The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91 Page 6

  Yegorushka raised his head and looked ahead with glazed eyes. The lilac distance which until then had been motionless suddenly gave a wild lurch and together with the sky raced somewhere even further off. It dragged the brown grass and sedge after it and Yegorushka was whisked away with extraordinary speed in the wake of the fast-receding distance. Some mysterious force was silently bearing him somewhere and the stifling heat and that wearisome song were following in hot pursuit. Yegorushka bowed his head and closed his eyes.

  Deniska was first to awake. Something had bitten him, because he jumped up, quickly scratched his shoulder and muttered, ‘You rotten brute, damn and blast you!’

  Then he went to the stream, slaked his thirst and took a long time to wash himself. His snorting and splashing roused Yegorushka from his drowsiness. The boy looked at Deniska’s wet face covered with drops of water and large freckles, which created a marbled effect, and asked, ‘Are we leaving soon?’

  Deniska looked up to see how high the sun was.

  ‘Shouldn’t be long,’ he replied.

  He dried himself on his shirt-tail, assumed a very solemn expression and started hopping about on one foot.

  ‘Come on, I’ll race you to the sedge!’ he said.

  Although Yegorushka was utterly exhausted by the heat and drowsiness he still hopped after him. Deniska was about twenty and employed as a coachman. He was intending to get married – but he behaved like a little boy. He adored flying kites, racing pigeons, playing knucklebones and tag, and was always getting involved in children’s games and quarrels. His masters had only to go out or fall asleep for him to start amusing himself with some sport such as hopping on one foot or throwing stones. Every adult, on seeing the genuine enthusiasm with which he romped about in children’s company, found it hard to refrain from commenting ‘What an oaf!’ But children found nothing strange in this invasion of their domain by the big coachman: ‘He can play with us as long as he doesn’t start fighting!’ they would say. Similarly, small dogs don’t find it at all strange when large, well-meaning dogs intrude on them and start playing with them.

  Deniska outstripped Yegorushka and this evidently gave him great satisfaction. He winked and to prove that he could hop on one foot over any distance suggested that Yegorushka hop with him along the road and back to the carriage without stopping.

  Yegorushka declined this proposal, since he was already feeling terribly weak and breathless.

  Suddenly Deniska pulled an extremely grave face – something he didn’t do even when Kuzmichov gave him a severe telling-off or brandished his stick at him. Listening hard, he slowly went down on one knee and his face took on that fearful, stern expression that people display when they hear heretical talk. He fixed his eyes on one spot, slowly raised his hands above his wrists in the form of a scoop and then suddenly dropped on his stomach and clapped his hands together.

  ‘Got him!’ he cried in a husky, exultant voice, stood up and placed a large grasshopper before Yegorushka’s eyes. Convinced that this must be enjoyable for the grasshopper, Yegorushka and Deniska stroked its broad green back with their fingers and touched its whiskers. Then Deniska caught a fat fly that had gorged itself on blood and offered it to the grasshopper. With the utmost nonchalance, as if it had been friends with Deniska for a very long time, the grasshopper moved its large visor-like jaws and bit off the fly’s belly. Then they released the grasshopper and the pink lining of its wings glittered as it settled in the grass and immediately began trilling its song. They released the fly too; it preened its wings and flew off towards the horses minus its belly.

  A deep sigh came from under the carriage. Kuzmichov had woken up. He quickly raised his head, anxiously peered into the distance and one could tell from his glance, which indifferently by-passed both Yegorushka and Deniska, that his first thoughts on waking were about wool and Varlamov.

  ‘Get up, Father Khristofor! It’s time to go!’ he said in alarm. ‘You’ve slept enough – we’ve probably missed out on the deal now anyway. Deniska! Harness the horses!’

  Father Khristofor awoke with the same smile as when he had fallen asleep. His face was crumpled and wrinkled from sleep and seemed half its normal size. After washing and dressing he unhurriedly took a small soiled psalter from his pocket, turned his face to the east and started reading in a whisper and crossing himself.

  ‘Father Khristofor!’ Kuzmichov said reproachfully. ‘It’s time to go, the horses are ready, but you… for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Won’t be long,’ Father Khristofor muttered. ‘I must read today’s portion of the Psalms first – I didn’t get round to it earlier.’

