Emerging from the darkness into the circle of light, he stopped as if rooted to the spot and looked at the wagoners for about half a minute, as if he wanted to say: ‘‘See what a smile I’ve got!’’ Then he stepped towards the campfire, smiled still more brightly, and said:
‘‘Good health to you all!’’
‘‘We bid you welcome!’’ Pantelei answered for everyone.
The stranger set down what he was holding—it was a dead bustard—and greeted them once more.
They all went over to the bustard and started examining it.
‘‘A grand bird! What did you shoot it with?’’ asked Dymov.
‘‘Buckshot ... Birdshot’s not enough, it won’t reach ... Buy it, brothers! I’ll let you have it for twenty kopecks.’’
‘‘What do we need it for? It’s good roasted, but it’s tough boiled—hard to chaw . . .’’
‘‘Eh, too bad! I could take it to the head office on the estate, they’d pay fifty kopecks for it, but it’s too far—fifteen miles!’’
The unknown man sat down, unslung his gun, and placed it beside him. He looked sleepy, languid; he smiled, squinted from the fire, and was apparently thinking about something very pleasant. They gave him a spoon. He began to eat.
‘‘Who might you be?’’ Dymov asked him.
The stranger did not hear the question; he did not reply and did not even look at Dymov. Most likely this smiling man did not taste the kasha, either, because he chewed somehow mechanically, lazily, bringing to his mouth now a full spoon, now a quite empty one. He was not drunk, but there was something loony wandering in his head.
‘‘I’m asking you: who are you?’’ Dymov repeated.
‘‘Me?’’ the unknown man roused himself. ‘‘Konstantin Zvonyk, from Rovnoe. About four miles from here.’’
And, wishing to show first off that he was not a peasant like all the others but a better sort, Konstantin hastened to add:
‘‘We keep bees and raise pigs.’’
‘‘Do you live with your father or on your own?’’
‘‘No, now I live on my own. Separately. Got married this month after Saint Peter’s.22 A married man now! ... It’s eighteen days I’ve been under the law.’’
‘‘That’s a good thing!’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘A wife’s all right ... God’s blessing . . .’’
‘‘A young wife asleep at home, and he goes traipsing about the steppe,’’ Kiriukha laughed. ‘‘An odd fellow!’’
Konstantin, as if pinched on his tenderest spot, roused himself, laughed, turned red ...
‘‘But, Lord, she’s not at home!’’ he said, quickly taking the spoon out of his mouth and looking around at them all with joy and surprise. ‘‘She’s not! She went to her mother for two days! By God, she did, and it’s as if I’m not married . . .’’
Konstantin waved his hand and wagged his head; he wanted to go on thinking, but the joy that radiated from his face prevented him. He assumed a different posture, as if he had been sitting uncomfortably, laughed, and again waved his hand. It was embarrassing to give his pleasant thoughts away to strangers, but at the same time he had an irrepressible wish to share his joy.
‘‘She went to her mother in Demidovo!’’ he said, blushing and putting his gun in a different place. ‘‘She’ll come back tomorrow ... She said she’d be there by dinnertime.’’
‘‘Do you miss her?’’ asked Dymov.
‘‘Oh, Lord, as if I don’t! It’s no time at all since we got married, and she went away ... Eh? And she’s a spirited one, God punish me! She’s so good, so nice, such a laugher and singer—sheer gunpowder! With her my head goes spinning round, and without her it’s as if I’ve lost something, I go about the steppe like a fool. I’ve been walking since dinnertime, it’s either that or start shouting for help.’’
Konstantin rubbed his eyes, looked at the fire, and laughed. ‘‘You love her, that is . . .’’ said Pantelei.
‘‘She’s so good, so nice,’’ Konstantin repeated, not listening. ‘‘Such a housewife, clever and sensible, you won’t find another like her from simple folk in the whole province. She went away ... But she misses me, I kno-o-ow it! I know it, the magpie! She said she’d come back tomorrow by dinnertime... But what a story it was!’’ Konstantin nearly shouted, suddenly taking a higher pitch and changing his position. ‘‘Now she loves me and misses me, but she didn’t want to marry me!’’
