miracles, it will always find a real response in the listener’s soul, and only a man of well-tried literacy will look askance in mistrust, and even he will say nothing. The cross by the roadside, the dark bales, the vastness, and the destiny of the people gathered around the campfire—all this was so wondrous and fearful in itself that the fantasticality of tall tales and stories paled and merged with life.
They all ate from the cauldron, while Pantelei sat separately to one side and ate from a wooden bowl. His spoon was not like everyone else’s, but was made of cypress wood and with a little cross. Egorushka, looking at him, remembered the icon-lamp glass and quietly asked Styopka:
‘‘Why does grandpa sit separately?’’
‘‘He’s an Old Believer,’’21 Styopka and Vasya answered in a whisper, looking as if they were speaking of a weakness or a secret vice.
They were all silent and thinking. After such fearful tales, no one wanted to speak of ordinary things. Suddenly, in the midst of the silence, Vasya straightened up and, aiming his lackluster eyes at one spot, pricked up his ears.
‘‘What is it?’’ Dymov asked him.
‘‘There’s a man walking,’’ Vasya answered.
‘‘Where do you see him?’’
‘‘There he is! A patch of white . . .’’
Where Vasya was looking, nothing could be seen except darkness; they all listened, but no footsteps could be heard.
‘‘Is he walking down the road?’’ asked Dymov.
‘‘No, across the field ... He’s coming here.’’
A minute passed in silence.
‘‘Maybe it’s the merchant buried here, wandering over the steppe,’’ said Dymov.
They all glanced sidelong at the cross and suddenly laughed; they became ashamed of their fear.
‘‘Why would he wander?’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘The only ones that walk about at night are the ones the earth won’t receive. But the merchants are all right . . . The merchants received martyrs’ crowns.’’
Now footsteps were heard. Someone was walking hurriedly.
‘‘He’s carrying something,’’ said Vasya.
The swish of grass and the crackling of weeds under the walker’s feet became audible, but because of the firelight no one could be seen. Finally there was a sound of footsteps close by, someone coughed, the dancing light seemed to part, the scales fell from their eyes, and the wagoners suddenly saw a man before them.
Either because of the way the fire flickered, or because they wanted before all to make out the face of this man, it turned out, oddly enough, that with the first glance at him, everyone saw before all not his face, not his clothes, but his smile. It was an extraordinarily kind, broad, and soft smile, as of an awakened child, one of those infectious smiles that it is hard not to respond to with a smile. The stranger, once they had made him out, proved to be a man of about thirty, not handsome and in no way remarkable. He was a tall Ukrainian, long-nosed, long-armed, and long-legged; in general, everything about him seemed long, and only his neck was short, so much so that it made him look stooped. He was dressed in a clean white shirt with an embroidered collar, white balloon trousers, and new boots, and, compared with the wagoners, looked like a dandy. In his hands he was holding something big, white, and, at first glance, strange, and from behind his shoulder the barrel of a gun appeared, also long.
Emerging from the darkness into the circle of light, he stopped as if rooted to the spot and looked at the wagoners for about half a minute, as if he wanted to say: ‘‘See what a smile I’ve got!’’ Then he stepped towards the campfire, smiled still more brightly, and said:
‘‘Good health to you all!’’
‘‘We bid you welcome!’’ Pantelei answered for everyone.
The stranger set down what he was holding—it was a dead bustard—and greeted them once more.
They all went over to the bustard and started examining it.
‘‘A grand bird! What did you shoot it with?’’ asked Dymov.
‘‘Buckshot ... Birdshot’s not enough, it won’t reach ... Buy it, brothers! I’ll let you have it for twenty kopecks.’’
‘‘What do we need it for? It’s good roasted, but it’s tough boiled—hard to chaw . . .’’
‘‘Eh, too bad! I could take it to the head office on the estate, they’d pay fifty kopecks for it, but it’s too far— fifteen miles!’’
The unknown man sat down, unslung his gun, and placed it beside him. He looked sleepy, languid; he smiled, squinted from the fire, and was apparently thinking about something very pleasant. They gave him a spoon. He began to eat.
‘‘Who might you be?’’ Dymov asked him.
The stranger did not hear the question; he did not reply and did not even look at Dymov. Most likely this smiling man did not taste the kasha, either, because he chewed somehow mechanically, lazily, bringing to his mouth now a full spoon, now a quite empty one. He was not drunk, but there was something loony wandering in his head.
‘‘I’m asking you: who are you?’’ Dymov repeated.
‘‘Me?’’ the unknown man roused himself. ‘‘Konstantin Zvonyk, from Rovnoe. About four miles from here.’’
And, wishing to show first off that he was not a peasant like all the others but a better sort, Konstantin hastened to add:
