strength and habitual authority over the steppe.
Riding past Egorushka, he did not glance at him; only the colt deemed Egorushka worthy of his attention and looked at him with his big, stupid eyes, and even that with indifference. Pantelei bowed to Varlamov; the man noticed it and, without taking his eyes from the papers, said, swallowing his R’s:
‘‘Ghreetings, ghraybeard!’’
Varlamov’s conversation with the rider and the swing of the whip evidently made a dispiriting impression on the whole train. They all had serious faces. The rider, discouraged by the strong man’s wrath, stood hatless, with slack reins, by the first wagon, silent and as if not believing that the day had begun so badly for him.
‘‘A tough old man...’ Pantelei muttered. ‘‘Awfully tough! But all right, a good man... He won’t harm you for nothing... No fear...’
Having examined the papers, Varlamov put the book in his pocket; the colt, as if understanding his thoughts without waiting for orders, gave a start and went racing down the high road.
VII
ON THE FOLLOWING night, the wagoners again made a halt and cooked kasha. This time, from the very beginning, some indefinite anguish was felt in everything. It was stifling; they all drank a great deal and simply could not quench their thirst. The moon rose intensely crimson and morose, as if it was sick; the stars were also morose, the murk was thicker, the distance dimmer. It was as if nature anticipated something and languished.
There was none of yesterday’s animation and talk by the campfire. They were all bored and spoke sluggishly and reluctantly. Pantelei only sighed, complained about his feet, and now and then began talking about an impudent death.
Dymov lay on his stomach, said nothing, and chewed on a straw; his expression was squeamish, as if the straw smelled bad, and angry, and weary... Vasya complained that his jaw ached and prophesied bad weather; Emelyan did not wave his hands, but sat motionless and sullenly looked at the fire. Egorushka also languished. The slow driving wearied him, and the afternoon heat had given him a headache.
When the kasha was ready, Dymov, out of boredom, began picking on his comrades.
‘‘He sprawls about, the bump, and sticks his spoon in first!’’ he said, looking spitefully at Emelyan. ‘‘Greed! Aims to sit himself down first at the cauldron. He used to sing in the choir, so he thinks he’s a master! You find lots of these choir singers begging for alms along the high road!’’
‘‘What do you want from me?’’ Emelyan asked, also looking at him with spite.
‘‘That you don’t shove up first to the cauldron. Don’t think so much of yourself!’
‘‘A fool, that’s all he is,’’ wheezed Emelyan.
Knowing from experience how such conversations usually end, Pantelei and Vasya intervened and started persuading Dymov not to be abusive for nothing.
‘‘Choir singer...’ the prankster grinned scornfully, refusing to calm down. ‘‘Anybody can sing like that. Go sit on the church porch and sing: ‘Alms for the sake of Christ!’ Ah, you!’’
Emelyan said nothing. His silence had an irritating effect on Dymov. He looked at the former choir singer with still greater hatred and said:
‘‘I don’t want to get involved, otherwise I’d teach you to think much of yourself!’
‘‘Why are you bothering me, mazepa?’’23 Emelyan flared up. ‘‘Am I touching you?’’
‘‘What did you call me?’’ Dymov asked, straightening up, and his eyes became bloodshot. ‘‘What? Me a mazepa? Eh? Take this, then! Go and hunt for it!’’
Dymov snatched the spoon from Emelyan’s hand and flung it far away. Kiriukha, Vasya, and Styopka jumped up and ran to look for it, while Emelyan stared pleadingly and questioningly at Pantelei. His face suddenly became small, winced, blinked, and the former choir singer cried like a baby.
Egorushka, who had long hated Dymov, felt the air suddenly become unbearably stifling; the flames of the campfire hotly burned his face; he would have liked to run quickly to the wagons in the darkness, but the spiteful, bored eyes of the prankster drew him to them. Passionately wishing to say something offensive in the highest degree, he took a step towards Dymov and said, choking:
‘‘You’re the worst of all! I can’t stand you!’’
After that, he should have run to the wagons, but he could not move from the spot and went on:
‘‘You’ll burn in fire in the other world! I’ll complain to Ivan Ivanych! Don’t you dare offend Emelyan!’’
‘‘Well, there’s a nice how-do-you-do!’’ Dymov grinned. ‘‘Some little pig, the milk still not dry on his lips, and he goes giving orders. How about a box on the ear?’’
Egorushka felt he had no air left to breathe: he suddenly shook all over—this had never happened to him before— stamped his feet, and shouted piercingly:
‘‘Beat him! Beat him!’’
Tears poured from his eyes; he was ashamed and ran staggering to the wagons. What impressions his shout made, he did not see. Lying on a bale and weeping, he thrashed his arms and legs and whispered:
‘‘Mama! Mama!’’
These people, and the shadows around the campfire, and the dark bales, and the distant lightning flashing every moment in the distance—all now looked desolate and frightening to him. He was terrified and asked himself in despair how and why he had ended up in an unknown land in the company of frightening muzhiks. Where were his uncle, Father Khristofor, and Deniska now? Why were they so long in coming? Had they forgotten him? The thought that he was forgotten and abandoned to the mercy of fate made him feel cold and so eerie that several times he was about to jump off the bale and run headlong back down the road without looking back, but the memory of the dark, sullen crosses, which he was sure to meet on his way, and lightning flashing in the distance, stopped him... And only when he whispered, ‘‘Mama! Mama!’’ did he seem to feel better...
The wagoners must also have felt eerie. After Egorushka ran away from the campfire, they were silent for a long time, then began saying in low and muted voices that something was coming and that they had to make ready
