hill that nature had glued together from huge ugly stones, through a little hemlock pipe put in by some unknown benefactor, ran a thin stream of water. It fell to the ground, gay, transparent, sparkling in the sun, and, murmuring quietly, as if imagining itself a strong and swift torrent, quickly flowed off somewhere to the left. Not far from the hill, the little rivulet broadened into a pool; the hot rays and scorching soil drank it up greedily, diminishing its strength; but a bit further on, it probably merged with another such little rivulet, because some hundred paces from the hill, along its course, dense, lush green sedge was growing, from which, as the britzka approached, three snipe flew up with a cry.
The travelers settled by the brook to rest and feed the horses. Kuzmichov, Father Khristofor, and Egorushka sat down in the thin shade of the britzka and the unharnessed horses, on a spread piece of felt, and began to eat. Once he had drunk his fill of water and eaten a baked egg, the good, cheerful thought congealed by the heat in Father Khristofor’s brain asked to be let out. He looked at Egorushka affectionately, munched his lips, and began:
‘‘I myself studied a bit, old boy. From a very early age, God put sense and comprehension into me, so that unlike others, being still as you are now, I comforted my parents and preceptors with my understanding. I was not yet fifteen, and I already spoke and wrote verses in Latin as if it was Russian. I remember when I was a staff- bearer for Bishop Khristofor. Once after the liturgy, I remember it like today, on the name day of the most pious sovereign Alexander Pavlovich the Blessed,5 while he was taking off his vestments in the sanctuary, he looked at me affectionately and asked: ‘Puer bone, quam appellaris?’1 And I answered: ‘Christophorus sum.’2And he: ‘Ergo connominati summus,’3; meaning that we were namesakes...Then he asks in Latin: ‘Whose child are you?’ I answered, also in Latin, that I was the son of the deacon Siriysky in the village of Lebedinskoe. Seeing such promptness and clarity in my answers, his grace blessed me and said: ‘Write to your father that I will not forget him and will keep an eye on you.’ The archpriests and priests who were in the sanctuary, listening to the Latin exchange, were also not a little surprised, and each showed his pleasure by praising me. I didn’t have whiskers yet, old boy, and was already reading Latin, and Greek, and French, knew philosophy, mathematics, civic history, and all subjects. God gave me an amazing memory. It happened that I would read something twice and learn it by heart. My preceptors and benefactors were amazed and supposed I would become a man of great learning, a Church luminary. And I myself thought of going to Kiev to continue my studies, but my parents would not give me their blessing. ‘You’ll go on studying for ages,’ said my father, ‘when will we be done waiting for you?’ On hearing these words, I abandoned my studies and took a post. True, no scholar came of me, but I obeyed my parents instead, brought peace to their old age, and buried them honorably. Obedience is greater than fasting and prayer!’’
‘‘You must have forgotten all your learning by now!’’ observed Kuzmichov.
‘‘How could I not? Praise God, I’m in my seventies! I still remember something of philosophy and rhetoric, but languages and mathematics I’ve quite forgotten.’’
Father Khristofor closed his eyes, thought, and said in a low voice:
‘‘What is a being? A being is a self-sufficient thing that requires nothing for its completion.’’
He wagged his head and laughed with sweet emotion.
‘‘Spiritual food!’’ he said. ‘‘Truly, matter nourishes the flesh, and spiritual food for the soul!’’
‘‘Learning’s learning,’’ sighed Kuzmichov, ‘‘but if we don’t catch up with Varlamov, that’ll learn us all.’’
‘‘A man’s not a needle, we’ll find him. He’s circling around in these parts now.’’
The three familiar snipe flew over the sedge, and in their squawks, anxiety and vexation could be heard at having been driven away from the brook. The horses munched sedately and snorted; Deniska walked around them, trying to show that he was totally indifferent to the cucumbers, pies, and eggs his masters were eating, immersing himself completely in slaughtering the flies and horseflies that covered the horses’ bellies and backs. Apathetically, his throat producing some sort of special, sarcastically triumphant sound, he swatted his victims, but in case of failure, he grunted vexedly, his eyes following each of the lucky ones that had escaped death.
‘‘Deniska, where are you? Come and eat!’’ said Kuzmichov, sighing deeply and thereby letting it be known that he had already had enough.
Deniska timorously approached the felt and chose for himself five big and yellow cucumbers, so-called ‘‘yallers’’ (he was ashamed to choose the smaller and fresher ones), took two baked eggs, blackened and cracked, then irresolutely, as if afraid of being struck on his outstretched hand, touched a little pie with his finger.
‘‘Take it, take it!’’ Kuzmichov urged him.
Deniska resolutely took the pie and, walking far off to one side, sat down on the ground, his back to the britzka. At once such loud chomping was heard that even the horses turned around and looked at Deniska suspiciously.
Having had a bite to eat, Kuzmichov took a sack with something in it out of the britzka and said to Egorushka:
‘‘I’m going to sleep, and you watch out that nobody pulls this sack from under my head.’’
Father Khristofor took off his cassock, belt, and caftan, and Egorushka, looking at him, froze in astonishment. He had never supposed that priests wore trousers, but Father Khristofor had on a pair of real canvas trousers tucked into his high boots, and a short buckram jacket. Looking at him, Egorushka found that in this costume so unsuited to his dignity, with his long hair and beard, he looked very much like Robinson Crusoe. After they undressed, Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov lay down face-to-face in the shade under the britzka and closed their eyes. Deniska, having finished chomping, stretched out belly-up in the sun and also closed his eyes.
‘‘Watch out that nobody steals the horses!’’ he said to Egorushka and fell asleep at once.
Quiet ensued. All that could be heard was the horses snorting and munching and the sleepers snoring; somewhere not close by a peewit wept, and from time to time there came a squawk from the three snipe, who kept coming to check whether the uninvited guests had left; the brook burbled with a soft burr, yet all these sounds did not disturb the quiet or awaken the congealed air, but, on the contrary, drove nature into slumber.
Egorushka, suffocating from the heat, which was especially felt now, after eating, ran to the sedge and from there surveyed the countryside. He saw the same thing he had seen before noon: the plain, the hills, the sky, the purple distance; only the hills stood nearer and there was no windmill, which had been left far behind. Beyond the rocky hill where the brook flowed rose another hill, smoother and wider; to it clung a small hamlet of five or six farmyards. There were no people, or trees, or shadows to be seen by the huts, as if the hamlet had suffocated in the hot air and dried up. Having nothing to do, Egorushka caught a capricorn beetle in the grass, held it to his ear in his fist, and listened to it playing its fiddle for a long time. When he got tired of the music, he chased after a crowd of yellow butterflies that had come to the sedge to drink, and did not notice himself how he wound up by the britzka again. His uncle and Father Khristofor were fast asleep; their sleep was bound to go on for another two or three hours, till the horses were rested... How to kill that long time and where to hide from the heat? A tricky problem ...
