under his nose, not raising or lowering his voice, but in a short space he managed to tell of many things. Everything he told consisted of fragments that had very little connection with each other and were totally uninteresting to Egorushka. Perhaps he talked only because now, in the morning, after a night spent in silence, he wanted to check his thoughts aloud: were they all at home? Having finished with repentance, he again began speaking about some Maxim Nikolaevich from near Slavyanoserbsk:
‘‘Yes, he took his lad ... Took him, that’s for sure ...’’
One of the wagoners who was walking far ahead tore from his place, ran to the side, and began lashing the ground with his whip. He was a strapping, broad-shouldered man of about thirty, blond, curly-headed, and apparently very strong and healthy. Judging by the movements of his shoulders and whip, by the eagerness his posture expressed, he was beating something live. Another wagoner ran over to him, a short and stocky man with a black spade beard, dressed in a waistcoat and an untucked shirt. This one burst into bass-voiced, coughing laughter and shouted:
‘‘Brothers, Dymov’s killed a viper! By God!’’
There are people whose intelligence can be judged correctly by their voice and laughter. The black-bearded fellow belonged precisely to such fortunates: in his voice and laughter you could sense an unmitigated stupidity. Having finished whipping, the blond Dymov lifted something resembling a rope from the ground with his whip and flung it towards the wagons with a laugh.
‘‘That’s no viper, it’s a grass snake,’’ somebody shouted.
The man with the wooden stride and the bound-up face quickly went over to the dead snake, glanced at it, and clasped his sticklike hands.
‘‘Jailbird!’’ he cried in a hollow, tearful voice. ‘‘Why’d you kill a grass snake? What did it do to you, curse you! Look, he’s killed a grass snake! And what if somebody did the same to you?’’
‘‘You shouldn’t kill grass snakes, that’s for sure . . .’’ Pantelei muttered placidly. ‘‘You shouldn’t ... It’s not an asp. It has the looks of a viper, but it’s a quiet, innocent beast ... It loves man ... Your grass snake . . .’’
Dymov and the black-bearded fellow probably felt ashamed, because they laughed loudly and, without answering the protests, trudged lazily to their wagons. When the last wagon came even with the place where the dead snake lay, the man with the bound-up face, standing over the snake, turned to Pantelei and asked in a tearful voice:
‘‘Why’d he kill the grass snake, grandpa?’’
His eyes, as Egorushka now made out, were small, lackluster, his face was gray, sickly, and also as if lackluster, and his chin was red and appeared badly swollen.
‘‘Why’d he kill it, grandpa?’’ he repeated, striding beside Pantelei.
‘‘A stupid man, got an itch in his hands, that’s why he killed it,’’ the old man replied. ‘‘And you shouldn’t kill a grass snake ... That’s for sure ... We all know Dymov, he’s a prankster, he’ll kill anything he gets his hands on, and Kiriukha didn’t interfere. He ought to have interfered, but it was just ha-ha-ha and ho-ho-ho ... But don’t you get angry, Vasya ... Why get angry? They killed it, and God help them ... Dymov’s a prankster, and Kiriukha does it from his stupid wits ... Never mind ... They’re stupid people, with no understanding, and God help them. Emelyan here will never touch what he oughtn’t. Never, that’s for sure ... Because he’s an educated man, and they’re stupid ... Your Emelyan ... He won’t ...’’
The wagoner in the reddish coat and with the spongy bump, who conducted the invisible choir, stopped on hearing his name, waited until Pantelei and Vasya came even with him, and walked beside them.
‘‘What’s the talk about?’’ he said in a wheezing, stifled voice.
‘‘Vasya here’s getting angry,’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘I use various words, so he won’t get angry, I mean ... Eh, my ailing, frostbitten little feet! Ehh! They got itchy for the sake of Sunday, the Lord’s feast day!’’
‘‘It’s from walking,’’ observed Vasya.
‘‘No, lad, no . . . Not from walking. When I walk, it seems easier, but when I lie down and get warm—it’s the death of me. Walking’s freer for me.’’
Emelyan in his reddish coat stood between Pantelei and Vasya and waved his hand as if they were going to sing. After waving it for a while, he lowered his hand and grunted hopelessly.
‘‘I’ve got no voice!’’ he said. ‘‘Sheer disaster! All night and all morning I’ve been imagining the triple ‘Lord have mercy!’ that we sang at Marinovsky’s wedding; it’s sitting in my head and throat ... so it seems I could just up and sing it, but I can’t! I’ve got no voice!’’
He fell silent for a moment, thinking about something, then went on:
‘‘For fifteen years I was in the choir, in the whole Lugansk factory, maybe, there was no such voice, but then, deuce take it, I went swimming in the Donets two years ago, and ever since I’ve been unable to hit a single note clearly. I caught a chill in my throat. And me without a voice is the same as a workman without a hand.’’
‘‘That’s for sure,’’ agreed Pantelei.
‘‘The way I look at myself is, I’m a lost man and nothing more.’’
At that moment Vasya happened to catch sight of Egorushka. His eyes became unctuous and grew still smaller.
‘‘And there’s a young master coming with us!’’ he said and covered his nose with his sleeve, as if abashed. ‘‘What a grand coachman! Stay with us, you can go around with the wagons carting wool.’’
The notion of combining a young master and a coachman in one body probably seemed very curious and witty to him, because he tittered loudly and went on developing the thought. Emelyan also glanced up at Egorushka, but fleetingly and coldly. He was occupied with his thoughts, and if it had not been for Vasya, he would not have noticed Egorushka’s presence. Before five minutes had passed, he again began waving his hand, then, describing to his companions the beauties of the wedding ‘‘Lord have mercy,’’ which had come to his mind during the night, he put the whip under his arm and waved both hands.
A mile from the village, the train stopped by a well with a sweep. Lowering his bucket into the well, the black- bearded Kiriukha leaned his belly on the rail and thrust his shaggy head, shoulders, and part of his chest into the dark hole, so that Egorushka could see only his short legs, which barely touched the ground; seeing the reflection of
