Short Stories by Chekhov
after a meal, ran to the sedge and from there surveyed the country. He
saw exactly the same as he had in the morning: the plain, the low hills,
the sky, the lilac distance; only the hills stood nearer; and he could
not see the windmill, which had been left far behind. From behind the
rocky hill from which the stream flowed rose another, smoother and
broader; a little hamlet of five or six homesteads clung to it. No
people, no trees, no shade were to be seen about the huts; it looked as
though the hamlet had expired in the burning air and was dried up. To
while away the time Yegorushka caught a grasshopper in the grass, held
it in his closed hand to his ear, and spent a long time listening to the
creature playing on its instrument. When he was weary of its music he
ran after a flock of yellow butterflies who were flying towards the
sedge on the watercourse, and found himself again beside the chaise,
without noticing how he came there. His uncle and Father Christopher
were sound asleep; their sleep would be sure to last two or three hours
till the horses had rested. . . . How was he to get through that long
time, and where was he to get away from the heat? A hard problem. . . .
Mechanically Yegorushka put his lips to the trickle that ran from the
waterpipe; there was a chilliness in his mouth and there was the smell
of hemlock. He drank at first eagerly, then went on with effort till the
sharp cold had run from his mouth all over his body and the water was
spilt on his shirt. Then he went up to the chaise and began looking at
the sleeping figures. His uncle's face wore, as before, an expression of
business-like reserve. Fanatically devoted to his work, Kuzmitchov
always, even in his sleep and at church when they were singing, "Like
the cherubim," thought about his business and could never forget it for
a moment; and now he was probably dreaming about bales of wool, waggons,
prices, Varlamov. . . . Father Christopher, now, a soft, frivolous and
absurd person, had never all his life been conscious of anything which
could, like a boa-constrictor, coil about his soul and hold it tight. In
all the numerous enterprises he had undertaken in his day what attracted
him was not so much the business itself, but the bustle and the contact
with other people involved in every undertaking. Thus, in the present
expedition, he was not so much interested in wool, in Varlamov, and in
prices, as in the long journey, the conversations on the way, the
sleeping under a chaise, and the meals at odd times. . . . And now,
judging from his face, he must have been dreaming of Bishop Christopher,
of the Latin discussion, of his wife, of puffs and cream and all sorts
of things that Kuzmitchov could not possibly dream of.
While Yegorushka was watching their sleeping faces he suddenly heard a
soft singing; somewhere at a distance a woman was singing, and it was
difficult to tell where and in what direction. The song was subdued,
dreary and melancholy, like a dirge, and hardly audible, and seemed to
come first from the right, then from the left, then from above, and then
from underground, as though an unseen spirit were hovering over the
steppe and singing. Yegorushka looked about him, and could not make out
where the strange song came from. Then as he listened he began to fancy
that the grass was singing; in its song, withered and half-dead, it was
without words, but plaintively and passionately, urging that it was not
to blame, that the sun was burning it for no fault of its own; it urged
that it ardently longed to live, that it was young and might have been
beautiful but for the heat and the drought; it was guiltless, but yet it
prayed forgiveness and protested that it was in anguish, sad and sorry
for itself. . . .
Yegorushka listened for a little, and it began to seem as though this
dreary, mournful song made the air hotter, more suffocating and more
stagnant. . . . To drown the singing he ran to the sedge, humming to
himself and trying to make a noise with his feet. From there he looked
about in all directions and found out who was singing. Near the furthest
hut in the hamlet stood a peasant woman in a short petticoat, with long
thin legs like a heron. She was sowing something. A white dust floated
languidly from her sieve down the hillock. Now it was evident that she
was singing. A couple of yards from her a little bare-headed boy in
nothing but a smock was standing motionless. As though fascinated by the
song, he stood stock-still, staring away into the distance, probably at
Yegorushka's crimson shirt.
The song ceased. Yegorushka sauntered back to the chaise, and to while
away the time went again to the trickle of water.
And again there was the sound of the dreary song. It was the same long-
legged peasant woman in the hamlet over the hill. Yegorushka's boredom
came back again. He left the pipe and looked upwards. What he saw was so
unexpected that he was a little frightened. Just above his head on one
of the big clumsy stones stood a chubby little boy, wearing nothing but
a shirt, with a prominent stomach and thin legs, the same boy who had
been standing before by the peasant woman. He was gazing with open mouth
and unblinking eyes at Yegorushka's crimson shirt and at the chaise,
with a look of blank astonishment and even fear, as though he saw before
him creatures of another world. The red colour of the shirt charmed and
allured him. But the chaise and the men sleeping under it excited his
curiosity; perhaps he had not noticed how the agreeable red colour and
curiosity had attracted him down from the hamlet, and now probably he
was surprised at his own boldness. For a long while Yegorushka stared at
him, and he at Yegorushka. Both were silent and conscious of some
awkwardness. After a long silence Yegorushka asked:
"What's your name?"
The stranger's cheeks puffed out more than ever; he pressed his back
against the rock, opened his eyes wide, moved his lips, and answered in
a husky bass: "Tit!"