‘‘Eat, why don’t you!’’ said Kiriukha.
‘‘She didn’t want to marry me,’’ Konstantin went on, not listening. ‘‘Three years I struggled with her! I saw her at the fair in Kalachik, fell mortally in love, could have hanged myself... I’m in Rovnoe, she’s in Demidovo, twenty-five miles between us, and I just can’t take it. I send matchmakers to her, but she says, ‘I don’t want to!’ Ah, you magpie! I try this with her and that with her, earrings, and gingerbreads, and a big pot of honey—‘I don’t want to!’ There you go. Sure, if you reason it out, what kind of match am I for her? She’s young, beautiful, gunpowder, and I’m old, I’ll soon turn thirty, and so very handsome: a broad beard—like a nail, a clean face—bumps all over. I can’t compare with her! The only thing is that we have a rich life, but they, the Vakhramenkos, also live well. They keep three pair of oxen and two hired hands. I fell in love, brothers, and went clean off my head... I don’t sleep, don’t eat, there’s all sorts of thoughts in my head, and such a fuddle, God help me! I want to see her, but she’s in Demidovo... And what do you think? God punish me if I’m lying, I went there on foot three times a week just to look at her. I stopped working! Such a darkening came over me, I even wanted to get hired as a farmhand in Demidovo, so as to be closer to her. I wore myself out! My mother called in a wise woman, my father set about beating me some ten times. Well, three years I languished, and then I decided like this: three times anathema on you, I’ll go to the city and become a cabby... It means it’s not my lot! During Holy Week I went to Demidovo to look at her for the last time...’
Konstantin threw his head back and dissolved into such rapid, merry laughter as if he had just very cleverly hoodwinked someone.
‘‘I saw her with the boys by the river,’’ he went on. ‘‘I got angry... I called her aside and spent maybe a whole hour saying various words to her... She fell in love with me! For three years she didn’t love me, but for my words she fell in love with me!...’
‘‘But what words?’’ asked Dymov.
‘What words? I don’t remember... How should I remember? It poured out then like water from a gutter, without stop: rat-a-tat-tat! But now I can’t get out a single word... Well, so she married me... She’s gone to her mother now, my magpie, and I wander about the steppe without her. I can’t sit at home. It’s beyond me!’’
Konstantin clumsily freed his legs from under him, stretched out on the ground, and propped his head with his fists, then raised himself and sat up again. They all understood perfectly well now that this was a man in love and happy, happy to the point of anguish; his smile, his eyes, and each of his movements expressed a languorous happiness. He could not stay put and did not know what position to assume or what to do so as not to be exhausted by the abundance of pleasant thoughts. Having poured out his soul in front of strangers, he finally sat down quietly, looked at the fire, and fell to pondering.
At the sight of a happy man, they all felt bored and also craved happiness. They all fell to pondering. Dymov stood up, slowly walked about near the fire, and by his gait, by the movement of his shoulder blades, you could see that he felt languid and bored. He stood for a while, looked at Konstantin, and sat down.
But the campfire was dying out. The light no longer danced, and the red patch shrank, grew dim... And the more quickly the fire burned out, the more visible the moonlit night became. Now the road could be seen in all its width, the bales, the shafts, the munching horses; on the opposite side the other cross was faintly outlined...
Dymov propped his cheek in his hand and began softly singing so
me plaintive song. Konstantin smiled sleepily and sang along in a thin little voice. They sang for half a minute and fell silent... Emelyan roused himself, moved his elbows, and flexed his fingers.
‘‘Brothers!’’ he said pleadingly. ‘‘Let’s sing something godly!’’
Tears welled up in his eyes.
‘‘Brothers!’’ he repeated, pressing his hand to his heart. ‘‘Let’s sing something godly!’’
‘‘I can’t,’’ said Konstantin.
