The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91 Read online

  He was silent for a while, stroked his knees and then continued in a politely jocular tone, ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Father Khristofor, but I must report you to the Bishop for robbing merchants of their livelihood! I’ll get myself an official form and write and tell him that Father Khristofor doesn’t have much money, so he’s gone into business and started selling wool!’

  ‘Well, it’s something I thought up in my twilight years,’ laughed Father Khristofor. ‘I’ve changed profession from priest to merchant, my friend. Actually I should be at home now saying my prayers, but here I am galloping around like a Pharaoh in his chariot… Ah, vanity…!’

  ‘But you’ll make plenty money!’

  ‘Do you think so? I’ll get more kicks than copecks! The wool isn’t mine, it’s my son-in-law’s, Mikhail’s!’

  ‘But why didn’t he go himself?’

  ‘Why?… because he’s still wet behind the ears. It’s all very well buying wool, but when it comes to selling it he has no idea – he’s still very young. He spent all his money, wanted to make a bundle and then go and cut a dash, but he’s been running around all over the place and no one will even give him what he paid for it. For a whole year the lad knocks around and then he comes to me and asks, “Papa, do me a favour, please sell the wool for me. I haven’t a clue about these things!” So true! Yes, the moment things go wrong he comes running to Papa, but before that he managed very nicely without him! He didn’t come to me for advice when he was buying it, but now it’s Papa he wants! But what can Papa do? If it weren’t for Kuzmichov, Papa wouldn’t have done a thing. Children are nothing but trouble!’

  ‘Yes, big trouble, I can tell you!’ sighed Moses. ‘I’ve got six of my own. This one to school, another to the doctor’s, a third needs coddling – and when they grow up they give you even more trouble. But it’s nothing new – it was the same in the Holy Scriptures. When Jacob had little childrens he wept, but when they grew up he wept even more!’

  ‘Hm… yes,’ agreed Father Khristofor, pensively glancing into his glass. ‘Personally speaking, I’ve done nothing to anger God. I’ve lived my allotted span as happy as anything… I’ve fixed my daughters up with good husbands, set my sons up in life. And now I’m free. I’ve done my duty and I can go wherever I like. I live nice and quietly with my wife, eat, drink and sleep, enjoy my grandchildren, say my prayers and I ask for nothing more. I live off the fat of the land and I don’t need anything from anybody. Never in my life have I known sorrow and if the Tsar for example were to ask me now, “Is there anything you need? What would you like?” I’d tell him nothing! I want for nothing – and I can thank God for that. There’s no happier man than me in the whole town. Only, I’ve sinned a lot – but after all, only God is sinless. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘Of course it’s true.’

  ‘Well then, I’ve lost my teeth of course, my poor back aches from old age, I get short of breath and all that… I do have illnesses – the flesh is weak! But as you can see for yourself I’ve lived my life to the full. I’m in my seventies! You can’t go on for ever – you mustn’t outstay your welcome!’

  Father Khristofor suddenly remembered something, snorted into his glass and laughed so much he had a coughing fit. Moses laughed as well – and he too had a coughing fit, out of politeness.

  ‘It’s an absolute scream!’ Father Khristofor said with a helpless wave of the arm. ‘My eldest son Gabriel comes to stay with me. His line is medicine – he’s a district doctor down in Chernigov7… Right, so I tell him, “I’m a bit short-winded… and there’s one thing and another… Well, you’re a doctor, so cure your father!” He immediately makes me undress, does some tapping and listening, kneads my stomach, performs different tricks and then he tells me, “Papa, you need compressed air treatment”.’

  Father Khristofor laughed convulsively until the tears came, and then he got up.

  ‘ “Confound your compressed air!” I said. “Confound your compressed air!” ’ As he said this he laughed and waved his arms. Moses stood up, too, hands on stomach, and burst into peals of shrill laughter, just like a yapping lapdog.

  ‘Confound your compressed air!’ repeated Father Khristofor, guffawing.

  Laughing two notes higher, Moses had such a paroxysm of mirth he could barely keep his footing.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ he groaned in mid guffaw. ‘Let me get my breath… You’re real comedian you are. Oh, you’ll be death of me!’

