‘‘What do you want from me?’’ Emelyan asked, also looking at him with spite.
‘‘That you don’t shove up first to the cauldron. Don’t think so much of yourself!’
‘‘A fool, that’s all he is,’’ wheezed Emelyan.
Knowing from experience how such conversations usually end, Pantelei and Vasya intervened and started persuading Dymov not to be abusive for nothing.
‘‘Choir singer...’ the prankster grinned scornfully, refusing to calm down. ‘‘Anybody can sing like that. Go sit on the church porch and sing: ‘Alms for the sake of Christ!’ Ah, you!’’
Emelyan said nothing. His silence had an irritating effect on Dymov. He looked at the former choir singer with still greater hatred and said:
‘‘I don’t want to get involved, otherwise I’d teach you to think much of yourself!’
‘‘Why are you bothering me, mazepa?’’23 Emelyan flared up. ‘‘Am I touching you?’’
‘‘What did you call me?’’ Dymov asked, straightening up, and his eyes became bloodshot. ‘‘What? Me a mazepa? Eh? Take this, then! Go and hunt for it!’’
Dymov snatched the spoon from Emelyan’s hand and flung it far away. Kiriukha, Vasya, and Styopka jumped up and ran to look for it, while Emelyan stared pleadingly and questioningly at Pantelei. His face suddenly became small, winced, blinked, and the former choir singer cried like a baby.
Egorushka, who had long hated Dymov, felt the air suddenly become unbearably stifling; the flames of the campfire hotly burned his face; he would have liked to run quickly to the wagons in the darkness, but the spiteful, bored eyes of the prankster drew him to them. Passionately wishing to say something offensive in the highest degree, he took a step towards Dymov and said, choking:
‘‘You’re the worst of all! I can’t stand you!’’
After that, he should have run to the wagons, but he could not move from the spot and went on:
‘‘You’ll burn in fire in the other world! I’ll complain to Ivan Ivanych! Don’t you dare offend Emelyan!’’
‘‘Well, there’s a nice how-do-you-do!’’ Dymov grinned. ‘‘Some little pig, the milk still not dry on his lips, and he goes giving orders. How about a box on the ear?’’
Egorushka felt he had no air left to breathe: he suddenly shook all over—this had never happened to him before— stamped his feet, and shouted piercingly:
‘‘Beat him! Beat him!’’
Tears poured from his eyes; he was ashamed and ran staggering to the wagons. What impressions his shout made, he did not see. Lying on a bale and weeping, he thrashed his arms and legs and whispered:
‘‘Mama! Mama!’’
These people, and the shadows around the campfire, and the dark bales, and the distant lightning flashing every moment in the distance—all now looked desolate and frightening to him. He was terrified and asked himself in despair how and why he had ended up in an unknown land in the company of frightening muzhiks. Where were his uncle, Father Khristofor, and Deniska now? Why were they so long in coming? Had they forgotten him? The thought that he was forgotten and abandoned to the mercy of fate made him feel cold and so eerie that several times he was about to jump off the bale and run headlong back down the road without looking back, but the memory of the dark, sullen crosses, which he was sure to meet on his way, and lightning flashing in the distance, stopped him... And only when he whispered, ‘‘Mama! Mama!’’ did he seem to feel better...
The wagoners must also have felt eerie. After Egorushka ran away from the campfire, they were silent for a long time, then began saying in low and muted voices that something was coming and that they had to make ready quickly and get away from it... They ate a quick supper, put out the fire, and silently began harnessing up. From their bustling and their curt phrases, one could tell that they foresaw some disaster.
Before they started on their way, Dymov went up to Pantelei and asked quietly:
‘‘What’s his name?’’
‘Egory ...’ answered Pantelei.
Dymov put one foot on the wheel, took hold of the rope that tied down the bale, and hoisted himself up. Egorushka saw his face and curly head. His face was pale, tired, and serious, but it no longer expressed spite.
‘‘Era!’’ he said quietly. ‘‘Go on, hit me!’’
Egorushka looked at him in surprise; just then lightning flashed.
‘‘Never mind, just hit me!’’ Dymov repeated.
And, without waiting for Egorushka to hit him or talk to him, he jumped down and said:
‘‘I’m bored!’’
