‘‘Where are you going, then?’’ he asked, stamping his feet.
‘‘To study,’’ answered Egorushka.
‘‘To study? Aha ... Well, may the Queen of Heaven help you. So. Two heads are better than one. To one man God gives one brain, to another two brains, and to some even three ... To some even three, that’s for sure ... One brain you’re born with, another you get from studies, the third from a good life. So you see, little brother, it’s good if somebody has three brains. It’s easier for such a man not only to live but even to die. To die, yes ... And die we all will.’’
The old man scratched his forehead, glanced up at Egorushka with his red eyes, and went on:
‘‘Last year Maxim Nikolaich, a master from near Slavyanoserbsk, also took his lad to study. I don’t know how he is regards to learning, but he’s an all right lad, a good one ... God grant them health, they’re nice masters. Yes, he also took him to study ... In Slavyanoserbsk there is no such institution so as to finish your learning ... None ... But it’s an all right town, a good one ... There’s an ordinary school, for simple folk, but as for greater learning, there’s nonesuch ... None, that’s for sure. What’s your name?’’
‘‘Egorushka.’’
‘‘Meaning Egory ... The great and holy martyr Saint Egory the Dragonslayer, 15 whose feast day is the twenty-third of April. And my saint’s name is Pantelei ... Pantelei Zakharovich Kholodov ... We’re Kholodovs . . . I myself was born, you might have heard, in Tim, in Kursk province. My brothers registered themselves as tradesmen and work in town as craftsmen, but I’m a peasant ... I stayed a peasant. Some seven years ago I went there ... home, that is. And I was in the village and in the town ... I was in Tim, I’m saying. Back then, thank God, everybody was alive and well, but I don’t know about now ... Maybe some have died ... It’s time to die now, because everybody’s old, there’s some are older than me. Death’s all right, it’s good, only, of course, so long as you don’t die unrepentant. There’s no greater evil than an impudent death. An impudent death is the devil’s joy. And if you want to die repentant, so that the mansions of God aren’t barred to you, pray to the great martyr Varvara.16 She’s our intercessor ... She is, that’s for sure ... Because that’s the position God set up for her in heaven, meaning everyone has the full right to pray to her as regards repentance.’’
Pantelei was muttering and apparently did not care whether Egorushka heard him or not. He spoke listlessly, under his nose, not raising or lowering his voice, but in a short space he managed to tell of many things. Everything he told consisted of fragments that had very little connection with each other and were totally uninteresting to Egorushka. Perhaps he talked only because now, in the morning, after a night spent in silence, he wanted to check his thoughts aloud: were they all at home? Having finished with repentance, he again began speaking about some Maxim Nikolaevich from near Slavyanoserbsk:
‘‘Yes, he took his lad ... Took him, that’s for sure ...’’
One of the wagoners who was walking far ahead tore from his place, ran to the side, and began lashing the ground with his whip. He was a strapping, broad-shouldered man of about thirty, blond, curly-headed, and apparently very strong and healthy. Judging by the movements of his shoulders and whip, by the eagerness his posture expressed, he was beating something live. Another wagoner ran over to him, a short and stocky man with a black spade beard, dressed in a waistcoat and an untucked shirt. This one burst into bass-voiced, coughing laughter and shouted:
‘‘Brothers, Dymov’s killed a viper! By God!’’
There are people whose intelligence can be judged correctly by their voice and laughter. The black-bearded fellow belonged precisely to such fortunates: in his voice and laughter you could sense an unmitigated stupidity. Having finished whipping, the blond Dymov lifted something resembling a rope from the ground with his whip and flung it towards the wagons with a laugh.
‘‘That’s no viper, it’s a grass snake,’’ somebody shouted.
The man with the wooden stride and the bound-up face quickly went over to the dead snake, glanced at it, and clasped his sticklike hands.
‘‘Jailbird!’’ he cried in a hollow, tearful voice. ‘‘Why’d you kill a grass snake? What did it do to you, curse you! Look, he’s killed a grass snake! And what if somebody did the same to you?’’
‘‘You shouldn’t kill grass snakes, that’s for sure . . .’’ Pantelei muttered placidly. ‘‘You shouldn’t ... It’s not an asp. It has the looks of a viper, but it’s a quiet, innocent beast ... It loves man ... Your grass snake . . .’’
