With the first glance at his own people, Egorushka felt an irresistible need to complain. He was not listening to Father Khristofor and tried to think how to begin and what in fact to complain about. But Father Khristofor’s voice, which seemed sharp and unpleasant, interfered with his concentration and confused his thoughts. After sitting for less than five minutes, he got up from the table, went to the sofa, and lay down.
‘‘Look at this now!’’ Father Khristofor was surprised. ‘‘And what about your tea?’’
Trying to think up something to complain about, Egorushka pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and burst into sobs.
‘‘Look at this now!’’ Father Khristofor repeated, getting up and going to the sofa. ‘‘What’s the matter, Georgiy? Why are you crying?’’
‘I ... I’m sick!’’ said Egorushka.
‘‘Sick?’’ Father Khristofor looked perplexed. ‘‘That’s not good at all, old boy... How can you be sick on a journey? Ai, ai, what a one you are, old boy ... eh?’
He put his hand to Egorushka’s head, touched his cheek, and said:
‘‘Yes, your head’s hot... You must have caught a chill or eaten something... Call upon God.’’
‘‘Maybe give him quinine...’ Ivan Ivanych said in perplexity.
‘‘No, give him something hot to eat... Georgiy, do you want some nice soup? Eh?’’
‘No ... I don’t ...’ Egorushka answered.
‘‘Do you have chills, or what?’’
‘‘Before I had chills, but now ... now I’m hot. I ache all over...’
Ivan Ivanych went over to the sofa, touched Egorushka’s head, grunted perplexedly, and went back to the table.
‘‘See here, you get undressed and go to sleep,’’ said Father Khristofor, ‘‘you need a good sleep.’’
He helped Egorushka to undress, gave him a pillow, covered him with a blanket, and put Ivan Ivanych’s coat on top of the blanket, then tiptoed away and sat down at the table. Egorushka closed his eyes, and it seemed to him at once that he was not in a room at an inn but by a campfire on the high road; Emelyan was waving his hand, and red-eyed Dymov was lying on his stomach and looking mockingly at Egorushka.
‘‘Beat him! Beat him!’’ cried Egorushka.
‘‘He’s delirious...’ Father Khristofor said in a half-whisper.
‘‘Bother!’’ sighed Ivan Ivanych.
‘‘We’ll have to rub him with oil and vinegar. God grant he’ll be well by tomorrow.’’
To get rid of his oppressive reveries, Egorushka opened his eyes and began looking at the fire. Father Khristofor and Ivan Ivanych had finished their tea and were talking about something in a whisper. The former was smiling happily and apparently was quite unable to forget that he had made a good profit on the wooclass="underline" what made him so glad was not so much the profit itself as the thought that, on coming home, he would gather his whole big family, wink slyly, and burst out laughing; first he would deceive them all and say that he sold the wool for less than it was worth, and then he would give his son-in-law Mikhailo the fat wallet and say: ‘‘Here, take it! That’s how to do business!’’ Kuzmichov did not seem pleased. His face, as before, expressed a businesslike dryness and preoccupation.
‘‘Eh, if only I’d known Cherepakhin would give such a price,’’ he said in a low voice, ‘‘I wouldn’t have sold those five tons to Makarov at home! So vexing! Who could have known the price had gone up here?’’
A man in a white shirt put the samovar away and lit the lamp in front of the icon in the corner. Father Khristofor whispered something in his ear; the man made a mysterious face, like a conspirator—meaning ‘‘I understand’’—went out, and, returning a little later, placed a vessel under the sofa. Ivan Ivanych made up a bed for himself on the floor, yawned several times, prayed lazily, and lay down.
‘‘And tomorrow I think I’ll go to the cathedral...’ said Father Khristofor. ‘‘I know a sacristan there. I should go to see the bishop after the liturgy, but they say he’s sick.’’
He yawned and put out the lamp. Now there was no light except from the icon lamp.
‘‘They say he doesn’t receive people,’’ Father Khristofor went on, undressing. ‘‘So I’ll leave without seeing him.’’
He took off his caftan, and Egorushka saw Robinson Crusoe before him. Robinson mixed something in a saucer, went over to Egorushka, and whispered:
‘‘Lomonosov, are you asleep? Sit up. I’ll rub you with oil and vinegar. It’s a good thing, only you must call upon God.’’
Egorushka quickly raised himself and sat up. Father Khristofor took his shirt off of him and, shrinking and gasping heavily, as though he felt tickled himself, began rubbing Egorushka’s chest.
‘‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit ...’ he whispered. ‘‘Lie on your stomach!... There. Tomorrow you’ll be well, only don’t sin anymore... Hot as fire! You must have been on the road during the thunderstorm?’’
‘‘We were.’’
‘‘No wonder you got sick! In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit... No wonder you got sick!’’
After rubbing Egorushka, Father Khristofor put the shirt back on him, covered him up, made a cross over him, and went away. Then Egorushka saw him pray to God. The old man probably knew a great many prayers by heart, because he stood in front of the icon and whispered for a long time. After saying his prayers, he made a cross over the windows, the door, Egorushka, and Ivan Ivanych, lay down on a little couch without a pillow, and covered himself with his caftan. The clock in the corridor struck ten. Egorushka remembered how long it still was till morning, pressed his forehead to the back of the sofa in anguish, and no longer tried to get rid of his foggy, oppressive reveries. But morning came much sooner than he thought.
It seemed to him that he had not lain with his forehead pressed against the back of the sofa for long, but when he opened his eyes, the slanting rays of the sun from both windows in the room were already reaching towards the floor. Father Khristofor and Ivan Ivanych were not there. The little room was tidied up, bright, cozy, and smelled of Father Khristofor, who always gave off a scent of cypress and dried cornflowers (at home he made sprinklers and decorations for icon stands out of dried cornflowers, and had become permeated with their smell). Egorushka looked at the pillow, at the slanting rays, at his boots, which were now polished and stood side by side near the sofa, and laughed. It seemed strange to him that he was not on a bale, that everything around was dry, and that there was no lightning or thunder on the ceiling.
He jumped up from the sofa and began to dress. He felt wonderful; nothing was left of the previous day’s illness except a slight weakness in his legs and neck. This meant the oil and vinegar had helped. He remembered the steamboat, the locomotive, and the wide river he had seen vaguely the day before, and he now hastened to dress quickly, so as to run to the pier and look at them. He washed and was putting on his red shirt when the door latch suddenly clicked and Father Khristofor appeared on the threshold in his top hat, holding his staff, and with a brown silk cassock over his canvas caftan. Smiling and radiant (old people who have just come back from church are always radiant), he put a prosphora and a package on the table, repeated a prayer, and said:
‘‘God has been merciful! Well, how do you feel?’’
‘‘I’m well now,’’ answered Egorushka, kissing his hand.
‘‘Thank God... And I’ve been to the liturgy... I went to see a sacristan I know. He invited me to his place for tea, but I didn’t go. I don’t like to go visiting early in the morning. God be with them!’’
He took off his cassock, stroked his chest, and unhurriedly opened the package. Egorushka saw a tin of caviar, a piece of smoked sturgeon, and a loaf of French bread.