The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

VI

All day the wagons stayed by the river and they left when the sun was setting.

Once again Yegorushka was lying on a bale of wool; the wagon gently creaked and swayed. Down below walked Panteley, slapping his thighs and muttering. As on the day before, the music of the steppes trilled in the air.

Yegorushka lay on his back, his hands under his head, gazing up at the sky. He watched the sunset take fire and then fade. Guardian angels covered the horizon with their golden wings and were preparing themselves for slumber: the day had passed calmly, serene and tranquil night had come and now they could rest peacefully in their heavenly home. Yegorushka saw the sky gradually darken and darkness descend on the earth; one after the other the stars began to shine.

If you look at the deep sky for long, without averting your gaze, your thoughts and your spirit somehow blend in a consciousness of solitude. You begin to feel desperately lonely and all that you had once considered near and dear becomes infinitely remote and trivial. The stars that have been looking down for thousands of years, the inscrutable sky itself and the darkness, so indifferent to man’s short life – when you are confronted by them and try to fathom their meaning they oppress your spirit with their silence. Then you are reminded of the solitude that awaits all of us in the grave – and the reality of existence seems awful, terrible…

Yegorushka thought of Grandmother sleeping now in the graveyard beneath the cherry trees. He remembered her lying in her coffin with bronze coins over her eyes; he remembered how they had then closed the lid and lowered her into the grave; he remembered the dull thud of clods of earth on the lid… He visualized Grandmother in her dark, narrow coffin, helpless and forsaken by all. He imagined her suddenly awakening, unable to understand where she was, knocking on the lid, calling for help and in the end growing faint with terror and dying a second death. He imagined that Mother, Father Khristofor, Countess Dranitsky, Solomon were dead. But try as he might to picture himself in the dark grave, far from home, abandoned, helpless and dead, he did not succeed. He could not admit the possibility of death for himself, personally, and he felt that he would never die…

Panteley, whose time was approaching, was walking down below, making a roll-call of his thoughts.

‘Yes, they was fine gentlefolk,’ he was muttering. ‘They took their young lad off to school, but I ’aven’t heard say how he’s getting on… In Slavyanoserbsk there’s no establishment as can make you all brainy, like… No… that’s a fact… He’s a good lad, that boy, no worries with him. When he grows up he’ll be a help to his father. You’re just a shaver now, Yegory, but when you’re a grown man you’ll keep your father and mother. That’s what God’s ordained – “Honour thy father and thy mother.” I myself had little ones… but they was all burned to death in a fire. And me wife died too… and the children… that’s a fact… The hut burned down on Twelfth Night eve. I wasn’t at home, was on me way to Oryol¹⁸… to Oryol like. Marya jumped out into the street and she remembered the children was asleep in the hut so she ran back and was burned to death with the little ones… Yes… Next day all they found was bones…’

Around midnight Yegorushka and the drivers were once again seated around a small fire. While the dry brushwood was kindling Kiryukha and Vasya went to fetch some water from a gully. They vanished in the darkness, but the whole time one could hear them clanking their buckets and talking, which meant the gully wasn’t very far away. The light from the fire lay on the ground in a large flickering patch; although the moon was bright, everything outside that red patch seemed impenetrably dark. The light shone into the drivers’ eyes so that they could see only part of the road. In the darkness the wagons, bales and horses resembled vaguely shaped mountains and were barely visible. About twenty paces from the fire, where road and steppe converged, stood a wooden grave-cross, leaning to one side. Before they had lit the fire and he could still see a long way, Yegorushka noticed that there was an identical slanting cross on the other side of the road.

When Kiryukha and Vasya returned with the water they filled the pot and secured it over the fire. With the jagged spoon in his mouth, Styopka took up his post in the smoke near the pot and pensively gazed at the water as he waited for the first signs of scum. Panteley and Yemelyan sat side by side silently brooding. Dymov lay on his belly, his head propped on his fists, gazing at the fire. Styopka’s shadow danced over him, so that his handsome face would be momentarily in darkness and then light up again. A short way off Kiryukha and Vasya wandered around gathering weeds and birch bark for the fire. Hands in pockets, Yegorushka stood by Panteley and watched the flames devouring the weeds.

Everyone was resting, musing, fitfully glancing at the cross over which the red patches were dancing. There is something melancholy, dreamlike and highly poetic about a lonely grave. You can hear its very silence and in that silence you sense the presence of the soul of the unknown being lying beneath the cross. Is that soul at peace on the steppe? Does it not grieve on moonlit nights? Around a grave the steppe seems sad, cheerless and pensive, the grass sadder and the grasshoppers’ chatter more subdued. No passer-by would forget to mention that solitary soul in his prayers or stop looking back at the grave until it was far behind and veiled in darkness…

‘Grandpa, why is that cross there?’ asked Yegorushka.

Panteley looked at the cross, then at Dymov and asked, ‘Mikola, isn’t this where them reapers murdered the merchants?’

Reluctantly, Dymov raised himself on one elbow and looked at the road.

‘That’s the place all right,’ he replied.

Silence followed. Kiryukha broke some dry stalks, bundled them together and thrust them under the pot. The fire flared up; Styopka was enveloped in black smoke and in the darkness the shadow of the cross darted down the road near the wagons.

‘Yes, they was murdered,’ Dymov said reluctantly. ‘Some merchants, father and son, was travelling around selling icons. They put up at an inn not far from here – it’s kept by Ignaty Fomin now. The old boy had a drop too much and took to boasting that he’d a pile of cash on him. As you know, merchants is a boastful lot, God save us, and he just couldn’t help showing off to the people there. Well, at that time some reapers was staying the night at the inn. When they heard the merchant boasting like that they took note.’

‘Oh Lord! Oh Mother of God!’ sighed Panteley.

‘So, next day, at first light,’ continued Dymov, ‘the merchants was about to go on their way when the reapers tagged along with them. “Let’s all travel together, yer ‘onner,” they said. “It’s more cheerful and it’s safer, seeing as it’s a bit off the beaten track around ’ere.” So as not to break the icons the merchants had to go at walking-pace – and that suited the reapers down to the ground.’

Dymov rose to a kneeling position and stretched himself.

‘Yes,’ he continued. ‘There weren’t no trouble until the merchants reached this spot, when the reapers laid into ’em with their scythes. The son put up a good fight, grabbed a scythe from one of them and laid into ’em too. Well, as I don’t have to tell you, the reapers came out on top, seeing as there was eight of them. They hacked at the merchants till there wasn’t a piece of flesh left on ’em. After they’d finished their business they dragged ’em off the road, father on one side, the son on the other. Opposite this cross, on the other side, there’s another one… Don’t know if it’s still in one piece… can’t see it from here.’

‘It’s still in one piece,’ said Kiryukha. ‘Folks say they didn’t find much money.’

‘No, not much,’ confirmed Panteley. ‘A hundred roubles in all.’

‘Yes – and three of them reapers died soon afterwards, seeing as the merchant gave ’em a right slashing with his scythe. They bled to death. The merchant chopped off one of the reaper’s hands and they say he ran about three mile without it. They found ’im on a little hill near Kurikov. He was squatting with his head on his knees as if he was thinking hard. But when they looked closer they saw the spirit had departed – he was dead.’

‘They found him from the trail of blood,’ said Panteley.

Everyone looked at the cross and again there was a hush. From somewhere, probably the gully, came the mournful sound of a bird, ‘Sleep! sleep! sleep!’

‘There’s many wicked folk in this world,’ said Yemelyan.

‘So many, so many!’ affirmed Panteley, drawing closer to the fire – and from his expression he seemed scared. ‘So many,’ he continued in an undertone. ‘I’ve seen so many of ’em in my time… wicked folk, like. I’ve seen many righteous folk, but sinners be beyond number. Save us and have mercy, Holy Mother!… I remember once – about thirty years ago, maybe more – I was driving a merchant from Morshansk.¹⁹ He were a handsome fellow, very grand and he had pots of money… that merchant, like… He were a good man, right decent sort. So, we was driving along and we put up for the night at an inn. But in the north the inns ain’t like they be in these ’ere parts. Up there the yards are roofed over, like cattle-sheds – rather like threshing-barns on the big farms – only them barns be a bit higher, like. So, we stopped at the inn and everything seemed all right. My merchant had a room to himself and I stayed with the horses – everything was as it should be. Well, lads, I says me prayers and before I goes to sleep I take a little stroll in the yard. It was pitch-black out there, couldn’t see a darned thing. So I walk on a bit till I’m near the wagons and I see a twinkling light. What the heck could that be! The innkeeper and his wife must’ve long gone to bed and except me and my merchant there was no other guests. So what was that light? Well, I didn’t like the look of it… I went a bit closer… to the light, like. Lord in heaven have mercy! Save us, Holy Mother! Level with the ground there’s a little window with iron bars… in the house, like. So I lie down on the ground to have a look and as soon as I did the shivers ran up and down me spine.’