Dymov and the black-bearded fellow probably felt ashamed, because they laughed loudly and, without answering the protests, trudged lazily to their wagons. When the last wagon came even with the place where the dead snake lay, the man with the bound-up face, standing over the snake, turned to Pantelei and asked in a tearful voice:
‘‘Why’d he kill the grass snake, grandpa?’’
His eyes, as Egorushka now made out, were small, lackluster, his face was gray, sickly, and also as if lackluster, and his chin was red and appeared badly swollen.
‘‘Why’d he kill it, grandpa?’’ he repeated, striding beside Pantelei.
‘‘A stupid man, got an itch in his hands, that’s why he killed it,’’ the old man replied. ‘‘And you shouldn’t kill a grass snake ... That’s for sure ... We all know Dymov, he’s a prankster, he’ll kill anything he gets his hands on, and Kiriukha didn’t interfere. He ought to have interfered, but it was just ha-ha-ha and ho-ho-ho ... But don’t you get angry, Vasya ... Why get angry? They killed it, and God help them ... Dymov’s a prankster, and Kiriukha does it from his stupid wits ... Never mind ... They’re stupid people, with no understanding, and God help them. Emelyan here will never touch what he oughtn’t. Never, that’s for sure ... Because he’s an educated man, and they’re stupid ... Your Emelyan ... He won’t ...’’
The wagoner in the reddish coat and with the spongy bump, who conducted the invisible choir, stopped on hearing his name, waited until Pantelei and Vasya came even with him, and walked beside them.
‘‘What’s the talk about?’’ he said in a wheezing, stifled voice.
‘‘Vasya here’s getting angry,’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘I use various words, so he won’t get angry, I mean ... Eh, my ailing, frostbitten little feet! Ehh! They got itchy for the sake of Sunday, the Lord’s feast day!’’
‘‘It’s from walking,’’ observed Vasya.
‘‘No, lad, no . . . Not from walking. When I walk, it seems easier, but when I lie down and get warm—it’s the death of me. Walking’s freer for me.’’
Emelyan in his reddish coat stood between Pantelei and Vasya and waved his hand as if they were going to sing. After waving it for a while, he lowered his hand and grunted hopelessly.
‘‘I’ve got no voice!’’ he said. ‘‘Sheer disaster! All night and all morning I’ve been imagining the triple ‘Lord have mercy!’ that we sang at Marinovsky’s wedding; it’s sitting in my head and throat ... so it seems I could just up and sing it, but I can’t! I’ve got no voice!’’
He fell silent for a moment, thinking about something, then went on:
‘‘For fifteen years I was in the choir, in the whole Lugansk factory, maybe, there was no such voice, but then, deuce take it, I went swimming in the Donets two years ago, and ever since I’ve been unable to hit a single note clearly. I caught a chill in my throat. And me without a voice is the same as a workman without a hand.’’
‘‘That’s for sure,’’ agreed Pantelei.
‘‘The way I look at myself is, I’m a lost man and nothing more.’’
At that moment Vasya happened to catch sight of Egorushka. His eyes became unctuous and grew still smaller.
‘‘And there’s a young master coming with us!’’ he said and covered his nose with his sleeve, as if abashed. ‘‘What a grand coachman! Stay with us, you can go around with the wagons carting wool.’’
The notio
n of combining a young master and a coachman in one body probably seemed very curious and witty to him, because he tittered loudly and went on developing the thought. Emelyan also glanced up at Egorushka, but fleetingly and coldly. He was occupied with his thoughts, and if it had not been for Vasya, he would not have noticed Egorushka’s presence. Before five minutes had passed, he again began waving his hand, then, describing to his companions the beauties of the wedding ‘‘Lord have mercy,’’ which had come to his mind during the night, he put the whip under his arm and waved both hands.
