‘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 a
ll 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?’