Trying not to make a noise, Kiryukha put another clump of weeds onto the fire. After waiting for the crackling and hissing to die down the old man continued, ‘I look in and see a big cellar, all dark and gloomy… A small lamp’s burning on a barrel and in the middle there’s about a dozen men in red shirts with rolled-up sleeves – all sharpening long knives. “Oho!” I think, “this means we’ve fallen into a gang of robbers…” So what could we do? I run to the merchant, gently wake him up and say, “Now, Mister Merchant, don’t you go panicking now, but we’re in big trouble. We’ve landed in a robber’s den.” His face drops and he asks, “What are we going to do, Panteley? I’ve a pile of cash on me, it’s for the orphans. As for my soul – that’s in God’s hands. I’m not afraid of dying, but it would be terrible to lose the orphans’ money.” Well, I was at my wits’ end. The gates was locked, there was no escape, either by driving or running out of there. If there’d been a fence – well, you can climb over fences, but the yard was all roofed in… “Well,” I says, “don’t be afraid Mister Merchant, and say your prayers. Perhaps the Lord won’t let any harm come to the orphans. Stay in your room and lie low. Meanwhile I’ll try and think of something.” Agreed. So I prays to God and he instructs me in me mind, like. I climb onto the carriage and ever so quiet, so no one could hear, I start stripping the thatch from the eaves. I make a hole and out I climb. Out, like… Then I run down the road as fast as I can. I run and I run – fair knackered myself, I did. Must’ve run about three mile in one breath – maybe more… Well, praise be to God, I see a village and run to one of the huts and bang on the window. “Good Christians!” I cries, “don’t let a Christian soul perish.” I wakes ’em all up. The villagers gather together and off we go. Some had ropes, others cudgels, some pitchforks. We go and break down the inn gate and head straight for the cellar… By then the robbers had sharpened their knives and were about to cut the merchant’s throat. The villagers grabbed the lot of ’em, tied ’em up and hauled ’em off to the police. The merchant gave ’em three hundred roubles to show his thanks and he gave me five gold coins – and he made a note of my name, so’s he could remember me in his prayers. It’s said that later on they found piles of human bones in the cellar… Yes, bones, like. They used to rob folk and then bury ’em so there’d be no trace. Well, the executioners at Morshansk gave ’em a right old flogging.’

Having finished his story, Panteley surveyed his audience. They said nothing and simply looked at him. The water was boiling now and Styopka was skimming the froth.

‘Is the fat ready?’ Kiryukha whispered.

‘Won’t be long.’

Without taking his eyes off Panteley and apparently afraid he might start his next story without him, Styopka ran over to the wagons; soon he returned with a small wooden bowl and started rubbing the pork fat in it.

‘Another time I was travelling – with a merchant, too,’ Panteley continued in the same undertone and without blinking. ‘As I remember now, his name was Pyotr Grigorych. A decent man, he was… that merchant, like. We put up at an inn, same as before, him in a room and me with the horses… The landlord and his wife seemed honest, kind folk all right – and the workers, too. But lads, I just couldn’t get to sleep – I had a funny feeling and that was enough! The gates were open, lots of folk were around, but I fair had the creeps, didn’t feel right at all. Now, everyone had long gone to bed… it was dead of night and soon it would be time to be getting up. There was I, lying all on me own in the carriage without closing me eyes – just like an owl. Then all of a sudden, lads, I hear a tapping – someone was creeping up to the carriage. I pokes me head out and sees a woman in just a shift, with nothing on her feet. “What do you want, me dear?” I asks. She was shaking all over – in a terrible state she was! “Get up, good man!” she says. “There’s trouble… The master and his wife are up to no good. They want to do your merchant in. I heard the master and his wife whispering together – with my own ears I did.” Well, my heart hadn’t been aching for nothing! “And who might you be?” I ask. “I’m the cook.” Fine. So I climb out of the carriage and go to the merchant’s room. I wake him up and say, “Right, Pyotr Grigorych, there’s something a bit fishy round here. You can catch up on your sleep later, sir, but get dressed now while there’s time, so we can escape from evil while the going’s good!” But the moment he started putting on his clothes the door opened and lo and behold! – Holy Mother of God! – into the room come the innkeeper and his wife, with three labourers. So the labourers was in it too! “That merchant’s got pots of money, so let’s share it out,” says the innkeeper. All five had long knives… yes, a knife each. The innkeeper locks the door and says, “Say your prayers, travellers… But if you start yelling we won’t let you finish them before you die.” But how could we shout? Our throats were choking with fear, we weren’t up to shouting then. The merchant bursts into tears and says, “Good Christians! You’ve decided to kill me because you’ve taken a fancy to my money. So be it. I’m not the first and I won’t be the last. A lot of my fellow merchants have been murdered at inns like these. But why kill my coachman, good Christians? Why should he suffer because of my money?” And he says it all so pitiful, like! But the innkeeper replies, “If we spare his life he’ll be the first to witness against us. It makes no difference whether we kill one or two – as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I say. So, say your prayers, that’s all – no point in talking any more!” Me and the merchant kneels down side by side, both of us weeping and we starts saying our prayers. The merchant was thinking of his children but I was still young then, I wanted to live… We look at the icon and we pray – oh, such a sorry sight it was – makes me weep even now! But the innkeeper’s wife just looks at us and says, “You’re nice people, so don’t hold it against us in the next world and don’t you go begging God to come down hard on us – we’re only doing this because we need the money.” We pray and pray, weep and weep – and God hears us. He took pity, like… So, just as the innkeeper grabs the merchant’s beard to slit his throat there’s suddenly one hell of a banging on the window from outside. We all quake in our boots and the innkeeper’s arms dropped. Someone was banging and shouting, “Pyotry Grigorych! Are you there? Get ready, it’s time to go!” When they saw someone had come for the merchant they all panicked and took to their heels. Well, we dashed into the yard, harnessed the horses and you couldn’t see us for dust!’

‘Who was that banging on the window?’ asked Dymov.

‘At the window? Must’ve been a saint or an angel, I reckons, as there was no one else about. When we drove out of the yard there wasn’t a soul in the street. It was all God’s doing!’

Panteley told a few more stories: all of them featured those same long knives and all were rich in flights of fancy. Had he heard these yarns from someone else? Or had he invented them himself in the remote past and then, when his memory grew weaker, began to confuse fact and fiction and could no longer tell one from the other? Anything was possible, but the strange thing was that now and throughout the journey whenever he happened to tell a story he showed a strong preference for fiction and never spoke about what he had actually experienced. Yegorushka took everything at face value and believed every word; but later he found it most odd that a man who in his time had travelled the length and breadth of Russia, who had seen and known so much, a man whose wife and children had been burnt to death, could think so little of his eventful life that whenever he was sitting by the camp fire he would either say nothing about it or talk about what had never even existed.

Over the stew everyone silently reflected on what they had just heard. Life really is frightening and full of marvels, so that however terrifying the stories you may tell in Russia, however much you may embroider them with bandits’ dens, long knives and suchlike wonders, they will always strike your listeners as if they were true. Only someone highly skilled in interpretation will look on them sceptically and even he will not make any comment. The wayside cross, the dark bales, the wide expanse of steppe and the destinies of those gathered around the camp fire – all this was in itself so marvellous and terrifying that all that was fantastic about legends and folk-tales paled and could not be distinguished from real life.

Everyone ate from the pot, but Panteley sat on his own, away from the others, eating his stew from a wooden bowl. His spoon was different from the others and was made of cypress wood with a little cross at the end. As Yegorushka looked at him he remembered the lamp-glass.

‘Why is grandpa sitting on his own?’ he quietly asked Styopka.

‘He’s an Old Believer,’²⁰ Styopka and Vasya whispered in reply, looking as if they’d just mentioned some weakness or secret vice.

All of them sat in silence, engrossed in their own thoughts. After all those hair-raising stories no one felt inclined to talk about ordinary matters. Suddenly, in the silence, Vasya sat bolt upright, fixed his lacklustre eyes on some invisible point and pricked his ears up.

‘What is it?’ asked Dymov.

‘Someone’s coming,’ Vasya replied.

‘Where is he?’

‘He’s over there! I can just make out his dim white shape.’

Where Vasya was looking there was nothing but darkness. All of them listened hard, but they could hear no footsteps.

‘Is he coming along the road?’ asked Dymov.

‘No, across the fields. He’s coming towards us.’

A minute passed in silence.

‘Perhaps it’s the merchant what’s buried here, haunting the steppe,’ said Dymov.

Everyone cast a sidelong glance at the cross, looked at each other and suddenly burst out laughing – they were ashamed of being so scared.

‘Why should he go haunting?’ Panteley asked. ‘Only them what the earth rejects wander around of nights. Now them merchants were a good lot… they received a martyr’s crown… them merchants…’

But then footsteps were heard. Someone was hurrying towards them.

‘He’s carrying something,’ Vasya said.

They could hear the dry grass rustle under the walker’s feet and the tall weeds crackle, but in the glare of the fire nothing was visible. At last the footsteps sounded close by, someone coughed. The flickering light seemed to withdraw, a veil slipped from their eyes and the drivers suddenly saw a man standing before them.

Whether it was the flickering light or because everyone was anxious to see that man’s face before anything else, oddly enough what struck them at first glance was not his face or his clothes, but his smile. It was unusually broad, good-natured, gentle – like that of a wakened child, one of those infectious smiles to which it is difficult not to respond in kind. After they had taken a closer look, the stranger turned out to be a man of about thirty, not at all good-looking – in fact, quite unremarkable. He was from the south, with a long nose, long arms and long legs. Everything about him was long, only his neck was so short it gave him a stooping look. He wore a clean white shirt with an embroidered collar, white baggy trousers and new high boots. In comparison with the drivers he looked the perfect dandy. He was carrying something large and white and at first glance rather strange, while over his shoulder peeped the barrel of a gun – which was also long.

When he emerged from the darkness and came into the bright circle he stopped dead in his tracks and for a full thirty seconds looked at the drivers as if he meant to say, ‘Now, just admire that smile of mine!’ Then he stepped over to the fire and beamed even more.

‘How about some grub, lads?’ he asked.

‘Help yourself,’ Panteley answered for everyone.

The stranger put what he had been carrying down by the fire – it was a dead bustard – and greeted them again.

Everyone went to have a look at the bustard.

‘That’s a fine big bird! What did you kill it with?’ asked Dymov.

‘Buckshot… wouldn’t have got near it with grape… Come on, buy it, lads. I’ll take twenty copecks.’

‘And what shall we do with it? It’d be fine roasted, but boiled it’d be much too tough – we’d never get our teeth into it!’

