Around midnight the wagoners and Egorushka were again sitting around a small campfire. While the weeds were catching fire, Kiriukha and Vasya went to fetch water somewhere in a little gully; they disappeared into the darkness, but could be heard all the while clanging the buckets and talking; that meant the gully was not far away. The light from the campfire lay in a big, flickering patch on the ground; though the moon was shining, everything outside the red patch seemed impenetrably black. The light struck the wagoners’ eyes, and they could see only a part of the high road; in the darkness, the horses and the wagons with their bales were outlined in barely visible mounds of an indefinite shape. Twenty paces from the campfire, on the boundary between the road and the fields, stood a wooden grave cross sunk to one side. When the campfire had not yet been lit and it was possible to see far, Egorushka had noticed exactly the same old sunken cross standing on the other side of the high road.
Coming back with water, Kiriukha and Vasya filled the cauldron and fixed it over the fire. Styopka, with the nicked spoon in his hand, took his place in the smoke by the cauldron and, watching the water pensively, began to wait till froth appeared. Pantelei and Emelyan sat next to each other, kept silent, and thought about something. Dymov lay on his stomach, his head propped on his fists, and looked at the fire; Styopka’s shadow leaped across him, so that his handsome face was now covered with darkness, now suddenly blazed up ... Kiriukha and Vasya wandered a little way off, gathering weeds and birch bark for the fire. Egorushka, his hands in his pockets, stood beside Pantelei and watched how the fire ate the grass.
Everyone rested, thought about something, glanced fleetingly at the cross, over which red patches leaped. There is something sad, dreamy, and in the highest degree poetic in a lonely grave ... You can hear its silence, and in this silence you sense the presence of the soul of the unknown person who lies under the cross. Is it good for this soul in the steppe? Does it languish on a moonlit night? And the steppe near the grave seems sad, dismal, and pensive, the grass is sorrowful, and the grasshoppers seem to call with more restraint ... And there is no passerby who would not give thought to the lonely soul and turn to look back at the grave until it was left far behind and covered in dusk ...
‘‘Grandpa, why’s that cross standing here?’’ asked Egorushka.
Pantelei looked at the cross, then at Dymov, and asked:
‘‘Mikolka, mightn’t this be the place where the mowers killed the merchants?’’
Dymov reluctantly raised himself on his elbow, looked at the road, and replied:
‘‘The very same . . .’’
Silence ensued. Kiriukha made a crackling noise as he crumpled the dry grass into a ball and put it under the cauldron. The fire blazed up more brightly; Styopka was engulfed in black smoke, and the shadow of the cross raced through the darkness over the road by the wagons.
‘‘Yes, killed them . . .’’ Dymov said reluctantly. ‘‘The merchants, a father and son, were on their way to sell icons. They stopped at an inn nearby, the one that Ignat Fomin keeps now. The old man drank a bit too much and started boasting that he had a lot of money with him. Merchants are known to be boastful folk, God forbid ... They can’t help showing off at their best before the likes of us. But just then there were some mowers spending the night at the inn. So they heard the merchant boast and made note of it.’’
‘‘Oh, Lord ... Our Lady!’’ sighed Pantelei.
‘‘The next day, at first light,’’ Dymov went on, ‘‘the merchants got ready for the road, and the mowers mixed in with them. ‘Let’s go together, Your Honor. It’s more fun, and less dangerous, because it’s a godforsaken place here ...’ The merchants drove at a slow pace so as not to damage the icons, and that played into the mowers’ hands . . .’’
Dymov got up on his knees and stretched himself.
‘‘Yes,’’ he went on, yawning. ‘‘Everything went all right, but when the merchants reached this place, the mowers started cleaning them up with their scythes. The son was a fine fellow, he snatched the scythe from one of them and also did some cleaning ... Well, of course, those fellows overpowered them, because there were about eight of them. They cut the merchants up so there wasn’t a live spot left on their bodies; they finished their business and dragged the two of them off the road, the father to one side, the son to the other. Opposite here, on the other side of the road, there’s another cross ... I don’t know if it’s still there . . . You can’t see it from here.’’
‘‘It’s there,’’ said Kiriukha.
‘‘They say afterwards they didn’t find much money.’’
