you don’t make any mistakes!’

Never in his life had Yegorushka seen such a huge pile of money as was now lying on the table. There must have been a really vast amount, since the pile of seven thousand eight hundred roubles that Father Khristofor had put aside for Varlamov seemed exceedingly small in proportion to the rest of the bundle. At any other time so much money might have stunned Yegorushka and led him to consider how many buns, dough-rolls and poppy-cakes he could have bought with that pile. But now he looked at it indifferently, conscious only of the revolting smell of rotten apples and kerosene it gave off. Exhausted by the bumpy carriage ride, he felt terribly drained and all he wanted was to sleep. His head dropped, his eyes kept closing and his thoughts were tangled like threads. Had it been possible he would gladly have leant his head on the table, closed his eyes to avoid seeing the lamp and those fingers moving over the pile of banknotes and allowed his sluggish, sleepy thoughts to become even more muddled. As he struggled to stay awake he saw the lamp, the cups and the fingers double, the samovar swayed and the smell of rotten apples seemed even sharper and more revolting.

‘Ah, money, money, money!’ sighed Father Khristofor, smiling. ‘You bring nothing but trouble. I dare say my Mikhailo’s asleep, dreaming that I’ll be bringing him a pile like this.’

‘Your Mikhailo hasn’t a clue,’ Kuzmichov said in a low voice, ‘he’s like a fish out of water, but you understand and can see things straight. As I said, you’d do better if you let me have your wool and went back home. Oh yes, I’d give you fifty copecks over and above my own price – and that’s only out of respect for you.’

‘No, thank you very much,’ sighed Father Khristofor. ‘I appreciate your concern… Of course, if I had the choice I wouldn’t hesitate, but as you know very well, the wool isn’t mine…’

In tiptoed Moses. Trying not to look at the heap of money out of delicacy, he crept up to Yegorushka and tugged the back of his shirt.

‘Come with me, young sir,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I’ll show you such lovely little bear! Such fierce, grumpy bear! Oooh!’

Sleepy Yegorushka stood up and lazily plodded after Moses to have a look at the bear. He entered a small room where, before he saw anything, his breath was taken away by that sour, musty smell which was much stronger here than in the large room and was probably spreading all over the inn. Half of the room was taken up by a large double bed covered with a greasy quilt and the other by a chest of drawers and piles of every conceivable kind of clothing, ranging from stiffly starched skirts to children’s trousers and braces. On the chest of drawers a tallow candle was burning.

Instead of the promised bear Yegorushka saw a big, very fat Jewess with her hair hanging loose, wearing a red flannel dress with black dots. She had great difficulty in manoeuvring the narrow space between bed and chest of drawers, emitting protracted, groaning sighs as if she had toothache. At the sight of Yegorushka she assumed a sorrowful look, sighed long and deep and before he had time to look round put a slice of bread and honey to his lips.

‘Eat it, dear,’ she said. ‘Your mama’s not here and there’s no one to feed you. Eat up.’

Yegorushka began to eat, although after the fruit drops and poppy-seed cakes which he had at home every day he didn’t care much for the honey, half of which was a mixture of wax and bees’ wings. While he was eating, Moses and the Jewess looked on and sighed.

‘Where are you going, dear?’ asked the Jewess.

‘To school,’ Yegorushka replied.

‘How many children does your mama have?’

‘There’s only me, no one else.’

‘Oh dear!’ sighed the Jewess, looking up. ‘Your poor, poor mama! How she’ll cry! How she’ll miss you! In a year’s time we’re taking our Nahum to school, too. Oh dear!’

‘Oh, Nahum, Nahum!’ sighed Moses, the skin twitching on his pale face. ‘He’s such sickly child.’

The greasy quilt moved and there emerged a child’s curly head on a very thin neck. Two black eyes gleamed and stared inquisitively at Yegorushka. Still sighing, Moses and the Jewess went to the chest and started discussing something in Yiddish. Moses spoke in a deep undertone and for the most part his Yiddish sounded like a non-stop ‘gal-gal-gal’, whilst his wife answered him in a shrill ‘too-too-too’, like a turkey-hen. As they were conferring another curly little head on a thin neck peeped out from under the greasy quilt, then a third, then a fourth. If Yegorushka had possessed a vivid imagination he might have fancied a hundred-headed hydra lay under that quilt.

‘Gal-gal-gal,’ boomed Moses.

‘Too-too-too,’ twittered the Jewess.

The conference finished when the Jewess plunged her hands deep into the chest of drawers, unfolded some kind of green rag and took out a large heart-shaped rye cake.

‘Take it, dear,’ she said, handing it to Yegorushka. ‘You’ve no mama now, no one to give you nice presents.’

Yegorushka put the cake in his pocket and retreated to the door as he could no longer bear to breathe that acrid, musty air in which the innkeeper and his wife lived. When he returned to the main room he settled comfortably on the sofa and let his thoughts wander.

Kuzmichov had just finished counting the banknotes and was putting them back in the bag. He paid them little respect and unceremoniously bundled them into the dirty bag – indifferently, as though they were so much waste paper.

Father Khristofor was chatting to Solomon.

‘Well, Solomon the Wise,’ he asked, yawning and making the sign of the cross over his mouth. ‘How are things with you?’

‘What things do you mean?’ asked Solomon, giving him a venomous look, as if some crime were being hinted at.

‘Well… I mean, things in general. How are you getting on?’

‘Getting on?’ Solomon repeated, shrugging his shoulders. ‘The same as everyone. As you see, I’m a servant. I’m my brother’s servant, my brother’s the visitors’ servant and his visitors are Varlamov’s servants – and if I had ten million roubles Varlamov would be my servant.’

‘And why should he be your servant?’

‘Why? Because there’s no gent or millionaire who wouldn’t lick a dirty Jew’s boots to make an extra copeck. Now, I’m a dirty Jew and a beggar, everyone looks at me like I was a dog, but if I had money Varlamov would be making as much a fool of himself in front of me as Moses is in front of you.’

Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov exchanged glances. Neither of them understood Solomon. Kuzmichov gave him a stern, severe look and said, ‘How can you compare yourself with Varlamov, you idiot!’

‘I’m not such a fool as to compare myself with Varlamov,’ replied Solomon, giving the two of them a sarcastic look. ‘Although Varlamov’s Russian, at heart he’s a dirty Jew. All he lives for is money and profit, but I burnt my money in the stove. I don’t need money or land or sheep, and people don’t have to be frightened of me and take their hats off when I go past. That means I’m cleverer than your Varlamov and more like a human being!’

A little later, in his deep drowsiness, Yegorushka could hear Solomon speaking about the Jews in a hurried, lisping voice that was hoarse from the loathing that was choking him. At first he spoke in correct Russian, but then he lapsed into the tone of those fairground tellers of tales from Jewish life, breaking into that same exaggerated Yiddish accent he once used at the fair.

‘Hold on!’ Father Khristofor interrupted. ‘Just a moment! If you don’t like your faith you’d better change it. Anyone who scoffs at his own faith is the lowest of the low.’

‘You just don’t understand!’ Solomon rudely cut him short. ‘We’re talking at cross purposes.’

