Short Stories by Chekhov
several tens of thousands of acres of land, about a hundred thousand
sheep, and a great deal of money. Of his manner of life and occupation
Yegorushka knew nothing, except that he was always "going his rounds in
these parts," and he was always being looked for.
At home Yegorushka had heard a great deal of the Countess Dranitsky,
too. She, too, had some tens of thousands of acres, a great many sheep,
a stud farm and a great deal of money, but she did not "go rounds," but
lived at home in a splendid house and grounds, about which Ivan
Ivanitch, who had been more than once at the countess's on business, and
other acquaintances told many marvellous tales; thus, for instance, they
said that in the countess's drawing-room, where the portraits of all the
kings of Poland hung on the walls, there was a big table-clock in the
form of a rock, on the rock a gold horse with diamond eyes, rearing, and
on the horse the figure of a rider also of gold, who brandished his
sword to right and to left whenever the clock struck. They said, too,
that twice a year the countess used to give a ball, to which the gentry
and officials of the whole province were invited, and to which even
Varlamov used to come; all the visitors drank tea from silver samovars,
ate all sorts of extraordinary things (they had strawberries and
raspberries, for instance, in winter at Christmas), and danced to a band
which played day and night. . . .
"And how beautiful she is," thought Yegorushka, remembering her face and
smile.
Kuzmitchov, too, was probably thinking about the countess. For when the
chaise had driven a mile and a half he said:
"But doesn't that Kazimir Mihalovitch plunder her right and left! The
year before last when, do you remember, I bought some wool from her, he
made over three thousand from my purchase alone."
"That is just what you would expect from a Pole," said Father
Christopher.
"And little does it trouble her. Young and foolish, as they say, her
head is full of nonsense."
Yegorushka, for some reason, longed to think of nothing but Varlamov and
the countess, particularly the latter. His drowsy brain utterly refused
ordinary thoughts, was in a cloud and retained only fantastic fairy-tale
images, which have the advantage of springing into the brain of
themselves without any effort on the part of the thinker, and completely
vanishing of themselves at a mere shake of the head; and, indeed,
nothing that was around him disposed to ordinary thoughts. On the right
there were the dark hills which seemed to be screening something unseen
and terrible; on the left the whole sky about the horizon was covered
with a crimson glow, and it was hard to tell whether there was a fire
somewhere, or whether it was the moon about to rise. As by day the
distance could be seen, but its tender lilac tint had gone, quenched by
the evening darkness, in which the whole steppe was hidden like Moisey
Moisevitch's children under the quilt.
Corncrakes and quails do not call in the July nights, the nightingale
does not sing in the woodland marsh, and there is no scent of flowers,
but still the steppe is lovely and full of life. As soon as the sun goes
down and the darkness enfolds the earth, the day's weariness is
forgotten, everything is forgiven, and the steppe breathes a light sigh
from its broad bosom. As though because the grass cannot see in the dark
that it has grown old, a gay youthful twitter rises up from it, such as
is not heard by day; chirruping, twittering, whistling, scratching, the
basses, tenors and sopranos of the steppe all mingle in an incessant,
monotonous roar of sound in which it is sweet to brood on memories and
sorrows. The monotonous twitter soothes to sleep like a lullaby; you
drive and feel you are falling asleep, but suddenly there comes the
abrupt agitated cry of a wakeful bird, or a vague sound like a voice
crying out in wonder "A-ah, a-ah!" and slumber closes one's eyelids
again. Or you drive by a little creek where there are bushes and hear
the bird, called by the steppe dwellers "the sleeper," call "Asleep,
asleep, asleep!" while another laughs or breaks into trills of
hysterical weeping--that is the owl. For whom do they call and who hears
them on that plain, God only knows, but there is deep sadness and
lamentation in their cry. . . . There is a scent of hay and dry grass
and belated flowers, but the scent is heavy, sweetly mawkish and soft.
Everything can be seen through the mist, but it is hard to make out the
colours and the outlines of objects. Everything looks different from
what it is. You drive on and suddenly see standing before you right in
the roadway a dark figure like a monk; it stands motionless, waiting,
holding something in its hands. . . . Can it be a robber? The figure
comes closer, grows bigger; now it is on a level with the chaise, and
you see it is not a man, but a solitary bush or a great stone. Such
motionless expectant figures stand on the low hills, hide behind the old
barrows, peep out from the high grass, and they all look like human
beings and arouse suspicion.
And when the moon rises the night becomes pale and dim. The mist seems
to have passed away. The air is transparent, fresh and warm; one can see
well in all directions and even distinguish the separate stalks of grass
by the wayside. Stones and bits of pots can be seen at a long distance.
The suspicious figures like monks look blacker against the light
background of the night, and seem more sinister. More and more often in
the midst of the monotonous chirruping there comes the sound of the "A-
ah, a-ah!" of astonishment troubling the motionless air, and the cry of
a sleepless or delirious bird. Broad shadows move across the plain like
clouds across the sky, and in the inconceivable distance, if you look
long and intently at it, misty monstrous shapes rise up and huddle one
against another. . . . It is rather uncanny. One glances at the pale
green, star-spangled sky on which there is no cloudlet, no spot, and
understands why the warm air is motionless, why nature is on her guard,
afraid to stir: she is afraid and reluctant to lose one instant of life.
