‘‘The lad’s lying down?’’ Pantelei’s whisper was heard a minute later.
‘‘He is!’’ the old woman answered in a whisper. ‘‘Suffering, suffering Jesus! It rumbles and rumbles, and no end to be heard...’
‘‘It’ll soon pass...’ Pantelei hissed, sitting down. ‘‘It’s getting quieter... The boys went to the cottages, but two of them stayed with the horses... The boys, that is... Otherwise... The horses will get stolen... I’ll sit awhile and go to take my shift... Otherwise they’ll get stolen...’
Pantelei and the old woman sat beside each other at Egorushka’s feet and talked in a hissing whisper, interrupting their talk with sighs and yawns. But Egorushka was simply unable to get warm. He was covered with a warm, heavy sheepskin coat, but his whole body was shaking, he had cramps in his arms and legs, his insides trembled... He undressed under the sheepskin coat, but that did not help. The chill became stronger and stronger.
Pantelei went to take his shift and then came back again, but Egorushka still could not sleep and was shivering all over. Something weighed on his head and chest, crushing him, and he did not know what it was: the old people’s whispering or the heavy smell of the sheepskin? There was an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth from the cantaloupe and watermelon he had eaten. Besides, the fleas were biting.
‘‘I’m cold, grandpa!’’ he said and did not recognize his own voice.
‘‘Sleep, sonny, sleep,’’ sighed the old woman.
Titus came up to his bed on skinny legs and began waving his arms, then grew up to the ceiling and turned into a windmill. Father Khristofor, dressed not as in the britzka but in full vestments and with a sprinkler in his hand, walked around the windmill sprinkling it with holy water, and it stopped waving. Egorushka, knowing it was delirium, opened his eyes.
‘‘Grandpa!’’ he called. ‘‘Give me water!’’
No one answered. Egorushka felt unbearably suffocated and uncomfortable lying down. He got up, dressed, and left the cottage. It was already morning. The sky was overcast, but there was no rain. Shivering and wrapping himself in his wet coat, Egorushka walked around the dirty yard, listening to the silence; a little shed with a half-open rush door caught his eye. He looked into this shed, went in, and sat in the dark corner on a pile of dry dung.
The thoughts tangled in his heavy head, the metallic taste made his mouth feel dry and disgusting. He examined his hat, straightened the peacock feather on it, and remembered how he had gone with his mother to buy this hat. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a lump of brown, sticky putty. How had this putty ended up in his pocket? He thought, sniffed it: it smelled of honey. Aha, it was the Jewish gingerbread! How soggy it was, poor thing!
Egorushka examined his coat. His coat was gray, with big bone buttons, tailored like a frock coat. As a new and expensive thing, it had hung at home not in the front hall but in the bedroom, next to his mother’s dresses; wearing it was permitted only on feast days. Looking it over, Egorushka felt sorry for it, remembered that he and the coat had both been left to the mercy of fate, that they would never return home anymore, and burst into such sobs that he almost fell off the dung pile.
A big white dog, wet with rain, with tufts of fur that looked like curling papers on its muzzle, came into the shed and stared at Egorushka with curiosity. She was apparently wondering whether to bark or not. Deciding there was no need to bark, she warily approached Egorushka, ate the putty, and left.
‘‘They’re Varlamov’s!’’ somebody shouted in the street.
Having wept his fill, Egorushka left the shed and, skirting a puddle, trudged out to the street. On the road, just in front of the gate, stood the wagons. The wet wagoners, with dirty feet, sluggish and sleepy as autumnal flies, wandered about or sat on the shafts. Egorushka looked at them and thought: ‘‘How boring and uncomfortable it is to be a peasant!’’ He went up to Pantelei and sat beside him on the shaft.
‘‘I’m cold, grandpa!’’ he said, shivering and sticking his hands into his sleeves.
‘‘It’s all right, we’ll soon be there,’’ Pantelei yawned. ‘‘You’ll get warm all right.’’
