‘‘What’s your name?’’
The stranger’s cheeks swelled still more; he pressed his back against the stone, goggled his eyes, moved his lips, and answered in a husky bass:
‘‘Titus.’’
The boys said not one word more to each other. After a short silence, and not tearing his eyes from Egorushka, the mysterious Titus raised one leg, felt for a foothold behind him with his heel, and climbed up the stone; from there, backing up and staring point-blank at Egorushka, as if afraid he might hit him from behind, he got up onto the next stone and so kept climbing until he vanished altogether over the top of the knoll.
Having followed him with his eyes, Egorushka put his arms around his knees and bowed his head ... The hot rays burned his nape, his neck, his back ... The mournful song now died down, now drifted again through the stagnant, stifling air, the brook burbled monotonously, the horses munched, and time dragged on endlessly, as if it, too, had congealed and stopped. It seemed that a hundred years had passed since morning ... Did God want Egorushka, the britzka, and the horses to stand stock-still in this air and, like the hills, turn to stone and stay forever in one place?
Egorushka raised his head and, with bleary eyes, looked in front of him; the purple distance, which till then had been motionless, swayed and, along with the sky, sped off somewhere still further away ... It pulled the brown grass and the sedge with it, and Egorushka, with extraordinary swiftness, sped after the fleeing distance. Some force was noiselessly drawing him somewhere, and in his wake raced the heat and the wearisome song. Egorushka bowed his head and closed his eyes ...
Deniska was the first to wake up. Something had stung him, because he jumped up, quickly scratched his shoulder, and said:
‘‘Heathenish anathema, the plague’s too good for you!’’
Then he went to the brook, drank, and washed for a long time. His snorting and splashing brought Egorushka out of oblivion. The boy looked at his wet face, covered with drops and large freckles, which made it look like marble, and asked:
‘‘Will we go soon?’’
Deniska looked to see how high the sun was and answered:
‘‘Ought to be soon.’’
He dried himself with his shirttail and, making a very serious face, began hopping on one leg.
‘‘Hey, let’s see who’ll reach the sedge first!’’ he said.
Egorushka was weary with heat and drowsiness, but all the same he went hopping after him. Deniska was already about twenty, he served as a coachman and was going to get married, but he had not yet stopped being a child. He loved flying kites, chasing pigeons, playing knucklebones, playing tag, and always mixed into children’s games and quarrels. The masters had only to leave or fall asleep for him to start something like hopping on one leg or throwing stones. It was hard for any adult, seeing the genuine enthusiasm with which he frolicked in the company of the young ones, to keep from saying: ‘‘What a dolt!’’ But children saw nothing strange in the big coachman’s invasion of their domain: let him play, so long as he doesn’t fight! Just as little dogs see nothing strange when a big, sincere dog mixes into their company and starts playing with them.
Deniska beat Egorushka and apparently remained very pleased with that. He winked and, to show that he could hop on one leg any distance you like, proposed that Egorushka hop down the road with him and from there back to the britzka without resting. Egorushka rejected the proposal, because he was quite breathless and faint.
Suddenly Deniska made a very serious face, such as he never made, even when Kuzmichov reprimanded him or raised his stick to him; listening, he quietly lowered himself on one knee, and an expression of sternness and fear appeared on his face, as happens with people listening to heresy. He aimed his eyes at one point, slowly raised his hand with the palm cupped, and suddenly fell belly-down on the ground, hitting the grass with his hand.
‘‘Got it!’’ he croaked triumphantly and, getting up, brought to Egorushka’s eyes a big grasshopper.
Thinking it was pleasant for the grasshopper, Egorushka and Deniska stroked its broad green back with their fingers and touched its feelers. Then Deniska caught a fat bloodfilled fly and offered it to the grasshopper. Very indifferently, as if it had known Deniska for a long time, the latter moved its big visorlike jaws and bit off the fly’s stomach. Released, it flashed its pink underwings and, landing in the grass, at once chirped out its song. The fly was also released; it spread its wings and flew off to the horses minus its stomach.