A mile from the village, the train stopped by a well with a sweep. Lowering his bucket into the well, the black-bearded Kiriukha leaned his belly on the rail and thrust his shaggy head, shoulders, and part of his chest into the dark hole, so that Egorushka could see only his short legs, which barely touched the ground; seeing the reflection of his head far away at the bottom of the well, he rejoiced and dissolved into stupid bass laughter, and the well’s echo answered him the same way; when he stood up, his face and neck were crimson red. Dymov was the first to run over and drink. He drank laughing, often tearing himself away from the bucket and telling Kiriukha about something funny, then he turned and, loudly, for the whole steppe to hear, uttered five bad words. Egorushka did not understand the meaning of these words, but he knew very well that they were bad. He knew the repugnance his family and acquaintances silently nursed for them, shared this feeling, not knowing why himself, and was accustomed to think that only drunk and riotous people had the privilege of uttering these words aloud. He remembered the killing of the grass snake, listened to Dymov’s laughter, and felt something like hatred for this man. And, as if on purpose, just then Dymov caught sight of Egorushka, who got off the wagon and was walking towards the well. He laughed loudly and shouted:
‘‘Brothers, the old man gave birth to a boy last night!’’
Kiriukha coughed from his bass laughter. Someone else laughed, too, and Egorushka blushed and decided finally that Dymov was a very wicked man.
Blond, curly-headed, hatless, and with the shirt unbuttoned on his chest, Dymov seemed handsome and extraordinarily strong; his every movement revealed the prankster and strongman who knows his own worth. He rolled his shoulders, set his arms akimbo, talked and laughed louder than anybody else, and looked as if he were about to lift something very heavy with one hand and astonish the whole world by it. His mischievous, mocking gaze glided over the road, the wagon train, and the sky, did not pause on anything, and, from having nothing to do, seemed to be looking for some creature to kill or something to make fun of. Evidently he was not afraid of anyone, knew no restraint, and probably had no interest at all in Egorushka’s opinion ... But with all his soul, Egorushka now hated his blond head, clear face, and strength, listened with fear and repugnance to his laughter, and tried to think of some abusive word to say to him in revenge.
Pantelei also went over to the bucket. He took a green icon-lamp glass from his pocket, wiped it with a rag, dipped from the bucket and drank, then dipped again, wrapped the glass in the rag, and put it back in his pocket.
‘‘Grandpa, why do you drink from an icon lamp?’’ Egorushka was surprised.
‘‘Some drink from a bucket, some from an icon lamp,’’ the old man answered evasively. ‘‘To each his own . . . You drink from a bucket, well, so drink in good health . . .’’
‘‘My dear little heart, my sweet little beauty,’’ Vasya suddenly started speaking in a tender, tearful voice. ‘‘My dear little heart!’
His eyes were aimed off into the distance, they became unctuous, smiled, and his face acquired the same expression as when he had looked at Egorushka earlier.
‘‘Who are you talking to?’’ asked Kiriukha.
‘‘A sweet little fox ... it’s lying on its back and playing like a puppy ...’’
They all began looking into the distance, seeking the fox with their eyes, but found nothing. Vasya alone saw something with his gray, lackluster little eyes, and admired. As Egorushka later became convinced, he had strikingly keen eyesight. He saw so well that, for him, the dirty brown, empty steppe was always filled with life and content. He had only to peer into the distance to see a fox, a hare, a bustard, or some other animal that keeps away from people. It is not hard to see a fleeing hare or a flying bustard—anyone crossing the steppe has seen that—but it is not given to everyone to see wild animals in their home life, when they are not fleeing, not hiding or looking around in alarm. But Vasya could see foxes frolicking, hares washing themselves with their forepaws, bustards spreading their wings, kestrels beating their wings ‘‘in place.’’ Thanks to such keen eyesight, besides the world that everyone could see, Vasya had another world of his own, inaccessible to anyone else, and probably a very nice one, because when he looked and admired, it was hard not to envy him.
As the wagon train moved on, the bells were ringing for the liturgy.
V
THE WAGON TRAIN settled down to the side of the village on the riverbank. The sun burned like the day before, the air was motionless and dismal. Several pussywillows stood on the bank, but their shade fell not on the land but on the water, where it was wasted, and in the shade under the wagons it was stifling and dull. The water, blue from the sky’s reflection in it, was passionately alluring.
The wagoner Styopka, to whom Egorushka only now paid attention, an eighteen-year-old Ukrainian boy in a long, belt-less shirt and wide, loose balloon trousers that fluttered like flags as he walked, quickly undressed, ran down the steep bank, and plopped into the water. He dove three times, then turned on his back and closed his eyes with pleasure. His face smiled and wrinkled, as if it felt tickly, painful, and funny to him.