‘Oh, that’s a nuisance! If I took it to the gents on the estate I’d get half a rouble for it. But it’s a long walk – ten miles!’

The stranger sat down, unslung his gun and put it down by his side. He seemed listless and sleepy, and as he smiled and screwed up his eyes in the firelight he was evidently thinking the most agreeable thoughts. They gave him a spoon and he began to eat.

‘And who might you be?’ Dymov asked.

The stranger couldn’t have heard the question, as he made no reply and did not even look at Dymov. Most likely that smiling man found the stew tasteless, for he chewed mechanically, lazily, first raising a full spoon to his mouth, then a completely empty one. He wasn’t drunk, but he appeared to be a little touched in the head.

‘I asked you a question – who are you?’ Dymov repeated.

‘Me?’ replied the stranger with a start. ‘I’m Konstantin Zvonyk, from Rovno, about three miles from ’ere.’

Anxious to make clear from the start that he was a cut above your ordinary peasant, Konstantin hastened to add:

‘We keep bees and pigs.’

‘Do you live with your father or have you got a place of your own?’

‘I live in me own place now, set up on me own… Got married the month after St Peter’s Day.²¹ I’m a married man now, today’s the eighteenth since I got spliced!’

‘That’s good!’ Panteley exclaimed. ‘A wife’s a good thing – a blessing from on high!’

‘So, his young wife’s sleeping at home, all alone, while he’s gadding around the steppe,’ laughed Kiryukha. ‘He’s a queer fish all right!’

Just as if he had been nipped in the tenderest spot, Konstantin started, laughed and flushed.

‘God, she’s not at home!’ he exclaimed, quickly taking the spoon from his mouth and surveying everyone in joyous amazement. ‘She’s not at home – she’s gone to her ma’s for two days. Yes, I swear it, off she went and now it’s like I was a bachelor again!’

Konstantin waved his arm and shook his head. He wanted to go on thinking these thoughts, but the joy that lit up his face hindered him. As though he found it uncomfortable sitting there he changed position, laughed and waved his hand again. Despite his inhibitions about divulging his agreeable thoughts to strangers, he still had an overwhelming desire to share his joy with others.

‘She gone to her ma’s at Demidovo,’ he said, blushing and shifting his gun. ‘She’s coming back tomorrow – she said she’d be back by dinner-time.’

‘Do you miss her?’ asked Dymov.

‘Good God, how I miss her! What do you expect? Married only a few days and off she goes… Eh? Oh, she’s a real bundle of mischief, God help me! She’s wonderful, she’s marvellous, always laughing and singing – real fireworks! When I’m with her me thoughts are all in a whirl, but without her I feel as if I’ve lost something and here I am wandering over the steppe like a fool! Been doing it since dinner and I’m all adrift!’

Konstantin rubbed his eyes, looked at the fire and laughed.

‘So you must love her,’ Panteley said.

‘She’s wonderful, absolutely marvellous,’ Konstantin repeated, not listening. ‘And what a housewife – so capable, so sensible! You won’t find another like her in the whole province – not from common folk like us. And now she’s gone away… But I know she misses me, I know! Yes, you little spitfire! She said she’d be back by dinner-time tomorrow… But what a business it was!’ Konstantin was almost shouting now and he suddenly pitched his voice a tone higher and changed position. ‘Now she loves me and misses me – but she didn’t want to marry me, you know.’

‘Now, you eat up,’ said Kiryukha.

‘No, she didn’t want to marry me,’ Konstantin continued. ‘Three years I had a real ding-dong with her. I saw her at Kalachik Fair and fell madly in love – I was ready to hang myself for her, I was! I was in Rovno, but she was in Demidovo. We were best part of twenty miles from each other, so I couldn’t do a thing. So I send matchmakers over, but she says, “Don’t want to!” – the little minx! So I send her this and that, earrings, cakes, twenty pound of honey and still she says “Don’t want to!” Would you believe it! Come to think of it, what sort of match was I? She was young, beautiful, full of pep, but I was old – nigh on thirty – and really so handsome! – me with me lovely beard thin as a nail and me nice smooth face a mass of pimples! If you think about it I didn’t stand a chance. Only, I was well off, but them Vakramenkos are well off, too. They keep six oxen and two workmen. So, lads, I were in love, went right off me rocker I did! Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I were all befuddled, God save us! I was dying to see her, but she was at Demidovo… And what do you think – God strike me dead if I’m lying! I would walk over there three times a week to have a look at her. I stopped working. I was in such a stew that I even wanted to hire myself out as a labourer in Demidovo so as to be near her. I went through sheer hell! Me ma called in a wise old woman, me father was ready to give me ten good whackings. Well, I had to grin and bear it for three years, then I says to meself: to hell with it, I’ll get a job as a cabbie in town. But it wasn’t to be! At Easter I went to Demidovo to have one last look at her…’

Konstantin threw his head back and broke into such peals of light, cheerful laughter that it seemed he had just cleverly fooled someone.

‘I see her near the stream with some lads,’ he went on, ‘and I get proper mad… I call her to one side and tell her all sorts of things – for a whole hour, maybe. And she falls in love with me! For three years she didn’t love me but she falls for me ’cos of them words!’

‘What words?’ asked Dymov.

‘The words? Can’t remember. How could I? They flowed like water from a gutter – rat-tat-tat – non-stop. But now I couldn’t say any of them words. So, she marries me. And now that little imp’s gone to see her ma and here I am wandering around the steppe without her – I can’t stay at home! Oh, I just can’t stand it any more!’

Konstantin awkwardly freed his legs from under him, stretched out on the ground and propped his head on his fists. Then he stood up and sat down again. Everyone understood perfectly that here was a man happy in love, poignantly happy. His smile, his eyes, his every movement expressed overwhelming happiness. He kept fidgeting, not knowing what attitude to take and what he should do to avoid exhausting himself from an excess of delightful thoughts. Having unburdened himself to complete strangers he finally settled down and became lost in thought as he gazed at the fire.

At the sight of this happy man everyone felt dejected and wanted to be happy, too. Everyone became thoughtful. Dymov stood up, slowly walked around the fire and it was plain from his walk and the movements of his shoulderblades that he was feeling weary and depressed. He stood still for a moment, glanced at Kiryukha and sat down again.

The fire was dying down now. No longer did the light flicker and the red patch had grown narrow and dim… And the faster the fire died down the brighter the moonlight became. Now the whole width of the road, the bales, the wagon shafts, the champing horses could be seen. On the other side of the road was the dim outline of the other cross.

Dymov propped his cheek on one hand and softly sang some plaintive ditty. Konstantin smiled sleepily and joined in with his shrill little voice. They sang for about half a minute and stopped. Yemelyan gave a start, shifted his elbows and flicked his fingers.

‘Lads,’ he said imploringly, ‘let’s sing a sacred song!’

Tears sprang to his eyes as he repeated the request, pressing his hand to his heart.

‘I don’t know any,’ said Konstantin.

All the others refused, so Yemelyan sang on his own. Conducting with both arms he tossed his head back and opened his mouth, but only a voiceless hoarse breathing burst from his throat. He sang with his arms, his head, his eyes and even with the swelling under his eye; he sang passionately, with anguish, and the more he strained his chest to extract but one note the hollower his breathing sounded.

Like all the others, Yegorushka was overcome with depression. He went to his wagon, climbed onto the bale and lay down. He looked at the sky and thought of that happy Konstantin and his wife. Why do people marry? Why are there women in the world? Yegorushka vaguely asked himself and thought: how pleasant it must be for a man to have a loving, cheerful and beautiful woman constantly by his side. For some reason thoughts of Countess Dranitsky came to mind. How pleasant to live with a woman like her, he thought. Most probably he would have been delighted to marry her himself had he not been so embarrassed at the thought. He recalled her eyebrows, the pupils of her eyes, her coach, the clock with the horseman. The quiet warm night descended upon him, whispering something in his ear and he felt as if that same beautiful woman were bending over him, smiling as she looked at him and wanting to kiss him.

Two small, ever-dwindling red eyes were all that remained of the fire. The drivers and Konstantin were sitting near them, dark and motionless, and there seemed to be far more of them than before. The two crosses were also visible and somewhere, far far away, a small red light gleamed – probably someone else was cooking his stew as well.

‘ “Dear old Mother Russia rules the wo-or-ld!” ’ Kiryukha suddenly sang in a wild voice, had a fit of coughing and fell silent. The echoing steppe caught up his voice and bore it away, so that the stupid nonsense itself seemed to roll over the plains on heavy wheels.

‘It’s time to go,’ said Panteley. ‘Get up, lads!’

While they were harnessing the horses, Konstantin strolled around the wagons, singing the praises of his wife.

‘Goodbye, lads!’ he shouted when the wagon train moved off. ‘Thanks for the grub! I’m going on to that other fire. Oh, it’s all too much!’

He soon disappeared into the gloom and for a long time they could hear him striding out towards the gleaming light, to tell the strangers there all about his happiness.

When Yegorushka awoke next day it was early morning and the sun had not risen. The wagons were standing still. Some man in a white forage cap and a cheap suit of grey cloth was sitting on a Cossack pony by the leading wagon, talking to Dymov and Kiryukha about something. About a mile ahead of the wagons were low white barns and cottages with tiled roofs; near the cottages neither yards nor trees were to be seen.

‘What village is that, grandpa?’ Yegorushka asked.

‘Them’s Armenian farms, lad,’ replied Panteley. ‘It’s where the Armenians live… Decent folk – them Armenians…’

Having finished his conversation with Dymov and Kiryukha, the man in grey reined back his pony and looked towards the farms.

‘It’s real vexatious!’ Panteley sighed, also looking at the farms and shrinking in the cool of the morning. ‘He sent a man over to a farm for some bit of paper, but he ain’t come back. He should’ve sent Styopka!’

