The Complete Short Novels

to be a peasant!’’ He went up to Pantelei and sat beside him on the shaft.

‘‘I’m cold, grandpa!’’ he said, shivering and sticking his hands into his sleeves.

‘‘It’s all right, we’ll soon be there,’’ Pantelei yawned. ‘‘You’ll get warm all right.’’

The wagon train started early, because it was not hot. Egorushka lay on the bale and shivered with cold, though the sun soon appeared in the sky and dried his clothes, his bale, and the ground. As soon as he closed his eyes, he again saw Titus and the windmill. Feeling nauseated and heavy all over, he strained his forces to drive these images away, but they no sooner disappeared than the prankster Dymov, with red eyes and upraised fists, threw himself at Egorushka with a roar, or his anguished ‘‘I’m bored!’’ was heard. Varlamov rode by on his Cossack colt; happy Konstantin passed by with his smile and his bustard. And how oppressive, unbearable, and tiresome all these people were!

Once—it was before evening—he raised his head to ask for a drink. The wagon train stood on a big bridge stretched across a wide river. There was dark smoke below, over the river, and through it a steamboat could be seen towing a barge. Ahead, across the river, was a huge motley hill scattered with houses and churches; at the foot of the hill, near the freight cars, a locomotive shuttled back and forth...

Egorushka had never seen steamboats before, or locomotives, or wide rivers. Looking at them now, he was neither afraid nor surprised; his face even showed nothing resembling curiosity. He only felt nauseated, and hastened to lean his chest over the edge of the bale. He threw up. Pantelei, who saw it, grunted and shook his head.

‘‘Our little lad’s sick!’’ he said. ‘‘Must have caught a chill in his stomach... our little lad, that is... In foreign parts... A bad business!’’

VIII

THE WAGON TRAIN stopped not far from the pier at a big trading inn. Climbing down from the wagon, Egorushka heard someone’s very familiar voice. Someone helped him down, saying:

‘‘And we already came last evening... Been waiting for you all day today. Wanted to catch up with you yesterday, but it didn’t work out, we took another road. Look how you’ve crumpled your coat! You’re going to get it from your uncle!’’

Egorushka peered into the speaker’s marbled face and remembered that this was Deniska.

‘‘Your uncle and Father Khristofor are in their room now,’’ Deniska went on, ‘‘having tea. Come on!’’

And he led Egorushka to a big two-story building, dark and gloomy, that looked like the N. almshouse. Going through the entry, up the dark stairs, and down a long narrow corridor, Egorushka and Deniska came to a small room where indeed Ivan Ivanych and Father Khristofor were sitting at the tea table. On seeing the boy, the two old men showed surprise and joy on their faces.

‘‘Ahh, Egor Nikola-a-aich!’’ Father Khristofor sang out. ‘‘Mr. Lomonosov!’’

‘‘Ah, Mr. Nobleman!’’ said Kuzmichov. ‘‘Kindly join us.’’

Egorushka took off his coat, kissed his uncle’s and Father Khristofor’s hands, and sat down at the table.

‘‘Well, how was the journey, puer bone?’’ Father Khristofor showered him with questions, pouring tea for him and smiling radiantly, as usual. ‘‘Sick of it, I suppose? And God keep you from traveling by wagon train or oxcart! You go on and on, Lord forgive me, you look ahead, and the steppe still stretches out as continuously as before: there’s no end of it to be seen! That’s not traveling, it’s sheer punishment. Why aren’t you drinking your tea? Drink! And while you were dragging yourself around with the wagon train, we’ve wrapped up all our business nicely. Thank God! We sold the wool to Cherepakhin, and God grant everybody does as well... We made a good profit.’’

With the first glance at his own people, Egorushka felt an irresistible need to complain. He was not listening to Father Khristofor and tried to think how to begin and what in fact to complain about. But Father Khristofor’s voice, which seemed sharp and unpleasant, interfered with his concentration and confused his thoughts. After sitting for less than five minutes, he got up from the table, went to the sofa, and lay down.

‘‘Look at this now!’’ Father Khristofor was surprised. ‘‘And what about your tea?’’

Trying to think up something to complain about, Egorushka pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and burst into sobs.

‘‘Look at this now!’’ Father Khristofor repeated, getting up and going to the sofa. ‘‘What’s the matter, Georgiy? Why are you crying?’’

‘I ... I’m sick!’’ said Egorushka.

‘‘Sick?’’ Father Khristofor looked perplexed. ‘‘That’s not good at all, old boy... How can you be sick on a journey? Ai, ai, what a one you are, old boy ... eh?’

He put his hand to Egorushka’s head, touched his cheek, and said:

‘‘Yes, your head’s hot... You must have caught a chill or eaten something... Call upon God.’’

‘‘Maybe give him quinine...’ Ivan Ivanych said in perplexity.

‘‘No, give him something hot to eat... Georgiy, do you want some nice soup? Eh?’’

‘No ... I don’t ...’ Egorushka answered.

‘‘Do you have chills, or what?’’

‘‘Before I had chills, but now ... now I’m hot. I ache all over...’

Ivan Ivanych went over to the sofa, touched Egorushka’s head, grunted perplexedly, and went back to the table.

‘‘See here, you get undressed and go to sleep,’’ said Father Khristofor, ‘‘you need a good sleep.’’

He helped Egorushka to undress, gave him a pillow, covered him with a blanket, and put Ivan Ivanych’s coat on top of the blanket, then tiptoed away and sat down at the table. Egorushka closed his eyes, and it seemed to him at once that he was not in a room at an inn but by a campfire on the high road; Emelyan was waving his hand, and red-eyed Dymov was lying on his stomach and looking mockingly at Egorushka.