Short Stories by Chekhov
his elbows and wriggled his fingers.
"Lads," he said in an imploring voice, "let's sing something sacred!"
Tears came into his eyes. "Lads," he repeated, pressing his hands on his
heart, "let's sing something sacred!"
"I don't know anything," said Konstantin.
Everyone refused, then Emelyan sang alone. He waved both arms, nodded
his head, opened his mouth, but nothing came from his throat but a
discordant gasp. He sang with his arms, with his head, with his eyes,
even with the swelling on his face; he sang passionately with anguish,
and the more he strained his chest to extract at least one note from it,
the more discordant were his gasps.
Yegorushka, like the rest, was overcome with depression. He went to his
waggon, clambered up on the bales and lay down. He looked at the sky,
and thought of happy Konstantin and his wife. Why did people get
married? What were women in the world for? Yegorushka put the vague
questions to himself, and thought that a man would certainly be happy if
he had an affectionate, merry and beautiful woman continually living at
his side. For some reason he remembered the Countess Dranitsky, and
thought it would probably be very pleasant to live with a woman like
that; he would perhaps have married her with pleasure if that idea had
not been so shameful. He recalled her eyebrows, the pupils of her eyes,
her carriage, the clock with the horseman. . . . The soft warm night
moved softly down upon him and whispered something in his ear, and it
seemed to him that it was that lovely woman bending over him, looking at
him with a smile and meaning to kiss him. . . .
Nothing was left of the fire but two little red eyes, which kept on
growing smaller and smaller. Konstantin and the waggoners were sitting
by it, dark motionless figures, and it seemed as though there were many
more of them than before. The twin crosses were equally visible, and
far, far away, somewhere by the highroad there gleamed a red light--other
people cooking their porridge, most likely.
"Our Mother Russia is the he-ad of all the world!" Kiruha sang out
suddenly in a harsh voice, choked and subsided. The steppe echo caught
up his voice, carried it on, and it seemed as though stupidity itself
were rolling on heavy wheels over the steppe.
"It's time to go," said Panteley. "Get up, lads."
While they were putting the horses in, Konstantin walked by the waggons
and talked rapturously of his wife.
"Good-bye, mates!" he cried when the waggons started. "Thank you for
your hospitality. I shall go on again towards that light. It's more than
I can stand."
And he quickly vanished in the mist, and for a long time they could hear
him striding in the direction of the light to tell those other strangers
of his happiness.
When Yegorushka woke up next day it was early morning; the sun had not
yet risen. The waggons were at a standstill. A man in a white cap and a
suit of cheap grey material, mounted on a little Cossack stallion, was
talking to Dymov and Kiruha beside the foremost waggon. A mile and a
half ahead there were long low white barns and little houses with tiled
roofs; there were neither yards nor trees to be seen beside the little
houses.
"What village is that, Grandfather?" asked Yegorushka.
"That's the Armenian Settlement, youngster," answered Panteley. "The
Armenians live there. They are a good sort of people, . . . the
Arnienians are."
The man in grey had finished talking to Dymov and Kiruha; he pulled up
his little stallion and looked across towards the settlement.
"What a business, only think!" sighed Panteley, looking towards the
settlement, too, and shuddering at the morning freshness. "He has sent a
man to the settlement for some papers, and he doesn't come . . . . He
should have sent Styopka."
"Who is that, Grandfather?" asked Yegorushka.
"Varlamov."
My goodness! Yegorushka jumped up quickly, getting upon his knees, and
looked at the white cap. It was hard to recognize the mysterious elusive
Varlamov, who was sought by everyone, who was always "on his rounds,"
and who had far more money than Countess Dranitsky, in the short, grey
little man in big boots, who was sitting on an ugly little nag and
talking to peasants at an hour when all decent people were asleep.
"He is all right, a good man," said Panteley, looking towards the
settlement. "God give him health--a splendid gentleman, Semyon
Alexandritch. . . . It's people like that the earth rests upon. That's
true. . . . The cocks are not crowing yet, and he is already up and
about. . . . Another man would be asleep, or gallivanting with visitors
at home, but he is on the steppe all day, . . . on his rounds. . . . He
does not let things slip. . . . No-o! He's a fine fellow. . ."
Varlamov was talking about something, while he kept his eyes fixed. The
little stallion shifted from one leg to another impatiently.
"Semyon Alexandritch!" cried Panteley, taking off his hat. "Allow us to
send Styopka! Emelyan, call out that Styopka should be sent."
But now at last a man on horseback could be seen coming from the
settlement. Bending very much to one side and brandishing his whip above
his head like a gallant young Caucasian, and wanting to astonish
everyone by his horsemanship, he flew towards the waggons with the
swiftness of a bird.
"That must be one of his circuit men," said Panteley. "He must have a
hundred such horsemen or maybe more."
Reaching the first waggon, he pulled up his horse, and taking off his
hat, handed Varlamov a little book. Varlamov took several papers out of
the book, read them and cried:
"And where is Ivantchuk's letter?"
The horseman took the book back, looked at the papers and shrugged his
shoulders. He began saying something, probably justifying himself and
asking to be allowed to ride back to the settlement again. The little
stallion suddenly stirred as though Varlamov had grown heavier. Varlamov
stirred too.