‘That only goes to show how stupid you are!’ sighed Father Khristofor. ‘I instruct you to the best of my ability and you go and lose your temper. I talk to you calmly, like a father, and you start gobbling away like a turkey! You’re a queer fish, no mistake!’

In came Moses. He looked in alarm at Solomon and his visitors and once more the skin on his face twitched nervously. Yegorushka shook his head and looked around, catching a fleeting glimpse of Solomon’s face just as it was three-quarters turned towards him and when the shadow of his long nose bisected the whole of his left cheek. That contemptuous smile, deep in shadow, those sarcastic, gleaming eyes, that arrogant expression and that whole plucked-hen’s figure doubling and dancing before Yegorushka’s eyes made him look less like a clown than something out of a nightmare – an evil spirit most likely.

‘That brother of yours is a real madman Moses, God help him!’ Father Khristofor said, smiling. ‘You should fix him up with a job somewhere or find him a wife. He’s not human…’

Kuzmichov angrily frowned. Once again Moses looked at his brother anxiously and quizzically.

‘Solomon, get out of here,’ he said sternly. ‘Get out!’

And he added something in Yiddish. Solomon laughed abruptly and left.

‘What’s going on?’ Moses asked Father Khristofor in alarm.

‘He keeps forgetting himself,’ replied Kuzmichov. ‘He’s a boor and he thinks too much of himself.’

‘I thought as much!’ Moses exclaimed, clasping his hands in horror. ‘Oh, goodness me, goodness me!’ he quietly muttered. ‘Now, please be so kind as to forgive him and don’t be cross. That’s the kind of person he is. Goodness me! He’s my own brother and I’ve had nothing but trouble with him. Why, did you know he…’

Moses curled his finger against his forehead.

‘He’s out of his mind,’ he continued, ‘a hopeless case. I just don’t know what to do with him. He cares for no one, respects no one and fears no one. You know, he laughs at everyone, says stupid things and rubs everyone up wrong way. You won’t believe it, but once when Varlamov was here Solomon said such things to him that he gave both of us taste of whip. Why did he have to whip me? Was it my fault? If God robbed him of brains it was God’s will. But how was I to blame?’

About ten minutes passed and Moses still carried on muttering in an undertone and sighing.

‘He doesn’t sleep at night – he just keeps thinking, thinking and thinking. What he thinks about God only knows. And if you go near him at night he gets angry and laughs. He doesn’t like me either… And there’s nothing he wants. When Papa died he left us six thousand roubles each. I bought an inn, married, and now I have children. But he went and burnt all his money in stove. Such shame, such shame! Why did he burn it? If he didn’t need it then why not give to me? Why burn it?’

Suddenly the door squeaked on its block and the floor shook with footsteps. There was a draught of air and Yegorushka felt as if a great black bird had swept past and flapped its wings right in his face. He opened his eyes and there was Uncle, standing by the sofa, bag in hand and ready to leave. Holding his broad-brimmed top hat, Father Khristofor was bowing to someone and smiling – not his customary soft, kindly smile, but a deferential, artificial smile which did not suit him at all. Meanwhile, Moses was trying to balance himself as though his body had broken into three and he was doing his best not to disintegrate altogether. Only Solomon seemed unconcerned and stood in one corner, arms folded, smiling as contemptuously as ever.

‘Your Ladyship, please forgive us, it’s not very clean in here,’ groaned Moses with that painfully sugary smile, paying no more attention to Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor and trying only to stop himself falling apart by balancing his whole body. ‘We’re only simple folk, your Ladyship!’

Yegorushka rubbed his eyes. In the middle of the room there really was a ‘ladyship’ in the shape of a young, very beautiful, buxom woman in a black dress and straw hat. Before Yegorushka could make out her features, for some reason he recalled that solitary, graceful poplar he had seen on the hill that day.

‘Was Varlamov here today?’ a woman’s voice asked.

‘No, your Ladyship,’ replied Moses.

‘If you happen to see him tomorrow please tell him to drop in and see me for a few moments.’

Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, about half an inch from his eyes, Yegorushka saw velvety black eyebrows, large brown eyes and well-groomed, dimpled female cheeks, from which her smile radiated like sunbeams all over her face. There was the smell of some wonderful perfume.

‘What a pretty little boy!’ the lady said. ‘Whose is he? Casimir, just take a look. How lovely! Heavens, he’s asleep! Oh, my darling little pet!’

And the lady firmly kissed Yegorushka on both cheeks. He smiled and closed his eyes, thinking he was dreaming. The door squeaked and the hurried footsteps of someone coming in and out could be heard.

Two deep voices whispered:

‘Yegorushka! Yegorushka! Get up now, we’re leaving!’

Someone, apparently Deniska, set Yegorushka on his feet and took him by the arm. On the way Yegorushka half opened his eyes and once again he saw that beautiful woman in the black dress who had kissed him. She was standing in the middle of the room and gave him a friendly smile and nod as she watched him go. As he went to the door he saw a handsome, thick-set, dark-haired gentleman in bowler hat and leggings. He must have been the lady’s escort.

‘Whoa there!’ someone shouted outside.

At the front of the inn Yegorushka saw a splendid new carriage and a pair of black horses. On the box sat a liveried footman with a long whip. Solomon was the only one to come out and see off the departing guests. His face was tense with the urge to start roaring with laughter and he seemed to be awaiting the guests’ departure with great impatience so that he could laugh at them to his heart’s content.

‘Countess Dranitsky,’ Father Khristofor whispered as he climbed into the carriage.

‘Yes, Countess Dranitsky,’ Kuzmichov repeated, also in a whisper.

The countess’s arrival must have made a very strong impression, since even Deniska spoke in a whisper and only ventured to lash the bays and shout when the carriage had travelled several hundred yards and when, far behind, all that could be seen of the inn was a small dim light.

IV

Who then was this elusive, mysterious Varlamov of whom people talked so much, whom Solomon despised and whom even the beautiful countess needed? As he sat on the box next to Deniska drowsy Yegorushka was thinking about precisely that man. He had never set eyes on him, but he had very often heard people talk about him and frequently tried to visualize him. He knew that Varlamov owned tens of thousands of acres, about one hundred thousand head of sheep and had piles of money. Of his way of life and activities, all Yegorushka knew was that he was always ‘hanging around these parts’ and that he was in constant demand.

At home Yegorushka had heard a great deal about Countess Dranitsky as well. She too owned some tens of thousands of acres, a great many sheep, a stud farm and had a lot of money. However, she did not ‘hang around’ but lived on a magnificent estate, of which Kuzmichov – who was often there on business – and some people he knew told many wondrous tales. For example, they said that the countess’s drawing-room was hung with the portraits of all the kings of Poland, that there was a large rock-shaped table-clock crowned by a prancing diamond-eyed golden horse with a golden rider who swung his sabre right and left whenever the clock struck. They said that the countess gave a ball twice a year to which she invited gentry and officials from all over the province and which even Varlamov attended. All the guests drank tea from water boiled in silver samovars and they ate the most exotic dishes – at Christmas, for example, they were served raspberries and strawberries – and they danced to a band that played day and night.

