‘Grandpa, I’m cold!’ he said, not recognizing his own voice.
‘Sleep my child, sleep,’ sighed the old woman.
Titus approached the bed on his thin legs and waved his arms; then he grew right up to the ceiling and turned into a windmill. Appearing different from when he had been sitting in the carriage, in full vestments and with a holy water sprinkler in his hands, Father Khristofor walked around the windmill, sprinkled it with holy water and it stopped turning. Yegorushka realized he was delirious and opened his eyes.
‘Grandpa!’ he called. ‘Give me some water.’
No one replied. Lying there was unbearably stuffy and uncomfortable, so he got up, dressed and went outside. It was morning, the sky was overcast, but the rain had stopped. Shivering and wrapping himself in his wet coat, Yegorushka walked around the muddy yard, trying to hear something in the silence. He caught sight of a small shed with a half-open door made of thatch, peeped in, entered and sat down in a dark corner on a heap of dry dung.
His aching head was a jumble of thoughts and his mouth was dry and nasty from that metallic taste. He examined his hat, straightened the peacock’s feather and remembered when he had gone with Mother to buy it. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a lump of brown, sticky paste. How had that mess got there? He thought for a moment and sniffed: it smelled of honey. Yes, it was that Jewess’s cake. How terribly soaked it was, the poor thing!
Yegorushka inspected his coat. It was greyish, with large bone buttons and cut like a frock-coat. As it was something new and expensive, it had not hung in the hall at home but in the bedroom together with Mother’s dresses and he was allowed to wear it only on holidays and church festivals. Looking at it, Yegorushka felt sorry for it and remembered that both he and the coat had been left to the mercy of fate, that neither of them would ever go back home and he sobbed so loud that he nearly fell off the heap.
A large white rain-drenched dog, with woolly wisps like curling-papers on its muzzle, came into the shed and eyed Yegorushka very inquisitively. Clearly it was wondering if it should bark or not. Deciding not to bark, it cautiously approached Yegorushka, ate the sticky paste and departed.
‘They’re Varlamov’s men!’ someone shouted in the street.
After a good cry Yegorushka left the shed, skirted a large puddle and made his way to the street. Right in front of the gates stood the wagons. As sluggish and drowsy as autumn flies, the wet drivers were wandering around nearby in their muddy boots or sitting on the wagons shafts. Yegorushka looked at them.
‘How boring, how tiresome to be a peasant!’ he thought. He went up to Panteley and sat next to him on a shaft.
‘Grandpa, I’m cold!’ he said, shivering, and he pulled his sleeves down over his hands.
‘It’s all right, we’ll soon be there,’ yawned Panteley. ‘It’s all right… you’ll soon get warm.’
The wagons moved off early, when it was still cool. Yegorushka lay on his bale and trembled with cold, although the sun soon appeared and dried his clothes, the bale and the ground. Hardly had he closed his eyes when he saw Titus and the windmill again. With a feeling of nausea and heaviness all over his body he tried all he could to dispel those images, but hardly had they disappeared than that bully Dymov – red-eyed, fists upraised and bellowing – would throw himself on Yegorushka or would be heard complaining how bored he was. Varlamov would come riding past on his Cossack pony and that happy Konstantin would pass by with his smile and his bustard. How depressing, insufferable and tiresome all these people were!
Once, towards evening, Yegorushka raised his head to ask for a drink. The wagon train had come to a stop on a large bridge spanning a wide river. Down below dark smoke hung over the river and through it a steamer could be seen, with a barge in tow. Ahead, beyond the river, was an enormous, brightly coloured hill, dotted with houses and churches and at its foot a locomotive was shunting some goods wagons.
Never before had Yegorushka seen steamers or locomotives, or wide rivers, but now as he looked at them he was neither surprised nor afraid. His face did not show even the slightest trace of curiosity. All he felt was nauseous and he hurried to lie chest downwards on the edge of the bale. He was sick. Panteley cleared his throat and shook his head when he saw this.
‘Our lad’s real poorly!’ he exclaimed. ‘Must’ve caught a chill on his stomach… that lad… far from home. Oh, that’s bad!’