On a hot day, when there is no getting away from the torrid and stifling heat, the splashing of water and the loud breathing of a bather affect the hearing like good music. Dymov and Kiriukha, looking at Styopka, quickly undressed and, with loud laughter and anticipating pleasure, plunged one after the other into the water. And the quiet, modest river resounded with snorting, splashing, and shouting. Kiriukha coughed, laughed, and shouted as if someone was trying to drown him, and Dymov chased after him, trying to grab him by the leg.
‘‘Hey, hey, hey!’’ he shouted. ‘‘Catch him, hold him!’’
Kiriukha guffawed and enjoyed himself, but the expression on his face was the same as on dry land: stupid, stunned, as if someone had crept up behind him unseen and whacked him on the head with the butt of an axe. Egorushka also undressed, but he did not go down the bank, but ran up and went flying off the ten-foot height. Describing an arc in the air, he fell into the water, went deep down, but did not reach the bottom; some force, cold and pleasant to the touch, picked him up and carried him back to the surface. He emerged, snorting and blowing bubbles, and opened his eyes; but the sun was reflected in the river just by his face. First blinding sparks, then rainbows and dark spots moved before his eyes; he hastened to dive again, opened his eyes underwater, and saw something muddy green, like the sky on a moonlit night. Again the same force, not letting him touch bottom and stay in the cool, carried him upwards. He emerged and breathed so deeply that he felt vast and refreshed not only in his chest but even in his stomach. Then, to take from the water all that could be taken, he allowed himself every luxury: he lay on his back, basked, splashed, turned somersaults, swam on his stomach, and on his side, and on his back, and upright—however he liked, until he got tired. The opposite bank was thickly overgrown with rushes, shining golden in the sun, and the rush flowers bent their beautiful tufts to the water. In one place the rushes trembled, bent their flowers down, and gave a crunch—this was Styopka and Kiriukha ‘‘snatching’’ crayfish.
‘‘A crayfish! Look, brothers, a crayfish!’’ Kiriukha shouted triumphantly and indeed held up a crayfish.
Egorushka swam towards the rushes, dove down, and began feeling around near the roots. Digging into the liquid, slimy silt, he felt something sharp and disgusting, maybe really a crayfish, but just the
n somebody seized him by the leg and pulled him to the surface. Spluttering and coughing, Egorushka opened his eyes and saw before him the wet, laughing face of the prankster Dymov. The prankster was breathing heavily and, judging by his eyes, wanted to go on with his mischief. He held Egorushka tightly by the leg, and was already raising his other hand to seize him by the neck, but Egorushka, with repugnance and fear, as if scornful and afraid that the stalwart fellow would drown him, tore himself free and said:
‘‘Fool! I’ll give it to you in the mug!’’
Feeling that this was not enough to express his hatred, he thought a moment and added:
‘‘Scoundrel! Son of a bitch!’’
But Dymov, as if nothing had happened, no longer paid any attention to Egorushka, but went swimming towards Kiriukha, shouting:
‘‘Hey, hey, hey! Let’s do some fishing! Boys, let’s go fishing!’’
‘‘Why not?’’ agreed Kiriukha. ‘‘There must be lots of fish here . . .’’
‘‘Styopka, run to the village, ask the muzhiks for a net.’’
‘‘They won’t give us one!’’
‘‘They will! You just ask! Tell them it’s like it’s for Christ’s sake, because we’re the same as wanderers.’’
‘‘That’s for sure!’’
Styopka got out of the water, dressed quickly, and, hatless, his wide balloon trousers flapping, ran to the village. After the clash with Dymov, the water lost all its charm for Egorushka. He got out and began to dress. Pantelei and Vasya were sitting on the steep bank, their legs hanging down, and watching the bathers. Emelyan, naked, stood up to his knees in the water just by the bank, holding on to the grass with one hand, so as not to fall, and stroking his body with the other. With his bony shoulder blades, with the bump under his eye, bent over and obviously afraid of the water, he presented a ridiculous figure. His face was serious, stern; he looked at the water crossly, as if about to reprimand it for getting him chilled once in the Donets and taking his voice away.
The Complete Short Novels Page 8