‘How beautiful she is!’ thought Yegorushka, recalling her face and smile.

Kuzmichov must have been thinking about the countess, too, as after the carriage had driven about a mile and a half he said, ‘And that Casimir Mikhaylych swindles her right and left. Remember when I bought some wool from her two years ago? He netted three thousand from that deal alone.’

‘What do you expect from a lousy Pole?’ Father Khristofor said.

‘But it doesn’t worry her in the slightest. As they say – young and foolish and nothing upstairs!’

For some reason Yegorushka wanted to think only about Varlamov and the countess – particularly the countess. His drowsy brain utterly rejected prosaic thoughts, became muddled and retained only those fantastic, magical images that have the advantage that somehow of their own accord and with no effort from the thinker they spring to mind and then vanish without trace after a good shake of the head. And in fact there was nothing in his surroundings that might encourage pedestrian thoughts. To the right were dark hills which seemed to be concealing something mysterious and terrifying; to the left the whole sky above the horizon was suffused with a crimson glow and it was hard to tell if there was a fire somewhere or if the moon was about to rise. The far distance was as visible as by day, but now its soft lilac hue had faded, veiled by the twilight gloom in which the whole steppe was hiding – just like Moses’ children under their quilt.

On July evenings quails and corncrakes no longer call, nightingales do not sing in wooded river-beds, there is no scent of flowers, yet the steppe is still beautiful and full of life. No sooner has the sun set and darkness enfolded the earth than the day’s sorrows are forgotten and the steppe heaves a faint sigh from its broad bosom. A cheerful, youthful trilling that cannot be heard by day rises from the grass, as if it cannot see in the darkness how it has aged; chirring, whistling, scratching – those bass, tenor and treble voices of the steppe – everything blends in one unbroken din and against the background of these sounds it is pleasant to reminisce and to be sad. The monotonous chirring is as soothing as a lullaby. On and on you drive and you feel that you are falling asleep. But suddenly the abrupt alarm call of a wakeful bird reaches your ears, some vague sound, like a human voice uttering a long ‘Ah-ah!’ of astonishment rings out – and slumber seals your eyelids. Or you may be driving past a gully where bushes grow and you hear the bird called the ‘sleeper’ by steppe-dwellers crying ‘I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping!’ – whilst another bird guffaws or breaks into hysterical weeping – it is an owl. For whom are they crying? Who can hear them on the steppes? God alone knows, but their cries are filled with sadness and complaining. There is a scent of hay, dry grass and late flowers – dense, richly-cloying and soft.

Everything is visible through the haze, but colours and outlines are difficult to make out. All things appear in a different light. As you travel on suddenly you see a monk-like silhouette by the roadside. It is standing motionless, waiting and holding something in its hands. Can it be a highwayman? The figure approaches, grows larger – now it is level with the carriage – and then you see that it is no human being but a lonely bush or boulder. These motionless figures stand on the hills and lie in wait, hide behind the barrows, peep out from the grass – all of them resembling human beings, all arousing suspicion.

But when the moon rises the night grows pale and languorous. It is as if the darkness never existed. The air is crystal clear, fresh and warm, everything is perfectly visible and even individual stalks of grass by the road can be made out. Far and wide over that immense expanse skulls and rocks are visible. The suspicious, monk-like figures seem darker and more sinister against the bright background of night. That surprised ‘Ah-ah!’ rings out more often amid the monotonous chattering and disturbs the still air, or the cry of some wakeful or delirious bird is heard. Broad shadows pass over the plain like clouds across the sky and if you peer for long into the inscrutable distance, hazy, weird shapes loom up, towering one behind the other. It is all rather eerie. And if you look up at the pale-green, star-spangled sky where there is not one small cloud or speck, you will understand why the warm air is so still, why nature is on her guard and is afraid to stir: she is terrified and unwilling to forfeit even one moment of life. Only at sea or on the steppe at night, when the moon is shining, can you judge the sky’s unfathomable depth and boundlessness. It is awesome, beautiful and inviting, looking down languidly and beckoning you – and your head grows dizzy from its blandishments.

On you drive for an hour or two… By the roadside you pass a silent, ancient barrow or a stone image put up by God knows whom and when. A night bird flies silently over the earth and gradually you recall all those legends of the steppe, wayfarers’ stories, folk-tales told by some old nurse from the steppe, together with all that you yourself have seen and grasped with the spirit. And then, in the buzzing of the insects, in the sinister figures and ancient barrows,⁸ in the depths of the sky, in the moonlight and in the flight of the night bird – in all that you see or hear – there are glimpses of triumphant beauty, of youth in its prime and a passionate lust for life. Your spirit responds to its beautiful, austere homeland and you long to fly over the steppe with the night bird. And in this triumph of beauty, in this abundance of happiness, you are conscious of tension and sad yearning, as if the steppe realizes how lonely she is and that her wealth and inspiration are lost to the world – unsung and unneeded – and through all the joyful clamour you can hear her anguished, despairing call for a bard, a poet to call her own!

‘Whoa! Hullo, Panteley! Everything all right!’

‘Yes, Ivan Kuzmichov, thank God.’

‘Seen Varlamov, lads?’

‘No, that we ’aven’t.’

Yegorushka woke up and opened his eyes. The carriage had stopped. A long way ahead, to the right of the road, stretched a wagon train, around which men were scurrying. Piled high as they were with large bales of wool, all the wagons seemed very tall and bulging, the horses small and short-legged.

‘Well, we’re off to the Molokan’s,’ Kuzmichov said in a loud voice. ‘The Jew said Varlamov would be spending the night there, so it’s goodbye, lads. And good luck!’

‘Goodbye Ivan Kuzmichov,’ several voices answered.

‘Now listen, lads,’ Kuzmichov said briskly. ‘What about taking the boy with you? He doesn’t have to hang around with us. You can put him on one of your bales, Panteley, and let him ride with you for a bit. We’ll catch you up later. Come on, Yegor, there’s nothing to worry about!’

Yegorushka climbed down from the box-seat. Several pairs of hands caught hold of him and lifted him high up, and he found himself on something big, soft and rather damp from the dew. Now the sky seemed close to him and the earth far away.

‘Here’s your coat, laddie!’ Deniska shouted from somewhere far below.

Yegorushka’s coat and little bundle were thrown up and landed next to him. Disinclined to think about anything, he quickly placed the bundle under his head, covered himself with his coat, stretched his legs right out and laughed with pleasure, shrinking slightly from the dew. ‘Sleep, sleep, sleep!’ he thought.

‘And don’t you devils do him any harm!’ Deniska’s voice came from below.

‘Goodbye lads, and good luck,’ shouted Kuzmichov. ‘I’m relying on you!’

‘You don’t have to worry, Ivan Kuzmichov!’

Deniska struck the horses, the carriage creaked and moved off, no longer along the high road but somewhere to the side. For a minute or so all was quiet, as if the wagon had fallen asleep and all that could be heard was the clattering of the pail on the backboard gradually dying away in the distance. Then someone at the front of the train shouted, ‘Off we go, Kiryukha!’