Then, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rolling his shoulders, he lazily plodded along the line of wagons and repeated in a half-plaintive, half-vexed voice:
‘‘I’m bored! Oh, Lord! And don’t be offended, Emelya,’’ he said as he passed Emelyan. ‘‘Our life’s cruel, beyond hope!’’
Lightning flashed to the right and, as if reflected in a mirror, at once flashed in the distance.
‘‘Egory, take this!’’ Pantelei shouted, handing up something big and dark from below.
‘‘What is it?’’ asked Egorushka.
‘‘A bast mat! There’ll be rain, you can cover yourself.’’
Egorushka raised himself and looked around. The distance had become noticeably more black and now blinked more than once a minute with a pale light, as if through eyelids. Its blackness leaned to the right, as though weighted down.
‘‘Will there be a thunderstorm, grandpa?’’ asked Egorushka.
‘‘Ah, my poor, ailing, frozen feet!’’ Pantelei said in a singsong voice, not hearing him and stamping his feet.
To the left, as if someone had struck a match against the sky, a pale phosphorescent strip flashed and went out. There was a sound of someone walking on an iron roof somewhere very far away. He was probably walking barefoot, because the iron made a dull rumble.
‘‘It’s all around!’’ cried Kiriukha.
Between the distance and the horizon to the right, lightning flashed, so bright that it lit up part of the steppe and the place where the clear sky bordered on the blackness. An awful thunderhead was approaching unhurriedly, in a solid mass; from its edge hung big black rags; exactly the same rags, crushing each other, heaped up on the horizon to right and left. This torn, ragged look of the thunderhead gave it a drunken, mischievous expression. Thunder rumbled clearly and not dully. Egorushka crossed himself and quickly began putting on his coat.
‘‘I’m bored!’’ Dymov’s cry came from the front wagons, and one could tell by his voice that he was beginning to get angry again. ‘‘Bored!’’
Suddenly there was a gust of wind, so strong that it almost tore Egorushka’s little bundle and bast mat from his hands; the mat fluttered up, tearing in all directions, and flapped on the bale and on Egorushka’s face. The wind raced whistling over the steppe, whirled haphazardly, raising such a din with the grass that because of it neither the thunder nor the creaking of the wheels could be heard. It blew from the black thunderhead, carrying clouds of dust and the smell of rain and wet earth with it. The moonlight grew dim, became as if dirtier, the stars became still more morose, and you could see clouds of dust and their shadows hurrying backwards somewhere along the edge of the road. Now, in all probability, whirlwinds, spinning and drawing dust, dry grass, and feathers up from the ground, were rising all the way into the sky; tumbleweed was probably flying about right by the black thunderhead, and how frightened it must be! But nothing could be seen through the dust that clogged the eyes except flashes of lightning.
Egorushka, thinking the rain would pour down that minute, got to his knees and covered himself with the bast mat.
‘‘Pantel-ei!’’ someone shouted from the front. ‘A... a ... va!’
‘‘I can’t hear you!’’ Pantelei answered loudly and in a singsong voice.
‘A ... a ... va! Arya ... a!’
Thunder crashed angrily, rolling across the sky from right to left, then back, and dyi
ng down near the front wagon.
‘‘Holy, holy, holy, Lord Sabaoth,’’ Egorushka whispered, crossing himself, ‘‘heaven and earth are full of Thy glory...’24
The blackness in the sky opened its mouth and breathed out white fire; at once thunder rolled again; it had barely fallen silent when lightning flashed so broadly that Egorushka suddenly saw, through the openings in the bast mat, the whole of the high road into the far distance, all the wagoners, and even Kiriukha’s waistcoat. On the left, the dark rags were already rising upwards, and one of them, crude, clumsy, looking like a paw with fingers, was reaching towards the moon. Egorushka decided to shut his eyes tight, pay no attention, and wait till it was all over.
The rain, for some reason, took a long time to begin. Egorushka, hoping the storm cloud might pass by, peeked out from behind the bast mat. It was awfully dark. Egorushka could not see Pantelei, or the bale, or himself; he glanced sidelong to where the moon had been recently, but there was the same black darkness as on the wagon. And in the dark the lightning seemed more white and dazzling, so that it hurt his eyes.