  ‘Your psalms can wait!’

  ‘Ivan Ivanych, I have to read a portion every day. I mustn’t neglect it.’

  ‘God won’t call you to account for it.’

  For a full quarter of an hour Father Khristofor stood still, facing the east and moving his lips, while Kuzmichov looked at him almost with loathing and kept impatiently twitching his shoulders. He was particularly incensed when after each ‘Glory’ Father Khristofor took a deep breath, quickly crossed himself and repeated three times in a deliberately loud voice so that the others had to cross themselves as well:

  ‘Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah, Glory to Thee, Oh Lord!’

  Finally he smiled, glanced up at the sky, put the psalter back in his pocket and said, ‘Fini!’

  A minute later the carriage moved off. It was just as if it were travelling backwards, not forwards, for the passengers saw the same scenes as in the morning. The hills were still sinking in the lilac distance and there seemed no end to them. There were fleeting glimpses of tall grass and small stones, strips of stubble flashed by and those same rooks, together with a kite which was steadily flapping its wings, flew over the steppe. The air became even more immobile from the heat and the silence, and submissive nature was numbed in that deathly hush. No wind, not one bright fresh sound, not even one small cloud.

  But now at last, when the sun was sinking in the west, the steppe, the hills and the air could bear the oppressiveness no more: exhausted, all patience gone, they endeavoured to cast off the yoke. From beyond the hills there suddenly appeared an ash-grey, fleecy cloud. It exchanged glances with the steppe, said ‘I’m ready’, and frowned. All of a sudden something seemed to snap in the stagnant air, there was a violent gust and the wind whirled over the steppe, whistling and roaring. At once the grass and last year’s weeds began to murmur, while along the road dust eddied and spiralled, raced over the steppe and, drawing after it straw, dragonflies and feathers, soared towards the heavens in a black rotating column and darkened the sun. Far and wide over the steppe dashed tumbleweeds, stumbling and leaping; one of them, caught up in the whirlwind, span round and round like a bird and flew into the sky, where it turned into a black speck and vanished from sight. A second, then a third sailed after it and Yegorushka could see two of them colliding in the azure heights and grappling like wrestlers.

  A bustard took flight just by the roadside. Bathed in sunlight, its wings and tail flashing, it resembled an angler’s bait or a pond moth whose wings appear to blend with its antennae when it darts over the water, so that it seems to have antennae growing at the front, at the back and along its sides… Quivering in the air like an insect and displaying all its many colours, the bustard soared to a great height in a straight line and then, probably taking fright at the cloud of dust, flew off to one side – and its flashing could be seen for a long time afterwards…

  And then a corncrake, alarmed by the whirlwind and unable to understand what was happening, rose from the grass. It flew after the wind and not into it – unlike all other birds. As a result its feathers grew ruffled, it swelled to the size of a hen and took on a very angry, intimidating look. Only the rooks, which had grown old on the steppe and were used to all its commotions, calmly hovered over the grass or, ignoring all else, casually pecked away at the hard earth with their thick beaks.

  From beyond the hills cam
e the dull roar of thunder; there was a sudden breath of freshness in the air. Deniska cheerfully whistled and whipped the horses. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov held on to their hats and strained their eyes towards the hills. How welcome a light shower would be!

  Just one small effort, it seemed, just one more exertion and the steppe would have prevailed. But an invisible, oppressive force gradually fettered both wind and air and settled the dust; and once again silence fell, as if nothing had happened. The cloud went into hiding, the sun-baked hills frowned, the air humbly grew still and somewhere only frightened lapwings wailed and bemoaned their fate…

  Evening quickly set in.

  III

  A large single-storey building with a rusty iron roof and dark windows appeared in the twilight gloom. It was called an inn although it had no stable-yard and stood completely exposed in the middle of the steppe. A little to one side was the dark patch of a miserable little cherry orchard with a hurdle fence, while beneath the windows stood drowsy sunflowers, their heads heavy with sleep. A miniature windmill set up to frighten the hares off was rattling away in the orchard. Around the inn there was nothing to be seen or heard but the steppe.