The first wagon creaked, then the one after it, then a third. Yegorushka felt that the wagon in which he was lying was swaying as well as creaking. The train was on the move. Yegorushka took a firmer grip on the rope securing the bale, laughed once more with pleasure, adjusted the cake in his pocket and began to fall asleep the way he usually did in his bed at home…

When he awoke the sun was already rising. Screened by an ancient burial mound it was striving to spread its light all over the world, eagerly casting its rays everywhere and flooding the horizon with gold. Yegorushka felt that it was in the wrong place, for yesterday it had risen behind him and now it was very much further to the left. And the entire landscape was different from yesterday’s. The hills had vanished and wherever you looked a brown, cheerless plain stretched away endlessly. Here and there small barrows stood out and yesterday’s rooks were in flight. Far ahead were the white belfries and cottages of some village. As it was a Sunday the peasants were at home, baking and boiling – you could tell from the smoke issuing from every chimney and hanging over the whole village in a blue-grey, transparent mantle. Between the cottages and beyond the church a blue river was visible and beyond it the hazy distance. But nothing bore so little resemblance to yesterday’s sights as the high road. Instead of a road something exceptionally wide with a majestic sweep of heroic proportions stretched over the steppe. It was a grey strip, much-used and covered with dust, like all roads, but it was many metres wide. The sheer scale of it bewildered Yegorushka and conjured up thoughts of the world of legend. Who travelled along it? Who needed all that space? It was strange and puzzling. You might have thought that seven-league stepping giants like Ilya Muromets or Solovey the Robber⁹ still flourished in Russia and that knightly steeds had not become extinct. As Yegorushka gazed at the high road he imagined six lofty chariots riding abreast, like those he had seen in drawings in Bible story-books. These chariots were harnessed to teams of six wild, frenzied horses and their high wheels sent clouds of dust soaring to the sky. The horses were driven by men you might see in your dreams or who might take shape in thoughts of the fantastic. And how well all these figures would have harmonized with the steppe – had they existed!

On the right of the road, along its whole length, were telegraph poles carrying two wires. Growing ever smaller, they vanished from sight near the village, behind the cottages and foliage, and then reappeared in the lilac distance as very small thin pencil-like sticks thrust into the ground. Hawks, merlins and crows sat on the wires, indifferently surveying the moving wagons.

Yegorushka was lying on the very last wagon and had the entire train in sight. There were about twenty wagons in all, with one driver to every three. Near the last wagon, in which Yegorushka was lying, walked an old, grey-bearded man, as thin and stunted as Father Khristofor, but with a stern, thoughtful, sun-tanned face. In all probability this old man was neither stern nor thoughtful, but his red eyelids and long sharp nose gave his face that stern, cold expression typical of people given constantly to thinking serious, solitary thoughts. Like Father Khristofor he was wearing a broad-brimmed top hat – not the kind worn by gentlemen, but of brown felt and more like a truncated cone than a genuine topper. His feet were bare. Probably from a habit acquired during cold winters, when more than once he had had to stand and freeze by the wagons, he would keep slapping his thighs as he walked and stamping his feet. Noticing that Yegorushka was awake he looked at him.

‘Oh, so you’re awake, young fellow!’ he said, hunching his shoulders as if from frost. ‘Ain’t you Ivan Kuzmichov’s little boy?’

‘No, I’m his nephew.’

‘Kuzmichov’s? Well now, I’ve taken me boots off and here I be hopping along barefoot. They’re bad, me poor ole feet – the frost got to them – and it’s easier walking without any boots… Easier, me lad… Without boots, I mean… So, you’re his nephew then? He’s a good man, he’s all right. God grant him health. Yes, he’s all right… I mean Kuzmichov, like… He’s gone to see the Molokan. Oh, Lord have mercy on us!’

The old man talked as if it were bitterly cold, slowly and deliberately, without opening his mouth properly. And he mispronounced labial consonants, stuttering over them as if his lips were frozen. Not once did he smile when he looked at Yegorushka and he had a stern look.

Two wagons ahead walked a man in a long, reddish-brown coat, with a whip in one hand and wearing a cap and riding-boots with sagging tops. He was not old, probably about forty. When he turned around Yegorushka could see that he had a long red face with a thin goatee and a spongy swelling beneath his right eye. Besides that very ugly swelling there was one further sharply striking distinguishing feature about him. With his whip in his left hand he would wave his right as if he were conducting an invisible choir. Occasionally he would put the whip under his arm and then conduct with both arms as he hummed to himself.

The next carrier had a long, rectilinear figure, sharply sloping shoulders and a back as flat as a plank. He held himself erect as if he were marching or had swallowed a poker. His arms did not swing, but hung like straight sticks and he walked stiffly somehow, like a clockwork soldier, scarcely bending his knees and trying to take the longest possible strides. Whereas the old man or the owner of the swelling took two strides he managed to take only one and as a result seemed to be walking slower than everyone else and lagging behind. His face was bound with a piece of rag and on his head something resembling a monk’s cap was sticking up. He was dressed in a short Ukrainian coat covered in patches and baggy blue trousers over bast shoes.¹⁰

Yegorushka could not make out the men who were further ahead. He lay on his stomach, picked a hole in the bale and for want of anything else to do started twining threads of wool. The old man who was walking below turned out to be less stern and serious than one might have supposed from his expression. Once he started a conversation he did not stop.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked as he stamped along.

‘To school,’ replied Yegorushka.

‘To school? Aha… well… Our dear Blessed Lady succour us! Well now, one brain’s good, but two’s better. God gives one man one brain, another two and another gets three… yes, another gets three and that’s a fact… One brain you’re born with, the second comes from studying and the third from living a good life. So, lad, it’s a good thing if a man has three brains. It not only makes living easier, but dying too. Oh yes, dying… We’re all going to die!’

The old man scratched his forehead, looked up red-eyed at Yegorushka, and continued, ‘Last year Maxim Nikolayevich, a gent from Slavyanoserbsk,¹¹ took his young lad off to school too. I don’t know how good he is at learning, like, but he’s a good honest boy. God grant both of them health – they’re fine gentlefolk, that they are. Yes, he took his boy off to school, too… But there ain’t no establishment in Slavyanoserbsk as can teach you proper book learning like… No, that there ain’t. But it’s a nice town, nothing wrong with it… It’s only an ordernary school, for simple folk, but there just ain’t none there that teach the higher sort of learning. No, there ain’t… that’s a fact. What’s your name?’

‘Yegorushka.’

‘Yegory – so you’re a Georgy! Your name-day must be 23 April, same as St George the Dragon-Killer. My Christian name’s Panteley… I’m called Panteley Zakharov Kholodov… Yes, we’re all of us Kholodovs… As you may’ve heard tell, I hail from Tim,¹² in Kursk province. My brothers got thesselves on the town register, working as craftsmen. But I’m a plain peasant. And peasant I’ve been ever since. Seven years ago I went there… home, I mean. I’ve lived in the village as well as the town… As I says, I was in Tim. Thank God we were all alive and well then, but I’m not so sure about now. Perhaps someone’s died. And it’s high time they did, ’cos they’re old, all of them – there’s some what’s older than me. Death’s nothing to worry about, it’s a good thing, but only if you don’t go dying without repenting of your sins. An impenitent death is the devil’s delight. And if you want to die having repented of your sins, so that the mansions of the Lord are not forbidden you, you must pray to the Holy Martyr St Barbara,¹³ who intercedes for all of us. Yes she does – and that’s a fact… ’cos God’s given her a special place in heaven, so everyone has the full right to pray to her about penitence.’

