his head far away at the bottom of the well, he rejoiced and dissolved into stupid bass laughter, and the well’s echo answered him the same way; when he stood up, his face and neck were crimson red. Dymov was the first to run over and drink. He drank laughing, often tearing himself away from the bucket and telling Kiriukha about something funny, then he turned and, loudly, for the whole steppe to hear, uttered five bad words. Egorushka did not understand the meaning of these words, but he knew very well that they were bad. He knew the repugnance his family and acquaintances silently nursed for them, shared this feeling, not knowing why himself, and was accustomed to think that only drunk and riotous people had the privilege of uttering these words aloud. He remembered the killing of the grass snake, listened to Dymov’s laughter, and felt something like hatred for this man. And, as if on purpose, just then Dymov caught sight of Egorushka, who got off the wagon and was walking towards the well. He laughed loudly and shouted:
‘‘Brothers, the old man gave birth to a boy last night!’’
Kiriukha coughed from his bass laughter. Someone else laughed, too, and Egorushka blushed and decided finally that Dymov was a very wicked man.
Blond, curly-headed, hatless, and with the shirt unbuttoned on his chest, Dymov seemed handsome and extraordinarily strong; his every movement revealed the prankster and strongman who knows his own worth. He rolled his shoulders, set his arms akimbo, talked and laughed louder than anybody else, and looked as if he were about to lift something very heavy with one hand and astonish the whole world by it. His mischievous, mocking gaze glided over the road, the wagon train, and the sky, did not pause on anything, and, from having nothing to do, seemed to be looking for some creature to kill or something to make fun of. Evidently he was not afraid of anyone, knew no restraint, and probably had no interest at all in Egorushka’s opinion ... But with all his soul, Egorushka now hated his blond head, clear face, and strength, listened with fear and repugnance to his laughter, and tried to think of some abusive word to say to him in revenge.
Pantelei also went over to the bucket. He took a green icon-lamp glass from his pocket, wiped it with a rag, dipped from the bucket and drank, then dipped again, wrapped the glass in the rag, and put it back in his pocket.
‘‘Grandpa, why do you drink from an icon lamp?’’ Egorushka was surprised.
‘‘Some drink from a bucket, some from an icon lamp,’’ the old man answered evasively. ‘‘To each his own . . . You drink from a bucket, well, so drink in good health . . .’’
‘‘My dear little heart, my sweet little beauty,’’ Vasya suddenly started speaking in a tender, tearful voice. ‘‘My dear little heart!’
His eyes were aimed off into the distance, they became unctuous, smiled, and his face acquired the same expression as when he had looked at Egorushka earlier.
‘‘Who are you talking to?’’ asked Kiriukha.
‘‘A sweet little fox ... it’s lying on its back and playing like a puppy ...’’
They all began looking into the distance, seeking the fox with their eyes, but found nothing. Vasya alone saw something with his gray, lackluster little eyes, and admired. As Egorushka later became convinced, he had strikingly keen eyesight. He saw so well that, for him, the dirty brown, empty steppe was always filled with life and content. He had only to peer into the distance to see a fox, a hare, a bustard, or some other animal that keeps away from people. It is not hard to see a fleeing hare or a flying bustard—anyone crossing the steppe has seen that—but it is not given to everyone to see wild animals in their home life, when they are not fleeing, not hiding or looking around in alarm. But Vasya could see foxes frolicking, hares washing themselves with their forepaws, bustards spreading their wings, kestrels beating their wings ‘‘in place.’’ Thanks to such keen eyesight, besides the world that everyone could see, Vasya had another world of his own, inaccessible to anyone else, and probably a very nice one, because when he looked and admired, it was hard not to envy him.
As the wagon train moved on, the bells were ringing for the liturgy.
V
THE WAGON TRAIN settled down to the side of the village on the riverbank. The sun burned like the day before, the air was motionless and dismal. Several pussywillows stood on the bank, but their shade fell not on the land but on the water, where it was wasted, and in the shade under the wagons it was stifling and dull. The water, blue from the sky’s reflection in it, was passionately alluring.
The wagoner Styopka, to whom Egorushka only now paid attention, an eighteen-year-old Ukrainian boy in a long, belt-less shirt and wide, loose balloon trousers that fluttered like flags as he walked, quickly undressed, ran down the steep bank, and plopped into the water. He dove three times, then turned on his back and closed his eyes with pleasure. His face smiled and wrinkled, as if it felt tickly, painful, and funny to him.
On a hot day, when there is no getting away from the torrid and stifling heat, the splashing of water and the loud breathing of a bather affect the hearing like good music. Dymov and Kiriukha, looking at Styopka, quickly undressed and, with loud laughter and anticipating pleasure, plunged one after the other into the water. And the quiet, modest river resounded with snorting, splashing, and shouting. Kiriukha coughed, laughed, and shouted as if someone was trying to drown him, and Dymov chased after him, trying to grab him by the leg.
‘‘Hey, hey, hey!’’ he shouted. ‘‘Catch him, hold him!’’
Kiriukha guffawed and enjoyed himself, but the expression on his face was the same as on dry land: stupid, stunned, as if someone had crept up behind him unseen and whacked him on the head with the butt of an axe. Egorushka also undressed, but he did not go down the bank, but ran up and went flying off the ten-foot height. Describing an arc in the air, he fell into the water, went deep down, but did not reach the bottom; some force, cold and pleasant to the touch, picked him up and carried him back to the surface. He emerged, snorting and blowing bubbles, and opened his eyes; but the sun was reflected in the river just by his face. First blinding sparks, then rainbows and dark spots moved before his eyes; he hastened to dive again, opened his eyes underwater, and saw something muddy green, like the sky on a moonlit night. Again the same force, not letting him touch bottom and stay in the cool, carried him upwards. He emerged and breathed so deeply that he felt vast and refreshed not only in his chest but even in his stomach. Then, to take from the water all that could be taken, he allowed himself every luxury: he lay on his back, basked, splashed, turned somersaults, swam on his stomach, and on his side, and on his back, and upright—however he liked, until he got tired. The opposite bank was thickly overgrown with rushes, shining golden in the sun, and the rush flowers bent their beautiful tufts to the water. In one place the rushes trembled, bent their flowers down, and gave a crunch—this was Styopka and Kiriukha ‘‘snatching’’ crayfish.
‘‘A crayfish! Look, brothers, a crayfish!’’ Kiriukha shouted triumphantly and indeed held up a crayfish.
Egorushka swam towards the rushes, dove down, and began feeling around near the roots. Digging into the liquid, slimy silt, he felt something sharp and disgusting, maybe really a crayfish, but just then somebody seized him by the leg and pulled him to the surface. Spluttering and coughing, Egorushka opened his eyes and saw before him the wet, laughing face of the prankster Dymov. The prankster was breathing heavily and, judging by his eyes, wanted to go on with his mischief. He held Egorushka tightly by the leg, and was already raising his other hand to seize him by the neck, but Egorushka, with repugnance and fear, as if scornful and afraid that the stalwart fellow