The wagon train started early, because it was not hot. Egorushka lay on the bale and shivered with cold, though the sun soon appeared in the sky and dried his clothes, his bale, and the ground. As soon as he closed his eyes, he again saw Titus and the windmill. Feeling nauseated and heavy all over, he strained his forces to drive these images away, but they no sooner disappeared than the prankster Dymov, with red eyes and upraised fists, threw himself at Egorushka with a roar, or his anguished ‘‘I’m bored!’’ was heard. Varlamov rode by on his Cossack colt; happy Konstantin passed by with his smile and his bustard. And how oppressive, unbearable, and tiresome all these people were!
Once—it was before evening—he raised his head to ask for a drink. The wagon train stood on a big bridge stretched across a wide river. There was dark smoke below, over the river, and through it a steamboat could be seen towing a barge. Ahead, across the river, was a huge motley hill scattered with houses and churches; at the foot of the hill, near the freight cars, a locomotive shuttled back and forth...
Egorushka had never seen steamboats before, or locomotives, or wide rivers. Looking at them now, he was neither afraid nor surprised; his face even showed nothing resembling curiosity. He only felt nauseated, and hastened to lean his chest over the edge of the bale. He threw up. Pantelei, who saw it, grunted and shook his head.
‘‘Our little lad’s sick!’’ he said. ‘‘Must have caught a chill in his stomach... our little lad, that is... In foreign parts... A bad business!’’
VIII
THE WAGON TRAIN stopped not far from the pier at a big trading inn. Climbing down from the wagon, Egorushka heard someone’s very familiar voice. Someone helped him down, saying:
‘‘And we already came last evening... Been waiting for you all day today. Wanted to catch up with you yesterday, but it didn’t work out, we took another road. Look how you’ve crumpled your coat! You’re going to get it from your uncle!’’
Egorushka peered into the speaker’s marbled face and remembered that this was Deniska.
‘‘Your uncle and Father Khristofor are in their room now,’’ Deniska went on, ‘‘having tea. Come on!’’
And he led Egorushka to a big two-story building, dark and gloomy, that looked like the N. almshouse. Going through the entry, up the dark stairs, and down a long narrow corridor, Egorushka and Deniska came to a small room where indeed Ivan Ivanych and Father Khristofor were sitting at the tea table. On seeing the boy, the two old men showed surprise and joy on their faces.
‘‘Ahh, Egor Nikola-a-aich!’’ Father Khristofor sang out. ‘‘Mr. Lomonosov!’’
‘‘Ah, Mr. Nobleman!’’ said Kuzmichov. ‘‘Kindly join us.’’
Egorushka took off his coat, kissed his uncle’s and Father Khristofor’s hands, and sat down at the table.
‘‘Well, how was the journey, puer bone?’’ Father Khristofor showered him with questions, pouring tea for him and smiling radiantly, as usual. ‘‘Sick of it, I suppose? And God keep you from traveling by wagon train or oxcart! You go on and on, Lord forgive me, you look ahead, and the steppe still stretches out as continuously as before: there’s no end of it to be seen! That’s not traveling, it’s sheer punishment. Why aren’t you drinking your tea? Drink! And while you were dragging yourself around with the wagon train, we’ve wrapped up all our business nicely. Thank God! We sold the wool to Cherepakhin, and God grant everybody does as well... We made a good profit.’’
With the first glance at his own people, Egorushka felt an irresistible need to complain. He was not listening to Father Khristofor and tried to think how to begin and what in fact to complain about. But Father Khristofor’s voice, which seemed sharp and unpleasant, interfered with his concentration and confused his thoughts. After sitting for less than five minutes, he got up from the table, went to the sofa, and lay down.
‘‘Look at this now!�
��’ Father Khristofor was surprised. ‘‘And what about your tea?’’
Trying to think up something to complain about, Egorushka pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and burst into sobs.
‘‘Look at this now!’’ Father Khristofor repeated, getting up and going to the sofa. ‘‘What’s the matter, Georgiy? Why are you crying?’’
‘I ... I’m sick!’’ said Egorushka.
‘‘Sick?’’ Father Khristofor looked perplexed. ‘‘That’s not good at all, old boy... How can you be sick on a journey? Ai, ai, what a one you are, old boy ... eh?’
He put his hand to Egorushka’s head, touched his cheek, and said:
‘‘Yes, your head’s hot... You must have caught a chill or eaten something... Call upon God.’’
‘‘Maybe give him quinine...’ Ivan Ivanych said in perplexity.