‘‘Pantelei!’’ cried Egorushka.
No answer came. But now, finally, the wind tore at the bast mat for a last time and ran off somewhere. A calm, steady noise was heard. A big cold drop fell on Egorushka’s knee, another trickled down his arm. He noticed that his knees were not covered and was going to straighten the bast mat, but just then something poured down and beat on the road, then on the shafts, on the bale. It was rain. The rain and the bast mat, as if they understood each other, began talking about something rapidly, merrily, and quite disgustingly, like two magpies.
Egorushka stood on his knees, or, more precisely, sat on his boots. When the rain began to beat on the bast mat, he leaned his body forward to shield his knees, which suddenly became wet; he managed to cover his knees, but in less than a minute he felt a sharp, unpleasant dampness behind, on his lower back and his calves. He reassumed his former position, stuck his knees out into the rain, and began thinking what to do, how to straighten the invisible bast mat in the dark. But his arms were already wet, water ran down his sleeves and behind his collar, his shoulder blades were cold. And he decided to do nothing but sit motionless and wait till it all ended.
‘‘Holy, holy, holy ...’ he whispered.
Suddenly, just above his head, the sky broke up with a frightful, deafening crash; he bent over and held his breath, waiting for the pieces to fall on his neck and back. His eyes opened inadvertently, and he saw a blinding, cutting light flash and blink some five times on his fingers, on his wet sleeves, on the streams running off the bast mat, on the bale, and on the ground below. Another clap resounded, just as strong and terrible. The sky no longer rumbled or crashed, but produced dry, crackling noises, like the creaking of dry wood.
‘‘Trrack! Tak! Tak! Tak!’’ the thunder rapped out clearly, rolled down the sky, stumbled, and collapsed somewhere by the front wagons or far behind, with an angry, abrupt ‘‘Trrah!’’
The earlier flashes of lightning had only been scary, but with such thunder, they felt sinister. Their bewitching light penetrated your closed eyelids and spread cold through your whole body. What to do so as not to see them? Egorushka decided to turn and face the other way. Carefully, as if afraid he was being watched, he got up on all fours and, his hands slipping on the wet bale, turned around.
‘‘Trrack! Tak! Tak!’’ swept over his head, fell under the wagon, and exploded—‘‘Rrrah!’’
His eyes again opened inadvertently, and Egorushka saw a new danger; behind the wagon walked three huge giants with long spears. Lightning flashed on the tips of their spears and lit up their figures very clearly. They were people of huge size, with covered faces, drooping heads, and heavy footsteps. They seemed sad and despondent, immersed in thought. Maybe they were not walking after the train in order to do any harm, but still, there was something terrible in their nearness.
Egorushka quickly turned frontwards and, trembling all over, cried out:
‘‘Pantelei! Grandpa!’’
‘‘Trrak! Tak! Tak!’’ the sky answered him.
He opened his eyes to see whether the wagoners were there. Lightning flashed in two places and lit up the road into the far distance, the whole wagon train, and all the wagoners. Streams flowed down the road, and bubbles leaped. Pantelei strode along beside the wagon, his tall hat and shoulders covered by a small bast mat; his figure expressed neither fear nor alarm, as if he had been deafened by the thunder and blinded by the lightning.
‘‘Grandpa, giants!’’ Egorushka cried to him, weeping.
But the old man did not hear. Emelyan walked further on. He was covered from head to foot with a big bast mat and now had the form of a triangle. Vasya, not covered by anything, strode along as woodenly as ever, lifting his legs high and not bending his knees. In the glare of the lightning, it seemed that the wagon train was not moving and the wagoners were frozen, that Vasya’s lifted leg had stopped dead...
Egorushka called the old man again. Not getting any answer, he sat without moving, no longer waiting for it all to end. He was certain that a thunderbolt would kill him that very minute, that his eyes would open inadvertently and he would see the frightful giants. And he did not cross himself anymore, did not call out to the old man, did not think of his mother, and only went numb with cold and the certainty that the storm would never end.
But suddenly voices were heard.
‘‘Egory, are you asleep or what?’’ Pantelei shouted from below. ‘‘Climb down! Are you deaf, you little fool?...’
‘‘What a storm!’’ said some unfamiliar bass, grunting as if he had drunk a good glass of vodka.
