‘‘Somebody says to you, for instance, ‘How beautiful is a bunch of grapes!’ and you say, ‘Yes, but how ugly when it’s chewed and digested in the stomach.’ Why say that? It’s not new and ... generally, it’s a strange manner you have.’’
Laevsky knew that von Koren did not like him, and he was therefore afraid of him and felt in his presence as if they were all crowded together and somebody was standing behind his back. He said nothing in reply, walked away, and regretted that he had come.
‘‘Gentlemen, off you go to fetch brush for the fire!’’ commanded Samoilenko.
They all wandered off at random, and the only ones who stayed put were Kirilin, Atchmianov, and Nikodim Alexandrych. Kerbalai brought chairs, spread a rug on the ground, and set down several bottles of wine. The police chief, Kirilin, a tall, imposing man who wore an overcoat over his tunic in all weather, with his haughty bearing, pompous stride, and thick, somewhat rasping voice, resembled all provincial police chiefs of the younger generation. His expression was sad and sleepy, as though he had just been awakened against his wishes.
‘‘What is this you’ve brought, you brute?’’ he asked Kerbalai, slowly enunciating each word. ‘‘I told you to serve Kvareli, and what have you brought, you Tartar mug? Eh? What?’’
‘‘We have a lot of wine of our own, Egor Alexeich,’’ Nikodim Alexandrych observed timidly and politely.
‘‘What, sir? But I want my wine to be there, too. I’m taking part in the picnic, and I presume I have every right to contribute my share. I pre-sume! Bring ten bottles of Kvareli!’’
‘‘Why so many?’’ Nikodim Alexandrych, who knew that Kirilin had no money, was surprised.
‘‘Twenty bottles! Thirty!’’ cried Kirilin.
‘‘Never mind, let him!’’ Atchmianov whispered to Nikodim Alexandrych. ‘‘I’ll pay.’’
Nadezhda Fyodorovna was in a gay, mischievous mood. She wanted to leap, laugh, exclaim, tease, flirt. In her cheap calico dress with blue flecks, red shoes, and the same straw hat, it seemed to her that she was small, simple, light and airy as a butterfly. She ran out on the flimsy bridge and looked into the water for a moment to make herself dizzy, then cried out and, laughing, ran across to the drying shed, and it seemed to her that all the men, even Kerbalai, admired her. When, in the swiftly falling darkness, the trees were merging with the mountains, the horses with the carriages, and a little light shone in the windows of the dukhan, she climbed a path that wound up the mountainside between the stones and thorny bushes and sat on a stone. Below, the fire was already burning. Near the fire, the deacon moved with rolled-up sleeves, and his long black shadow circled radius-like around the flames. He kept putting on more brush and stirring the pot with a spoon tied to a long stick. Samoilenko, with a copper-red face, bustled about the fire as in his own kitchen and shouted fiercely:
‘‘Where’s the salt, gentlemen? Did you forget it? Why are you all sitting around like landowners, and I’m the only one bustling about?’’
Laevsky and Nikodim Alexandrych sat next to each other on the fallen tree and gazed pensively at the fire. Marya Konstantinovna, Katya, and Kostya were taking the tea service and plates out of the baskets. Von Koren, his arms crossed and one foot placed on a stone, stood on the bank just beside the water and thought about something. Red patches from the fire, together with shadows, moved on the ground near the dark human figures, trembled on the mountainside, on the trees, on the bridge, on the drying shed; on the other side, the steep, eroded bank was all lit up, flickered, and was reflected in the river, and the swift-running, turbulent water tore its reflection to pieces.
The deacon went for the fish, which Kerbalai was cleaning and washing on the bank, but halfway there, he stopped and looked around.
‘‘My God, how good!’’ he thought. ‘‘The people, the stones, the fire, the twilight, the ugly tree—nothing more, but how good!’’
On the far bank, by the drying shed, some unknown people appeared. Because the light flickered and the smoke from the fire was carried to the other side, it was impossible to make out these people all at once, but they caught glimpses now of a shaggy hat and a gray beard, now of a blue shirt, now of rags hanging from shoulders to knees and a dagger across the stomach, now of a swarthy young face with black brows, as thick and bold as if they had been drawn with charcoal. About five of them sat down on the ground in a circle, while the other five went to the drying shed. One stood in the doorway with his back to the fire and, putting his hands behind him, began telling something that must have been very interesting, because, when Samoilenko added more brush and the fire blazed up, spraying sparks and brightly illuminating the drying barn, two physiognomies could be seen looking out the door, calm, expressing deep attention, and the ones sitting in a circle also turned and began listening to the story. A little later, the ones sitting in a circle began softly singing something drawn-out, melodious, like church singing during Lent... Listening to them, the deacon imagined how it would be with him in ten years, when he came back from the expedition: a young hieromonk, a missionary, an author with a name and a splendid past; he is ordained archimandrite, then bishop; he serves the liturgy in a cathedral; in a golden mitre with a panagia, he comes out to the ambo and, blessing the mass of people with the trikiri and dikiri, proclaims: ‘‘Look down from heaven, O God, and behold and visit this vineyard which Thy right hand hath planted!’’ And the children’s angelic voices sing in response: ‘‘Holy God...’18
‘‘Where’s the fish, Deacon?’’ Samoilenko’s voice rang out.
Returning to the fire, the deacon imagined a procession with the cross going down a dusty road on a hot July day; at the head the muzhiks carry banners, and the women and girls icons; after them come choirboys and a beadle with a bandaged cheek and straw in his hair; then, in due order,
himself, the deacon, after him a priest in a skull cap and with a cross, and behind them, raising dust, comes a crowd of muzhiks, women, boys; there, in the crowd, are the priest’s wife and the deaconess, with kerchiefs on their heads. The choir sings, babies howl, quails call, a lark pours out its song... Now they stop and sprinkle a herd with holy water... Go further, and on bended knee pray for rain. Then a bite to eat, conversation...
‘‘And that, too, is good ...’ thought the deacon.
VII
KIRILIN AND ATCHMIANOV were climbing the path up the mountainside. Atchmianov lagged behind and stopped, and Kirilin came up to Nadezhda Fyodorovna.
‘‘Good evening!’’ he said, saluting her.
‘‘Good evening.’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am!’’ Kirilin said, looking up at the sky and thinking.
‘‘Why ‘Yes, ma’am’?’’ asked Nadezhda Fyodorovna after some silence, and noticed that Atchmianov was