Panteley rambled on and apparently wasn’t bothered whether Yegorushka heard him or not. He spoke sluggishly, mumbling to himself and without lowering or raising his voice, yet he managed to say quite a lot in a short time. Everything he said consisted of fragments that had very little connection with each other and which were completely devoid of interest for Yegorushka. Perhaps – on the morning after a night spent in silence – he was only talking because he wanted to make a roll-call of his thoughts, out loud, so that he could check that they were all present and correct. When he had finished with repentance he carried on with Maxim Nikolayevich from Slavyanoserbsk:

‘Yes, he took his lad to school… yes, he did – that’s a fact…’

One of the wagon drivers who was walking a long way ahead suddenly darted to one side and started lashing the ground with his whip. He was a sturdy, broad-shouldered man of about thirty with fair curly hair and clearly very strong and robust. Judging from the movements of his shoulders and his whip, from the eager way he stood there, he was lashing some living creature. A second driver, a short, thick-set man with a bushy black beard, his waistcoat and shirt outside his trousers, ran over to him and broke into a deep spluttering laugh:

‘Look, lads, Dymov’s killed a viper. I swear it!’

There are some people whose brain-power can be accurately gauged from their voice and the way they laugh. The black-bearded wagon driver was just one of those fortunates: both his voice and laugh betrayed utter stupidity. When he had finished lashing, fair-headed Dymov raised the whip from the ground and laughingly hurled something resembling a length of rope towards the wagons.

‘That’s no viper, it’s a grass-snake,’ someone shouted.

The man with the bandaged face and clockwork walk quickly strode over to the dead snake, looked at it and threw up his stick-like arms.

‘You rotten bastard!’ he cried in a hollow, tearful voice. ‘Why did you have to kill a grass-snake? What harm has it done you, blast you! Ugh, killing a little grass-snake! What if someone did that to you?’

‘You oughtn’t kill grass-snakes – that’s a fact…’ Panteley calmly remarked. ‘It’s wicked… And that ain’t no viper. It may look like one, but it’s a harmless, innocent creature. It’s man’s friend… that grass-snake, like…’

Dymov and the black-bearded driver must have felt ashamed, for they laughed out loud and lazily strolled back to their wagons without answering the grumbles. When the last wagon had come up to the spot where the dead snake was lying the driver with the bandaged face stood over it, turned to Panteley and tearfully inquired, ‘Tell me, grandad, why did he have to go and kill that snake?’

As Yegorushka could now clearly see, his eyes were small and dull, his face grey and sickly and seemingly lustreless too, while his chin was red and looked badly swollen.

‘Tell me, grandpa, why did he kill it?’ he repeated, striding along with Panteley.

‘’Cos he’s stupid and he’s got itchy hands – that’s why he killed it,’ replied the old man. ‘Yes, it’s wrong to kill grass-snakes – that’s a fact. You know, Dymov’s a real trouble-maker, he’ll kill anything he can get his hands on. But Kiryukha didn’t do nothing to stop him, like he ought to ’ave done. All he did was cackle and snigger. Now, don’t you get angry, Vasya. Why get angry? They killed it… so to hell with them. Dymov’s a trouble-maker and Kiryukha’s plain stupid… Now, don’t worry… Folks is stupid, they don’t understand, so to hell with them. Now, take Yemelyan – he wouldn’t hurt a fly – never… that’s a fact. ’Cos he’s an educated man and they’re stupid… That Yemelyan, like… wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

Hearing his name, the driver in the reddish-brown coat and with the spongy swelling who had been conducting those invisible choirs stopped, waited for Panteley and Vasya to draw level, and walked along with them.

‘What’s all this about?’ he asked in a hoarse, strangled voice.

‘Vasya’s real fuming,’ Panteley said. ‘I told him a few things so he wouldn’t get angry, like… Oh, me poor ole feet, they’re frozen stiff! Ah-ah! They’re hurting like mad ’cos it’s Sunday, the Lord’s day!’

‘It’s from all that walking,’ observed Vasya.

‘No, lad, it’s not the walking. It’s easier when I walk, but it fair kills me when I lies in bed and gets warm. No, it’s better when I walk.’

Yemelyan, in his reddish-brown coat, positioned himself between Panteley and Vasya and waved his arms as if those two were about to sing. After a few flourishes he dropped them and grunted despairingly.

‘Me voice ‘as gone!’ he said. ‘It’s a real calamerty! All last night and all morning I seem to ’ave been hearing that triple “Lord have mercy” that we sang at the Marinovsky wedding. It’s in me ‘ead and in me gullet. I feel like I could sing it, but I’m just not up to it! I ain’t got no voice!’

He silently pondered for a while and then continued, ‘Fifteen years I was in the choir, I don’t think no one ‘ad a better voice than me in the whole Lugansk¹⁴ factory. But I was darned stupid enough to go swimming two year ago in the Donets¹⁵ and I ain’t been able to sing one note proper ever since. Caught a chill in me gullet… And without me voice I’m as good as a workman with no ’ands.’

‘Yes, that’s a fact,’ agreed Panteley.

‘As I sees it, I’m done for – and that’s that!’

Just then Vasya happened to catch sight of Yegorushka. His eyes glittered and seemed to grow even smaller.

‘So, we’ve a young gent driving with us!’ he said, hiding his nose in his sleeve as if overcome with shyness. ‘Looks like a real tip-top driver! Now, you stay with us so’s you can ride with the wagons and cart wool around!’

The thought of gentleman and wagon driver being combined in one and the same person must have struck him as most bizarre and witty, since he produced a loud titter and continued to develop the idea. Yemelyan also glanced up at Yegorushka, but cursorily and coldly. He was engrossed in his own thoughts and had it not been for Vasya he wouldn’t even have noticed Yegorushka. Barely five minutes passed before he began waving his arms again. Then, as he described for his fellow travellers the beauty of the wedding anthem ‘Lord have mercy’ which he had remembered during the night, he placed his whip under his arm and began to conduct with both hands.

About a mile from the village the wagon train stopped by a well with a sweep. Lowering his pail into the well, black-bearded Kiryukha lay stomach-first on the framework and thrust his shaggy head, his shoulders and part of his chest into the dark hole so that Yegorushka could see only his short legs that barely touched the ground. When he saw the reflection of his head far below at the bottom of the well he was so overjoyed that he broke into peals of inane, cavernous laughter, echoed by the well. When he stood up, his face and neck were as red as a lobster. The first to run up for a drink was Dymov. He laughed as he drank, frequently turning away from the pail to tell Kiryukha something funny. Then he cleared his throat and produced five swear words loud enough for the whole steppe to hear. Yegorushka had no idea what they meant, but that they were bad he knew very well. He was aware of the silent revulsion his friends and relations felt for them. Without knowing why, he himself shared their feelings and had come to believe that only drunks and rowdies enjoyed the privilege of shouting such words out loud. He remembered the killing of the grass-snake, listened to Dymov’s laughter and felt something akin to loathing for that man. As ill luck would have it, at that moment Dymov caught sight of Yegorushka, who had climbed down from his wagon and was walking towards the well.