  He laughed and talked, but at the same time he kept giving Solomon timorous, suspicious looks. The latter was standing in the same posture as before and smiling. Judging from his eyes and his grin he genuinely despised and hated people, but this was so at odds with his plucked-hen appearance that Yegorushka construed his defiant attitude and sarcastic, supercilious expression as deliberate clowning, calculated to amuse the honoured guests.

  After drinking about six glasses of tea in silence, Kuzmichov cleared a place in front of him on the table, picked up his bag – that same bag he had kept under his head when he slept under the carriage – untied the string and shook it. Bundles of banknotes tumbled out onto the table.

  ‘Let’s count them while we have the time, Father Khristofor,’ said Kuzmichov.

  Moses was embarrassed at the sight of the money, stood up and, since he was a sensitive man reluctant to pry into others’ secrets, he tiptoed from the room, balancing himself with his arms. Solomon stayed where he was.

  ‘How many in the one-rouble packets?’ Father Khristofor began.

  ‘They’re in fifties. The three-rouble notes are in nineties, the twenty-fives and hundreds are in thousands. You can count seven thousand eight hundred out for Varlamov and I’ll count Gusevich’s. Now, mind you don’t make any mistakes!’

  Never in his life had Yegorushka seen such a huge pile of money as was now lying on the table. There must have been a really vast amount, since the pile of seven thousand eight hundred roubles that Father Khristofor had put aside for Varlamov seemed exceedingly small in proportion to the rest of the bundle. At any other time so much money might have stunned Yegorushka and led him to consider how many buns, dough-rolls and poppy-cakes he could have bought with that pile. But now he looked at it indifferently, conscious only of the revolting smell of rotten apples and kerosene it gave off. Exhausted by the bumpy carriage ride, he felt terribly drained and all he wanted was to sleep. His head dropped, his eyes kept closing and his thoughts were tangled like threads. Had it been possible he would gladly have leant his head on the table, closed his eyes to avoid seeing the lamp and those fingers moving over the pile of banknotes and allowed his sluggish, sleepy thoughts to become even more muddled. As he struggled to stay awake he saw the lamp, the cups and the fingers double, the samovar swayed and the smell of rotten apples seemed even sharper and more revolting.

  ‘Ah, money, money, money!’ sighed Father Khristofor, smiling. ‘You bring nothing but trouble. I dare say my Mikhailo’s asleep, dreaming that I’ll be bringing him a pile like this.’

  ‘Your Mikhailo hasn’t a clue,’ Kuzmichov said in a low voice, ‘he’s like a fish out of water, but you understand and can see things straight. As I said, you’d do better if you let me have your wool and went back home. Oh yes, I’d give you fifty copecks over and above my own price – and that’s only out of respect for you.’

  ‘No, thank you very much,’ sighed Father Khristofor. ‘I appreciate your concern… Of course, if I had the choice I wouldn’t hesitate, but as you know very well, the wool isn’t mine…’

  In tiptoed Moses. Trying not to look at the heap of money out of delicacy, he crept up to Yegorushka and tugged the back of his shirt.

  ‘Come with me, young sir,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I’ll show you such lovely little bear! Such fierce, grumpy bear! Oooh!’

  Sleepy Yegorushka stood up and lazily plodded after Moses to have a look at the bear. He entered a small room where, before he saw anything, his breath was taken away by that sour, musty smell which was much stronger
here than in the large room and was probably spreading all over the inn. Half of the room was taken up by a large double bed covered with a greasy quilt and the other by a chest of drawers and piles of every conceivable kind of clothing, ranging from stiffly starched skirts to children’s trousers and braces. On the chest of drawers a tallow candle was burning.

  Instead of the promised bear Yegorushka saw a big, very fat Jewess with her hair hanging loose, wearing a red flannel dress with black dots. She had great difficulty in manoeuvring the narrow space between bed and chest of drawers, emitting protracted, groaning sighs as if she had toothache. At the sight of Yegorushka she assumed a sorrowful look, sighed long and deep and before he had time to look round put a slice of bread and honey to his lips.

  ‘Eat it, dear,’ she said. ‘Your mama’s not here and there’s no one to feed you. Eat up.’

  Yegorushka began to eat, although after the fruit drops and poppy-seed cakes which he had at home every day he didn’t care much for the honey, half of which was a mixture of wax and bees’ wings. While he was eating, Moses and the Jewess looked on and sighed.

