Everyone went to have a look at the bustard.
‘That’s a fine big bird! What did you kill it with?’ asked Dymov.
‘Buckshot… wouldn’t have got near it with grape… Come on, buy it, lads. I’ll take twenty copecks.’
‘And what shall we do with it? It’d be fine roasted, but boiled it’d be much too tough – we’d never get our teeth into it!’
‘Oh, that’s a nuisance! If I took it to the gents on the estate I’d get half a rouble for it. But it’s a long walk – ten miles!’
The stranger sat down, unslung his gun and put it down by his side. He seemed listless and sleepy, and as he smiled and screwed up his eyes in the firelight he was evidently thinking the most agreeable thoughts. They gave him a spoon and he began to eat.
‘And who might you be?’ Dymov asked.
The stranger couldn’t have heard the question, as he made no reply and did not even look at Dymov. Most likely that smiling man found the stew tasteless, for he chewed mechanically, lazily, first raising a full spoon to his mouth, then a completely empty one. He wasn’t drunk, but he appeared to be a little touched in the head.
‘I asked you a question – who are you?’ Dymov repeated.
‘Me?’ replied the stranger with a start. ‘I’m Konstantin Zvonyk, from Rovno, about three miles from ’ere.’
Anxious to make clear from the start that he was a cut above your ordinary peasant, Konstantin hastened to add:
‘We keep bees and pigs.’
‘Do you live with your father or have you got a place of your own?’
‘I live in me own place now, set up on me own… Got married the month after St Peter’s Day.21 I’m a married man now, today’s the eighteenth since I got spliced!’
‘That’s good!’ Panteley exclaimed. ‘A wife’s a good thing – a blessing from on high!’
‘So, his young wife’s sleeping at home, all alone, while he’s gadding around the steppe,’ laughed Kiryukha. ‘He’s a queer fish all right!’
Just as if he had been nipped in the tenderest spot, Konstantin started, laughed and flushed.
‘God, she’s not at home!’ he exclaimed, quickly taking the spoon from his mouth and surveying everyone in joyous amazement. ‘She’s not at home – she’s gone to her ma’s for two days. Yes, I swear it, off she went and now it’s like I was a bachelor again!’
Konstantin waved his arm and shook his head. He wanted to go on thinking these thoughts, but the joy that lit up his face hindered him. As though he found it uncomfortable sitting there he changed position, laughed and waved his hand again. Despite his inhibitions about divulging his agreeable thoughts to strangers, he still had an overwhelming desire to share his joy with others.
‘She gone to her ma’s at Demidovo,’ he said, blushing and shifting his gun. ‘She’s coming back tomorrow – she said she’d be back by dinner-time.’
‘Do you miss her?’ asked Dymov.
‘Good God, how I miss her! What do you expect? Married only a few days and off she goes… Eh? Oh, she’s a real bundle of mischief, God help me! She’s wonderful, she’s marvellous, always laughing and singing – real fireworks! When I’m with her me thoughts are all in a whirl, but without her I feel as if I’ve lost something and here I am wandering over the steppe like a fool! Been doing it since dinner and I’m all adrift!’
Konstantin rubbed his eyes, looked at the fire and laughed.
‘So you must love her,’ Panteley said.
‘She’s wonderful, absolutely marvellous,’ Konstantin repeated, not listening. ‘And what a housewife – so capable, so sensible! You won’t find another like her in the whole province – not from common folk like us. And now she’s gone away… But I know she misses me, I know! Yes, you little spitfire! She said she’d be back by dinner-time tomorrow… But what a business it was!’ Konstantin was almost shouting now and he suddenly pitched his voice a tone higher and changed position. ‘Now she loves me and misses me – but she didn’t want to marry me, you know.’
‘Now, you eat up,’ said Kiryukha.