‘Looks like the old gaffer’s given birth in the night!’ he shouted, laughing out loud. ‘It’s a boy!’

Kiryukha choked with deep laughter. Someone else started laughing, too, but Yegorushka only blushed and finally concluded that Dymov was a very evil person.

With his bare head, light curly hair and unbuttoned shirt Dymov looked handsome and exceptionally strong. Every movement he made revealed a trouble-maker and a bully who knew his own worth. He flexed his shoulders, put hands on hips and laughed louder than the others, looking as if he were about to lift a colossal weight and thereby astonish the whole world. His wild, mocking look slid over the road, the wagons and the sky, settling nowhere, and he seemed to be looking for something else to kill – for want of anything better to do and just for a good laugh. Obviously he feared no one, would stop at nothing and probably couldn’t have cared less what Yegorushka thought. But Yegorushka hated his fair head, his clean-cut face and his strength with all his heart, listened with fear and revulsion to his laughter and tried to think of some insult to fling at him by way of revenge.

Panteley also went over to the pail. He took a green lamp-glass from his pocket, wiped it with a cloth, dipped it into the pail and drank from it; then, after scooping some more water, he wrapped it in the cloth and put it back in his pocket.

‘Why are you drinking from a lamp, grandpa?’ Yegorushka asked in astonishment.

‘There’s some that drinks from buckets, others from lamps,’ the old man replied evasively. ‘Each to his own… if you likes to drink from a bucket then go ahead and drink your fill…’

‘You little darling, you beauty!’ Vasya suddenly said in a tender, plaintive voice. ‘Oh, you little darling!’

His eyes glittered and smiled as he stared into the distance and his face took on the same expression as before, when he was looking at Yegorushka.

‘Who are you talking to?’ asked Kiryukha.

‘It’s a vixen… she’s lying on her back, playing like a little dog.’

They all peered into the distance, searching for the vixen, but they could see nothing. Only Vasya, with those small, lacklustre grey eyes of his, was able to see anything and he was in raptures. As Yegorushka discovered later, his sight was amazingly keen – so keen that the desolate brown steppe was always full of life and content for him. He had only to look into the distance to see a fox, hare, great bustard or some other living creature that shunned human beings. To spot a fleeing hare or a bustard in flight is easy – anyone who has travelled the steppe has seen them – but it is not given to everyone to see wild creatures in their domestic habitat, when they are not running, hiding or looking around in alarm. But Vasya could see vixens at play, hares washing their paws, great bustards preening themselves, little bustards doing their courtship dance. Thanks to his keen vision, for Vasya there was another world – his own special world that was inaccessible to everyone else and which was no doubt absolutely delightful, for whenever he looked and went into raptures it was difficult not to envy him.

When the wagons moved on the church bells were ringing for morning service.

V

The wagon train drew up on a river bank at the side of the village. The sun was as fiery as yesterday and the air stagnant and cheerless. A few willows stood on the bank – their shadows did not fall on the ground but on the water, where they were wasted, while in the shade under the wagons it was stifling and oppressive. Azure from the reflected sky, the water eagerly beckoned.

The driver Styopka, an eighteen-year-old Ukrainian lad of whom Yegorushka was taking notice only now, in a long shirt without any belt and wearing over his boots wide trousers that fluttered like flags as he walked, quickly threw off his clothes, raced down the steep slope and plunged into the water. After diving about three times he floated on his back, his eyes blissfully closed. His face smiled and became wrinkled, as if he were being tickled, hurt and amused all at the same time.

On hot days when there is no escape from the sultry, stifling heat the splash of water and a swimmer’s loud breathing are music to the ears. Dymov and Kiryukha took one look at Styopka, quickly undressed, laughed loud with anticipated pleasure and tumbled into the water one after the other. That quiet, humble stream resounded with snorting, splashing and shouting. Kiryukha coughed and laughed as if the others were trying to drown him. Dymov chased him and tried to grab his leg.

‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Catch him! Hold him!’

Kiryukha was laughing and enjoying himself, but his expression was the same as on dry land: stupid and stunned, as if someone had sneaked up from behind and clubbed him with an axe butt. Yegorushka undressed, too, but instead of sliding down the bank he took a flying jump from a height of about ten feet. Having described an arc in the air he hit the water and sank deep – but he did not touch the bottom, since some strange power that was cool and pleasant to the touch caught hold of him and brought him back to the surface. Blowing bubbles and snorting, he came up and opened his eyes, but the sun was reflected in the river close to his face. First blinding sparks, then rainbows and dark patches darted before his eyes. Hurriedly he dived again, opened his eyes under the water and saw something dull green, like the sky on a moonlit night. Once again that power brought him up, stopping him reaching the bottom and staying in the cool. As he surfaced he breathed a sigh so deep that he had a sensation of great spaciousness and freshness not only in his chest but even in his stomach. And then, to make the most of the water, he indulged in every luxury: he lay on his back and basked, splashed, turned somersaults, swam on his stomach, his side, his back, and standing up, just as the mood took him, until he grew tired. The opposite bank, golden in the sunlight, was thickly overgrown with reeds and their beautiful clusters of flowers leaned towards the water. In one place the reeds shook and lowered their flowers with a dry crackling – Stepan and Kiryukha were ‘tickling’ crayfish.

‘Look lads, a crayfish!’ Kiryukha cried triumphantly, pointing out what was in fact a crayfish.

Yegorushka swam to the reeds, dived and started grubbing among the roots. As he delved in the slimy, liquid mud he felt something sharp and nasty – a crayfish, perhaps? – but just then someone grabbed his leg and hauled him to the surface. Gulping and coughing, Yegorushka opened his eyes and saw before him the wet, mocking face of Dymov the bully. That trouble-maker was breathing heavily and from the look in his eyes was evidently eager to carry on with his horseplay. He seized Yegorushka firmly by the leg and his other hand was already raised to grab his neck, but Yegorushka shrank from him with fear and repulsion, as if afraid the bully was going to drown him and managed to break free from his grasp.

‘You fool! I’ll smash your face in!’ he muttered.

Feeling that this did not adequately express his loathing, he reflected for a moment and then added, ‘You rotten swine! Son of a bitch!’

Just as if nothing had happened, Dymov paid no further attention to Yegorushka and swam off towards Kiryukha.

‘Hey there!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s catch some fish! Come on lads, let’s fish!’

‘Why not?’ agreed Kiryukha. ‘Must be loads of ’em here.’

‘Styopka, run to the village and ask ’em for a net.’

‘They won’t give us one.’

‘Oh, yes they will! Just ask. Tell ’em it’s their duty as good Christians, seeing as we’re all pilgrims – or as near as dammit!’

‘You’re right!’

