Deniska beat Egorushka and apparently remained very pleased with that. He winked and, to show that he could hop on one leg any distance you like, proposed that Egorushka hop down the road with him and from there back to the britzka without resting. Egorushka rejected the proposal, because he was quite breathless and faint.
Suddenly Deniska made a very serious face, such as he never made, even when Kuzmichov reprimanded him or raised his stick to him; listening, he quietly lowered himself on one knee, and an expression of sternness and fear appeared on his face, as happens with people listening to heresy. He aimed his eyes at one point, slowly raised his hand with the palm cupped, and suddenly fell belly-down on the ground, hitting the grass with his hand.
‘‘Got it!’’ he croaked triumphantly and, getting up, brought to Egorushka’s eyes a big grasshopper.
Thinking it was pleasant for the grasshopper, Egorushka and Deniska stroked its broad green back with their fingers and touched its feelers. Then Deniska caught a fat bloodfilled fly and offered it to the grasshopper. Very indifferently, as if it had known Deniska for a long time, the latter moved its big visorlike jaws and bit off the fly’s stomach. Released, it flashed its pink underwings and, landing in the grass, at once chirped out its song. The fly was also released; it spread its wings and flew off to the horses minus its stomach.
A deep sigh came from under the britzka. This was Kuzmichov waking up. He quickly raised his head, gazed uneasily into the distance, and it was evident from this look, which slipped insensibly past Egorushka and Deniska, that on waking up, he had thought of wool and Varlamov.
‘‘Father Khristofor, get up, it’s time!’’ he began in alarm. ‘‘Enough sleeping, we’ve slept through business as it is! Deniska, harness up!’’
Father Khristofor woke up with the same smile he had fallen asleep with. His face was crumpled and wrinkled from sleep and seemed to have become twice smaller. After washing and dressing, he unhurriedly took a small, greasy Psalter from his pocket and, turning his face to the east, began reading in a whisper and crossing himself.
‘‘Father Khristofor!’’ Kuzmichov said reproachfully. ‘‘It’s time to go, the horses are ready, and you, by God ...’’
‘‘Right away, right away ...’’ Father Khristofor murmured. ‘‘I must read the kathismas7 ... I haven’t read any today.’’
‘‘The kathismas can wait till later.’’
‘‘Ivan Ivanych, I have a rule for each day ... I can’t.’’
‘‘God’s not a stickler.’’
For a whole quarter of an hour Father Khristofor stood motionless, facing the east and moving his lips, while Kuzmichov looked at him almost with hatred and impatiently shrugged his shoulders. He was especially angry when, after each ‘‘Glory,’’ Father Khristofor drew his breath, quickly crossed himself, and, deliberately raising his voice so that the others would cross themselves, said three times:
‘‘Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, glory to Thee, O God!’’
At last he smiled, looked up into the sky, and, putting the Psalter into his pocket, said:
‘‘
A minute later the britzka started on its way. As if it was driving backwards and not forwards, the travelers saw the same things as before noon. The hills were still sinking into the purple distance, and there was no end of them in sight; tall weeds flashed past, boulders, mowed fields rushed by, and the same rooks, and the kite, sedately flapping its wings, flew over the steppe. The air congealed still more from the heat and the stillness, obedient nature grew torpid in the silence. No wind, no brisk, fresh sound, no clouds.
But then, finally, as the sun began to sink in the west, the steppe, the hills, and the air could bear no more oppression, and, worn out, their patience exhausted, they attempted to throw off the yoke. An ash-gray curly cloud unexpectedly appeared from behind the hills. It exchanged glances with the steppe—I’m ready, it seemed to say— and frowned. Suddenly something broke in the stagnant air, a strong gust of wind came and, whistling noisily, went wheeling around the steppe. At once the grass and last year’s weeds raised a murmur, the dust of the road whirled into a spiral, ran across the steppe, and, drawing straw, dragonflies, and feathers with it, rose up into the sky in a black, spinning pillar and obscured the sun. Tumbleweed rolled hither and thither, stumbling and leaping, over the steppe, and one bush got into the whirl, spun like a bird, flew up into the sky, and, turning into a black speck there, disappeared from sight. After it swept another, then a third, and Egorushka saw two tumbleweeds collide in the blue height and clutch at each other as if in combat.
A kestrel took flight just by the roadside. Flashing its wings and tail, bathed in sunlight, it looked like an angler’s fly or a pond moth whose wings merge with its feelers as it flashes over the water, and it seems to have feelers growing on it in front, and behind, and on the sides ... Quivering in the air like an insect, sporting its motley colors, the kestrel rose high up in a straight line, then, probably frightened by the cloud of dust, veered off to one side, and its flashing could be seen for a long time ...
And now, alarmed by the wind and not understanding what it was about, a corncrake flew up from the grass. It flew with the wind, not against it as all birds do; this ruffled its feathers, puffing it up to the size of a hen, and it looked very angry and imposing. Only the rooks, grown old on the steppe and used to its turmoil, calmly raced over the grass or else, paying no attention to anything, indifferently pecked the tough ground with their fat beaks.
From beyond the hills came a dull rumble of thunder; there was a breath of coolness. Deniska whistled merrily and whipped up the horses. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov, holding on to their hats, turned their eyes to the hills ... It would be nice if it spat some rain!
A little more, it seemed, the smallest effort, a single push, and the steppe would gain the upper hand. But the invisible oppressive force gradually fettered the wind and the air, settled the dust, and again came stillness, as if nothing had happened. The cloud hid, the sunburnt hills frowned, the air obediently congealed, and only the alarmed peewits wept somewhere and bemoaned their fate ...
Soon after that, evening came.
III
IN THE EVENING twilight a big, one-story house appeared, with a rusty iron roof and dark windows. This house was called an innyard, though there was no yard around it, and it stood in the midst of the steppe not fenced by anything. Slightly to one side of it, a pathetic little cherry orchard with a wattle fence could be seen, and under its windows, their heavy heads bowed, sunflowers stood sleeping. In the orchard a tiny little windmill rattled away, set there so that the noise would frighten the hares. Besides that, there was nothing to be seen or heard near the house but the steppe.