"Go along!" he cried angrily, and he waved his whip at the man.
Then he turned his horse round and, looking through the papers in the
book, moved at a walking pace alongside the waggons. When he reached the
hindmost, Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a better look at him.
Varlamov was an elderly man. His face, a simple Russian sunburnt face
with a small grey beard, was red, wet with dew and covered with little
blue veins; it had the same expression of businesslike coldness as Ivan
Ivanitch's face, the same look of fanatical zeal for business. But yet
what a difference could be felt between him and Kuzmitchov! Uncle Ivan
Ivanitch always had on his face, together with his business-like
reserve, a look of anxiety and apprehension that he would not find
Varlamov, that he would be late, that he would miss a good price;
nothing of that sort, so characteristic of small and dependent persons,
could be seen in the face or figure of Varlamov. This man made the price
himself, was not looking for anyone, and did not depend on anyone;
however ordinary his exterior, yet in everything, even in the manner of
holding his whip, there was a sense of power and habitual authority over
the steppe.
As he rode by Yegorushka he did not glance at him. Only the little
stallion deigned to notice Yegorushka; he looked at him with his large
foolish eyes, and even he showed no interest. Panteley bowed to
Varlamov; the latter noticed it, and without taking his eyes off the
sheets of paper, said lisping:
"How are you, old man?"
Varlamov's conversation with the horseman and the way he had brandished
his whip had evidently made an overwhelming impression on the whole
party. Everyone looked grave. The man on horseback, cast down at the
anger of the great man, remained stationary, with his hat off, and the
rein loose by the foremost waggon; he was silent, and seemed unable to
grasp that the day had begun so badly for him.
"He is a harsh old man, . ." muttered Panteley. "It's a pity he is so
harsh! But he is all right, a good man. . . . He doesn't abuse men for
nothing. . . . It's no matter. . . ."
After examining the papers, Varlamov thrust the book into his pocket;
the little stallion, as though he knew what was in his mind, without
waiting for orders, started and dashed along the highroad. VII
On the following night the waggoners had halted and were cooking their
porridge. On this occasion there was a sense of overwhelming oppression
over everyone. It was sultry; they all drank a great deal, but could not
quench their thirst. The moon was intensely crimson and sullen, as
though it were sick. The stars, too, were sullen, the mist was thicker,
the distance more clouded. Nature seemed as though languid and weighed
down by some foreboding.
There was not the same liveliness and talk round the camp fire as there
had been the day before. All were dreary and spoke listlessly and
without interest. Panteley did nothing but sigh and complain of his
feet, and continually alluded to impenitent deathbeds.
Dymov was lying on his stomach, chewing a straw in silence; there was an
expression of disgust on his face as though the straw smelt unpleasant,
a spiteful and exhausted look. . . . Vassya complained that his jaw
ached, and prophesied bad weather; Emelyan was not waving his arms, but
sitting still and looking gloomily at the fire. Yegorushka, too, was
weary. This slow travelling exhausted him, and the sultriness of the day
had given him a headache.
While they were cooking the porridge, Dymov, to relieve his boredom,
began quarrelling with his companions.
"Here he lolls, the lumpy face, and is the first to put his spoon in,"
he said, looking spitefully at Emelyan. "Greedy! always contrives to sit
next the cauldron. He's been a church-singer, so he thinks he is a
gentleman! There are a lot of singers like you begging along the
highroad!"
"What are you pestering me for?" asked Emelyan, looking at him angrily.
"To teach you not to be the first to dip into the cauldron. Don't think
too much of yourself!"
"You are a fool, and that is all about it!" wheezed out Emelyan.
Knowing by experience how such conversations usually ended, Panteley and
Vassya intervened and tried to persuade Dymov not to quarrel about
nothing.
"A church-singer!" The bully would not desist, but laughed
contemptuously. "Anyone can sing like that--sit in the church porch and
sing 'Give me alms, for Christ's sake!' Ugh! you are a nice fellow!"
Emelyan did not speak. His silence had an irritating effect on Dymov. He
looked with still greater hatred at the ex-singer and said:
"I don't care to have anything to do with you, or I would show you what
to think of yourself."
"But why are you pushing me, you Mazeppa?" Emelyan cried, flaring up.
"Am I interfering with you?"
"What did you call me?" asked Dymov, drawing himself up, and his eyes
were suffused with blood. "Eh! I am a Mazeppa? Yes? Take that, then; go
and look for it."
Dymov snatched the spoon out of Emelyan's hand and flung it far away.
Kiruha, Vassya, and Styopka ran to look for it, while Emelyan fixed an
imploring and questioning look on Panteley. His face suddenly became
small and wrinkled; it began twitching, and the ex-singer began to cry
like a child.
Yegorushka, who had long hated Dymov, felt as though the air all at once
were unbearably stifling, as though the fire were scorching his face; he
longed to run quickly to the waggons in the darkness, but the bully's
angry bored eyes drew the boy to him. With a passionate desire to say
something extremely offensive, he took a step towards Dymov and brought
out, gasping for breath:
"You are the worst of the lot; I can't bear you!"
After this he ought to have run to the waggons, but he could not stir
from the spot and went on:
"In the next world you will burn in hell! I'll complain to Ivan