‘No, she didn’t want to marry me,’ Konstantin continued. ‘Three years I had a real ding-dong with her. I saw her at Kalachik Fair and fell madly in love – I was ready to hang myself for her, I was! I was in Rovno, but she was in Demidovo. We were best part of twenty miles from each other, so I couldn’t do a thing. So I send matchmakers over, but she says, “Don’t want to!” – the little minx! So I send her this and that, earrings, cakes, twenty pound of honey and still she says “Don’t want to!” Would you believe it! Come to think of it, what sort of match was I? She was young, beautiful, full of pep, but I was old – nigh on thirty – and really so handsome! – me with me lovely beard thin as a nail and me nice smooth face a mass of pimples! If you think about it I didn’t stand a chance. Only, I was well off, but them Vakramenkos are well off, too. They keep six oxen and two workmen. So, lads, I were in love, went right off me rocker I did! Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I were all befuddled, God save us! I was dying to see her, but she was at Demidovo… And what do you think – God strike me dead if I’m lying! I would walk over there three times a week to have a look at her. I stopped working. I was in such a stew that I even wanted to hire myself out as a labourer in Demidovo so as to be near her. I went through sheer hell! Me ma called in a wise old woman, me father was ready to give me ten good whackings. Well, I had to grin and bear it for three years, then I says to meself: to hell with it, I’ll get a job as a cabbie in town. But it wasn’t to be! At Easter I went to Demidovo to have one last look at her…’
Konstantin threw his head back and broke into such peals of light, cheerful laughter that it seemed he had just cleverly fooled someone.
‘I see her near the stream with some lads,’ he went on, ‘and I get proper mad… I call her to one side and tell her all sorts of things – for a whole hour, maybe. And she falls in love with me! For three years she didn’t love me but she falls for me ’cos of them words!’
‘What words?’ asked Dymov.
‘The words? Can’t remember. How could I? They flowed like water from a gutter – rat-tat-tat – non-stop. But now I couldn’t say any of them words. So, she marries me. And now that little imp’s gone to see her ma and here I am wandering around the steppe without her – I can’t stay at home! Oh, I just can’t stand it any more!’
Konstantin awkwardly freed his legs from under him, stretched out on the ground and propped his head on his fists. Then he stood up and sat down again. Everyone understood perfectly that here was a man happy in love, poignantly happy. His smile, his eyes, his every movement expressed overwhelming happiness. He kept fidgeting, not knowing what attitude to take and what he should do to avoid exhausting himself from an excess of delightful thoughts. Having unburdened himself to complete strangers he finally settled down and became lost in thought as he gazed at the fire.
At the sight of this happy man everyone felt dejected and wanted to be happy, too. Everyone became thoughtful. Dymov stood up, slowly walked around the fire and it was plain from his walk and the movements of his shoulderblades that he was feeling weary and depressed. He stood still for a moment, glanced at Kiryukha and sat down again.
The fire was dying down now. No longer did the light flicker and the red patch had grown narrow and dim… And the faster the fire died down the brighter the moonlight became. Now the whole width of the road, the bales, the wagon shafts, the champing horses could be seen. On the other side of the road was the dim outline of the other cross.
Dymov propped his cheek on one hand and softly sang some plaintive ditty. Konstantin smiled sleepily and joined in with his shrill little voice. They sang for about half a minute and stopped. Yemelyan gave a start, shifted his elbows and flicked his fingers.
‘Lads,’ he said imploringly, ‘let’s sing a sacred song!’
Tears sprang to his eyes as he repeated the request, pressing his hand to his heart.
‘I don’t know any,’ said Konstantin.
>
All the others refused, so Yemelyan sang on his own. Conducting with both arms he tossed his head back and opened his mouth, but only a voiceless hoarse breathing burst from his throat. He sang with his arms, his head, his eyes and even with the swelling under his eye; he sang passionately, with anguish, and the more he strained his chest to extract but one note the hollower his breathing sounded.
Like all the others, Yegorushka was overcome with depression. He went to his wagon, climbed onto the bale and lay down. He looked at the sky and thought of that happy Konstantin and his wife. Why do people marry? Why are there women in the world? Yegorushka vaguely asked himself and thought: how pleasant it must be for a man to have a loving, cheerful and beautiful woman constantly by his side. For some reason thoughts of Countess Dranitsky came to mind. How pleasant to live with a woman like her, he thought. Most probably he would have been delighted to marry her himself had he not been so embarrassed at the thought. He recalled her eyebrows, the pupils of her eyes, her coach, the clock with the horseman. The quiet warm night descended upon him, whispering something in his ear and he felt as if that same beautiful woman were bending over him, smiling as she looked at him and wanting to kiss him.