VIII
The wagons had halted at a large commercial inn close to the quayside. As he climbed down from the wagon Yegorushka recognized a familiar voice. Someone helped him and said:
‘We were already here yesterday evening… been waiting for you all day. We wanted to catch you up yesterday but we didn’t manage it – we came a different way. Hey, you’ve made a right mess of your coat! You’ll catch it from Uncle!’
Yegorushka peered into the mottled face of the speaker and remembered that this was Deniska.
‘Your uncle and Father Khristofor are in their room at the inn,’ continued Deniska. ‘They’re having tea. Come on!’
He led Yegorushka to a large, dark and dreary two-storey building similar to the almshouse at N—. After they had passed through a lobby, up some dark stairs and down a long corridor, Yegorushka and Deniska entered a small room where Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor were indeed sitting at a small tea-table. Both old men showed joy and surprise when they saw the boy.
‘Aha, young sir!’ intoned Father Khristofor. ‘Mr Lomonosov in person!’
‘Yes, it’s His Lordship himself,’ Kuzmichov said. ‘Pray make yourself welcome!’
Yegorushka took off his coat, kissed Uncle’s and Father Khristofor’s hands and sat down at the table.
‘Well, did you like the journey, puer bone?’ asked Father Khristofor, showering him with questions, pouring him some tea and smiling his usual radiant smile. ‘I bet it was boring, eh? And God save us all from travelling by wagon or ox-cart! On and on you go, you look ahead and the steppe’s always the same ramblingly stretched-out affair as ever – you think it’s never going to end! That’s not travelling – it’s a sheer abomination. Why don’t you drink your tea? Come on, drink up. While you were trailing along with the wagons we pulled off a fantastic deal, praise be to God! We sold the wool to Cherepakhin at a price anyone would envy… Came out of it very well, we did.’
When he first saw his own people Yegorushka felt an irresistible urge to complain. He did not listen to Father Khristofor and wondered where to begin and what precisely he should complain about. But Father Khristofor’s voice sounded so harsh and unpleasant that it prevented him from concentrating and only muddled his thoughts. After sitting for barely five minutes at the table he got up, went over to the sofa and lay down.
‘Well now!’ exclaimed Father Khristofor. ‘And what about your tea?’
Still trying to think of something to complain about, Yegorushka pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and suddenly burst out sobbing.
‘Well now!’ repeated Father Khristofor, getting up and going over to the sofa. ‘What’s the matter, Yegor? Why are you crying?’
‘I-I’m ill!’ murmured Yegorushka.
‘Ill?’ Father Khristofor said, disconcerted. ‘That’s no good, my boy. It’s no good falling ill when you’re travelling. Oh dear, no good at all… eh?’
He pressed his hand to Yegorushka’s head and touched his cheek.
‘Yes, your head’s burning… you must have caught a chill… or it’s something you’ve eaten… you must pray to God.’
‘We could give him some quinine,’ Kuzmichov said, rather taken aback.
‘No, he should eat something warm. Yegorushka, would you like a nice little drop of soup? Eh?’
‘No, I don’t want any soup,’ replied Yegorushka.
‘Got the shivers?’
‘I had them before, but now I feel hot. I’m aching all over.’
Kuzmichov went over to the sofa, touched Yegorushka’s head, gave a troubled cough and returned to
the table.
‘Now, you’d better get undressed and go to bed,’ said Father Khristofor. ‘What you need is a good sleep.’
He helped Yegorushka undress, gave him a pillow, covered him with a quilt, laid Kuzmichov’s coat over it, tiptoed away and sat at the table. Yegorushka closed his eyes and immediately had the feeling that he wasn’t in the room at the inn at all, but on the high road, by the camp fire. Yemelyan was ‘conducting’, while red-eyed Dymov lay on his stomach eyeing Yegorushka mockingly.
‘Hit him! Hit him!’ Yegorushka shouted out loud.
‘The boy’s delirious,’ Father Khristofor said in an undertone.
‘It’s a real nuisance,’ sighed Kuzmichov.
‘We must rub him down with oil and vinegar. With God’s help he’ll be better tomorrow.’
