They all refused; then Emelyan began to sing by himself. He waved both hands, nodded his head, opened his mouth, but nothing except wheezing, soundless breath burst from his throat. He sang with his hands, his head, his eyes, and even his bump, he sang passionately and with pain, and the harder he strained his chest to tear at least one note from it, the more soundless his breath became...
Egorushka, like everyone else, was overcome by boredom. He went to his wagon, climbed up on a bale, and lay down. He looked at the sky and thought about the happy Konstantin and his wife. Why do people get married? What are women for in this world? Egorushka asked himself vague questions and thought it is probably nice for a man if a gentle, cheerful, and beautiful woman constantly lives at his side. For some reason he recalled the Countess Dranitsky and thought that it was probably very agreeable to live with such a woman; he might well have married her with great pleasure, if it were not so embarrassing. He remembered her eyebrows, her pupils, her carriage, the clock with the horseman... The quiet, warm night was descending on him and whispering something in his ear, and it seemed to him that it was that beautiful woman bending over him, looking at him with a smile, and wanting to kiss him...
Only two little red eyes remained from the campfire, and they were growing smaller and smaller. The wagoners and Konstantin sat by them, dark, motionless, and it seemed there were now many more of them than before. Both crosses were equally visible, and far, far away, somewhere on the high road, a red fire glowed—someone else was probably also cooking kasha.
‘‘Our beloved Mother Russia is the head of all the wo-o-orld!’’ Kiriukha suddenly sang in a wild voice, choked, and fell silent. The steppe echo picked up his voice, carried it, and it seemed stupidity itself was rolling over the steppe on heavy wheels.
‘‘Time to go!’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘Up you get, boys!’’
While they were harnessing, Konstantin walked among the wagons and sang his wife’s praises.
‘‘Farewell, brothers!’’ he cried as the wagons started off. ‘‘Thanks for your hospitality! And I’ll make for that fire. It’s beyond me!’’
And he quickly vanished into the darkness, and for a long time could be heard striding towards where the little light glowed, in order to tell other strangers of his happiness.
When Egorushka woke up the next day, it was early morning; the sun had not risen yet. The wagon train stood still. Some man in a white peaked cap and a suit of cheap gray cloth, mounted on a Cossack colt, was talking about something with Dymov and Kiriukha by the very first wagon. Two miles or so ahead of the wagon train, long, low barns and little houses with tiled roofs showed white; there were no yards or trees to be seen near the houses.
‘‘What’s that village, grandpa?’’ asked Egorushka.
‘‘Those are Armenian farmsteads, my lad,’’ answered Pantelei. ‘‘Armenians live there. They’re all right folk... Armenians, that is.’’
The man in gray finished talking with Dymov and Kiriukha, tightened the reins on his colt, and looked towards the farmsteads.
‘‘Such a business, just think!’’ sighed Pantelei, also looking towards the farmsteads and shrinking from the morning freshness. ‘‘He sent a man to the farmstead for some paper, and the man won’t come back... We should send Styopka!’’
‘‘But who is that, grandpa?’’ asked Egorushka.
‘‘Varlamov.’’
My God! Egorushka quickly jumped up, stood on his knees, and looked at the white cap. The undersized gray little man, shod in big boots, mounted on an ugly horse, and talking with peasants at a time when all decent people were asleep, was hard to identify with the mysterious, elusive Varlamov, sought by everyone, who always ‘‘circled around’’ and had much more money than the Countess Dranitsky.
‘‘He’s all right, a good man...’ Pantelei said, looking towards the farmsteads. ‘‘God grant him health, he’s a nice master... Varlamov, that is, Semyon Alexandrych... The world stands on such people, brother. That’s for sure... The cocks haven’t crowed yet, and he’s already on his feet... Another man would sleep or gibble-gabble with his guests at home, but he’s on the steppe the whole day... Circling around... This one won’t let any deal slip away... No-o-o! A fine fellow...’
Varlamov would not take his eyes off the farmstead and was saying something; the colt shifted impatiently from one foot to the other.
‘‘Semyon Alexandrych,’’ shouted Pantelei, taking off his hat, ‘‘allow us to send Styopka! Emelyan, holler for them to send Styopka!’’
But now, at last, a rider detached himself from the farmstead. Leaning strongly to one side and swinging the whip above his head, as if he was a trick horseman and wanted to astonish everybody with his bold riding, he flew towards the wagon train with birdlike swiftness.
‘‘That must be his breaker,’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘He’s got maybe a hundred of these breakers, if not more.’’
Coming up to the first wagon, the rider reined in his horse and, taking off his hat, handed Varlamov a book. Varlamov took several papers from the book, read them, and shouted:
‘‘But where’s Ivanchuk’s note?’’
The rider took the book back, looked over the papers, and shrugged; he began to say something, probably justifying himself and asking permission to go to the farmsteads again. The colt suddenly stirred, as if Varlamov had become heavier. Varlamov also stirred.
‘‘Get out!’’ he shouted angrily and swung his whip at the rider.
Then he turned the horse about and, studying the papers in the book, rode at a slow pace the length of the train. As he approached the last wagon, Egorushka strained his eyes to examine him better. Varlamov was an old man. His face, with its small gray beard, a simple, sunburnt Russian face, was red, wet with dew, and covered with little blue veins; it expressed the same businesslike dryness as Ivan Ivanych’s face, the same businesslike fanaticism. But still, what a difference you could feel between him and Ivan Ivanych! Uncle Kuzmichov, along with businesslike dryness, always had care on his face, and fear that he might not find Varlamov, might be late, might miss a good price; nothing of the sort, proper to small and dependent people, could be seen either on the face or in the figure of Varlamov. This man set the prices himself, he did not seek anyone, did not depend on anyone; ordinary as his appearance might be, you could sense in everything, even in his way of holding a whip, an awareness of