Styopka emerged from the water, quickly dressed and without his cap, his wide trousers flapping, ran off to the village. After the clash with Dymov, the water lost all attraction for Yegorushka, so he climbed out and started to dress. Panteley and Vasya were sitting on the steep bank, dangling their legs and watching the bathers. Close to the bank stood Yemelyan, naked and up to his knees in water, clutching the grass with one hand to stop falling over and stroking his body with the other. With his bony shoulderblades and that swelling under the eye, stooping and clearly terrified of the water, he was a comical sight. His face was stern and solemn and he looked at the water angrily, as if about to curse it for having once given him a cold when bathing in the Donets and robbing him of his voice.

‘Why don’t you have a swim?’ Yegorushka asked.

‘Well… er… I don’t fancy it,’ replied Vasya.

‘Why is your chin swollen?’

‘It hurts… Once I worked in a match factory, young sir… The doctor said that was why me jaw got all swelled up. The air was bad in there. And besides me, three other lads got swollen jaws – with one of ’em it clean rotted away!’

Soon Styopka returned with a net. From their long stay in the water Dymov and Kiryukha were turning mauve and wheezing, but they set about fishing with great relish. At first they went along the reeds where it was deep. Here Dymov was up to his neck and the squat Kiryukha out of his depth. The latter was swallowing mouthfuls of water and blowing bubbles, while Dymov kept falling over and became entangled in the net as he stumbled on the prickly roots. They both noisily floundered and their fishing turned out nothing more than a pure frolic.

‘Cor, it’s deep!’ croaked Kiryukha. ‘We won’t catch nothing ’ere!’

‘Stop pulling, damn you!’ cried Dymov as he tried to bring the net into position. ‘Hold it there!’

‘You won’t catch nothing ’ere!’ Panteley shouted from the bank. ‘You’re only scaring the fish, you silly fools! Try a bit more to the left, it’s shallower there!’

Once a big fish gleamed above the net. Everyone gasped and Dymov hit out at the place where it had vanished, frustration written all over his face.

‘Ugh, you lot!’ cried Panteley, stamping his feet. ‘You’ve let a perch get away! It’s gone!’

Moving the net over to the left, Dymov and Kiryukha gradually managed to reach a shallow spot and there the fishing began in earnest. They were about three hundred yards away from the wagons now and they could be seen barely moving their legs, silently endeavouring to haul the net as deep and close as possible to the reeds. To frighten the fish and drive them into the net they thrashed the water with their fists, making the reeds crackle. From the reeds they went over to the far bank, trawled around with the net and then, with a disappointed look and knees held high, they returned to the reeds. They were in active discussion, but what they were discussing no one could hear. Meanwhile the sun was burning their backs, flies were biting them and their bodies had turned from mauve to crimson. They were followed by Styopka, bucket in hand, his shirt tucked right up under the armpits, holding the hem between his teeth. After each successful catch he held the fish high above his head so that it glittered in the sun.

‘Look at that for a perch!’ he cried. ‘And we’ve caught five like that!’

Every time Dymov, Kiryukha and Styopka pulled in the net they could be seen rooting about for a long time in the mud, putting things in the bucket and throwing others out. Occasionally they passed something that was caught in the net from hand to hand, examined it with curiosity and then threw that away too…

‘What’ve you caught?’ came shouts from the bank.

Styopka gave some sort of answer but it was hard to make out what he was saying. Then he emerged from the water, grasped the bucket with both hands, forgot to let his shirt down and ran towards the wagons.

‘This one’s full!’ he shouted, panting heavily. ‘Give me another!’

Yegorushka peered into the bucket: it was full to the brim. A young pike poked its ugly snout out of the water, whilst around it teemed crayfish and minnows. Yegorushka touched the bottom and stirred the water with his hand. The pike disappeared under the crayfish and in its place a perch and a tench floated upwards.

Vasya too looked into the bucket. His eyes glinted and his face softened as it had done when he saw the fox. He picked something out, put it in his mouth and started chewing. There was a crunching sound.

‘Lads!’ Styopka cried out in astonishment. ‘Vasya’s eating a live gudgeon. Ugh!’

‘It ain’t no gudgeon, it’s a chub,’ Vasya calmly replied and carried on munching. He took the tail from his mouth, lovingly examined it and put it back. While he was chewing and crunching Yegorushka felt that it was no human being he was watching. Vasya’s swollen chin, lacklustre eyes, his exceptionally keen eyesight, the fish tail in his mouth and the loving affection with which he chewed the gudgeon – all this gave him the appearance of an animal.

Yegorushka began to find his company tiresome. And besides, the fishing was over. He strolled by the wagons, reflected for a moment and plodded off to the village out of sheer boredom.

A few moments later he was standing in the church, leaning his forehead on someone’s back that smelled of hemp and listening to the choir. The service was drawing to a close. Yegorushka understood nothing about church singing and felt indifferent towards it. He listened for a while, yawned and began examining people’s backs and necks. One of these heads, reddish-brown and wet from the recent bathe, he recognized as Yemelyan’s. At the back the hair had been cut evenly and higher than usual; the hair on his temples was also cut higher than fashion dictated; his red ears stuck out like burdock leaves and they seemed to sense they were out of place. As he studied the back of his head and his ears Yegorushka thought for some reason that Yemelyan was probably very unhappy. He remembered his conducting, his hoarse voice, those timid looks when he was bathing and he felt an intense pity for him. He had an urge to say a few kind words to him.

‘I’m here!’ he said, tugging his sleeve.

People who sing in choirs, whether tenor or bass, especially those who at least once in their lives have done some conducting, usually take a stern, hostile attitude to young boys. Nor do they lose this habit later in life when they no longer sing. Yemelyan turned to Yegorushka and scowled.

‘No larking about in church!’ he said.

Then Yegorushka made his way forward, to be nearer the icon-stand. There he saw some interesting people. At the front, to the right, a gentleman and lady were standing on a carpet. Behind each of them was a chair. Wearing a newly pressed tussore¹⁶ suit, the gentleman was standing stock-still, like a soldier saluting, and he held his blue, clean-shaven chin high. There was an enormous amount of dignity in his stiff collar, his blue chin, small bald patch and cane. From this excess of dignity his neck seemed so tense and his chin strained upwards so forcefully that his head appeared ready to fly off and soar upwards at any minute. The lady, who was stout and elderly and wearing a white silk shawl, was holding her head to one side and she looked as if she had just done someone a favour and wanted to say, ‘Ah, you don’t need to thank me! I don’t like that sort of thing…’ All round the carpet was a dense throng of peasants.

Yegorushka went to the icon-stand and started kissing the local icons. Before each one he bowed to the ground and without rising looked back at the congregation; then he stood up and applied his lips again. The feel of the cold floor against his forehead was extremely pleasant. When the verger came from the chancel with a pair of long snuffers to put the candles out Yegorushka quickly leapt up from the floor and ran to him.

‘Have they given out the communion bread yet?’ he asked.

‘There isn’t any,’ the verger replied crustily. ‘And what would you be wanting it for?’