Egorushka opened his eyes. Below, by the wagon, stood Pantelei, the triangular Emelyan, and the giants. The latter were now much smaller and, once Egorushka had taken a better look, turned out to be ordinary muzhiks, holding not spears but iron pitchforks on their shoulders. In the space between Pantelei and the triangle shone the lighted window of a low cottage. This meant that the wagon train was standing in a village. Egorushka threw off the bast mat, took his little bundle, and hastened down from the wagon. Now, with people talking nearby and the lighted window, he was no longer afraid, though the thunder crashed as before and lightning slashed across the whole sky.
‘‘A good storm, all right...’ muttered Pantelei. ‘‘Thank God... My feet got a little soggy from the rain, but that’s all right, too... Did you climb down, Egory? Well, go inside the cottage... It’s all right...’
‘‘Holy, holy, holy ...’ wheezed Emelyan. ‘‘It must have struck somewhere... Are you from hereabouts?’’ he asked the giants.
‘‘No, we’re from Glinovo... Glinovo folk. We work for the Plater family.’’
‘‘Threshing or what?’’
‘‘All sorts of things. Right now we’re harvesting wheat. But what lightning, what lightning! Haven’t had such a storm in a long time...’
Egorushka went into the cottage. He was met by a skinny, humpbacked old woman with a sharp chin. She was holding a tallow candle, squinting, and letting out long sighs.
‘‘What a storm God sent us!’’ she said. ‘‘And ours spent the night on the steppe, that’s hard on ’em, dear hearts! Get undressed, laddie, get undressed...’
Trembling with cold and shrinking squeamishly, Egorushka pulled off his drenched coat, then spread his arms and legs wide and did not move for a long time. Each little movement gave him an unpleasant sensation of wetness and cold. The sleeves and back of his shirt were wet, the trousers clung to his legs, his head was dripping...
‘‘What are you standing all astraddle for, poppet?’’ said the old woman. ‘‘Go sit down!’’
Moving his legs wide apart, Egorushka went over to the table and sat down on a bench by somebody’s head. The head stirred, let out a stream of air from its nose, munched its lips, and grew still. From the head, a lump extended along the bench, covered by a sheepskin coat. It was a sleeping peasant woman.
<
br /> The old woman, sighing, went out and soon came back with a watermelon and a cantaloupe.
‘‘Eat, laddie! There’s nothing else to give you ...’ she said, yawning, then rummaged in the table drawer and took out a long, sharp knife, very much like the knives with which robbers kill merchants in roadside inns. ‘‘Eat, laddie!’’
Egorushka, trembling as in a fever, ate a slice of cantaloupe with some rye bread, then a slice of watermelon, and that made him feel even more chilled.
‘‘Ours spent the night on the steppe ...’ the old woman sighed while he ate. ‘‘Suffering Jesus... I’d light a candle in front of the icon, but I don’t know where Stepanida put them. Eat, laddie, eat...’
The old woman yawned and, thrusting her right hand behind her back, scratched her left shoulder with it.
‘‘Must be two o’clock now,’’ she said. ‘‘Soon time to get up. Ours spent the night on the steppe ... must be all soaked...’
‘‘Grandma,’’ said Egorushka, ‘‘I’m sleepy.’’
‘‘Lie down, laddie, lie down ...’ the old woman sighed, yawning. ‘‘Lord Jesus Christ! I was asleep, and it seemed I heard somebody knocking. I woke up, looked, and it was this storm God sent us... I should light a candle, but I can’t find any.’’
Talking to herself, she pulled some rags off the bench, probably her own bedding, took two sheepskin coats from a nail by the stove, and started making up a bed for Egorushka.
‘‘The storm won’t be still,’’ she muttered. ‘‘Hope nothing burns down, worse luck. Ours spent the night on the steppe... Lie down, laddie, sleep... Christ be with you, sonny... I won’t put the melon away, maybe you’ll get up and eat it.’’
The old woman’s sighs and yawns, the measured breathing of the sleeping woman, the dimness in the cottage, and the sound of the rain outside the window were conducive to sleep. Egorushka was embarrassed to undress in front of the old woman. He took off only his boots, lay down, and covered himself with a sheepskin coat.
The Complete Short Novels Page 12