Two small, ever-dwindling red eyes were all that remained of the fire. The drivers and Konstantin were sitting near them, dark and motionless, and there seemed to be far more of them than before. The two crosses were also visible and somewhere, far far away, a small red light gleamed – probably someone else was cooking his stew as well.
‘ “Dear old Mother Russia rules the wo-or-ld!” ’ Kiryukha suddenly sang in a wild voice, had a fit of coughing and fell silent. The echoing steppe caught up his voice and bore it away, so that the stupid nonsense itself seemed to roll over the plains on heavy wheels.
‘It’s time to go,’ said Panteley. ‘Get up, lads!’
While they were harnessing the horses, Konstantin strolled around the wagons, singing the praises of his wife.
‘Goodbye, lads!’ he shouted when the wagon train moved off. ‘Thanks for the grub! I’m going on to that other fire. Oh, it’s all too much!’
He soon disappeared into the gloom and for a long time they could hear him striding out towards the gleaming light, to tell the strangers there all about his happiness.
When Yegorushka awoke next day it was early morning and the sun had not risen. The wagons were standing still. Some man in a white forage cap and a cheap suit of grey cloth was sitting on a Cossack pony by the leading wagon, talking to Dymov and Kiryukha about something. About a mile ahead of the wagons were low white barns and cottages with tiled roofs; near the cottages neither yards nor trees were to be seen.
‘What village is that, grandpa?’ Yegorushka asked.
‘Them’s Armenian farms, lad,’ replied Panteley. ‘It’s where the Armenians live… Decent folk – them Armenians…’
Having finished his conversation with Dymov and Kiryukha, the man in grey reined back his pony and looked towards the farms.
‘It’s real vexatious!’ Panteley sighed, also looking at the farms and shrinking in the cool of the morning. ‘He sent a man over to a farm for some bit of paper, but he ain’t come back. He should’ve sent Styopka!’
‘Who is he, grandpa?’ asked Yegorushka.
‘Varlamov.’
Heavens! Varlamov! Yegorushka quickly jumped up to his knees and looked at the white cap. In that short, grey-clad little man with his riding-boots, seated on an ugly little nag and talking to peasants when all respectable people were in bed it was hard to recognize the mysterious, elusive Varlamov, whom everyone needed, who was always ‘hanging around’ and was worth far more than Countess Dranitsky.
‘He’s not a bad man… real decent sort…’ Panteley said, looking at the farms. ‘God grant him health… he’s a wonderful man – that Semyon Aleksandrych Varlamov… It’s people like him lad, what keep the world going… that’s a fact. The cocks ain’t crowed yet but he’s already up and about… Any other man would be asleep in bed or making tittle-tattle with visitors. But he’s out on the steppe all day… running around… He don’t miss out on a deal – oh no! A fine fellow!’
Varlamov didn’t take his eyes off one of the farms and carried on talking, while his pony impatiently shifted from one foot to the other.
‘Semyon Aleksandrych Varlamov!’ cried Panteley, doffing his cap. ‘Let me send Styopka. Yemelyan! Give ’em a shout! Tell ’em to send Styopka.’
But then at last someone on horseback rode away from the farm. Leaning heavily to one side, swinging his whip over his head as if performing some fancy tricks and wanting to astonish everyone with his daring horsemanship, he raced to the wagons with the speed of a bird.
‘That must be one of his horse patrols,’ said Panteley. ‘He’s got about a hundred of them patrols – maybe more.’
Drawing level with the first wagon the horseman reined in his horse, doffed his cap and handed Varlamov some kind of notebook. Varlamov removed a few sheets of paper from it and read them.
‘And where’s Ivanchuk’s letter?’ he shouted.
The horseman took the book back, examined the papers and shrugged his shoulders. He started speaking – most likely making excuses – and then he asked permission to return to the farm. Varlamov’s pony gave a start as if his rider had suddenly grown heavier. Varlamov gave a start, too.
‘Clear off!’ he angrily shouted, shaking his whip at the horseman.