  No sooner had the carriage stopped by the canopied porch than joyful voices came from the inn – one a man’s, the other a woman’s. The door creaked on its block and in the twinkling of an eye a tall skinny figure loomed up by the carriage, swinging its arms and coat-skirts. It was Moses Moisevich the innkeeper, a middle-aged, extremely pale-faced man with a handsome jet-black beard. He was wearing a black, threadbare frock-coat which dangled loosely from his narrow shoulders as if suspended from a clothespeg and every time he threw up his hands, whether in joy or horror, its skirts flapped like wings. Besides this frock-coat, the innkeeper was wearing broad white trousers that were not tucked into his boots and a velvet waistcoat with a pattern of reddish-brown flowers resembling gigantic bed-bugs.

  When he recognized his visitors, Moses at first stood rooted to the spot from a rush of emotion, then he threw up his hands and groaned. The skirts of his frock-coat flapped, his back bent double and his pale face twisted into a smile that seemed to be saying that the sight of the carriage was not only agreeable but excruciatingly sweet.

  ‘Ah, goodness me, goodness me!’ he gasped in a thin singsong voice, fussing so much that his wild contortions prevented the passengers from leaving the carriage. ‘Such happy day this for me! Ah, what ever shall I do first! Ivan Kuzmichov! Father Khristofor! What pretty young gentleman is sitting on the box – or may God punish me! Ah, goodness me, why am I standing here like this and not inviting guests into parlour? Come in, I most humbly beg you! Welcome! Let me take your luggage… Ah, goodness me!’

  As Moses was rummaging around in the carriage and helping the guests out, he suddenly turned around and cried, ‘Solomon! Solomon!’ in such a frenzied, strangled voice that he sounded like a drowning man calling for help.

  ‘Solomon! Solomon!’ a woman’s voice repeated from inside the inn.

  The door creaked on its block and in the doorway appeared a shortish, young red-headed Jew with a large beaked nose and a bald patch surrounded by wiry, curly hair. He was wearing a short, exceedingly shabby jacket with cutaway flaps and short sleeves, and short woollen trousers – all of which made him look as short and skimpy as a plucked fowl. This was Solomon, Moses’ brother. Without a word of greeting and with a rather strange smile he approached the carriage.

  ‘Ivan Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor are here!’ Moses told him in a tone that intimated he was afraid Solomon might not believe him. ‘Ay vay, what surprise to have such lovely people suddenly dropping in on us like this! Come on, Solomon, take their things. This way, my honoured guests!’

  Shortly afterwards Kuzmichov, Father Khristofor and Yegorushka were sitting at an ancient oak table in a large, gloomy, empty room. This table was almost totally isolated, since, apart from the wide sofa upholstered in oil-cloth that was full of holes and three chairs there was no other furniture in that large room. As for the chairs, not everyone would have dignified them by that name. They were a pathetic semblance of furniture, covered with oil-cloth that had seen better days and with backs that had been bevelled with such unnatural severity they closely resembled children’s toboggans. It was hard to imagine what comforts that mysterious carpenter who had so mercilessly bent those chairs’ backs had in mind and one was inclined to think that it was not the carpenter who was to blame, but some vagrant Hercules who, intent on vaunting his strength, had first bent the chairs’ backs, tried to straighten them but had only bent them even more. The room had a sombre look. The walls were grey, the ceiling and cornices grimy and the floor was full of cracks and gaping holes of unfathomable provenance (one was inclined to think they had been produced by the heel of that same Hercules), and you felt that even if a dozen lamps were to be hung in that room it would still be as dark as ever. Neither walls nor windows displayed anything remotely resembling decoration. However, on one wall, in a grey wooden frame, hung a list of regulations under a two-headed eagle5 and on another, in a similar frame, there was some kind of engraving with the inscription ‘Man’s Indifference’. To what men were indifferent was impossible to ascertain, since the engraving had faded appreciably with time and was considerably fly-blown. There was a musty, sour smell in the room.

  After leading his guests into the room, Moses renewed his contortions, throwing his arms up, bending up and down and uttering joyful exclamations – all this he considered essential in order to give an exceptionally courteous, friendly impression.