‘‘Not much,’’ Pantelei confirmed. ‘‘About a hundred roubles.’’
‘‘Yes, and three of them died afterwards, because the merchant also cut them badly with the scythe ... They bled to death. One of them had his arm lopped off, and they say he ran about four miles without his arm, and they found him on a little knoll near Kurikovo. He was crouched there with his head resting on his knees, as if he was deep in thought, but when they took a look, there was no soul in him, he was dead . . .’’
‘‘They found him by the trail of blood . . .’’ said Pantelei.
Everyone looked at the cross, and again silence ensued. From somewhere, probably the little gully, came the mournful cry of a bird: ‘‘Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! ...’’
‘‘There’s lots of wicked people in the world,’’ said Emelyan.
‘‘Lots, lots!’’ Pantelei agreed and moved closer to the fire, looking as if he felt eerie. ‘‘Lots,’’ he went on in a low voice. ‘‘I’ve seen no end of ’em in my life ... Wicked people, that is ... I’ve seen lots of saintly and righteous people, but the sinful ones there’s no counting ... Queen of Heaven, save us and have mercy . . . I remember once, thirty years ago, maybe more, I was driving a merchant from Morshansk. He was a nice man, fine-looking, and with money . . . the merchant, that is . . . a good man, all right . . . So then we drove on and stopped to spend the night at an inn. And the inns in Russia are not like in these parts. They’ve got covered yards like cowsheds, or, say, like threshing barns in good farmsteads. Only threshing barns are higher. Well, we stopped, and everything was all right. My merchant was in a little room, I was with the horses, and all was as it should be. So then, brothers, I prayed to God—before sleep, I mean—and went for a stroll in the yard. The night was pitch dark, you couldn’t see a thing, no use looking at all. I strolled a little, about as far as from here to the wagons, and I see a light glimmering. What’s the story? It seemed the landlords went to bed long ago, and there were no other lodgers besides me and the merchant ... Where was the light coming from? Suspicion took hold of me ... .. I went closer . . . to the light, that is ... Lord have mercy and save me, Queen of Heaven! I looked, and right on the ground there was a little window with bars ... in the house, that is ... I lay on the ground and looked; and the moment I looked, a chill ran through my whole body . . .’’
Kiriukha, trying not to make noise, stuck a bunch of weeds into the fire. The old man waited till the weeds stopped crackling and hissing, and went on:
‘‘I looked inside, and there’s a cellar there, a big one, dark and suspicious ... A lantern is burning on a barrel. In the middle of the cellar stand some ten men in red shirts, their sleeves rolled up, sharpening long knives . . . Aha! Well, so we’d fallen in with a band of robbers ... What to do? I ran to the merchant, woke him up quietly, and said: ‘Don’t you get frightened, merchant,’ I say, ‘but things look bad for us ... We’ve fallen,’ I say, ‘into a den of robbers.’ His face changed, and he asked: ‘What do we do now, Pantelei? I have a lot of orphans’ money with me ... As regards my life,’ he says, ‘it’s as God wills, I’m not afraid to die,’ he says, ‘but it’s terrible to lose orphans’ money ...’ What’s to be done? The gate’s locked, there’s no getting out by foot or carriage ... If there was a fence, you could climb over the fence, but it’s a covered yard! ... ‘Well, merchant,’ I say, ‘don’t you get frightened, but pray to God.
Maybe the Lord won’t want to hurt the orphans. Stay here,’ I say, ‘and don’t give any sign, and meanwhile maybe I’ll think up something ...’ All right ... I prayed to God, and God put reason into me ... I climbed onto my tarantass and quietly ... quietly, so that nobody could hear, I started pulling thatch from the eaves, made a hole, and got out. Outside, that is ... Then I jumped off the roof and ran down the road as fast as I could. I ran and ran, got dead tired ... Ran maybe five miles at one go, maybe more ... Thank God, I see—there’s a village standing there. I ran up to a cottage and started knocking on the window. ‘Good Orthodox people,’ I say, ‘thus and so, don’t let a Christian soul perish ...’ I woke them all up ... The muzhiks assembled and went with me ... Some with ropes, some with sticks, some with pitchforks ... We broke down the gates of the inn and went straight to the cellar ... And the robbers had finished sharpening their knives and were about to stick the merchant. The muzhiks took every last one of them, tied them up, and brought them to the authorities. The merchant was so glad, he donated three hundred roubles to them, and gave me a fiver, and wrote down my name to be prayed for. People say afterwards they found no end of human bones in the cellar. Bones, that is ... So it means they robbed folk, and then buried them so there’d be no traces . . . Well, afterwards they were punished in Morshansk by the executioners.’’