The service came to an end. Yegorushka left the church without hurrying and wandered around the village square. In his time he had seen many villages, squares, peasants and nothing that he saw now interested him in the least. For want of anything to do and to kill time one way or the other, he called at a shop over whose doorway hung a wide red calico strip. This shop consisted of two spacious, badly lit halves: in one half haberdashery and groceries were sold, whilst in the other there were barrels of tar, with horse-collars hanging from the ceiling. From this second half came the rich smell of leather and tar. The floor of the shop had been watered – and the water had probably been sprinkled by some great visionary or free-thinker, since the floor was completely covered with patterns and cabbalistic signs. Behind the counter, leaning his stomach on a desk, stood a fat, broad-faced, round-bearded shopkeeper. Evidently he came from the north. He was drinking tea through a lump of sugar and after every sip he heaved a deep sigh. His face was the picture of apathy, but every sigh seemed to be saying, ‘You wait! I’ll give you what-for!’

‘A copeckworth of sunflower seeds please,’ Yegorushka said.

The shopkeeper raised his eyebrows, came out from behind the counter and poured a copeckworth of sunflower seeds into Yegorushka’s pocket, using an empty pomade jar as a measure. Yegorushka was reluctant to leave and he spent a long time inspecting the trays of cakes. Then he pondered for a moment and pointed to some fine Vyazma¹⁷ gingerbreads that were mildewed with age.

‘How much are these?’ he asked.

‘Two for a copeck.’

Yegorushka took out the cake given him by the Jewess the previous day.

‘And how much are these?’ he asked.

The shopkeeper took the cake in his hands, examined it from all angles and raised one eyebrow.

‘This kind?’

He raised the other eyebrow and paused for thought.

‘Two for three copecks.’

There was silence.

‘Who are you?’ asked the shopkeeper, pouring himself some tea from a copper teapot.

‘I’m Ivan Ivanych’s nephew.’

‘But there’s no end of Ivan Ivanyches!’ sighed the shopkeeper. He glanced over Yegorushka’s head at the door, was silent for a moment and then he asked, ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘Oh, yes please,’ said Yegorushka, feigning reluctance, although he was longing for his usual morning tea.

The shopkeeper poured him a glass and gave it to him, together with a nibbled lump of sugar. Yegorushka sat on a folding-chair and drank. He wanted to ask another question – the price of a pound of sugared almonds – and had just begun when in came a customer. The shopkeeper put his glass to one side to attend to his business. He led the customer into the other half of the shop that smelt of tar and had a long conversation with him. This customer was obviously exceedingly stubborn and shrewd, kept shaking his head in disagreement and backing towards the door. The shopkeeper reassured him on some point and began pouring oats into a large sack.

‘Call that stuff oats?’ the customer said dolefully. ‘They’re not oats – they’re just chaff. They’d make a cat laugh! I’m off to Bondarenko’s, that I am!’

When Yegorushka returned to the river a small camp fire was smoking on the bank – the drivers were cooking their dinner. In the midst of the smoke stood Styopka, stirring the pot with a large, jagged spoon. A little to one side, their eyes reddened by the smoke, Kiryukha and Vasya were sitting down cleaning the fish. Before them lay the net, covered in slime and weeds – and in it were a gleaming fish and some crawling crayfish.

Having just got back from church, Yemelyan was sitting next to Panteley, waving his arm and humming in a barely audible voice, ‘To Thee we sing…’ Dymov was wandering among the horses.

When they had finished cleaning the fish Kiryukha and Vasya dropped them all, together with the live crayfish, into the bucket, rinsed them and then emptied the whole lot into boiling water.

‘Should I add some fat?’ asked Styopka, skimming off the froth with a spoon.

‘Whatever for? Fish provide their own sauce,’ replied Kiryukha.

Before removing the pot from the fire Styopka added three handfuls of millet and a spoonful of salt. Finally he tasted it, smacked his lips, licked the spoon and grunted in self-satisfaction – this meant the stew was ready.

Everyone except Panteley sat round the pot and got to work with their spoons.

‘Hey, you lot! Give the lad a spoon,’ Panteley sternly remarked. ‘I reckon he wants to eat too!’

‘It’s only plain peasant fare,’ sighed Kiryukha.

‘And there’s nothing wrong with it – if that’s what you fancy!’

They gave Yegorushka a spoon. He started eating, but he did not sit down and stood by the pot, looking into it as if into a deep pit. The stew smelled of fishy wetness and now and then a few scales popped up in the millet. It was impossible to scoop out the crayfish with a spoon and the diners picked them straight out of the pot with their fingers. In this respect Vasya displayed particular abandon, wetting not only his hands in the stew but his sleeves as well. But for all that Yegorushka found it very tasty and it reminded him of the crayfish his mother used to make at home on fast-days. Panteley sat to one side, chewing some bread.

‘Why aren’t you eating, grandpa?’ Yegorushka asked.

‘Don’t eat crayfish… blow them!’ the old man said, turning aside in disgust.

While they ate there was a general conversation from which Yegorushka gathered that, regardless of differences in age and temperament, all his new friends had one thing in common which made them alike: they were all people with a wonderful past and an appalling present. To a man they spoke ecstatically of their past, but almost contemptuously of the present. Russians like to reminisce, but they don’t like living. Yegorushka was not yet aware of this and before the stew was finished he was firmly convinced that the men who were sitting eating around the pot had been humiliated and wronged by fate. Panteley said that in the old days – before the railways – he used to go with the wagon trains to Moscow and Nizhny-Novgorod, earning so much that he didn’t know what to do with the money. And what merchants they were in those days, what fish they had, how cheap everything was! Nowadays the highways were shorter, the merchants stingier, the people poorer, the bread dearer. Everything had degenerated, dwindled to nothing. Yemelyan said that he had once sung in the choir at the Lugansk factory. He had possessed a remarkable voice and read music excellently, but now he was a mere peasant, living on the charity of his brother who sent him out with the horses and kept half of his earnings for himself. Vasya had once worked in the match factory; Kiryukha had been coachman to a very good family and used to be considered the best troika driver in the district. Dymov, son of a well-to-do peasant, had lived a life of pleasure, made merry and didn’t have a care in the world. But the moment he was twenty his strict, harsh father, wanting him to learn a trade and afraid he might become spoilt at home, started sending him out to work as a wagon driver, like any poor peasant labourer. Styopka alone said nothing, but one could tell from his clean-shaven face that he had seen much better days.

Remembering his father, Dymov stopped eating and frowned. He scowled at his mates and let his eyes rest on Yegorushka.

‘Heathen! Take your cap off!’ he snapped. ‘Do you think it’s right eating with your cap on? Call yourself a gentleman!’

Without a word Yegorushka took off his cap. But by now the stew had lost all taste for him, nor did he hear Panteley and Vasya stand up for him. An intense feeling of anger towards that bully welled up inside him and he decided to do him some injury, come what may.

After dinner they all trudged off to the wagons and collapsed in the shade.

‘Are we leaving soon, grandpa?’ Yegorushka asked Panteley.

‘We’ll leave when God wills it… No good leaving now, it’s too hot… Oh Lord, Thy will be done… Holy Mother of God!… Now, lie down, lad.’

The sound of snoring soon came from under the wagons. Yegorushka would have liked to go back to the village, but after a moment’s thought he yawned and lay down next to the old man.