‘Who is he, grandpa?’ asked Yegorushka.

‘Varlamov.’

Heavens! Varlamov! Yegorushka quickly jumped up to his knees and looked at the white cap. In that short, grey-clad little man with his riding-boots, seated on an ugly little nag and talking to peasants when all respectable people were in bed it was hard to recognize the mysterious, elusive Varlamov, whom everyone needed, who was always ‘hanging around’ and was worth far more than Countess Dranitsky.

‘He’s not a bad man… real decent sort…’ Panteley said, looking at the farms. ‘God grant him health… he’s a wonderful man – that Semyon Aleksandrych Varlamov… It’s people like him lad, what keep the world going… that’s a fact. The cocks ain’t crowed yet but he’s already up and about… Any other man would be asleep in bed or making tittle-tattle with visitors. But he’s out on the steppe all day… running around… He don’t miss out on a deal – oh no! A fine fellow!’

Varlamov didn’t take his eyes off one of the farms and carried on talking, while his pony impatiently shifted from one foot to the other.

‘Semyon Aleksandrych Varlamov!’ cried Panteley, doffing his cap. ‘Let me send Styopka. Yemelyan! Give ’em a shout! Tell ’em to send Styopka.’

But then at last someone on horseback rode away from the farm. Leaning heavily to one side, swinging his whip over his head as if performing some fancy tricks and wanting to astonish everyone with his daring horsemanship, he raced to the wagons with the speed of a bird.

‘That must be one of his horse patrols,’ said Panteley. ‘He’s got about a hundred of them patrols – maybe more.’

Drawing level with the first wagon the horseman reined in his horse, doffed his cap and handed Varlamov some kind of notebook. Varlamov removed a few sheets of paper from it and read them.

‘And where’s Ivanchuk’s letter?’ he shouted.

The horseman took the book back, examined the papers and shrugged his shoulders. He started speaking – most likely making excuses – and then he asked permission to return to the farm. Varlamov’s pony gave a start as if his rider had suddenly grown heavier. Varlamov gave a start, too.

‘Clear off!’ he angrily shouted, shaking his whip at the horseman.

Then he turned his pony back and rode at walking pace past the wagons, still scrutinizing the papers. When he reached the last wagon, Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a better look. Varlamov was quite elderly. His simple, typically Russian face with its small grey beard was red, wet with dew and covered with little blue veins. It displayed that same matter-of-fact aloofness as Kuzmichov’s, the same fanatical passion for business. But what a difference between him and Kuzmichov! Besides that habitual, businesslike detachment, Kuzmichov’s face always betrayed anxiety and fear that he would not find Varlamov, that he would be late and thus miss out on a good price. Nothing remotely like this – so typical of your small, dependent businessman – was discernible in Varlamov’s face or figure. This man fixed prices himself, ran after no one and depended on no one. However unremarkable his appearance, in everything else – even in the way he held his whip – you could see a man conscious of his own power and his established dominion over the steppe.

As he rode past Yegorushka he did not look at him; only his pony deigned to look at him with its large, foolish eyes – and most indifferently at that. Panteley bowed low to Varlamov who noticed this and, without taking his eyes off the papers and burring his consonants told him, ‘Goot tay, grantpa!’

Varlamov’s exchange with the horseman and that flourish of his whip evidently had a depressing effect on all the drivers: all of them looked serious. Demoralized by that powerful man’s wrath, the horseman stood bareheaded by the front wagon, slackened the reins and said nothing, as if he could scarcely believe that the day had started so badly for him.

‘He’s a harsh old man,’ muttered Panteley. ‘Real harsh! But never mind… he’s a good man… wouldn’t harm no one without good reason… he’s all right…’

After inspecting the papers, Varlamov put the book back in his pocket. As if reading his thoughts, the pony did not wait for orders, shuddered and tore off down the road.

VII

The following night the drivers made a halt and cooked their meal. This time everything was coloured by some indefinable melancholy from the very start. It was humid and everyone had drunk a great deal, without in the least managing to quench their thirst. The moon rose a deep crimson, sullen, as if she were ailing. The stars were sullen too, the mist thicker, the distance hazier. Nature seemed to be languishing in anticipation of some disaster.

Around the camp fire there was none of yesterday’s animation and conversation. Everyone was depressed, everyone spoke listlessly and grudgingly. All Panteley could do was sigh and complain about his feet, every now and then raising the subject of ‘dying impenitent’.

Dymov was lying on his stomach, silently chewing a straw. His expression was malevolent, weary, and showed revulsion, as if the straw had a bad smell. Vasya complained of jaw-ache and predicted bad weather; Yemelyan had stopped waving his arms and sat still, gloomily surveying the fire. And Yegorushka was wilting, too. The slow pace had exhausted him and the day’s heat had given him a headache.

When the stew was cooked Dymov started picking on his mates – out of sheer boredom.

‘Look, Old Lumpy’s all sprawled out nice and easy over there – but he’ll be first to the pot with ’is spoon!’ he said, glowering at Yemelyan. ‘Greedy-guts! Always tries to barge ‘is way first to the pot. Just because he used to sing in a choir he thinks he’s a gent. The roads are packed with singers like you begging for sweet charity!’

‘What you picking on me for?’ asked Yemelyan, angrily glaring back.

‘To teach you not to be always first to the pot. Who d’ye think you are!’

‘You’re a fool, that’s what,’ Yemelyan said hoarsely.

Knowing from experience how such conversations usually ended, Panteley and Vasya intervened and urged Dymov not to pick quarrels for nothing.

‘Fancy you in a choir!’ the bully persisted with a contemptuous cough. ‘Anyone can sing like that – you just sit in the church porch and sing, “Alms for Christ’s sake!” Ugh, damn you!’

Yemelyan said nothing. His silence exasperated Dymov, who looked with even greater loathing at the ex-chorister.

‘It’s only because I don’t want to dirty my hands on you, or I’d soon take you down a peg or two.’

‘Why are you picking on me, scum of the earth! Have I ever done anything to you?’ said Yemelyan, flaring up.

‘What did you call me?’ asked Dymov, drawing himself up; his eyes became bloodshot. ‘What? Scum am I? Yes? Well, take that! Now, go and look for it!’

Dymov snatched the spoon from Yemelyan’s hands and flung it far to one side. Kiryukha, Vasya and Styopka jumped up and ran off to look for it, while Yemelyan stared imploringly and questioningly at Panteley. His face suddenly became small and wrinkled, started twitching – and the ex-chorister wept like a baby.

Yegorushka, who had long hated Dymov, suddenly felt that he was choking to death in that unbearably humid air and that the camp fire flames were scorching his face. He wanted to escape as quickly as possible to the darkness by the wagons, but that bully’s evil, bored eyes drew Yegorushka to him. Longing to say something extremely insulting, he took a step towards Dymov.

‘You’re the worst of the lot!’ he gasped. ‘I can’t stand you!’

After that he should have escaped to the wagons, but he felt rooted to the spot.

‘You’ll burn in hell in the next world!’ he went on. ‘I’m going to tell Uncle Ivan about you! Don’t you dare insult Yemelyan!’

‘Ooh, ’ark at ’im!’ laughed Dymov. ‘Little piggy’s still wet behind the ears and thinks he can lay down the law! Fancy a clout on the ear-’ole?’

Yegorushka felt unable to breathe; suddenly he started shaking all over and stamped his feet – something that had never happened to him before.

‘Hit him! Hit him!’ he shrieked.

Tears spurted from his eyes. He felt ashamed and he ran staggering to the wagons. What impression his outburst had made he did not see. Lying on the bale weeping, he jerked his arms and legs and whispered, ‘Mummy, Mummy!’

The men, the shadows around the camp fire, the dark bales, the lightning that was flashing in the far distance every minute – all this struck him as hostile and terrifying now. Yegorushka was horrified and he asked himself in despair how and why he had come to this unknown land, in the company of terrible peasants? Where were Uncle, Father Khristofor and Deniska? Why were they taking so long? Had they forgotten him? At the thought that he had been forgotten and left to the mercy of fate he felt chilled and so frightened that several times he felt like jumping off the bales and running headlong back along the road without looking behind him. But the memory of those dark, grim crosses which he was bound to pass on the way and the distant flashes of lightning stopped him. Only when he whispered ‘Mummy!’ did he feel a little better, it seemed.

The drivers must have been frightened, too. After Yegorushka had run away from the camp fire they first said nothing for a long time and then spoke in hollow undertones about something, saying that it was coming and they must hurry to escape from it. They quickly finished their supper, put out the fire and started harnessing the horses in silence. From their agitation and broken phrases they were clearly expecting some disaster.

Before they set off Dymov went over to Panteley.

‘What’s his name?’ he quietly asked.

‘Yegorushka,’ replied Panteley.

Dymov put one foot on the wheel, gripped the cord that was tied around a bale and hauled himself up. Yegorushka saw his face and curly head. His face was pale, tired and serious – but no longer spiteful.

‘Hullo, little boy!’ he said softly. ‘Come on, hit me!’

Yegorushka looked at him in amazement. At that moment there was a flash of lightning.

‘It’s all right – hit me!’ Dymov repeated.

And without waiting for Yegorushka to hit him or speak, he leapt down and said, ‘God, I’m bored!’

Then, swaying from one foot to the other and moving his shoulders, he idly sauntered along the string of wagons, repeating in a half-plaintive, half-irritated voice, ‘God, I’m bored! Now, don’t get the needle, Yemelyan,’ he said as he passed him. ‘What hopeless, wretched lives we lead…!’

Lightning flashed to the right and immediately flashed again in the distance, like a reflection in a mirror.

‘Here, take this, Yegory,’ Panteley shouted, handing up something large and dark.

‘What is it?’ asked Yegorushka.

‘Matting. Cover yourself with it when it rains.’