Pantelei finished the story and glanced around at his listeners. They were silent and looked at him. The water was already boiling, and Styopka was skimming the froth.
‘‘Is the lard ready?’’ Kiriukha asked in a whisper.
‘‘Wait a little ... Just a minute.’’
Styopka, not taking his eyes off Pantelei, and as if fearing he would start a story without him, ran to the wagons; he soon came back with a small wooden bowl and started mashing lard in it.
‘‘Another time I also drove with a merchant . . .’’ Pantelei went on in a low voice as before, and without blinking his eyes. ‘‘His name, I remember as if it were now, was Pyotr Grigoryich. A good man he was ... the merchant, that is ... We stopped at an inn the same way . . . He was in a room, and I was with the horses . . . The landlords, a husband and wife, seemed to be good people, kindly, gentle, the workers also looked all right, and yet, brothers, I couldn’t sleep, my heart senses something! Senses it, that’s all. The gates were open, and there were many people around, and yet I was afraid, not myself. Everyone had long gone to sleep, it was deep night, soon it would be time to get up, and I alone was lying in my kibitka with my eyes open, like some sort of owl. Only this is what I hear, brothers: tup! tup! tup! Somebody’s stealing up to the kibitka. I poke my head out, look—a woman’s standing there in nothing but her shift, barefoot ... ‘What do you want, woman?’ I say. And she trembles all over, that one, she looks awful ... ‘Get up, good man!’ she says. ‘Trouble ... The landlords have decided on an evil thing . . . They want to do your merchant in. I heard the master and mistress whispering about it,’ she says ... Well, it was not for nothing my heart ached! ‘And who are you?’ I ask. ‘I’m their cook,’ she says ... All right ... I got out of the kibitka and went to the merchant. I woke him up and said: ‘Thus and so,’ I say, ‘Pyotr Grigoryich, there’s dirty business afoot ... You can sleep some other time, Your Honor, but now, while there’s still time, get dressed,’ I say, ‘and run for all you’re worth out of harm’s way ...’ He’d just started to get dressed when the door opened, and hello! ... I look—Mother of God!—the master, the mistress, and three workers come walking into the room on us ... Meaning they’d put the workers up to it ... The merchant had a lot of money, so they thought, we’ll divide it up ... . . Each of the five is holding a long knife . . . a knife, that is ... The master locked the door and said: ‘Pray to God, travelers . . . And if you start shouting, we won’t let you pray before you die ...’ As if we could shout! We had our throats stopped up with fear, we were beyond shouting ... The merchant weeps and says: ‘Good Orthodox people!’ he says. ‘You’ve decided to kill me, because my money has seduced you. So be it, I’m neither the first nor the last; there have been many merchants killed at inns. But why,’ he says, ‘Orthodox brothers, why kill my driver? What’s the need of him suffering because of my money?’ And he says it so pitifully! And the master answers: ‘If we let him live,’ he says, ‘he’ll be the first witness against us. It’s all the same,’ he says, ‘to kill one man or two. In for a penny, in for a pound ... Pray to God, and that’s it, there’s no point talking!’ The merchant and I knelt beside each other, wept, and started praying to God. He remembered his little children, but I was young then, I wanted to live ... We look at the icons and pray so pitifully, even now the tears pour from my eyes ... But the mistress, she’s a woman, she looks at us and says: ‘Good people,’ she says, ‘don’t remember evil of us in the other world, and don’t heap prayers on our heads, because we do it out of need.’ We prayed and prayed, wept and wept, and God heard us. Took pity on us, I mean ... Just as the master seized the merchant by the beard to slash his throat with the knife, somebody suddenly knocked so-o-o hard on the window from the yard outside! We all just jumped, and the master lowered his hands ... Somebody knocked on the window and shouted: ‘Pyotr Grigoryich, are you here? Get ready, we’re going!’ The landlords saw that somebody had come to fetch the merchant, they got frightened, and off they ran ... And we rushed out to the yard, harnessed up—and that was the last they saw of us . . .’’