Then he turned his pony back and rode at walking pace past the wagons, still scrutinizing the papers. When he reached the last wagon, Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a better look. Varlamov was quite elderly. His simple, typically Russian face with its small grey beard was red, wet with dew and covered with little blue veins. It displayed that same matter-of-fact aloofness as Kuzmichov’s, the same fanatical passion for business. But what a difference between him and Kuzmichov! Besides that habitual, businesslike detachment, Kuzmichov’s face always betrayed anxiety and fear that he would not find Varlamov, that he would be late and thus miss out on a good price. Nothing remotely like this – so typical of your small, dependent businessman – was discernible in Varlamov’s face or figure. This man fixed prices himself, ran after no one and depended on no one. However unremarkable his appearance, in everything else – even in the way he held his whip – you could see a man conscious of his own power and his established dominion over the steppe.
As he rode past Yegorushka he did not look at him; only his pony deigned to look at him with its large, foolish eyes – and most indifferently at that. Panteley bowed low to Varlamov who noticed this and, without taking his eyes off the papers and burring his consonants told him, ‘Goot tay, grantpa!’
Varlamov’s exchange with the horseman and that flourish of his whip evidently had a depressing effect on all the drivers: all of them looked serious. Demoralized by that powerful man’s wrath, the horseman stood bareheaded by the front wagon, slackened the reins and said nothing, as if he could scarcely believe that the day had started so badly for him.
‘He’s a harsh old man,’ muttered Panteley. ‘Real harsh! But never mind… he’s a good man… wouldn’t harm no one without good reason… he’s all right…’
After inspecting the papers, Varlamov put the book back in his pocket. As if reading his thoughts, the pony did not wait for orders, shuddered and tore off down the road.
VII
The following night the drivers made a halt and cooked their meal. This time everything was coloured by some indefinable melancholy from the very start. It was humid and everyone had drunk a great deal, without in the least managing to quench their thirst. The moon rose a deep crimson, sullen, as if she were ailing. The stars were sullen too, the mist thicker, the distance hazier. Nature seemed to be languishing in anticipation of some disaster.
Around the camp fire there was none of yesterday’s animation and conversation. Everyone was depressed, everyone spoke listlessly and grudgingly. All Panteley could do was sigh and complain about his f
eet, every now and then raising the subject of ‘dying impenitent’.
Dymov was lying on his stomach, silently chewing a straw. His expression was malevolent, weary, and showed revulsion, as if the straw had a bad smell. Vasya complained of jaw-ache and predicted bad weather; Yemelyan had stopped waving his arms and sat still, gloomily surveying the fire. And Yegorushka was wilting, too. The slow pace had exhausted him and the day’s heat had given him a headache.
When the stew was cooked Dymov started picking on his mates – out of sheer boredom.
‘Look, Old Lumpy’s all sprawled out nice and easy over there – but he’ll be first to the pot with ’is spoon!’ he said, glowering at Yemelyan. ‘Greedy-guts! Always tries to barge ‘is way first to the pot. Just because he used to sing in a choir he thinks he’s a gent. The roads are packed with singers like you begging for sweet charity!’
‘What you picking on me for?’ asked Yemelyan, angrily glaring back.
‘To teach you not to be always first to the pot. Who d’ye think you are!’
‘You’re a fool, that’s what,’ Yemelyan said hoarsely.
Knowing from experience how such conversations usually ended, Panteley and Vasya intervened and urged Dymov not to pick quarrels for nothing.
‘Fancy you in a choir!’ the bully persisted with a contemptuous cough. ‘Anyone can sing like that – you just sit in the church porch and sing, “Alms for Christ’s sake!” Ugh, damn you!’
Yemelyan said nothing. His silence exasperated Dymov, who looked with even greater loathing at the ex-chorister.
‘It’s only because I don’t want to dirty my hands on you, or I’d soon take you down a peg or two.’
‘Why are you picking on me, scum of the earth! Have I ever done anything to you?’ said Yemelyan, flaring up.
‘What did you call me?’ asked Dymov, drawing himself up; his eyes became bloodshot. ‘What? Scum am I? Yes? Well, take that! Now, go and look for it!’
Dymov snatched the spoon from Yemelyan’s hands and flung it far to one side. Kiryukha, Vasya and Styopka jumped up and ran off to look for it, while Yemelyan stared imploringly and questioningly at Panteley. His face suddenly became small and wrinkled, started twitching – and the ex-chorister wept like a baby.
The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91 Page 12