Yegorushka sat up and looked around. The distance was noticeably darker and more than once every minute it winked at him with a pale light. The darkness was swerving to the right, as if pulled by its own weight.

‘Grandpa, is there going to be a storm?’ asked Yegorushka.

‘Oh, me poor ole feet, they’re frozen stiff!’ chanted Panteley, not hearing him and stamping his feet.

To the left a pale phosphorescent streak flared and went out, as if someone had struck a match on the sky. From a long, long way off came a sound as if someone were walking up and down over an iron roof – probably barefoot, for the iron gave a hollow rumble.

‘We’re in for a real soaking!’ cried Kiryukha.

Between the far distance and the horizon on the right there was such a vivid flash of lightning that it lit up part of the steppe and the point where the clear sky met the darkness. In one compact mass, with big black shreds hanging from its edge, a terrifying rain cloud was unhurriedly advancing. Similar shreds were piling up against each other and massing on the horizon to left and right. The tattered, ragged look of the cloud gave it a drunken, rakish air. There was a very distinct clap of thunder – no longer that hollow rumble. Yegorushka crossed himself and quickly put on his overcoat.

‘I’m proper bored!’ Dymov’s cry carried from the leading wagons and his tone of voice showed that he was getting angry again. ‘I’m bored stiff!’

Suddenly there was a squall so violent that it almost snatched Yegorushka’s bundle and mat out of his hands. Wildly flapping and tearing in all directions, the mat slapped the bale and Yegorushka’s face. The wind raced over the steppes, whistling, frantically whirling and raising such a din in the grass that neither the thunder nor the creak of wagon wheels could be heard above it. It was blowing from the black thundercloud, carrying with it dust clouds and the smell of rain and damp earth. The moonlight grew hazier, dirtier as it were, the stars frowned even more and the dust clouds and their shadows could be seen scurrying back somewhere along the edge of the road. By now, most likely, eddying and drawing dust, dry grass and feathers from the ground, the whirlwinds were soaring to the very height of the heavens. Close to that same black thundercloud clumps of tumbleweed were probably flying about – how terrified they must be feeling! But nothing was visible through the dust that clogged the eyes except flashes of lightning.

Thinking that it would start pouring that very minute, Yegorushka knelt and covered himself with his mat.

‘Pantel-ey!’ someone in front shouted. ’A. . a…’ came in broken syllables.

‘Ca-an’t hear!’ Panteley loudly chanted.

Once again those broken syllables.

The thunder roared angrily, rolled over the sky from right to left and then back again, dying out near the wagons at the front.

‘Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth,’ whispered Yegorushka, crossing himself. ‘Heaven and earth are filled with Thy glory.’

The black sky gaped wide, breathing white fire; immediately another thunderclap followed. Barely had it died away when there was such a broad flash of lightning that Yegorushka could suddenly see the whole wide road into the far distance, all the drivers and even Kiryukha’s waistcoat. The black shreds on the left were already soaring upwards and one of them – rough and clumsy like a paw with fingers – was reaching towards the moon. Yegorushka decided to keep his eyes tightly closed, to pay no attention and to wait until it was all over.

For some reason the rain was a long time coming. Hoping that the thundercloud might pass over, Yegorushka peeped out from his mat. It was terribly dark and he could see neither Panteley, nor the bales, nor himself. He looked sideways where the moon had just been, but it was as pitch black there as on the wagon. The lightning flashes seemed even whiter and more blinding in the dark, so that they hurt his eyes.

‘Panteley!’ called Yegorushka: there was no answer. But now the wind gave a last tug on the mat and raced away somewhere. There was a steady, gentle sound and a large cold drop fell onto Yegorushka’s knee; another trickled down his hand. Noticing that his knees were uncovered he wanted to rearrange the matting, but just then came the sound of pattering and tapping on the road, on the wagon shafts, on the bales: this was the rain. It appeared to have struck some kind of understanding with the matting and they started a conversation – rapid, cheerful but most irritating, like a pair of chattering magpies.

Yegorushka knelt – rather, squatted – on his shoes. When the rain started pattering on the mat he leant forward to shield his knees which were suddenly wet, but within a minute he felt a penetrating, unpleasant wetness from behind, on his back and his calves. He took up his former position, stretched out his knees under the rain and wondered how he could rearrange the matting that was invisible in the dark. But already his arms were wet, water ran down his sleeves and behind his collar, and his shoulderblades grew cold. So he decided to do nothing but sit still and wait until it was all over.

‘Holy, holy, holy,’ he whispered.

Suddenly, right over his head, with a fearful, deafening crash, the sky broke in two. He leant forwards and held his breath, expecting fragments to shower down on his neck and back. Inadvertently he opened his eyes and saw a blinding, intensely brilliant light flash five times – on his fingers, his wet sleeves, on the little streams flowing from the matting, on the bale and down on the ground. There was a fresh clap of thunder, just as loud and terrifying. The sky was no longer rumbling or crashing, but producing dry crackling sounds, like trees splintering.

‘Crash! Bang! Crash!’ the thunder distinctly articulated as it rolled over the sky, stumbled and collapsed somewhere over by the wagons or far behind with a spiteful, staccato crash.

Earlier, the lightning flashes had been merely frightening, but with thunder such as this they were truly menacing. Their eerie light penetrated his closed eyelids and sent a cold shiver all over his body. How could he avoid seeing them? Yegorushka decided to turn his face backwards. As if afraid someone was watching him, he cautiously went down on all fours, sliding his palms over the wet bale and turning round.

‘Cra-ash!’ went the thunder as it swept over his head, collapsed under the wagon and exploded.

Again his eyes happened to open and he saw a new danger: behind the wagon three enormous giants with long pikes were striding along. The lightning flashed on the points of their pikes, very clearly illumining their figures. These people were of vast dimensions, their faces covered, heads bowed and they were treading heavily. They seemed sad and despondent, and lost in thought. Perhaps they were not following the wagons with the intention of doing harm, but still there was something horrible in their being so close. Yegorushka quickly turned forwards. Trembling all over he shouted, ‘Panteley! Grandpa!’

‘Crash! Bang! Crash!’ replied the sky.

As he opened his eyes to try and see if the drivers were still there, lightning flashed in two places and lit up the road into the far distance, the entire wagon train and all the drivers. Little streams of water were flowing along the road and bubbles were dancing. Panteley was walking near the wagons, his tall hat and shoulders covered with a small mat. His figure expressed neither fear nor anxiety, as if he had been deafened by the thunder and blinded by the lightning.

‘Grandpa! Look at the giants!’ Yegorushka shouted at him, sobbing.

But grandpa did not hear. Yemelyan was walking further ahead, covered in a large mat from head to foot which gave him a triangular shape. Vasya, who was completely uncovered, walked in his usual clockwork soldier fashion, lifting his legs high without bending his knees. In the brilliance of the lightning flashes the train did not appear to be moving, the drivers seemed transfixed and Vasya’s upraised leg benumbed.

Again Yegorushka called out for grandpa. Receiving no reply, he sat quite still and no longer waited for the storm to end. He was convinced that the thunder would kill him, that his eyes would open inadvertently and that he would again see those fearsome giants. No longer did he cross himself or call out to the old man or think of his mother, but only grew numb from the cold and the certainty that the storm would never end.

But suddenly he heard voices.

‘Yegorushka! Are you asleep?’ Panteley shouted from below. ‘Come on, get down!… The silly boy’s gone deaf!’

‘That was a storm and a half!’ said some deep, unfamiliar voice, grunting as if the owner had just downed a goodly glass of vodka.

Yegorushka opened his eyes. Down below by the wagon stood Panteley, the triangular Yemelyan and the giants. The latter were now much shorter and on closer inspection Yegorushka could see that they were just ordinary peasants carrying iron pitchforks and not pikes on their shoulders. In the space between Panteley and the triangle was the lighted window of a small, low hut. So the wagons must have stopped in a village! Yegorushka threw off the mat, picked up his bundle and hurried down from the wagon. Now that there were people talking nearby and that there was a brightly lit window he no longer felt afraid, although the thunder still rumbled and crashed as before and lightning streaked the entire sky.

‘That was a fine old storm, not bad at all, thank the Lord,’ muttered Panteley. ‘Me feet have gone a tiny bit soft from the rain, but it don’t matter. Are you down yet, Yegorushka? Well, go into the hut… it’s all right.’

‘Holy, holy, holy…’ Yemelyan said hoarsely. ‘The lightning must’ve struck somewhere… Are you from these parts?’ he asked the giants.

‘No, from Glinovo… Yes, from Glinovo. We’re working on the Plater estate.’

‘Threshing, eh?’

‘We does all sorts of jobs. Just now we’re getting in the wheat. Cor, what lightning, what lightning! Ain’t seen such a storm for many a long year!’

Yegorushka went into the hut and was greeted by a lean, hunch-backed old woman with a sharp chin. She was holding a tallow candle, screwing up her eyes and heaving lengthy sighs.

‘What a storm the Lord’s sent us!’ she said. ‘And our lads are out on the steppe at night. They’ll be having a nasty time of it, poor dears! Now, take your clothes off, young sir.’

Trembling with cold and shrinking squeamishly, Yegorushka pulled off his drenched overcoat, planted his legs wide apart and stood there for a long time stock-still. The least movement brought a disagreeably damp and cold sensation. His sleeves and the back of his shirt were soaked, his trousers stuck to his legs and his head was dripping.

‘Why are you standing like that – bandy-legs!’ the old woman said. ‘Come and sit down.’

Keeping his legs wide apart, Yegorushka went over to the table and sat on a bench near someone’s head. The head moved, emitted a stream of air through its nostrils, chewed for a moment and subsided. From the head a mound covered with a sheepskin stretched along the bench: it was a peasant woman lying there asleep.