‘‘Who was it knocked on the window?’’ asked Dymov.
‘‘On the window? Must have been a saint or an angel. Because there was nobody else ... When we drove out of the yard, there wasn’t a single person in the street ... It was God’s doing!’’
Pantelei told some other stories, and in all of them ‘‘long knives’’ played the same role, and there was the same made-up feeling. Had he heard these stories from someone else, or had he invented them himself in the distant past and then, when his memory weakened, mixed his experience with fiction and become unable to distinguish one from the other? That all may have been so, but the strange thing was that now and throughout the entire journey, whenever he happened to tell stories, he gave clear preference to the made up and never spoke of what he had experienced. Egorushka took everything at face value now and believed every word, but afterwards it seemed strange to him that a man who had traveled all over Russia in his lifetime, who had seen and known so much, whose wife and children had burned up, devalued his rich life so much that, whenever he sat by the campfire, he either kept silent or spoke of something that had never been.
Over the kasha they were all silent and thought about what they had just heard. Life is fearful and wondrous, and therefore, however fearful a tale you tell in Russia, however you adorn it with robbers’ dens, long knives, and miracles, it will always find a real response in the listener’s soul, and only a man of well-tried literacy will look askance in mistrust, and even he will say nothing. The cross by the roadside, the dark bales, the vastness, and the destiny of the people gathered around the campfire—all this was so wondrous and fearful in itself that the fantasticality of tall tales and stories paled and merged with life.
They all ate from the cauldron, while Pantelei sat separately to one side and ate from a wooden bowl. His spoon was not like everyone else’s, but was made of cypress wood and with a little cross. Egorushka, looking at him, remembered the icon-lamp glass and quietly asked Styopka:
‘‘Why does grandpa sit separately?’’
‘‘He’s an Old Believer,’’21 Styopka and Vasya answered in a whisper, looking as if they were speaking of a weakness or a secret vice.
They were all silent and thinking. After such fearful tales, no one wanted to speak of ordinary things. Suddenly, in the midst of the silence, Vasya straightened up and, aiming his lackluster eyes at one spot, pricked up his ears.
‘‘What is it?’’ Dymov asked him.
‘‘There’s a man walking,’’ Vasya answered.
‘‘Where do you see him?’’
&nb
sp; ‘‘There he is! A patch of white . . .’’
Where Vasya was looking, nothing could be seen except darkness; they all listened, but no footsteps could be heard.
‘‘Is he walking down the road?’’ asked Dymov.
‘‘No, across the field ... He’s coming here.’’
A minute passed in silence.
‘‘Maybe it’s the merchant buried here, wandering over the steppe,’’ said Dymov.
They all glanced sidelong at the cross and suddenly laughed; they became ashamed of their fear.
‘‘Why would he wander?’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘The only ones that walk about at night are the ones the earth won’t receive. But the merchants are all right . . . The merchants received martyrs’ crowns.’’
Now footsteps were heard. Someone was walking hurriedly.
‘‘He’s carrying something,’’ said Vasya.
The swish of grass and the crackling of weeds under the walker’s feet became audible, but because of the firelight no one could be seen. Finally there was a sound of footsteps close by, someone coughed, the dancing light seemed to part, the scales fell from their eyes, and the wagoners suddenly saw a man before them.
Either because of the way the fire flickered, or because they wanted before all to make out the face of this man, it turned out, oddly enough, that with the first glance at him, everyone saw before all not his face, not his clothes, but his smile. It was an extraordinarily kind, broad, and soft smile, as of an awakened child, one of those infectious smiles that it is hard not to respond to with a smile. The stranger, once they had made him out, proved to be a man of about thirty, not handsome and in no way remarkable. He was a tall Ukrainian, long-nosed, long-armed, and long-legged; in general, everything about him seemed long, and only his neck was short, so much so that it made him look stooped. He was dressed in a clean white shirt with an embroidered collar, white balloon trousers, and new boots, and, compared with the wagoners, looked like a dandy. In his hands he was holding something big, white, and, at first glance, strange, and from behind his shoulder the barrel of a gun appeared, also long.
The Complete Short Novels Page 10