To free himself from these oppressive visions Yegorushka opened his eyes and looked at the light. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov had finished their tea now and were whispering together. The former was happily smiling: obviously he was quite unable to forget about the handsome profit he had made on his wool. It wasn’t the profit so much that cheered him as the thought of gathering his large family around him when he was back home, giving them sly winks and roaring with laughter. First he would string them along and tell them he had sold the wool at a loss – and then he would hand his brother-in-law Mikhailo a fat wallet. ‘Here you are!’ he would say, ‘that’s how to do business!’ But Kuzmichov was not happy. His face expressed that same businesslike detachment and anxiety.
‘If only I’d known Cherepakhin would pay that kind of price,’ he said quietly, ‘I wouldn’t have sold Makarov those five tons back home. It’s damned infuriating! But who would have guessed that prices here had gone up?’
A white-shirted waiter cleared the samovar away and lit the icon lamp in the corner. Father Khristofor whispered something in his ear. The waiter assumed a mysterious, conspiratorial expression, as if to say, ‘I quite understand’, and left, shortly to return and put a bowl under the sofa. Kuzmichov made up a bed for himself on the floor, yawned several times, lazily said his prayers and lay down.
‘I’m thinking of going to the cathedral tomorrow,’ Father Khristofor said. ‘I know one of the sacristans there. I really ought to go and see the Bishop after the service, but they say he’s ill.’
He yawned and put out the lamp. Only the icon lamp was burning now.
‘They say he’s not receiving visitors,’ Father Khristofor continued, disrobing. ‘So I’ll have to leave without seeing him.’
When he removed his caftan Yegorushka thought he was seeing Robinson Crusoe. ‘Crusoe’ mixed something in a saucer and went over to Yegorushka.
‘Mr Lomonosov!’ he whispered. ‘Are you asleep? Sit up and I’ll give you a rubdown with oil and vinegar. It’ll do you good – only don’t forget to say your prayers!’
Yegorushka quickly raised himself and sat up. Father Khristofor took his shirt off, winced and breathed jerkily, as though he himself were being tickled, and started rubbing his chest.
‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost… Lie with your face down… that’s it. You’ll be fine tomorrow… but don’t let it happen again… heavens, you’re on fire! I suppose you were out on the road in the storm, eh?’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Then it’s no wonder you’re ill! In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost… No wonder!’
When he had finished rubbing Yegorushka down, Father Khristofor put his shirt on, covered him up, made the sign of the cross over him and went out. Then Yegorushka saw him at prayer. Very likely the old man knew many different prayers, for he stood whispering for a long time in front of the icon. When he had completed his devotions he made the sign of the cross over the window, the door, Yegorushka and Kuzmichov, after which he lay down on a small sofa, without any pillow, and covered himself with his caftan. Out in the corridor the clock struck ten. Remembering how many hours were left until morning, Yegorushka wearily pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and no longer made any attempt to rid himself of those vague, oppressive visions. But morning came much sooner than he expected.
He felt that he had not been lying there very long with his forehead against the back of the sofa, yet when he opened his eyes, slanting sunbeams were streaming towards the floor from both windows in the room. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov had gone out. The room had been tidied and it was bright and cosy and smelt of Father Khristofor, who always had an odour of cypress and dried cornflowers about him (at home he made holy water sprinklers and decorated icon cases with cornflowers so that he was saturated with their scent). Yegorushka looked at the pillow, at the slanting sunbeams, at his boots which had now been cleaned and stood side by side by the sofa, and he burst out laughing. He felt it was odd not to be lying on that bale of wool, that everything around him was dry and that there was no thunder or lightning on the ceiling.
He leapt from the sofa and started dressing. He felt wonderful. Nothing remained of yesterday’s illness, except a slight weakness in his legs and neck. Evidently the oil and vinegar had done their job. He remembered the steamer, the locomotive, the wide river he had glimpsed the day before and he hurried to get dressed so that he could run down to the quayside to look at them. When he had washed and was putting on his red shirt the lock in the door suddenly clicked and Father Khristofor appeared in the doorway in his top hat, carrying his staff and wearing a brown silk cassock over his canvas caftan. Smiling and beaming (old men who have just returned from church are always radiant), he placed a piece of communion bread and a packet of some kind on the table, and recited a short prayer.