They all refused; then Emelyan began to sing by himself. He waved both hands, nodded his head, opened his mouth, but nothing except wheezing, soundless breath burst from his throat. He sang with his hands, his head, his eyes, and even his bump, he sang passionately and with pain, and the harder he strained his chest to tear at least one note from it, the more soundless his breath became...
Egorushka, like everyone else, was overcome by boredom. He went to his wagon, climbed up on a bale, and lay down. He looked at the sky and thought about the happy Konstantin and his wife. Why do people get married? What are women for in this world? Egorushka asked himself vague questions and thought it is probably nice for a man if a gentle, cheerful, and beautiful woman constantly lives at his side. For some reason he recalled the Countess Dranitsky and thought that it was probably very agreeable to live with such a woman; he might well have married her with great pleasure, if it were not so embarrassing. He remembered her eyebrows, her pupils, her carriage, the clock with the horseman... The quiet, warm night was descending on him and whispering something in his ear, and it seemed to him that it was that beautiful woman bending over him, looking at him with a smile, and wanting to kiss him...
Only two little red eyes remained from the campfire, and they were growing smaller and smaller. The wagoners and Konstantin sat by them, dark, motionless, and it seemed there were now many more of them than before. Both crosses were equally visible, and far, far away, somewhere on the high road, a red fire glowed—someone else was probably also cooking kasha.
‘‘Our beloved Mother Russia is the head of all the wo-o-orld!’’ Kiriukha suddenly sang in a wild voice, choked, and fell silent. The steppe echo picked up his voice, carried it, and it seemed stupidity itself was rolling over the steppe on heavy wheels.
‘‘Time to go!’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘Up you get, boys!’’
While they were harnessing, Konstantin walked among the wagons and sang his wife’s praises.
‘‘Farewell, brothers!’’ he cried as the wagons started off. ‘‘Thanks for your hospitality! And I’ll make for that fire. It’s beyond me!’’
And he quickly vanished into the darkness, and for a long time could be heard striding towards where the little light glowed, in order to tell other strangers of his happiness.
When Egorushka woke up the next day, it was early morning; the sun had not risen yet. The wagon train stood still. Some man in a white peaked cap and a suit of cheap gray cloth, mounted on a Cossack colt, was talking about something with Dymov and Kiriukha by the very first wagon. Two miles or so ahead of the wagon train, long, low barns and little houses with tiled roofs showed white; there were no yards or trees to be seen near the houses.
‘‘What’s that village, grandpa?’’ asked Egorushka.
‘‘Those are Armenian farmsteads, my lad,’’ answered Pantelei. ‘‘Armenians live there. They’re all right folk... Armenians, that is.’’
The man in gray finished talking with Dymov and Kiriukha, tightened the reins on his colt, and looked towards the farmsteads.
‘‘Such a business, just think!’’ sighed Pantelei, also looking towards the farmsteads and shrinking from the morning freshness. ‘‘He sent a man to the farmstead for some paper, and the man won’t come back... We should send Styopka!’’
‘‘But who is that, grandpa?’’ asked Egorushka.
‘‘Varlamov.’’
My God! Egorushka quickly jumped up, stood on his knees, and looked at the white cap. The undersized gray little man, shod in big boots, mounted on an ugly horse, and talking with peasants at a time when all decent people were asleep, was hard to identify with the mysterious, elusive Varlamov, sought by everyone, who always ‘‘circled around’’ and had much more money than the Countess Dranitsky.
‘‘He’s all right, a good man...’ Pantelei said, looking towards the farmsteads. ‘‘God grant him health, he’s a nice master... Varlamov, that is, Semyon Alexandrych... The world stands on such people, brother. That’s for sure... The cocks haven’t crowed yet, and he’s already on his feet... Another man would sleep or gibble-gabble with his guests at home, but he’s on the steppe the whole day... Circling around... This one won’t let any deal slip away... No-o-o! A fine fellow...’
Varlamov would not take his eyes off the farmstead and was saying something; the colt shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.
‘‘Semyon Alexandrych,’’ shouted Pantelei, taking off his hat, ‘‘allow us to send Styopka! Emelyan, holler for them to send Styopka!’’