Sighing, the old woman went out and soon returned with a large water melon and a small sweet melon.

‘Eat up, young sir… I’ve nothing else to give you,’ she yawned, then rummaged around in a table drawer and produced a long sharp knife which was very similar to the type used by robbers to cut merchants’ throats at inns. ‘Please eat, young sir!’

Feverishly trembling, Yegorushka ate a slice of the sweet melon with some black bread, which made him feel even colder.

‘Our lads are out on the steppe tonight,’ sighed the old woman as he ate. ‘Mercy on us! I ought to light a candle before the icon, but I don’t know where Stepanida’s put them. Come on, sir, eat up.’

The old woman yawned, reached backwards with her right hand and scratched her left shoulder.

‘Must be nearly two o’clock,’ she said. ‘Soon it’ll be time to be getting up. Our lads are out on the steppe tonight. Soaked to the skin they’ll be, I dare say!’

‘I’m sleepy, grannie,’ Yegorushka said.

‘Well, lie down young sir, lie down,’ sighed the old woman, yawning. ‘Lord Jesus Christ! There I was sleeping and suddenly I thought I could hear someone knocking… Then I woke up and saw it was a storm sent by God. I ought to have lit a candle, but I couldn’t find one.’

Talking to herself she pulled some rags off the bench – probably her bedclothes – unhooked two sheepskin jackets from the nail by the stove and started making up a bed for Yegorushka.

‘That storm’s not letting up,’ she muttered. ‘Who knows, it could even start a fire somewhere… and our lads have to spend the night out on the steppe. Now, lie down young sir and go to sleep. Christ be with you, child. I’ll leave the melon here – you might feel like a bite when you get up.’

The old woman’s sighs and yawns, the regular breathing of the sleeping woman, the dim light in the hut and the patter of rain on the window all made Yegorushka feel sleepy. He was too shy to undress in front of the old woman, so he removed only his boots, lay down and covered himself with the sheepskin.

‘Has the lad gone to bed?’ came Panteley’s whisper a minute later.

‘Yes he has,’ whispered the old woman in reply. ‘Mercy on us! It just keeps thundering and thundering, no end to it.’

‘It’ll soon pass,’ wheezed Panteley as he sat down. ‘It’s getting quieter now… The lads have gone off to the huts and two have stayed with the horses… the lads, like… they’ll have to stay there… or them horses might get stolen… Yes, I’ll sit down for a bit and then take me turn… I’ll have to go or them horses’ll be stolen…’

Panteley and the old woman sat side by side near Yegorushka’s feet and spoke in sibilant whispers, punctuating their words with sighs and yawns. But Yegorushka just could not get warm. Although he was covered with a warm, heavy sheepskin, his whole body shook, his arms and legs were convulsed with cramps, his insides shuddered. He undressed himself under the sheepskin, but even this did not help. The shivers grew worse and worse.

Panteley went off to relieve the men and then came back, but Yegorushka still could not sleep and was shivering all over. Something was pressing down on his head and chest and crushing him. What it was he could not tell – was it the old people’s whispering, or the strong smell of the sheepskin? The melons had left an unpleasant, metallic taste in his mouth. What was more, fleas were biting him.

‘Grandpa, I’m cold!’ he said, not recognizing his own voice.

‘Sleep my child, sleep,’ sighed the old woman.

Titus approached the bed on his thin legs and waved his arms; then he grew right up to the ceiling and turned into a windmill. Appearing different from when he had been sitting in the carriage, in full vestments and with a holy water sprinkler in his hands, Father Khristofor walked around the windmill, sprinkled it with holy water and it stopped turning. Yegorushka realized he was delirious and opened his eyes.

‘Grandpa!’ he called. ‘Give me some water.’

No one replied. Lying there was unbearably stuffy and uncomfortable, so he got up, dressed and went outside. It was morning, the sky was overcast, but the rain had stopped. Shivering and wrapping himself in his wet coat, Yegorushka walked around the muddy yard, trying to hear something in the silence. He caught sight of a small shed with a half-open door made of thatch, peeped in, entered and sat down in a dark corner on a heap of dry dung.

His aching head was a jumble of thoughts and his mouth was dry and nasty from that metallic taste. He examined his hat, straightened the peacock’s feather and remembered when he had gone with Mother to buy it. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a lump of brown, sticky paste. How had that mess got there? He thought for a moment and sniffed: it smelled of honey. Yes, it was that Jewess’s cake. How terribly soaked it was, the poor thing!

Yegorushka inspected his coat. It was greyish, with large bone buttons and cut like a frock-coat. As it was something new and expensive, it had not hung in the hall at home but in the bedroom together with Mother’s dresses and he was allowed to wear it only on holidays and church festivals. Looking at it, Yegorushka felt sorry for it and remembered that both he and the coat had been left to the mercy of fate, that neither of them would ever go back home and he sobbed so loud that he nearly fell off the heap.

A large white rain-drenched dog, with woolly wisps like curling-papers on its muzzle, came into the shed and eyed Yegorushka very inquisitively. Clearly it was wondering if it should bark or not. Deciding not to bark, it cautiously approached Yegorushka, ate the sticky paste and departed.

‘They’re Varlamov’s men!’ someone shouted in the street.

After a good cry Yegorushka left the shed, skirted a large puddle and made his way to the street. Right in front of the gates stood the wagons. As sluggish and drowsy as autumn flies, the wet drivers were wandering around nearby in their muddy boots or sitting on the wagons shafts. Yegorushka looked at them.

‘How boring, how tiresome to be a peasant!’ he thought. He went up to Panteley and sat next to him on a shaft.

‘Grandpa, I’m cold!’ he said, shivering, and he pulled his sleeves down over his hands.

‘It’s all right, we’ll soon be there,’ yawned Panteley. ‘It’s all right… you’ll soon get warm.’

The wagons moved off early, when it was still cool. Yegorushka lay on his bale and trembled with cold, although the sun soon appeared and dried his clothes, the bale and the ground. Hardly had he closed his eyes when he saw Titus and the windmill again. With a feeling of nausea and heaviness all over his body he tried all he could to dispel those images, but hardly had they disappeared than that bully Dymov – red-eyed, fists upraised and bellowing – would throw himself on Yegorushka or would be heard complaining how bored he was. Varlamov would come riding past on his Cossack pony and that happy Konstantin would pass by with his smile and his bustard. How depressing, insufferable and tiresome all these people were!

Once, towards evening, Yegorushka raised his head to ask for a drink. The wagon train had come to a stop on a large bridge spanning a wide river. Down below dark smoke hung over the river and through it a steamer could be seen, with a barge in tow. Ahead, beyond the river, was an enormous, brightly coloured hill, dotted with houses and churches and at its foot a locomotive was shunting some goods wagons.

Never before had Yegorushka seen steamers or locomotives, or wide rivers, but now as he looked at them he was neither surprised nor afraid. His face did not show even the slightest trace of curiosity. All he felt was nauseous and he hurried to lie chest downwards on the edge of the bale. He was sick. Panteley cleared his throat and shook his head when he saw this.

‘Our lad’s real poorly!’ he exclaimed. ‘Must’ve caught a chill on his stomach… that lad… far from home. Oh, that’s bad!’

VIII

The wagons had halted at a large commercial inn close to the quayside. As he climbed down from the wagon Yegorushka recognized a familiar voice. Someone helped him and said:

‘We were already here yesterday evening… been waiting for you all day. We wanted to catch you up yesterday but we didn’t manage it – we came a different way. Hey, you’ve made a right mess of your coat! You’ll catch it from Uncle!’

Yegorushka peered into the mottled face of the speaker and remembered that this was Deniska.

‘Your uncle and Father Khristofor are in their room at the inn,’ continued Deniska. ‘They’re having tea. Come on!’

He led Yegorushka to a large, dark and dreary two-storey building similar to the almshouse at N—. After they had passed through a lobby, up some dark stairs and down a long corridor, Yegorushka and Deniska entered a small room where Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor were indeed sitting at a small tea-table. Both old men showed joy and surprise when they saw the boy.

‘Aha, young sir!’ intoned Father Khristofor. ‘Mr Lomonosov in person!’

‘Yes, it’s His Lordship himself,’ Kuzmichov said. ‘Pray make yourself welcome!’

Yegorushka took off his coat, kissed Uncle’s and Father Khristofor’s hands and sat down at the table.

‘Well, did you like the journey, puer bone?’ asked Father Khristofor, showering him with questions, pouring him some tea and smiling his usual radiant smile. ‘I bet it was boring, eh? And God save us all from travelling by wagon or ox-cart! On and on you go, you look ahead and the steppe’s always the same ramblingly stretched-out affair as ever – you think it’s never going to end! That’s not travelling – it’s a sheer abomination. Why don’t you drink your tea? Come on, drink up. While you were trailing along with the wagons we pulled off a fantastic deal, praise be to God! We sold the wool to Cherepakhin at a price anyone would envy… Came out of it very well, we did.’

When he first saw his own people Yegorushka felt an irresistible urge to complain. He did not listen to Father Khristofor and wondered where to begin and what precisely he should complain about. But Father Khristofor’s voice sounded so harsh and unpleasant that it prevented him from concentrating and only muddled his thoughts. After sitting for barely five minutes at the table he got up, went over to the sofa and lay down.

‘Well now!’ exclaimed Father Khristofor. ‘And what about your tea?’

Still trying to think of something to complain about, Yegorushka pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and suddenly burst out sobbing.

‘Well now!’ repeated Father Khristofor, getting up and going over to the sofa. ‘What’s the matter, Yegor? Why are you crying?’

‘I-I’m ill!’ murmured Yegorushka.

‘Ill?’ Father Khristofor said, disconcerted. ‘That’s no good, my boy. It’s no good falling ill when you’re travelling. Oh dear, no good at all… eh?’