The boys said not another word to each other; after a brief silence,
still keeping his eyes fixed on Yegorushka, the mysterious Tit kicked up
one leg, felt with his heel for a niche and clambered up the rock; from
that point he ascended to the next rock, staggering backwards and
looking intently at Yegorushka, as though afraid he might hit him from
behind, and so made his way upwards till he disappeared altogether
behind the crest of the hill.
After watching him out of sight, Yegorushka put his arms round his knees
and leaned his head on them. . . . The burning sun scorched the back of
his head, his neck, and his spine. The melancholy song died away, then
floated again on the stagnant stifling air. The rivulet gurgled
monotonously, the horses munched, and time dragged on endlessly, as
though it, too, were stagnant and had come to a standstill. It seemed as
though a hundred years had passed since the morning. Could it be that
God's world, the chaise and the horses would come to a standstill in
that air, and, like the hills, turn to stone and remain for ever in one
spot? Yegorushka raised his head, and with smarting eyes looked before
him; the lilac distance, which till then had been motionless, began
heaving, and with the sky floated away into the distance. . . . It drew
after it the brown grass, the sedge, and with extraordinary swiftness
Yegorushka floated after the flying distance. Some force noiselessly
drew him onwards, and the heat and the wearisome song flew after in
pursuit. Yegorushka bent his head and shut his eyes. . . .
Deniska was the first to wake up. Something must have bitten him, for he
jumped up, quickly scratched his shoulder and said:
"Plague take you, cursed idolater!"
Then he went to the brook, had a drink and slowly washed. His splashing
and puffing roused Yegorushka from his lethargy. The boy looked at his
wet face with drops of water and big freckles which made it look like
marble, and asked:
"Shall we soon be going?"
Deniska looked at the height of the sun and answered:
"I expect so."
He dried himself with the tail of his shirt and, making a very serious
face, hopped on one leg.
"I say, which of us will get to the sedge first?" he said.
Yegorushka was exhausted by the heat and drowsiness, but he raced off
after him all the same. Deniska was in his twentieth year, was a
coachman and going to be married, but he had not left off being a boy.
He was very fond of flying kites, chasing pigeons, playing knuckle-
bones, running races, and always took part in children's games and
disputes. No sooner had his master turned his back or gone to sleep than
Deniska would begin doing something such as hopping on one leg or
throwing stones. It was hard for any grown-up person, seeing the genuine
enthusiasm with which he frolicked about in the society of children, to
resist saying, "What a baby!" Children, on the other hand, saw nothing
strange in the invasion of their domain by the big coachman. "Let him
play," they thought, "as long as he doesn't fight!" In the same way
little dogs see nothing strange in it when a simple-hearted big dog
joins their company uninvited and begins playing with them.
Deniska outstripped Yegorushka, and was evidently very much pleased at
having done so. He winked at him, and to show that he could hop on one
leg any distance, suggested to Yegorushka that he should hop with him
along the road and from there, without resting, back to the chaise.
Yegorushka declined this suggestion, for he was very much out of breath
and exhausted.
All at once Deniska looked very grave, as he did not look even when
Kuzmitchov gave him a scolding or threatened him with a stick; listening
intently, he dropped quietly on one knee and an expression of sternness
and alarm came into his face, such as one sees in people who hear
heretical talk. He fixed his eyes on one spot, raised his hand curved
into a hollow, and suddenly fell on his stomach on the ground and
slapped the hollow of his hand down upon the grass.
"Caught!" he wheezed triumphantly, and, getting up, lifted a big
grasshopper to Yegorushka's eyes.
The two boys stroked the grasshopper's broad green back with their
fingers and touched his antenna, supposing that this would please the
creature. Then Deniska caught a fat fly that had been sucking blood and
offered it to the grasshopper. The latter moved his huge jaws, that were
like the visor of a helmet, with the utmost unconcern, as though he had
been long acquainted with Deniska, and bit off the fly's stomach. They
let him go. With a flash of the pink lining of his wings, he flew down
into the grass and at once began his churring notes again. They let the
fly go, too. It preened its wings, and without its stomach flew off to
the horses.
A loud sigh was heard from under the chaise. It was Kuzmitchov waking
up. He quickly raised his head, looked uneasily into the distance, and
from that look, which passed by Yegorushka and Deniska without sympathy
or interest, it could be seen that his thought on awaking was of the
wool and of Varlamov.
"Father Christopher, get up; it is time to start," he said anxiously.
"Wake up; we've slept too long as it is! Deniska, put the horses in."
Father Christopher woke up with the same smile with which he had fallen
asleep; his face looked creased and wrinkled from sleep, and seemed only
half the size. After washing and dressing, he proceeded without haste to
take out of his pocket a little greasy psalter; and standing with his
face towards the east, began in a whisper repeating the psalms of the
day and crossing himself.
"Father Christopher," said Kuzmitchov reproachfully, "it's time to
start; the horses are ready, and here are you, . . . upon my word."
"In a minute, in a minute," muttered Father Christopher. "I must read