But now, at last, a rider detached himself from the farmstead. Leaning strongly to one side and swinging the whip above his head, as if he was a trick horseman and wanted to astonish everybody with his bold riding, he flew towards the wagon train with birdlike swiftness.
‘‘That must be his breaker,’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘He’s got maybe a hundred of these breakers, if not more.’’
Coming up to the first wagon, the rider reined in his horse and, taking off his hat, handed Varlamov a book. Varlamov took several papers from the book, read them, and shouted:
‘‘But where’s Ivanchuk’s note?’’
The rider took the book back, looked over the papers, and shrugged; he began to say something, probably justifying himself and asking permission to go to the farmsteads again. The colt suddenly stirred, as if Varlamov had become heavier. Varlamov also stirred.
‘‘Get out!’’ he shouted angrily and swung his whip at the rider.
Then he turned the horse about and, studying the papers in the book, rode at a slow pace the length of the train. As he approached the last wagon, Egorushka strained his eyes to examine him better. Varlamov was an old man. His face, with its small gray beard, a simple, sunburnt Russian face, was red, wet with dew, and covered with little blue veins; it expressed the same businesslike dryness as Ivan Ivanych’s face, the same businesslike fanaticism. But still, what a difference you could feel between him and Ivan Ivanych! Uncle Kuzmichov, along with businesslike dryness, always had care on his face, and fear that he might not find Varlamov, might be late, might miss a good price; nothing of the sort, proper to small and dependent people, could be seen either on the face or in the figure of Varlamov. This man set the prices himself, he did not seek anyone, did not depend on anyone; ordinary as his appearance might be, you could sense in everything, even in his way of holding a whip, an awareness of strength and habitual authority over the steppe.
Riding past Egorushka, he did not glance at him; only the colt deemed Egorushka worthy of his attention and looked at him with his big, stupid eyes, and even that with indifference. Pantelei bowed to Varlamov; the man noticed it and, without taking his eyes from the papers, said, swallowing his R’s:
‘‘Ghreetings, ghraybeard!’’
Varlamov’s conversation with the rider and the swing of the whip evidently made a dispiriting impression on the whole train. They all had serious faces. The rider, discouraged by the strong man’s wrath, stood hatless, with slack reins, by the first wagon, silent and as if not believing that the day had begun so badly for him.
‘‘A tough old man...’ Pantelei muttered. ‘‘Awfully tough! But all right, a good man... He won’t harm you for nothing... No fear...’
Having examined the papers, Varlamov put the book in his pocket; the colt, as if understanding his thoughts without waiting for orders, gave a start and went racing down the high road.
VII
ON THE FOLLOWING night, the wagoners again made a halt and cooked kasha. This ti
me, from the very beginning, some indefinite anguish was felt in everything. It was stifling; they all drank a great deal and simply could not quench their thirst. The moon rose intensely crimson and morose, as if it was sick; the stars were also morose, the murk was thicker, the distance dimmer. It was as if nature anticipated something and languished.
There was none of yesterday’s animation and talk by the campfire. They were all bored and spoke sluggishly and reluctantly. Pantelei only sighed, complained about his feet, and now and then began talking about an impudent death.
Dymov lay on his stomach, said nothing, and chewed on a straw; his expression was squeamish, as if the straw smelled bad, and angry, and weary... Vasya complained that his jaw ached and prophesied bad weather; Emelyan did not wave his hands, but sat motionless and sullenly looked at the fire. Egorushka also languished. The slow driving wearied him, and the afternoon heat had given him a headache.
When the kasha was ready, Dymov, out of boredom, began picking on his comrades.
‘‘He sprawls about, the bump, and sticks his spoon in first!’’ he said, looking spitefully at Emelyan. ‘‘Greed! Aims to sit himself down first at the cauldron. He used to sing in the choir, so he thinks he’s a master! You find lots of these choir singers begging for alms along the high road!’’
The Complete Short Novels Page 11