Of the unfathomable depth and infinity of the sky one can only form a
conception at sea and on the steppe by night when the moon is shining.
It is terribly lonely and caressing; it looks down languid and alluring,
and its caressing sweetness makes one giddy.
You drive on for one hour, for a second. . . . You meet upon the way a
silent old barrow or a stone figure put up God knows when and by whom; a
nightbird floats noiselessly over the earth, and little by little those
legends of the steppes, the tales of men you have met, the stories of
some old nurse from the steppe, and all the things you have managed to
see and treasure in your soul, come back to your mind. And then in the
churring of insects, in the sinister figures, in the ancient barrows, in
the blue sky, in the moonlight, in the flight of the nightbird, in
everything you see and hear, triumphant beauty, youth, the fulness of
power, and the passionate thirst for life begin to be apparent; the soul
responds to the call of her lovely austere fatherland, and longs to fly
over the steppes with the nightbird. And in the triumph of beauty, in
the exuberance of happiness you are conscious of yearning and grief, as
though the steppe knew she was solitary, knew that her wealth and her
inspiration were wasted for the world, not glorified in song, not wanted
by anyone; and through the joyful clamour one hears her mournful,
hopeless call for singers, singers!
"Woa! Good-evening, Panteley! Is everything all right?"
"First-rate, Ivan Ivanitch!
"Haven't you seen Varlamov, lads?"
"No, we haven't."
Yegorushka woke up and opened his eyes. The chaise had stopped. On the
right the train of waggons stretched for a long way ahead on the road,
and men were moving to and fro near them. All the waggons being loaded
up with great bales of wool looked very high and fat, while the horses
looked short-legged and little.
"Well, then, we shall go on to the Molokans'!" Kuzmitchov said aloud.
"The Jew told us that Varlamov was putting up for the night at the
Molokans'. So good-bye, lads! Good luck to you!"
"Good-bye, Ivan Ivanitch," several voices replied.
"I say, lads," Kuzmitchov cried briskly, "you take my little lad along
with you! Why should he go jolting off with us for nothing? You put him
on the bales, Panteley, and let him come on slowly, and we shall
overtake you. Get down, Yegor! Go on; it's all right. . . ."
Yegorushka got down from the box-seat. Several hands caught him, lifted
him high into the air, and he found himself on something big, soft, and
rather wet with dew. It seemed to him now as though the sky were quite
close and the earth far away.
"Hey, take his little coat!" Deniska shouted from somewhere far below.
His coat and bundle flung up from far below fell close to Yegorushka.
Anxious not to think of anything, he quickly put his bundle under his
head and covered himself with his coat, and stretching his legs out and
shrinking a little from the dew, he laughed with content.
"Sleep, sleep, sleep, . . ." he thought.
"Don't be unkind to him, you devils!" he heard Deniska's voice below.
"Good-bye, lads; good luck to you," shouted Kuzmitchov. "I rely upon
you!"
"Don't you be uneasy, Ivan Ivanitch!"
Deniska shouted to the horses, the chaise creaked and started, not along
the road, but somewhere off to the side. For two minutes there was
silence, as though the waggons were asleep and there was no sound except
the clanking of the pails tied on at the back of the chaise as it slowly
died away in the distance. Then someone at the head of the waggons
shouted:
"Kiruha! Sta-art!"
The foremost of the waggons creaked, then the second, then the third. .
. . Yegorushka felt the waggon he was on sway and creak also. The
waggons were moving. Yegorushka took a tighter hold of the cord with
which the bales were tied on, laughed again with content, shifted the
cake in his pocket, and fell asleep just as he did in his bed at home. .
. .
When he woke up the sun had risen, it was screened by an ancient barrow,
and, trying to shed its light upon the earth, it scattered its beams in
all directions and flooded the horizon with gold. It seemed to
Yegorushka that it was not in its proper place, as the day before it had
risen behind his back, and now it was much more to his left. . . . And
the whole landscape was different. There were no hills now, but on all
sides, wherever one looked, there stretched the brown cheerless plain;
here and there upon it small barrows rose up and rooks flew as they had
done the day before. The belfries and huts of some village showed white
in the distance ahead; as it was Sunday the Little Russians were at home
baking and cooking--that could be seen by the smoke which rose from every
chimney and hung, a dark blue transparent veil, over the village. In
between the huts and beyond the church there were blue glimpses of a
river, and beyond the river a misty distance. But nothing was so
different from yesterday as the road. Something extraordinarily broad,
spread out and titanic, stretched over the steppe by way of a road. It
was a grey streak well trodden down and covered with dust, like all
roads. Its width puzzled Yegorushka and brought thoughts of fairy tales
to his mind. Who travelled along that road? Who needed so much space? It
was strange and unintelligible. It might have been supposed that giants
with immense strides, such as Ilya Muromets and Solovy the Brigand, were
still surviving in Russia, and that their gigantic steeds were still
alive. Yegorushka, looking at the road, imagined some half a dozen high