He pressed his hand to Yegorushka’s head and touched his cheek.

‘Yes, your head’s burning… you must have caught a chill… or it’s something you’ve eaten… you must pray to God.’

‘We could give him some quinine,’ Kuzmichov said, rather taken aback.

‘No, he should eat something warm. Yegorushka, would you like a nice little drop of soup? Eh?’

‘No, I don’t want any soup,’ replied Yegorushka.

‘Got the shivers?’

‘I had them before, but now I feel hot. I’m aching all over.’

Kuzmichov went over to the sofa, touched Yegorushka’s head, gave a troubled cough and returned to the table.

‘Now, you’d better get undressed and go to bed,’ said Father Khristofor. ‘What you need is a good sleep.’

He helped Yegorushka undress, gave him a pillow, covered him with a quilt, laid Kuzmichov’s coat over it, tiptoed away and sat at the table. Yegorushka closed his eyes and immediately had the feeling that he wasn’t in the room at the inn at all, but on the high road, by the camp fire. Yemelyan was ‘conducting’, while red-eyed Dymov lay on his stomach eyeing Yegorushka mockingly.

‘Hit him! Hit him!’ Yegorushka shouted out loud.

‘The boy’s delirious,’ Father Khristofor said in an undertone.

‘It’s a real nuisance,’ sighed Kuzmichov.

‘We must rub him down with oil and vinegar. With God’s help he’ll be better tomorrow.’

To free himself from these oppressive visions Yegorushka opened his eyes and looked at the light. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov had finished their tea now and were whispering together. The former was happily smiling: obviously he was quite unable to forget about the handsome profit he had made on his wool. It wasn’t the profit so much that cheered him as the thought of gathering his large family around him when he was back home, giving them sly winks and roaring with laughter. First he would string them along and tell them he had sold the wool at a loss – and then he would hand his brother-in-law Mikhailo a fat wallet. ‘Here you are!’ he would say, ‘that’s how to do business!’ But Kuzmichov was not happy. His face expressed that same businesslike detachment and anxiety.

‘If only I’d known Cherepakhin would pay that kind of price,’ he said quietly, ‘I wouldn’t have sold Makarov those five tons back home. It’s damned infuriating! But who would have guessed that prices here had gone up?’

A white-shirted waiter cleared the samovar away and lit the icon lamp in the corner. Father Khristofor whispered something in his ear. The waiter assumed a mysterious, conspiratorial expression, as if to say, ‘I quite understand’, and left, shortly to return and put a bowl under the sofa. Kuzmichov made up a bed for himself on the floor, yawned several times, lazily said his prayers and lay down.

‘I’m thinking of going to the cathedral tomorrow,’ Father Khristofor said. ‘I know one of the sacristans there. I really ought to go and see the Bishop after the service, but they say he’s ill.’

He yawned and put out the lamp. Only the icon lamp was burning now.

‘They say he’s not receiving visitors,’ Father Khristofor continued, disrobing. ‘So I’ll have to leave without seeing him.’

When he removed his caftan Yegorushka thought he was seeing Robinson Crusoe. ‘Crusoe’ mixed something in a saucer and went over to Yegorushka.

‘Mr Lomonosov!’ he whispered. ‘Are you asleep? Sit up and I’ll give you a rubdown with oil and vinegar. It’ll do you good – only don’t forget to say your prayers!’

Yegorushka quickly raised himself and sat up. Father Khristofor took his shirt off, winced and breathed jerkily, as though he himself were being tickled, and started rubbing his chest.

‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost… Lie with your face down… that’s it. You’ll be fine tomorrow… but don’t let it happen again… heavens, you’re on fire! I suppose you were out on the road in the storm, eh?’

‘Yes, I was.’

‘Then it’s no wonder you’re ill! In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost… No wonder!’

When he had finished rubbing Yegorushka down, Father Khristofor put his shirt on, covered him up, made the sign of the cross over him and went out. Then Yegorushka saw him at prayer. Very likely the old man knew many different prayers, for he stood whispering for a long time in front of the icon. When he had completed his devotions he made the sign of the cross over the window, the door, Yegorushka and Kuzmichov, after which he lay down on a small sofa, without any pillow, and covered himself with his caftan. Out in the corridor the clock struck ten. Remembering how many hours were left until morning, Yegorushka wearily pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and no longer made any attempt to rid himself of those vague, oppressive visions. But morning came much sooner than he expected.

He felt that he had not been lying there very long with his forehead against the back of the sofa, yet when he opened his eyes, slanting sunbeams were streaming towards the floor from both windows in the room. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov had gone out. The room had been tidied and it was bright and cosy and smelt of Father Khristofor, who always had an odour of cypress and dried cornflowers about him (at home he made holy water sprinklers and decorated icon cases with cornflowers so that he was saturated with their scent). Yegorushka looked at the pillow, at the slanting sunbeams, at his boots which had now been cleaned and stood side by side by the sofa, and he burst out laughing. He felt it was odd not to be lying on that bale of wool, that everything around him was dry and that there was no thunder or lightning on the ceiling.

He leapt from the sofa and started dressing. He felt wonderful. Nothing remained of yesterday’s illness, except a slight weakness in his legs and neck. Evidently the oil and vinegar had done their job. He remembered the steamer, the locomotive, the wide river he had glimpsed the day before and he hurried to get dressed so that he could run down to the quayside to look at them. When he had washed and was putting on his red shirt the lock in the door suddenly clicked and Father Khristofor appeared in the doorway in his top hat, carrying his staff and wearing a brown silk cassock over his canvas caftan. Smiling and beaming (old men who have just returned from church are always radiant), he placed a piece of communion bread and a packet of some kind on the table, and recited a short prayer.

‘God has been gracious!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, how are you?’

‘I feel fine now,’ replied Yegorushka, kissing his hand.

‘Thank God for that… I’m just back from the service. I went to see an old sacristan friend of mine. He invited me for breakfast, but I didn’t go. I don’t like visiting people so early in the morning – blow it!’

He took off his cassock, stroked his chest and undid the packet without hurrying. Yegorushka saw a tin of unpressed caviare, a slice of smoked sturgeon and a French loaf.

‘There, I happened to pass a fishmonger’s, so I bought these,’ Father Khristofor said. ‘On weekdays one shouldn’t indulge oneself, but I thought to myself that we have an invalid back at the inn, so I shall be forgiven! It’s very good caviare… it’s sturgeon…’

The white-shirted waiter brought in the samovar and a tray with crockery.

‘Eat up now!’ said Father Khristofor, spreading the caviare on a slice of bread and handing it to Yegorushka. ‘Eat and enjoy yourself while you can, as the time is coming when you’ll have to study. Now, mind you study attentively and diligently, so that you’ll benefit from it. If you have to know something by heart you must learn it, but where you need to convey the inner meaning, ignoring the outer form, then do it in your own words, I say. And try and master every branch of knowledge. There are people who know mathematics backwards but are ignorant of Pyotr Mogila.²² Others might know about Pyotr Mogila but can’t tell you about the moon. Study, I say, so that you understand everything! You must study Latin, French, German, geography – history of course – divinity, philosophy, mathematics… And when you’ve mastered them all – taking your time over them and with prayer and application – you must take up a profession. Once you know everything, any career will be easy for you. Only, study and acquire grace. God will show you what you are destined to be – doctor, judge, engineer…’

Father Khristofor spread a little caviare on a small piece of bread, popped it into his mouth and continued, ‘As Paul the Apostle says, “Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines.”²³ Of course, if it’s black magic, or blasphemy, or summoning spirits like Saul,²⁴ or suchlike practices that are no good either to yourself or to others, then it’s better not to study. You must absorb only what God has blessed. Just consider… the holy apostles spoke every tongue, so you must learn languages. Basil the Great²⁵ studied mathematics and philosophy, so you must study them as well. St Nestor²⁶ wrote history – so you must learn to write history too. Just do as the saints did…’

Father Khristofor sipped from his saucer, wiped his whiskers and turned his head.

‘Good!’ he said. ‘I’m schooled in the old ways. I’ve forgotten a lot. What’s more, I live differently from others. Really, there’s no comparison. For example, it’s very nice for people and for myself too if one can quote some Latin, or refer to something from history or philosophy in high society, over dinner or at a big gathering. It’s the same thing when the assizes come round and everyone has to be sworn in – all the other priests go into their shells, but I’m on hail-fellow-well-met terms with the judges, prosecutors, barristers. I talk like a scholar to them, have tea with them, enjoy a good laugh and ask them questions about things I don’t know. And they find it pleasant, too. So there you are, my boy… Learning is light, but ignorance is darkness. So study! Of course, it’s not easy. Nowadays studying costs a lot of money… Your dear mother is a widow and lives on a pension. And besides…’

Father Khristofor looked anxiously at the door.

‘Uncle Ivan will help you,’ he continued in a whisper. ‘He won’t leave you in the lurch. He doesn’t have children of his own and he’ll help you. Don’t worry!’

He looked grave and whispered even more softly, ‘Only mind you don’t forget your mother and Uncle Ivan – God forbid! Honour your mother, as the commandment bids us. Uncle Ivan is your benefactor, your guardian. If you become a scholar and you find other people a burden or despise them – God forbid – because they are stupider than you – then woe, woe unto you!’

Father Khristofor raised his hands and repeated in a thin voice, ‘Woe, I say, woe unto you!’

Father Khristofor warmed to his theme, began to relish it as they say and would have continued until dinner-time, but the door opened and in came Uncle Ivan. He hastily greeted them, sat at the table and rapidly gulped his tea.

‘Well,’ he began, ‘I’ve settled all the business. We should have gone home today, but there’s still a problem with Yegorushka. We must find him a place to live. My sister told me she has a friend around here, Nastasya Petrovna. Perhaps she could take him in as a boarder.’