‘‘No, give him something hot to eat... Georgiy, do you want some nice soup? Eh?’’
‘No ... I don’t ...’ Egorushka answered.
‘‘Do you have chills, or what?’’
‘‘Before I had chills, but now ... now I’m hot. I ache all over...’
Ivan Ivanych went over to the sofa, touched Egorushka’s head, grunted perplexedly, and went back to the table.
‘‘See here, you get undressed and go to sleep,’’ said Father Khristofor, ‘‘you need a good sleep.’’
He helped Egorushka to undress, gave him a pillow, covered him with a blanket, and put Ivan Ivanych’s coat on top of the blanket, then tiptoed away and sat down at the table. Egorushka closed his eyes, and it seemed to him at once that he was not in a room at an inn but by a campfire on the high road; Emelyan was waving his hand, and red-eyed Dymov was lying on his stomach and looking mockingly at Egorushka.
‘‘Beat him! Beat him!’’ cried Egorushka.
‘‘He’s delirious...’ Father Khristofor said in a half-whisper.
‘‘Bother!’’ sighed Ivan Ivanych.
‘‘We’ll have to rub him with oil and vinegar. God grant he’ll be well by tomorrow.’’
To get rid of his oppressive reveries, Egorushka opened his eyes and began looking at the fire. Father Khristofor and Ivan Ivanych had finished their tea and were talking about something in a whisper. The former was smiling happily and apparently was quite unable to forget that he had made a good profit on the wool: what made him so glad was not so much the profit itself as the thought that, on coming home, he would gather his whole big family, wink slyly, and burst out laughing; first he would deceive them all and say that he sold the wool for less than it was worth, and then he would give his son-in-law Mikhailo the fat wallet and say: ‘‘Here, take it! That’s how to do business!’’ Kuzmichov did not seem pleased. His face, as before, expressed a businesslike dryness and preoccupation.
‘‘Eh, if only I’d known Cherepakhin would give such a price,’’ he said in a low voice, ‘‘I wouldn’t have sold those five tons to Makarov at home! So vexing! Who could have known the price had gone up here?’’
A man in a white shirt put the samovar away and lit the lamp in front of the icon in the corner. Father Khristofor whispered something in his ear; the man made a mysterious face, like a conspirator—meaning ‘‘I understand’’—went out, and, returning a little later, placed a vessel under the sofa. Ivan Ivanych made up a bed for himself on the floor, yawned several times, prayed lazily, and lay down.
‘‘And tomorrow I think I’ll go to the cathedral...’ said Father Khristofor. ‘‘I know a sacristan there. I should go to see the bishop after the liturgy, but they say he’s sick.’’
He yawned and put out the lamp. Now there was no light except from the icon lamp.
‘‘They say he doesn’t receive people,’’ Father Khristofor went on, undressing. ‘‘So I’ll leave without seeing him.’’
He took off his caftan, and Egorushka saw Robinson Crusoe before him. Robinson mixed something in a saucer, went over to Egorushka, and whispered:
‘‘Lomonosov, are you asleep? Sit up. I’ll rub you with oil and vinegar. It’s a good thing, only you must call upon God.’’
Egorushka quickly raised himself and sat up. Father Khristofor took his shirt off of him and, shrinking and gasping heavily, as though he felt tickled himself, began rubbing Egorushka’s chest.
‘‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit ...’ he whispered. ‘‘Lie on your stomach!... There. Tomorrow you’ll be well, only don’t sin anymore... Hot as fire! You must have been on the road during the thunderstorm?’’
‘‘We were.’’
‘‘No wonder you got sick! In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit... No wonder you got sick!’’
After rubbing Egorushka, Father Khristofor put the shirt back on him, covered him up, made a cross over him, and went away. Then Egorushka saw him pray to God. The old man probably knew a great many prayers by heart, because he stood in front of the icon and whispered for a long time. After saying his prayers, he made a cross over the windows, the door, Egorushka, and Ivan Ivanych, lay down on a little couch without a pillow, and covered himself with his caftan. The clock in the corridor struck ten. Egorushka remembered how long it still was till morning, pressed his forehead to the back of the sofa in anguish, and no longer tried to get rid of his foggy, oppressive reveries. But morning came much sooner than he thought.
