‘‘The lad’s lying down?’’ Pantelei’s whisper was heard a minute later.
‘‘He is!’’ the old woman answered in a whisper. ‘‘Suffering, suffering Jesus! It rumbles and rumbles, and no end to be heard...’
‘‘It’ll soon pass...’ Pantelei hissed, sitting down. ‘‘It’s getting quieter... The boys went to the cottages, but two of them stayed with the horses... The boys, that is... Otherwise... The horses will get stolen... I’ll sit awhile and go to take my shift... Otherwise they’ll get stolen...’
Pantelei and the old woman sat beside each other at Egorushka’s feet and talked in a hissing whisper, interrupting their talk with sighs and yawns. But Egorushka was simply unable to get warm. He was covered with a warm, heavy sheepskin coat, but his whole body was shaking, he had cramps in his arms and legs, his insides trembled... He undressed under the sheepskin coat, but that did not help. The chill became stronger and stronger.
Pantelei went to take his shift and then came back again, but Egorushka still could not sleep and was shivering all over. Something weighed on his head and chest, crushing him, and he did not know what it was: the old people’s whispering or the heavy smell of the sheepskin? There was an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth from the cantaloupe and watermelon he had eaten. Besides, the fleas were biting.
‘‘I’m cold, grandpa!’’ he said and did not recognize his own voice.
‘‘Sleep, sonny, sleep,’’ sighed the old woman.
Titus came up to his bed on skinny legs and began waving his arms, then grew up to the ceiling and turned into a windmill. Father Khristofor, dressed not as in the britzka but in full vestments and with a sprinkler in his hand, walked around the windmill sprinkling it with holy water, and it stopped waving. Egorushka, knowing it was delirium, opened his eyes.
‘‘Grandpa!’’ he called. ‘‘Give me water!’’
No one answered. Egorushka felt unbearably suffocated and uncomfortable lying down. He got up, dressed, and left the cottage. It was already morning. The sky was overcast, but there was no rain. Shivering and wrapping himself in his wet coat, Egorushka walked around the dirty yard, listening to the silence; a little shed with a half-open rush door caught his eye. He looked into this shed, went in, and sat in the dark corner on a pile of dry dung.
The thoughts tangled in his heavy head, the metallic taste made his mouth feel dry and disgusting. He examined his hat, straightened the peacock feather on it, and remembered how he had gone with his mother to buy this hat. He put his hand in his pocket and took out a lump of brown, sticky putty. How had this putty ended up in his pocket? He thought, sniffed it: it smelled of honey. Aha, it was the Jewish gingerbread! How soggy it was, poor thing!
Egorushka examined his coat. His coat was gray, with big bone buttons, tailored like a frock coat. As a new and expensive thing, it had hung at home not in the front hall but in the bedroom, next to his mother’s dresses; wearing it was permitted only on feast days. Looking it over, Egorushka felt sorry for it, remembered that he and the coat had both been left to the mercy of fate, that they would never return home anymore, and burst into such sobs that he almost fell off the dung pile.
A big white dog, wet with rain, with tufts of fur that looked like curling papers on its muzzle, came into the shed and stared at Egorushka with curiosity. She was apparently wondering whether to bark or not. Deciding there was no need to bark, she warily approached Egorushka, ate the putty, and left.
‘‘They’re Varlamov’s!’’ somebody shouted in the street.
Having wept his fill, Egorushka left the shed and, skirting a puddle, trudged out to the street. On the road, just in front of the gate, stood the wagons. The wet wagoners, with dirty feet, sluggish and sleepy as autumnal flies, wandered about or sat on the shafts. Egorushka looked at them and thought: ‘‘How boring and uncomfortable it is to be a peasant!’’ He went up to Pantelei and sat beside him on the shaft.
‘‘I’m cold, grandpa!’’ he said, shivering and sticking his hands into his sleeves.
‘‘It’s all right, we’ll soon be there,’’ Pantelei yawned. ‘‘You’ll get warm all right.’’
The wagon train started early, because it was not hot. Egorushka lay on the bale and shivered with cold, though the sun soon appeared in the sky and dried his clothes, his bale, and the ground. As soon as he closed his eyes, he again saw Titus and the windmill. Feeling nauseated and heavy all over, he strained his forces to drive these images away, but they no sooner disappeared than the prankster Dymov, with red eyes and upraised fists, threw himself at Egorushka with a roar, or his anguished ‘‘I’m bored!’’ was heard. Varlamov rode by on his Cossack colt; happy Konstantin passed by with his smile and his bustard. And how oppressive, unbearable, and tiresome all these people were!
Once—it was before evening—he raised his head to ask for a drink. The wagon train stood on a big bridge stretched across a wide river. There was dark smoke below, over the river, and through it a steamboat could be seen towing a barge. Ahead, across the river, was a huge motley hill scattered with houses and churches; at the foot of the hill, near the freight cars, a locomotive shuttled back and forth...
Egorushka had never seen steamboats before, or locomotives, or wide rivers. Looking at them now, he was neither afraid nor surprised; his face even showed nothing resembling curiosity. He only felt nauseated, and hastened to lean his chest over the edge of the bale. He threw up. Pantelei, who saw it, grunted and shook his head.
‘‘Our little lad’s sick!’’ he said. ‘‘Must have caught a chill in his stomach... our little lad, that is... In foreign parts... A bad business!’’
VIII
THE WAGON TRAIN stopped not far from the pier at a big trading inn. Climbing down from the wagon, Egorushka heard someone’s very familiar voice. Someone helped him down, saying:
‘‘And we already came last evening... Been waiting for you all day today. Wanted to catch up with you yesterday, but it didn’t work out, we took another road. Look how you’ve crumpled your coat! You’re going to get it from your uncle!’’
Egorushka peered into the speaker’s marbled face and remembered that this was Deniska.
‘‘Your uncle and Father Khristofor are in their room now,’’ Deniska went on, ‘‘having tea. Come on!’’
And he led Egorushka to a big two-story building, dark and gloomy, that looked like the N. almshouse. Going through the entry, up the dark stairs, and down a long narrow corridor, Egorushka and Deniska came to a small room where indeed Ivan Ivanych and Father Khristofor were sitting at the tea table. On seeing the boy, the two old men showed surprise and joy on their faces.
‘‘Ahh, Egor Nikola-a-aich!’’ Father Khristofor sang out. ‘‘Mr. Lomonosov!’’
‘‘Ah, Mr. Nobleman!’’ said Kuzmichov. ‘‘Kindly join us.’’
Egorushka took off his coat, kissed his uncle’s and Father Khristofor’s hands, and sat down at the table.
‘‘Well, how was the journey, puer bone?’’ Father Khristofor showered him with questions, pouring tea for him and smiling radiantly, as usual. ‘‘Sick of it, I suppose? And God keep you from traveling by wagon train or oxcart! You go on and on, Lord forgive me, you look ahead, and the steppe still stretches out as continuously as before: there’s no end of it to be seen! That’s not traveling, it’s sheer punishment. Why aren’t you drinking your tea? Drink! And while you were dragging yourself around with the wagon train, we’ve wrapped up all our business nicely. Thank God! We sold the wool to Cherepakhin, and God grant everybody does as well... We made a good profit.’’