  ‘When did our wagons pass by?’ Kuzmichov asked him.

  ‘One wagon train came past this morning, Ivan Kuzmichov, and another stopped for rest and meal and left in early evening.’

  ‘Oh… did Varlamov come by or didn’t he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t, Ivan Kuzmichov. But yesterday morning his bailiff Grigory passed by and he told me that Varlamov had most likely gone over to the Molokan’s6 farm.’

  ‘Excellent. That means we’ll catch the wagons up in no time at all – then we’ll go on to the Molokan’s.’

  ‘But what you thinking of, Ivan Kuzmichov?’ Moses said in horror, throwing up his hands. ‘Where are you going to spend night? Now, you can enjoy nice little supper and stay here for night and tomorrow, God willing, you can drive off and catch up with anyone you have to!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Moses, but we just haven’t the time. Some other occasion, perhaps. We’ll stay another quarter of an hour, but then we must be off. We can stay at the Molokan’s overnight.’

  ‘Quarter of hour!’ shrieked Moses. ‘Do you have no fear of God! Now, don’t force me to hide your caps and lock door! At least have a bite to eat and some tea!’

  ‘We’ve no time for tea and sugar and all that stuff,’ said Kuzmichov.

  Moses leaned his head to one side, crooked his knees and spread his hands out as if warding off blows; with that same painfully cloying smile he started begging them:

  ‘Ivan Kuzmichov! Father Khristofor! Please do me favour and have tea with me! Am I really such wicked man that you refuse to drink tea with me? Ivan Kuzmichov!’

  ‘All right then, we’ll have some tea,’ Father Khristofor sighed sympathetically. ‘That won’t hold us up.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ agreed Kuzmichov.

  Moses sprang into action, gasped joyfully, cringed – just as if he had leapt from cold water into the warm – and ran to the door.

  ‘Rosa! Rosa!’ he cried in that frenzied, strangled voice in which he had summoned Solomon.

  A minute later the door opened and in came Solomon with a large tray. After putting it on the table he looked sarcastically to one side and then smiled as strangely as before. Now, by the light of the small lamp, one could see every detail of his smile. It was extremely complex and expressed a variety of feelings – but predominant was one of blatant contempt. It seemed that he was thinking about something both funny and stupid, that there was someone whom he despi
sed and just could not bear, and that he was pleased about something and was waiting for the right moment to produce a hurtful sneer and then laugh his head off. His long nose, fat lips and cunning, protruding eyes seemed tense from this urge to roar with laughter.

  ‘Solomon, why didn’t you come over to the fair at N— this summer to do your Jewish impersonations?’ asked Kuzmichov, peering at his face and smiling sarcastically.

  Two years before, as Yegorushka also remembered very well, Solomon had performed scenes from Jewish life in one of the booths and enjoyed great success. The mention of this made no impression whatsoever on Solomon. Without a word of reply he went out and soon returned with the samovar.

  When he had completed his duties at the table he stepped to one side, folded his arms on his chest, stuck one leg out and fixed his sarcastic eyes on Father Khristofor. In his posture there was something provocative, overbearing and contemptuous and at the same time extremely pathetic and comic, because the more threatening it became the more sharply it accentuated his short trousers, docked jacket, grotesque nose and his whole wretched plucked, bird-like figure.

  Moses brought a stool from another room and sat down a little way from the table.

  ‘Good appetites! Here’s the tea and sugar!’ he said, attending to his guests. ‘Drink your fills! Such rare visitors, so rare! Really, it must be five years since I saw Father Khristofor! And is no one going to tell me who that handsome little gentleman is?’ he asked, tenderly looking at Yegorushka.

  ‘He’s my sister Olga’s son,’ Kuzmichov replied.

  ‘And where’s he off to?’

  ‘To school. We’re taking him to the grammar school.’

  Out of politeness Moses showed surprise and meaningfully twisted his head.

  ‘That’s very good!’ he said, wagging his finger at the samovar. ‘That’s good! And you’ll be such fine gentleman when you leave school that we’ll all have to take hat off to you! You’ll be clever, rich – and so grand! And Mama will be so pleased! Oh, that’s very good!’