It seemed to him that he had not lain with his forehead pressed against the back of the sofa for long, but when he opened his eyes, the slanting rays of the sun from both windows in the room were already reaching towards the floor. Father Khristofor and Ivan Ivanych were not there. The little room was tidied up, bright, cozy, and smelled of Father Khristofor, who always gave off a scent of cypress and dried cornflowers (at home he made sprinklers and decorations for icon stands out of dried cornflowers, and had become permeated with their smell). Egorushka looked at the pillow, at the slanting rays, at his boots, which were now polished and stood side by side near the sofa, and laughed. It seemed strange to him that he was not on a bale, that everything around was dry, and that there was no lightning or thunder on the ceiling.
He jumped up from the sofa and began to dress. He felt wonderful; nothing was left of the previous day’s illness except a slight weakness in his legs and neck. This meant the oil and vinegar had helped. He remembered the steamboat, the locomotive, and the wide river he had seen vaguely the day before, and he now hastened to dress quickly, so as to run to the pier and look at them. He washed and was putting on his red shirt when the door latch suddenly clicked and Father Khristofor appeared on the threshold in his top hat, holding his staff, and with a brown silk cassock over his canvas caftan. Smiling and radiant (old people who have just come back from church are always radiant), he put a prosphora and a package on the table, repeated a prayer, and said:
‘‘God has been merciful! Well, how do you feel?’’
‘‘I’m well now,’’ answered Egorushka, kissing his hand.
‘‘Thank God... And I’ve been to the liturgy... I went to see a sacristan I know. He invited me to his place for tea, but I didn’t go. I don’t like to go visiting early in the morning. God be with them!’’
He took off his cassock, stroked his chest, and unhurriedly opened the package. Egorushka saw a tin of caviar, a piece of smoked sturgeon, and a loaf of French bread.
‘‘There, I was walking past the fish store and bought them,’’ said Father Khristofor. ‘‘There’s no reason for this luxury on a weekday, but I thought, we’ve got a sick boy at home, so it seems pardonable. Good sturgeon caviar...’
A man in a white shirt brought a samovar and a tray of dishes.
‘‘Eat,’’ said Father Khristofor, spreading caviar on a slice of bread and handing it to Egorushka. ‘‘Eat and play now, and when the time comes, you can study. See that you study with attention and application, so there’s sense in it. What must be learned by heart, learn by heart, and where you should tell the inner meaning in your own words,
without touching on the external, use your own words. And try to learn all the subjects. Some know mathematics very well but have never heard of Peter Mogila,25 and some know about Peter Mogila but can’t explain about the moon. No, you should learn in such a way as to understand everything! Learn Latin, French, German ... geography, of course, history, theology, philosophy, mathematics... And once you’ve learned everything, not hurrying, but with prayer and with zeal, then you can find your work. Once you know everything, it will be easy for you on any path. Only study and acquire grace, and God will show you what you should be. A doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer...’
Father Khristofor spread a little caviar on a small piece of bread, put it in his mouth, and said:
‘‘The apostle Paul says: ‘Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines.’26 Of course, if it’s black magic, or senseless talk, or calling up spirits from the other world like Saul,27 or learning subjects that are of no use either to you or to anyone else, then it’s better not to study. One should take in only what God has blessed. Just consider... The holy apostles spoke all languages—so you learn languages; Basil the Great taught mathematics and philosophy—so you learn them; Saint Nestor28 wrote history—so you study and write history. Consider the saints...’
Father Khristofor sipped from his saucer, wiped his mustache, and shook his head.
‘‘Very well!’’ he said. ‘‘I was taught in the old way, I’ve forgotten a lot, and I also live differently from others. It’s even impossible to compare. For instance, somewhere in a big company, at a dinner or a gathering, I say something in Latin, or from history or philosophy, and people are pleased, and I’m pleased myself... Or there’s also when the circuit court arrives, and people have to be sworn in; all the other priests are embarrassed, but I hobnob with the judges and prosecutors and lawyers: I have some learned talk, drink tea with them, laugh, ask some questions about things I don’t know... And they’re pleased. So you see, old boy... Learning is light, and ignorance is darkness. Study! It’s hard, of course: these days learning costs a lot... Your mama’s a widow, she lives on a pension, well, but then...’
The Complete Short Novels Page 13