A deep sigh came from under the britzka. This was Kuzmichov waking up. He quickly raised his head, gazed uneasily into the distance, and it was evident from this look, which slipped insensibly past Egorushka and Deniska, that on waking up, he had thought of wool and Varlamov.
‘‘Father Khristofor, get up, it’s time!’’ he began in alarm. ‘‘Enough sleeping, we’ve slept through business as it is! Deniska, harness up!’’
Father Khristofor woke up with the same smile he had fallen asleep with. His face was crumpled and wrinkled from sleep and seemed to have become twice smaller. After washing and dressing, he unhurriedly took a small, greasy Psalter from his pocket and, turning his face to the east, began reading in a whisper and crossing himself.
‘‘Father Khristofor!’’ Kuzmichov said reproachfully. ‘‘It’s time to go, the horses are ready, and you, by God ...’’
‘‘Right away, right away ...’’ Father Khristofor murmured. ‘‘I must read the kathismas7 ... I haven’t read any today.’’
‘‘The kathismas can wait till later.’’
‘‘Ivan Ivanych, I have a rule for each day ... I can’t.’’
‘‘God’s not a stickler.’’
For a whole quarter of an hour Father Khristofor stood motionless, facing the east and moving his lips, while Kuzmichov looked at him almost with hatred and impatiently shrugged his shoulders. He was especially angry when, after each ‘‘Glory,’’ Father Khristofor drew his breath, quickly crossed himself, and, deliberately raising his voice so that the others would cross themselves, said three times:
‘‘Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, glory to Thee, O God!’’
At last he smiled, looked up into the sky, and, putting the Psalter into his pocket, said:
‘‘Finis!’’
A minute later the britzka started on its way. As if it was driving backwards and not forwards, the travelers saw the same things as before noon. The hills were still sinking into the purple distance, and there was no end of them in sight; tall weeds flashed past, boulders, mowed fields rushed by, and the same rooks, and the kite, sedately flapping its wings, flew over the steppe. The air congealed still more from the heat and the stillness, obedient nature grew torpid in the silence. No wind, no brisk, fresh sound, no clouds.
But then, finally, as the sun began to sink in the west, the steppe, the hills, and the air could bear no more oppression, and, worn out, their patience exhausted, they attempted to throw off the yoke. An ash-gray curly cloud unexpectedly appeared from behind the hills. It exchanged glances with the steppe—I’m ready, it seemed to say—and frowned. Suddenly something broke in the stagnant air, a strong gust of wind came and, whistling noisily, went wheeling around the steppe. At once the grass and last year’s weeds raised a murmur, the dust of the road whirled into a spiral, ran across the steppe, and, drawing straw, dragonflies, and feathers with it, rose up into the sky in a black, spinning pillar and obscured the sun. Tumbleweed rolled hither and thither, stumbling and leaping, over the steppe, and one bush got into the whirl, spun like a bird, flew up into the sky, and, turning into a black speck there, disappeared from sight. After it swept another, then a third, and Egorushka saw two tumbleweeds collide in the blue height and clutch at each other as if in combat.
A kestrel took flight just by the roadside. Flashing its wings and tail, bathed in sunlight, it looked like an angler’s fly or a pond moth whose wings merge with its feelers as it flashes over the water, and it seems to have feelers growing on it in front
, and behind, and on the sides ... Quivering in the air like an insect, sporting its motley colors, the kestrel rose high up in a straight line, then, probably frightened by the cloud of dust, veered off to one side, and its flashing could be seen for a long time ...
And now, alarmed by the wind and not understanding what it was about, a corncrake flew up from the grass. It flew with the wind, not against it as all birds do; this ruffled its feathers, puffing it up to the size of a hen, and it looked very angry and imposing. Only the rooks, grown old on the steppe and used to its turmoil, calmly raced over the grass or else, paying no attention to anything, indifferently pecked the tough ground with their fat beaks.
From beyond the hills came a dull rumble of thunder; there was a breath of coolness. Deniska whistled merrily and whipped up the horses. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov, holding on to their hats, turned their eyes to the hills ... It would be nice if it spat some rain!
