“So you’re going to dig?”
“I’ll try my luck…”
“And what will you do with the treasure, grandpa, once you find it?”
“Who, me?” The old man grinned. “Hm!…Just let me find it, and then…I’ll give them all a hot time…Hm!…I know what to do…”
The old man was not able to say what he would do with the treasure if he found it. The question had probably presented itself to him that morning for the first time in his life, and judging by the expression of his face, carefree and indifferent, it did not seem important to him and worthy of reflection. In Sanka’s head another perplexity was stirring: why did only old men look for treasure, and what was the use of such earthly luck to people who might die of old age any day? But Sanka was unable to turn this perplexity into a question, and it was unlikely the old man would have found an answer for him.
Surrounded by a light haze, the enormous crimson sun appeared. Wide strips of light, still cold, bathing in the dewy grass, stretching out and looking cheerful, as if trying to show that they were not sick of it, began to spread over the ground. Silvery wormwood, the light blue flowers of wild onion, yellow rapeseed, cornflowers—all this multicolored joyfulness took the sunlight for its own smile.
The old man and Sanka split up and went to stand at the edges of the flock. They both stood like posts, not moving, looking at the ground and thinking. The former was still gripped by thoughts of luck, while the latter was thinking about what had been talked about during the night; he was interested not in luck itself, which he did not need or understand, but in the fantastic and fairy-tale nature of human luck.
A hundred or so sheep gave a start and, in some incomprehensible terror, as if at a signal, rushed away from the flock. And Sanka, as if the sheep’s thoughts, long and drawn-out, momentarily communicated themselves to him, also rushed away in the same incomprehensible animal terror, but at once came to his senses and shouted:
“Pah, you loonies! Gone hog wild, dad blast you!”
And when the sun, promising a long, invincible heat, began to scorch the earth, everything alive, that had moved and produced sounds during the night, sank into slumber. The old man and Sanka stood with their staffs at opposite ends of the herd, stood without moving, like fakirs at prayer, fixed on their thoughts. They no longer noticed each other, and each of them lived his own life. The sheep were also thinking…
1887
THE SIREN
AFTER ONE OF THE SESSIONS of the N. justice of the peace court, the justices gathered in the assembly room to take off their uniforms, have a moment’s rest, and go home for dinner. The chairman of the session, a very imposing man with fluffy side-whiskers, who held “a particular opinion” on one of the cases just examined, was sitting at a desk and hurriedly writing out his opinion. A local justice of the peace, Milkin, a young man with a languid, melancholy face, reputed to be a philosopher, displeased with his milieu and seeking a purpose in life, stood by the window and looked sorrowfully outside. Another local justice and one of the honorary justices had already left. The remaining honorary justice, a flabby, heavily breathing fat man, and an associate prosecutor, a young German with a catarrhal face, were sitting on a little sofa, waiting for the chairman to finish writing so that they could go to dinner together. Before them stood the secretary of the session, Zhilin, a small man with little side-whiskers around his ears and an expression of sweetness on his face. With a honeyed smile, looking at the fat man, he was saying in a low voice:
“We all want to eat now, because we’re tired and it’s already past three o’clock, but this, my dear friend Grigory Savvich, is not a real appetite. A real, voracious appetite, when it seems you could eat your own father, comes only after physical exercise, for instance, hunting with hounds, or when you’ve whipped through some fifty miles non-stop on hired horses. Imagination also means a lot, sir. If, say, you’re coming home from a hunt and you wish to dine with a good appetite, never think about clever things; clever and learned things rob you of your appetite. As you’re pleased to know, philosophers and scholars are the last people when it comes to eating, and, forgive me, even worse eaters than pigs. Going home, you should try to have your head think only of a little decanter and a nibble. Once on my way home I closed my eyes and pictured to myself a suckling pig with horseradish, and felt such a craving that it gave me hysterics. Well, sir, and when you drive into your courtyard, there should be such a smell coming from the kitchen just then, you know…”
“Roast goose has an exquisite smell,” said the honorary justice, breathing heavily.
“Don’t talk, my dear Grigory Savvich: duck or snipe can give a ten-point handicap to a goose. In the goose bouquet there’s no tenderness and delicacy. The headiest of all is the smell of young onion when it starts to brown and hisses, the scoundrel, for the whole house to hear. And so, sir, when you enter the house, the table should be laid, and when you sit down, tuck the napkin behind your tie at once and reach out unhurriedly for the little decanter of vodka. And you should pour the dearie not into a glass, but into some prediluvian grandfather’s silver tumbler or one of those fat-bellied ones with the inscription ‘even monks partake of it,’ and you shouldn’t drink it at once, but first take a deep breath, rub your hands, cast an indifferent glance at the ceiling, then unhurriedly bring it, I mean the vodka, to your lips and—instantly sparks fly from your stomach all over your body…”
The secretary’s sweet face was a picture of bliss.
“Sparks…,” he repeated, screwing up his eyes. “The moment you drink, you have to nibble something.”
“Listen,” said the chairman, raising his eyes to the secretary, “speak more softly! I’ve already ruined this page twice on account of you.”
“Ah, I’m sorry, Pyotr Nikolaich! I’ll talk softly,” said the secretary, and he went on in a half-whisper: “Well, sir, for nibbling, my dear Grigory Savvich, you also have to have a knack. You must know what to nibble. The best nibble, if you wish to know, is pickled herring. Once you’ve eaten a piece, with onion and in mustard sauce, then right away, my benefactor, while there are still sparks in your stomach, eat some caviar by itself or, if you wish, with a bit of lemon, then some plain black radish with salt, then again some pickled herring, but best of all, my benefactor, are pickled mushrooms, chopped finely like caviar, with onion and olive oil…delicious! But burbot liver—that is a tragedy!”
“Hm—yes…” the honorary justice of the peace agreed, screwing up his eyes. “For a nibble, another good thing is…sautéed wild mushrooms.”
“Yes, yes, yes…with onion, you know, with bay leaf and various spices. You open the pot, and there’s steam, mushroom breath…sometimes tears even come to your eyes! Well, sir, and as soon as they fetch the kulebiak1 from the kitchen, right then, immediately, you should have a second shot.”
“Ivan Guryich!” the chairman said in a tearful voice. “I’ve ruined the page a third time on account of you!”
“Devil take him, he only thinks about food!” the philosopher Milkin growled, making a contemptuous face. “Are there no other interests in life besides mushrooms and kulebiak?”
“Well, sirs, so drink before the kulebiak,” the secretary went on in a low voice; he was so carried away by now that, like a singing nightingale, he heard nothing but his own voice. “The kulebiak should be appetizing, shameless, in all its nakedness, so that there’s real temptation. You wink at it, you cut a slice this big and move your fingers over it like this, from an abundance of feelings. You start eating it, and there’s butter on it like tears, the stuffing’s greasy, juicy, with eggs, giblets, onion…”