'Well, Deniska, shall we overtake thc wagons soon?' asked Kuzmichov.
Deniska lookcd at the sky, rose in his seat and whipped his horses. 'By nightfall, God willing.'
Barks were heard, and half a dozen huge prairie shecpdogs suddcnly pounced at the carriage with ferocious howls as if from ambush. Extremely vicious, red-eyed with malice, their shaggy muzzles rcsem- bling enormous spiders, they surrounded the britzka and set up a hoarse bellow, jealously jostling each other, imbued with utter loath- ing, and seeming ready to rend horses, vehicle and people asundcr. Deniska, who liked teasing and whipping, and who was glad of his opportunity, bent ovcr with an expression of unholy glce, and lashed one dog with his whip. The dogs growlcd more loudly than ever and the horses rushed on. Hardly able to kcep his seat, Yegorushka realized, as he looked at thc dogs' eyes and teeth, that he would be torn to pieces at once if hc fcll off. Yet he felt no fear, and looked on with malicious glec like Deniska, sorry to have no whip in his hands.
The carriage drew level with a drove of shecp.
'Stop!' shoutcd Kuzmichov. 'Pull up! Whoa!'
Dcniska flung his whole body back and pulled the horses up. Thc carriage stoppcd.
'Come here, man!' shoutcd Kuzmichov to the drover. 'And call your bloody dogs off!'
The old drover, ragged and barcfoot, in a warm cap with a dirty sack on his hip and a long crook—a regular Old Testament figure— called off the dogs, doffed his cap and came up to the carriage. At the other end of the flock another no leu patriarchial figure stood motionlcss, staring unconcernedly at the travellers.
'Whose sheep are these?' Kuzmichov asked.
'Varlamov's,' the old man answcred loudly.
'Varlamov's,' repcated the shcpherd at the other cnd of the flock.
'Now, did Varlamov pau this way yesterday or didn't he?'
'No, sir. 'Twas his bailiff as camc past, and that's a fact.'
'Drive on!'
The carriagc rollcd on and thc drovers were left bchind with their vicious dogs. Ycgorushka lookcd glumly ahead at the mauve horizon, and he now began to feel that the whirling windmill w:^s corning nearer. It grew bigger and bigger until it was quite large and its two sails were clearly distinguishable. One was old and patched, but the other had been made with new wood only recently, and shone in the sun.
The carriage drove srraight on while the windmill for some reason began moving to the left. On and on they travelled, and it kept moving to the left while remaining in view.
'A fine windmill Boltva has made for his son,' remarked Deniska.
'But why can't we see his farm?'
'It's over there, beyond the dip.'
Soon Boltva's farm did indeed appear, but the windmill still failed to retreat. Kceping pace with them, it watched Yegorushka, waving its shiny sail like some wizard of the steppes.
II
Towards midday the britzka turned off the road to the right, went on a little at walking pace, then stopped. Yegorushka heard a quiet, a most delectable gurgling, and felt a different air brush his face with its cool velvety touch. From the hill, that nature had glued together out of monstrous boulders, a thin stream of water jetted through a little pipe of hernlock wood put in by some unknown benefactor. It hit the ground, and—limpid, sparkling merrily in the sun, quietly murmuring as if fancying itself a mighty, turbulent torrent—swiftly ran away to the left. Not far from the hill the little brook broadened into a pool. The hot rays and parched soil thirstily drank it in, sapping its srrength. But it must have merged with another similar stream a little further on, because dense, green, lush sedge was visible along its course about a hundred yards from the hill. As the carriage approached three snipe flew up from there with a cry.
The travellers settled do^ by the brook to rest and feed the horses. Kuzrnichov, Father Christopher and Yegorushka sat on a felt rug in the sparse shadow cast by the britzka and the unharnessed horses, and began eating. After Father Christopher had drunk some water and eaten a hard-boiled egg the serene, cheerful thought—stamped on his brain by the heat^<raved utterance. He looked at Yegorushka affec- tionately and chewed.
'I myself have studied, son,' he began. 'From my earliest years God imbued me with sense and understanding. And so, unlike other boys, I was rejoicing my parents and teachers by my comprehension when
I was only your age. Before I was fifteen I could speak Latin, and write Latin verse, as well as Rusian. I remember being crozier-bearer to Bishop Christopher. After servicc one day, as I recall, on the saint's day of our most pious Sovereign Alexander the First of blessed memory, he unrobed in the chancel, lookcd at me kindly and asked: "Puer bont, quam appcllaris?" And I answcred: "Christophorus sum." And he said: "Ergo connominati sumus"—we were namesakes, that is. Then he asked me in Latin whose son I was. I answered, also in Latin, that my father was Deacon Siriysky of Lcbedinskoye village. Noting the celerity and clarity of my answers, the Bishop blessed me, saying: "Write and tell your father that I shall not forget him and shall kcep you in mind." Hearing this exchange in Latin, the priests and fathers in the chancel were also no littlc amazed, and each expresed his plcasure by praising me. Before I had gro^ whiskcrs, my boy, I could rcad Latin, Greek and French. I knew philosophy, mathematics, secular history and all branches of learning. God gave me a wonderful memory. Time was, if I'd read something once or twicc I could remcmbcr it by heart. My preceptors and patrons were amazed, expecting me to be- come a great scholar and a church luminary. I did think of going to Kiev to continue my studies, but my parents disapproved. "You'll be studying all your life," said my father. "We'll ncver see the end of it." Hearing thcse words, I gavc up Icarning and took an appointment. Aye, I ncver became a scholar, of course, but at least I didn't disobey my parents. I was a comfort to thcm in their old age, gave them a decent funeral. Obedience is more blessed than fasting and prayer.'
'I bet you've forgotten all you ever learnt,' Kuzmichov remarked.
'Of course I have. I'm past seventy now, praise be. I can still remem- ber a scrap or two of philosophy and rhctoric, but languages and mathematics—I've quite forgotten them.'
Father Christopher frowicd and pondcrcd. 'What is a being?' hc asked in a low voice. 'A being is an integral entity sufficient unto it- self.' He flexcd his neck and laughed delightedly. 'Food for the soul,' said he. 'Verily, matter nourisheth the flesh and spiritual sustenance the soul.'
'Learning's all very well,' sighed Kuzmichov. 'But if we don't ovcr- takc Varlamov we'll be taught a lesson we'll never forgct.'
'He's not a necdle in a ha; :ack. We'll fmd him—hc's knocking around in the arca.'
The same three snipe flcw over the sedge, their squeaks betraying alarm and vexation at bcing drivcn off the brook. The horses steadily munched and whinnied. Dcniska attended them, trying to demonstrate his utter indiffercnce to the cucumbers, pics and eggs that his mastcrs were eating by plunging into the slaughter of the flies and horse-flies clinging to the animals' bellies and backs. Uttering a peculiar, venom- ously exultant guttural sound, he swatted his victims with gusto, grunting with annoyance when he missed and following each lucky fly that escaped death with his eyes.
'Deniska, what are you up to? Come and eat.' Kuzmichov sighed deeply—a sign that he was replete.
Deniska approached the mat diffidently and picked out five large yellow cucumbers—what they called 'yolkies'—not venturing to choose smaller, fresher specimens. He then took two black, cracked hard-boiled eggs, and—hesitantly, as if afraid of someone slapping his outstretched hand—touched a pie with his finger.