‘God has been gracious!’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, how are you?’
‘I feel fine now,’ replied Yegorushka, kissing his hand.
‘Thank God for that… I’m just back from the service. I went to see an old sacristan friend of mine. He invited me for breakfast, but I didn’t go. I don’t like visiting people so early in the morning – blow it!’
He took off his cassock, stroked his chest and undid the packet without hurrying. Yegorushka saw a tin of unpressed caviare, a slice of smoked sturgeon and a French loaf.
‘There, I happened to pass a fishmonger’s, so I bought these,’ Father Khristofor said. ‘On weekdays one shouldn’t indulge oneself, but I thought to myself that we have an invalid back at the inn, so I shall be forgiven! It’s very good caviare… it’s sturgeon…’
The white-shirted waiter brought in the samovar and a tray with crockery.
‘Eat up now!’ said Father Khristofor, spreading the caviare on a slice of bread and handing it to Yegorushka. ‘Eat and enjoy yourself while you can, as the time is coming when you’ll have to study. Now, mind you study attentively and diligently, so that you’ll benefit from it. If you have to know something by heart you must learn it, but where you need to convey the inner meaning, ignoring the outer form, then do it in your own words, I say. And try and master every branch of knowledge. There are people who know mathematics backwards but are ignorant of Pyotr Mogila.22 Others might know about Pyotr Mogila but can’t tell you about the moon. Study, I say, so that you understand everything! You must study Latin, French, German, geography – history of course – divinity, philosophy, mathematics… And when you’ve mastered them all – taking your time over them and with prayer and application – you must take up a profession. Once you know everything, any career will be easy for you. Only, study and acquire grace. God will show you what you are destined to be – doctor, judge, engineer…’
Father Khristofor spread a little caviare on a small piece of bread, popped it into his mouth and continued, ‘As Paul the Apostle says, “Be not carried about with divers and strange doctrines.”23 Of course, if it’s black magic, or blasphemy, or summoning spirits like Saul,24 or suchlike practices that are no good either to yourself or to others, then it’s better not to study. You must absorb only what God has blessed. Just consider… the holy apostles spoke every
tongue, so you must learn languages. Basil the Great25 studied mathematics and philosophy, so you must study them as well. St Nestor26 wrote history – so you must learn to write history too. Just do as the saints did…’
Father Khristofor sipped from his saucer, wiped his whiskers and turned his head.
‘Good!’ he said. ‘I’m schooled in the old ways. I’ve forgotten a lot. What’s more, I live differently from others. Really, there’s no comparison. For example, it’s very nice for people and for myself too if one can quote some Latin, or refer to something from history or philosophy in high society, over dinner or at a big gathering. It’s the same thing when the assizes come round and everyone has to be sworn in – all the other priests go into their shells, but I’m on hail-fellow-well-met terms with the judges, prosecutors, barristers. I talk like a scholar to them, have tea with them, enjoy a good laugh and ask them questions about things I don’t know. And they find it pleasant, too. So there you are, my boy… Learning is light, but ignorance is darkness. So study! Of course, it’s not easy. Nowadays studying costs a lot of money… Your dear mother is a widow and lives on a pension. And besides…’
Father Khristofor looked anxiously at the door.
‘Uncle Ivan will help you,’ he continued in a whisper. ‘He won’t leave you in the lurch. He doesn’t have children of his own and he’ll help you. Don’t worry!’
He looked grave and whispered even more softly, ‘Only mind you don’t forget your mother and Uncle Ivan – God forbid! Honour your mother, as the commandment bids us. Uncle Ivan is your benefactor, your guardian. If you become a scholar and you find other people a burden or despise them – God forbid – because they are stupider than you – then woe, woe unto you!’
Father Khristofor raised his hands and repeated in a thin voice, ‘Woe, I say, woe unto you!’
Father Khristofor warmed to his theme, began to relish it as they say and would have continued until dinner-time, but the door opened and in came Uncle Ivan. He hastily greeted them, sat at the table and rapidly gulped his tea.
The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91 Page 14