  ‘Where are you going, dear?’ asked the Jewess.

  ‘To school,’ Yegorushka replied.

  ‘How many children does your mama have?’

  ‘There’s only me, no one else.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ sighed the Jewess, looking up. ‘Your poor, poor mama! How she’ll cry! How she’ll miss you! In a year’s time we’re taking our Nahum to school, too. Oh dear!’

  ‘Oh, Nahum, Nahum!’ sighed Moses, the skin twitching on his pale face. ‘He’s such sickly child.’

  The greasy quilt moved and there emerged a child’s curly head on a very thin neck. Two black eyes gleamed and stared inquisitively at Yegorushka. Still sighing, Moses and the Jewess went to the chest and started discussing something in Yiddish. Moses spoke in a deep undertone and for the most part his Yiddish sounded like a non-stop ‘gal-gal-gal’, whilst his wife answered him in a shrill ‘too-too-too’, like a turkey-hen. As they were conferring another curly little head on a thin neck peeped out from under the greasy quilt, then a third, then a fourth. If Yegorushka had possessed a vivid imagination he might have fancied a hundred-headed hydra lay under that quilt.

  ‘Gal-gal-gal,’ boomed Moses.

  ‘Too-too-too,’ twittered the Jewess.

  The conference finished when the Jewess plunged her hands deep into the chest of drawers, unfolded some kind of green rag and took out a large heart-shaped rye cake.

  ‘Take it, dear,’ she said, handing it to Yegorushka. ‘You’ve no mama now, no one to give you nice presents.’

  Yegorushka put the cake in his pocket and retreated to the door as he could no longer bear to breathe that acrid, musty air in which the innkeeper and his wife lived. When he returned to the main room he settled comfortably on the sofa and let his thoughts wander.

  Kuzmichov had just finished counting the banknotes and was putting them back in the bag. He paid them little respect and unceremoniously bundled them into the dirty bag – indifferently, as though they were so much waste paper.

  Father Khristofor was chatting to Solomon.

  ‘Well, Solomon the Wise,’ he asked, yawning and making the sign of the cross over his mouth. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘What things do you mean?’ asked Solomon, giving him a venomous look, as if some crime were being hinted at.

  ‘Well… I mean, things in general. How are you getting on?’

  ‘Getting on?’ Solomon repeated, shrugging his shoulders. ‘The same as everyone. As you see, I’m a servant. I’m my brother’s servant, my brother’s the visitors’ servant and his visitors are Varlamov’s servants – and if I had ten million roubles Varlamov would be my servant.’

  ‘And why should he be your servant?’

  ‘Why? Because there’s no gent or millionaire who wouldn’t lick a dirty Jew’s boots to make an extra copeck. Now, I’m a dirty Jew and a beggar, everyone looks at me like I was a dog, but if I had money Varlamov would be making as much a fool of himself in front of me as Moses is in front of you.’

  Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov exchanged glances. Neither of them understood Solomon. Kuzmichov gave him a stern, severe look and said, ‘How can you compare yourself with Varlamov, you idiot!’

  ‘I’m not such a fool as to compare myself with Varlamov,’ replied Solomon, giving the two of them a sarcastic look. ‘Although Varlamov’s Russian, at heart he’s a dirty Jew. All he lives for is money and profit, but I burnt my money in the stove. I don’t need money or land or sheep, and people don’t have to be frightened of me and take their hats off when I go past. That means I’m cleverer than your Varlamov and more like a human being!’

  A little later, in his deep drowsiness, Yegorushka could hear Solomon speaking about the Jews in a hurried, lisping voice that was hoarse from the loathing that was choking him. At first he spoke in correct Russian, but then he lapsed into the tone of those fairground tellers of tales from Jewish life, breaking into that same exaggerated Yiddish accent he once used at the fair.

  ‘Hold on!’ Father Khristofor interrupted. ‘Just a moment! If you don’t like your faith you’d better change it. Anyone who scoffs at his own faith is the lowest of the low.’

  ‘You just don’t understand!’ Solomon rudely cut him short. ‘We’re talking at cross purposes.’