He rummaged in his pocketbook, took out a crumpled letter and read, ‘ “Little Nizhny Street, to Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova, at her own house.” We must go and see her right away. Oh, it’s a real nuisance!’

Shortly after breakfast Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka left the inn.

‘It’s a real nuisance!’ Uncle muttered. ‘You just stick to me like a leech, damn you! All you and your mother want is book-learning and to be nice and refined, but you both give me no end of trouble!’

When they crossed the yard the wagons and drivers had disappeared – early that morning they had all gone down to the quayside. In a far corner stood that familiar dark shape – the carriage. The bays were standing nearby, eating their oats.

‘Goodbye, brichka!’ thought Yegorushka.

First they had a long walk uphill along a wide avenue, then across a large market square where Uncle Ivan asked a policeman the way to Little Nizhny Street.

‘Well now,’ grinned the policeman. ‘That’s miles from ’ere, over by the commons!’

On the way some cabs passed them, but Uncle allowed himself such extravagances as cabs only in exceptional circumstances and on major holidays. He and Yegorushka walked for a long time along paved streets, then along unpaved streets with footpaths and finally along streets that were neither paved nor with footpaths. When their legs and tongues had got them to Little Nizhny Street both were red in the face and, after removing their hats, they wiped away the sweat.

‘Can you please tell me,’ said Uncle Ivan, addressing a little old man sitting on a bench by a gate, ‘where Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova’s house is?’

‘There ain’t no Toskunova round ’ere,’ replied the old man after a pause for thought. ‘Perhaps it’s Timoshenko you be wanting?’

‘No, Toskunova.’

‘Sorry, ain’t no Toskunovas round ’ere…’

Uncle Ivan shrugged his shoulders and trudged on.

‘You’re wasting your time!’ the old man shouted after him. ‘If I says there ain’t none, that means there ain’t none!!’

‘Tell me, dearie,’ Uncle Ivan said, turning to an old woman on the corner selling seeds and pears from a tray, ‘where’s Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova’s house?’

The old woman looked at him in surprise and laughed.

‘Can she be living in a house of her own now?’ she asked. ‘Heavens, it’s nearly eight years since she married her daughter off and left the house to her son-in-law. It’s the son-in-law that lives there now.’

And her eyes seemed to be saying: ‘How could those idiots not know a simple fact like that?’

‘But where is she living now?’ asked Uncle Ivan.

‘Heavens!’ repeated the old woman in amazement, clasping her hands. ‘She’s been in lodgings for ages. It’s eight years since she made her house over to her son-in-law. Honestly!’

Most probably she was waiting for Uncle Ivan to be similarly surprised and exclaim: ‘But that’s not possible!’ but he asked very calmly, ‘So, where does she live?’

The fruit-seller rolled up her sleeves, pointed with her bare arm and shrilled, ‘Now, go straight on and on till you come to a little red house. You’ll see an alley to your left. Go down it and it’s the third gate on the right.’

Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka reached the little red house, turned left into the alley and headed for the third gate on the right. On both sides of the very ancient gate stretched a grey fence with wide cracks in it. The right-hand section listed heavily forwards, threatening to collapse altogether, whilst the left sloped back towards the yard. The gate was still upright, but was apparently deliberating which would be more convenient – to fall backwards or forwards. Uncle Ivan opened the wicket-gate and both he and Yegorushka saw a large yard overgrown with tall weeds and burdock. About a hundred steps from the gate stood a red-roofed cottage with green shutters. A plump woman with her sleeves rolled up and her apron outspread was standing in the middle of the yard. She was scattering something on the ground and shouting in a shrill, piercing voice like the fruit-seller’s, ‘Chick, chick, chick!’

Behind her sat a ginger dog with pointed ears. On seeing the visitors it started barking tenor (all ginger dogs bark tenor).

‘Who do you want?’ shouted the woman, screening her eyes from the sun with one hand.

‘Good morning!’ Uncle Ivan shouted back, waving the ginger dog away with his stick. ‘Tell me, does Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova live here?’

‘She does. What do you want with her?’

Uncle Ivan and Yegorushka went over to her. She eyed them suspiciously and repeated, ‘What do you want with her?’

‘Perhaps you are Nastasya Petrovna?’

‘Yes, I am!’

‘Very pleased to meet you. Well now, your old friend Olga Ivanovna Knyazeva sends her regards. And perhaps you remember me – I’m her brother Ivan. We’re all from the village of N—. You were born in our house and then you got married…’

There was silence. The plump woman stared vacantly at Uncle Ivan as if she neither believed nor understood. Then she flushed and threw up her hands. The oats spilled from her apron and tears spurted from her eyes.

‘Olga Ivanovna!’ she shrieked, breathless with excitement. ‘My sweet darling! Oh, heaven save us, why am I standing here like an idiot? My dear little beautiful angel!’

She embraced Yegorushka, made his face wet with her tears and then broke down completely.

‘Heavens above!’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘Olga’s little boy! What joy! He’s his mother all over, the spitting image! But why are you standing out in the yard? Please come inside.’

Crying, gasping for breath and talking as she went, she hurried into the house. The visitors wearily followed her.

‘I’m afraid it’s not very tidy in here,’ she said, ushering the visitors into a small stuffy room filled with icons and flowerpots.

‘Oh, goodness gracious!… Vasya!… At least open the shutters! My little angel! He’s so adorable! And fancy me not knowing that Olga had such a dear little boy!’

When she had calmed down and grown used to her visitors, Uncle Ivan asked to speak to her in private. Yegorushka went into the next room where there was a sewing-machine, a cage with a starling in the window and as many icons and flowers as in the parlour. A little girl, sunburnt and as chubby-cheeked as Titus and wearing a clean cotton-print frock, was standing stock-still by the sewing-machine. She stared at Yegorushka without blinking and evidently felt very awkward. Yegorushka looked at her in silence.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

The girl moved her lips and seemed about to cry.

‘Atka…’

(This meant Katka.)

‘So, he’ll live with you,’ Uncle Ivan whispered in the parlour, ‘if you’ll be so kind, and we’ll pay you ten roubles a month. He’s not a spoilt boy, he’s very well-behaved…’

‘I don’t know what to say, Ivan Ivanych!’ whimpered Nastasya Petrovna. ‘Ten roubles a month is good money, but taking in someone else’s child really scares me! Supposing he falls ill or something?…’

When Yegorushka was called back to the parlour Uncle Ivan was already standing hat in hand and saying goodbye.

‘What do you say then? So… he can stay with you now… Well, goodbye! You’re going to stay here, Yegorushka,’ he added, turning to his nephew. ‘Behave yourself and do as Nastasya Petrovna says… Goodbye… I’ll call back tomorrow.’

Uncle Ivan left and Nastasya Petrovna hugged Yegorushka again, calling him a little angel and tearfully began to lay the table. Within three minutes Yegorushka was sitting next to her, answering her endless questions and eating rich, hot cabbage soup.

That evening he was again sitting at the same table, propping his head on his hands as he listened to Nastasya Petrovna. Laughing and crying, she told him about his mother’s younger days, about her marriage, her children… A cricket chirped in the stove and the lamp-burner faintly droned. The mistress of the house spoke in a low voice and every now and then dropped her thimble in her excitement. Every time she did so her granddaughter Katya would crawl after it under the table and stay there a long time, probably to look at Yegorushka’s feet. Yegorushka listened and began to feel drowsy as he scrutinized the old woman’s face, the wart with little hairs sticking out, the tear-stains. And he felt sad, so very sad. They made up a bed for him on a trunk and told him that if he felt hungry during the night he should go into the passage and help himself to some chicken under a plate on the windowsill.

Next morning Uncle Ivan and Father Khristofor came to say goodbye. Nastasya Petrovna was delighted and was about to prepare the samovar when Uncle Ivan, who was in a great hurry, waved his hand dismissively and said, ‘We’ve no time for tea and sugar and all that! We’re leaving right away.’

Before the farewells everyone sat in silence for a minute. Nastasya Petrovna sighed deeply and looked at the icons with tearful eyes.

‘Well,’ began Uncle Ivan, getting up, ‘so you’ll be staying here…’

That businesslike detachment suddenly vanished from his face, he flushed slightly, smiled sadly and said, ‘Now, mind you study and don’t forget your mother and do what Nastasya Petrovna Toskunova tells you. If you study hard, Yegorushka, I won’t leave you in the lurch.’

He drew a purse from his pocket, turned his back to Yegorushka, fumbled for a while among his small change, found a ten-copeck piece and handed it to him. Father Khristofor sighed and without hurrying gave his blessing to Yegorushka:

‘In the name of the Father, the Son and Holy Ghost… Study, my boy… work hard. If I die, remember me in your prayers. Here, take these ten copecks, it’s a present from me as well.’

Yegorushka kissed his hand and burst into tears. Something deep down whispered that he would never see that old man again.

‘Nastasya Petrovna, I’ve applied to the school already,’ Uncle Ivan said, as if a corpse were laid out in the room. ‘On 7 August you must take him for the examinations… Well, goodbye now. God be with you. Goodbye, Yegorushka.’

‘You could at least have stayed for some tea,’ groaned Nastasya Petrovna.

Through the tears that blinded his eyes Yegorushka could not see Uncle and Father Khristofor leave. He rushed to the window, but they were already out of the yard and the ginger dog that had just been barking ran back from the gate with an air of having fulfilled its duty. Not knowing why, Yegorushka leapt up and flew out of the house. When he was outside the gate Uncle Ivan and Father Khristofor were already rounding the corner, the first swinging his stick with the crook, the second his staff. Yegorushka felt that with these two men all he had lived through until then had vanished forever, like smoke. He sank exhausted onto the bench, shedding bitter tears as he greeted that new, unknown life that was just beginning for him.

What would that life be like?