A little more, it seemed, the smallest effort, a single push, and the steppe would gain the upper hand. But the invisible oppressive force gradually fettered the wind and the air, settled the dust, and again came stillness, as if nothing had happened. The cloud hid, the sunburnt hills frowned, the air obediently congealed, and only the alarmed peewits wept somewhere and bemoaned their fate ...
Soon after that, evening came.
III
IN THE EVENING twilight a big, one-story house appeared, with a rusty iron roof and dark windows. This house was called an innyard, though there was no yard around it, and it stood in the midst of the steppe not fenced by anything. Slightly to one side of it, a pathetic little cherry orchard with a wattle fence could be seen, and under its windows, their heavy heads bowed, sunflowers stood sleeping. In the orchard a tiny little windmill rattled away, set there so that the noise would frighten the hares. Besides that, there was nothing to be seen or heard near the house but the steppe.
The britzka had barely stopped by the covered porch when joyful voices were heard inside the house—one male, the other female. The sliding door shrieked on its pulley, and in an instant a tall, skinny figure rose up by the britzka, flapping its arms and coattails. This was the innkeeper Moisei Moiseich, a middle-aged man with a very pale face and a handsome ink-black beard. He was dressed in a worn black frock coat that hung on his narrow shoulders as if on a hanger, and its tails flapped like wings each time Moisei Moiseich clasped his hands in joy or horror. Besides the frock coat, the landlord was wearing wide white untucked trousers and a velvet vest with orange flowers resembling gigantic bedbugs.
Moisei Moiseich, recognizing the visitors, first stopped dead from the flood of emotion, then clasped his hands and groaned. His frock coat flapped its tails, his back bent into a curve, and his pale face twisted into such a smile as if the sight of the britzka was not only pleasant for him but also painfully sweet.
‘‘Ah, my God, my God!’’ he began in a high singsong voice, breathless and bustling, his movements hindering the passengers from getting out of the britzka. ‘‘And what a happy day it is for me! Ah, and what am I to do now! Ivan Ivanych! Father Khristofor! What a pretty little sir is sitting on the box, God punish me! Ah my God, what am I doing standing here and not inviting the guests in? Please, I humbly beg you ... come in! Give me all your things ... Ah, my God!’’
While rummaging in the britzka and helping the visitors to get out, Moisei Moiseich suddenly turned around and shouted in such a wild, strangled voice, as if he were drowning and calling for help:
‘‘Solomon! Solomon!’’
‘‘Solomon, Solomon!’’ the woman’s voice repeated in the house.
The door shrieked on its pulley, and a young Jew appeared on the threshold, of medium height, red-haired, with a big bird’s nose and a bald spot in the midst of his stiff, curly hair; he was dressed in a short, very worn jacket with rounded tails and too short sleeves, and tricot trousers, also too short, as a result of which he himself looked short and skimpy, like a plucked bird. This was Solomon, Moisei Moiseich’s brother. Silently, not offering any greeting but only smiling somehow strangely, he approached the britzka.
‘‘Ivan Ivanych and Father Khristofor have come!’’ Moisei Moiseich said to him in such a tone as if he was afraid his brother might not believe him. ‘‘Oi, weh, amazing business, such good people up and came! Well, take the things, Solomon. Come in, dear guests!’’
A little later Kuzmichov, Father Khristofor, and Egorushka were sitting in a big, gloomy, and empty room at an old oak table. This table was almost solitary, because apart from it, a wide sofa covered with torn oilcloth, and three chairs, there was no other furniture in the room. And not everyone would have ventured to call those chairs chairs. They were some pitiful semblance of furniture, with oilcloth that had outlived its time, and a highly unnatural bend to their backs, which gave them a great likeness to a child’s sled. It was hard to see what comfort the unknown cabinetmaker had in mind in bending the backs so mercilessly, and one would rather have thought that it was the fault not of the cabinetmaker but of some itinerant strongman who, wishing to boast of his strength, had bent the chairs’ backs, then tried to set them straight and bent them still more. The room looked gloomy. The walls were gray, the ceiling and cornices were covered with soot, the floor was cracked and had holes of unknown origin gaping in it (one might have thought the same strongman had broken through it with his heel), and it seemed that if a dozen lamps were hung up in the room, it would not stop being dark. There was nothing resembling decoration either on the walls or on the windows. However, on one wall, in a gray wooden frame, hung a list of rules of some sort with a double-headed eagle, and on another, in the same sort of frame, some lithograph with the caption: ‘‘Men’s Indifference.’’ What it was that men were indifferent to was impossible to tell, because the lithograph was badly faded with time and generously flyblown. The room smelled of something musty and sour.