  ‘That only goes to show how stupid you are!’ sighed Father Khristofor. ‘I instruct you to the best of my ability and you go and lose your temper. I talk to you calmly, like a father, and you start gobbling away like a turkey! You’re a queer fish, no mistake!’

  In came Moses. He looked in alarm at Solomon and his visitors and once more the skin on his face twitched nervously. Yegorushka shook his head and looked around, catching a fleeting glimpse of Solomon’s face just as it was three-quarters turned towards him and when the shadow of his long nose bisected the whole of his left cheek. That contemptuous smile, deep in shadow, those sarcastic, gleaming eyes, that arrogant expression and that whole plucked-hen’s figure doubling and dancing before Yegorushka’s eyes made him look less like a clown than something out of a nightmare – an evil spirit most likely.

  ‘That brother of yours is a real madman Moses, God help him!’ Father Khristofor said, smiling. ‘You should fix him up with a job somewhere or find him a wife. He’s not human…’

  Kuzmichov angrily frowned. Once again Moses looked at his brother anxiously and quizzically.

  ‘Solomon, get out of here,’ he said sternly. ‘Get out!’

  And he added something in Yiddish. Solomon laughed abruptly and left.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Moses asked Father Khristofor in alarm.

  ‘He keeps forgetting himself,’ replied Kuzmichov. ‘He’s a boor and he thinks too much of himself.’

  ‘I thought as much!’ Moses exclaimed, clasping his hands in horror. ‘Oh, goodness me, goodness me!’ he quietly muttered. ‘Now, please be so kind as to forgive him and don’t be cross. That’s the kind of person he is. Goodness me! He’s my own brother and I’ve had nothing but trouble with him. Why, did you know he…’

  Moses curled his finger against his forehead.

  ‘He’s out of his mind,’ he continued, ‘a hopeless case. I just don’t know what to do with him. He cares for no one, respects no one and fears no one. You know, he laughs at everyone, says stupid things and rubs everyone up wrong way. You won’t believe it, but once when Varlamov was here Solomon said such things to him that he gave both of us taste of whip. Why did he have to whip me? Was it my fault? If God robbed him of brains it was God’s will. But how was I to blame?’

  About ten minutes passed and Moses still carried on muttering in an undertone and sighing.

  ‘He doesn’t sleep at night – he just keeps thinking, thinking and thinking. What he thinks about God only knows. And if you go near him at night he gets angry and laughs. He doesn’t like me either… And there’s nothing he wants. When Papa died he left us six th
ousand roubles each. I bought an inn, married, and now I have children. But he went and burnt all his money in stove. Such shame, such shame! Why did he burn it? If he didn’t need it then why not give to me? Why burn it?’

  Suddenly the door squeaked on its block and the floor shook with footsteps. There was a draught of air and Yegorushka felt as if a great black bird had swept past and flapped its wings right in his face. He opened his eyes and there was Uncle, standing by the sofa, bag in hand and ready to leave. Holding his broad-brimmed top hat, Father Khristofor was bowing to someone and smiling – not his customary soft, kindly smile, but a deferential, artificial smile which did not suit him at all. Meanwhile, Moses was trying to balance himself as though his body had broken into three and he was doing his best not to disintegrate altogether. Only Solomon seemed unconcerned and stood in one corner, arms folded, smiling as contemptuously as ever.

  ‘Your Ladyship, please forgive us, it’s not very clean in here,’ groaned Moses with that painfully sugary smile, paying no more attention to Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor and trying only to stop himself falling apart by balancing his whole body. ‘We’re only simple folk, your Ladyship!’

  Yegorushka rubbed his eyes. In the middle of the room there really was a ‘ladyship’ in the shape of a young, very beautiful, buxom woman in a black dress and straw hat. Before Yegorushka could make out her features, for some reason he recalled that solitary, graceful poplar he had seen on the hill that day.

  ‘Was Varlamov here today?’ a woman’s voice asked.

  ‘No, your Ladyship,’ replied Moses.

  ‘If you happen to see him tomorrow please tell him to drop in and see me for a few moments.’

  Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, about half an inch from his eyes, Yegorushka saw velvety black eyebrows, large brown eyes and well-groomed, dimpled female cheeks, from which her smile radiated like sunbeams all over her face. There was the smell of some wonderful perfume.