Having led the guests into the room, Moisei Moiseich went on writhing, clasping his hands, squirming, and making joyful exclamations—he considered it necessary to perform all this in order to appear extremely polite and amiable.
‘‘When did our carts pass by here?’’ Kuzmichov asked him.
‘‘One party passed this morning, and another, Ivan Ivanych, rested here at dinnertime and left before evening.’’
‘‘Ah ... Did Varlamov pass this way or not?’’
‘‘No, Ivan Ivanych. Yesterday morning his agent, Grigory Egorych, passed by and said he must now be at the Molokan’s8 farmstead.’’
‘‘Excellent. That means we’ll catch up with the train now, and then go to the Molokan’s.’’
‘‘God help you, Ivan Ivanych!’’ Moisei Moiseich clasped his hands, horrified. ‘‘Where are you going to go with night falling? Have a nice little bite of supper, spend the night, and tomorrow morning, with God’s help, you can go and catch up with anybody you want!’’
‘‘No time, no time ... Sorry, Moisei Moiseich, some other occasion, but now is not the time. We’ll stay for a quarter of an hour and then go, and we can spend the night at the Molokan’s.’’
‘‘A quarter of an hour!’’ shrieked Moisei Moiseich. ‘‘You have no fear of God, Ivan Ivanych! You’ll force me to hide your hats and lock the door! At least have a bite to eat and some tea!’’
‘‘We have no time for any teas and sugars,’’ said Kuzmichov.
Moisei Moiseich inclined his head, bent his knees, and held his palms up in front of him as if defending himself from blows, and with a painfully sweet smile began to implore:
‘‘Ivan Ivanych! Father Khristofor! Be so kind, have some tea with me! Am I such a bad man that you can’t even have tea with me? Ivan Ivanych!’’
‘‘Why, we might just have a drop of tea,’’ Father Khristofor sighed sympathetically. ‘‘It won’t keep us long.’’
‘‘Well, all right!’’ Kuzmichov agreed.
Moisei Moiseich roused himself, gasped joyfully, and, squirming as if he had just jumped out of co
ld water into the warmth, ran to the door and shouted in a wild, strangled voice, the same with which he had called Solomon earlier:
‘‘Rosa! Rosa! Bring the samovar!’’
A minute later, the door opened and Solomon came into the room with a big tray in his hands. Setting the tray on the table, he looked mockingly somewhere to the side and smiled strangely, as before. Now, in the light of the lamp, it was possible to examine his smile; it was very complex and expressed many feelings, but one thing was predominant in it—an obvious contempt. It was as if he was thinking of something funny and stupid, could not stand someone and was contemptuous of him, was glad of something and waiting for the appropriate moment to sting someone with his mockery and roll with laughter. His long nose, fat lips, and sly, protruding eyes seemed to be straining with the wish to burst out laughing. Looking at his face, Kuzmichov smiled mockingly and asked:
‘‘Solomon, why didn’t you come to the fair this summer in N. to play the Yid for us?’’
Two years ago, as Egorushka also remembered perfectly well, in one of the show booths at the fair in N., Solomon had narrated some scenes from Jewish everyday life and had been a great success. The reminder of it did not make any impression on Solomon. He went out without answering and a little later came back with the samovar.
After doing what was to be done at the table, he went to one side and, crossing his arms on his chest, thrusting one foot forward, fixed his mocking eyes on Father Khristofor. There was something defiant, haughty, and contemptuous in his pose, and at the same time something pathetic and comical in the highest degree, because the more imposing it became, the more conspicuous were his short trousers, his skimpy jacket, his caricature of a nose, and his whole plucked-bird-like little figure.
Moisei Moiseich brought a stool from another room and sat down at some distance from the table.
The Complete Short Novels Page 5