But the archeologist was oblivious of Artem, of his precious envelopes, of all the world. Now only the chest existed for him. He squatted beside it and touched its top as though he were afraid it was hot enough to burn his fingers. His hands trembled; his lips were moving, shaping inaudible words. He was evidently very agitated and overexcited, and Artem sensed it was not the right time for taunting him. It would be sacrilegious.
“Dmitro Borisovich, it’s a real big find, isn’t it? Is it valuable?” he asked in an undertone, feeling the excitement spread through him, too.
It was hardly worth asking since just one look at the archeologist was enough to tell the whole story. He tried hard to control himself but was not very successful. His efforts at constraint were easily visible. Dmitro Borisovich did everything that had to be done, that his long years of archeological experience had taught him to do, but he seemed merely to be going through the motions; his movements were mechanical, almost like that of an automaton. He took his camera out, photographed the chest from various angles, the same procedure as before the stone wall, but the mere fact that he almost dropped the flash twice, stumbled on the even floor, and did not comment his own unusual awkwardness allowed Artem to deduce that he was in a state of extreme agitation and tension. Artem, who kept his eyes glued to the archeologist, said eagerly:
“Can I help you?”
But Dmitro Borisovich did not even hear Artem. He lifted the chest off the ground and held it at the arms’ length as one holds a basin filled to the brim with water. After holding it in this manner for a few moments, he carefully lowered it back to the ground. Then he approached the chest from the other side. His hair was dishevelled; his spectacles lop-sided. But he didn’t see anything or hear anything; he was heedless of everything except for the chest…
Artem could make out a few words Dmitro Borisovich was muttering as though answering some questions he had silently put to himself:
“Yes… by the looks of it… dating to the Scythians… why only bronze?… strange, there’s no iron… hidden away for no one to see… a relic… extraordinary!… a real hiding place!…”
“So you think it’s Scythian?” Artem asked timidly.
But the archeologist was still quite inaccessible. He walked around the chest once again, bending his neck to one side like a hen that is aiming to peck at a seed it has just discovered. He looked at the chest first with one eye, then with the other, half-closing them at times. Then, suddenly rousing himself from his trance, he turned to Artem as though the young man had just appeared.
“Artem, my dear boy, this is quite extraordinary!” he cried out, grabbing the young man by his sleeve. “What stroke of luck brought you here? How did you guess the chest was hidden in precisely this corner?”
Artem shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed: what could he say really? He had just happened upon it; that was all…
But Dmitro Borisovich did not wait for him to answer. He went on speaking with ardor:
“My dear friend, you’ve surely got the luck of the devil on your side! It is doubtless of Scythian origin. And it is equally clear that the chest was placed here on purpose… As to who did it, I’d rather avoid making conjectures at this stage… It was hidden here, and then this recess was sealed off by a stone wall. I believe that solves the mystery of why the wall should be here! Do you follow me? It’s as clear as the fact that we’re standing here and now!”
Now Artem looked at the chest with more than mere curiosity. Other thoughts flooded the young man’s excitable mind.
Long centuries passed, days and nights inexorably following one another. Generations succeded each other. And all this time, the small chest had rested peacefully in the tightly sealed recess of the cave. Many centuries of time had enshrouded the chest; utter stillness had guarded it, and along with that, had lain the secret it concealed. Now, this relic of remote past has been discovered. It would be taken to the surface, and in the bright sunlight, the mysterious chest would yield up its secrets…
“Dmitro Borisovich, what do you think is inside?”
“Inside this chest?” The archeologist glanced at the chest once again and spread his hands in the gesture of helplessness. “I reckon your question could be answered here and now only by a clairvoyant, but even he, in my opinion, wouldn’t be able to make a very definite statement. What’s inside, really? It could be anything. Jewels, or… No, it’s no good racking our brains over it. All the more so, that I, no matter how hard I try, cannot recollect any similar finds made or described in archeology. Some very interesting and important discoveries have been made in the barrows — the ancient burial mounds — finds made during the excavation of ancient settlements. But never anything like this chest…” Dmitro Borisovich stroked the lid gently.
“To find such a bronze chest sitting all by itself in a cave, sealed by a stone wall — no, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Well, all right, soon we’ll know everything. Let’s get moving.”
The archeologist lifted the chest with great care and headed for the hole they had made in the wall.
“Light the way for me, Artem, give me some light!”
The yellowish envelopes, filled with the dust that had been collected in the cave, were abandoned. Dmitro Bori- sovicli, carrying the chest, stepped on one of them. The heavy trample tore the envelope and scattered the dust. But the archeologist paid no heed, for all his attention was concentrated on the bronze chest. Artem, who noticed all this, smiled to himself. In spite of the great solemnity of the moment, he couldn’t help launching another taunt. As soon as they got through the hole, he looked at the archeologist who was moving majestically, holding the chest in his arms as though it were an object of the greatest value on earth. The elder man was coughing to indicate the significance of the event, and his younger colleague said in a solemn voice, making considerable effort not to burst into laughter:
“I am grieved to inform you, Dmitro Borisovich, that unfortunately you’ll never make a true archeologist…”
“What’s that?”
“I said you’d never make a true archeologist, Dmitro Borisovich. You’re the kind of a person who is interested only in valuable finds. Chests, for example, or something else of that sort…”
“Oh, come off it! What is it you’re driving at?”
“You see, Dmitro Borisovich, archeology is a comprehensive science. It deals with not only occasional finds of artifacts, no matter how valuable, but with what you might call ‘trifles.’ Rather it deals mostly with the tiniest details. It is they, these details, when systematized, that are of greatest value to archeology. Archeology looks for such details everywhere. It examines, studies and systematizes them. It can draw most helpful conclusions from the analysis of, say, dust. True archeologists never discard the collected,samples, much less trample them mercilessly under foot, because they are never overwhelmed by individual finds, no matter how fascinating. That’s something truly dedicated archeologists never do… By the way, Dmitro Borisovich, don’t get too worked up. My ear is out of your reach now, so you’ll have some problems trying to grab it. Besides your Jiands are nicely occupied with the chest, this individual artifact…”
“How dare you! What impertinence!”
“Maybe I’m being cheeky, yes. But I’ll continue since I believe I’ll be able to make some things clear to you. As I’ve said archeology studies even what seems to be the most insignificant things and it is unthinkable for a dedicated archeologist to cast them on the ground and trample them disdainfully… like some archeologists I happen to know personally… Isn’t it so, Dmitro Borisovich, or am I mistaken?”
The archeologist’s reply was, to Artem’s great surprise, unexpectedly mild and placatory:
“You’re after your revenge, my friend? You want to get under my skin, you want to be witty at my expense, eh? My dear boy, you’re free to do as you like. But I have to tell you frankly that at the moment, I really don’t care. I’ll tell you one thing. When you yourself will become an experienced geologist… or maybe an archeologist, who knows?… then you’ll understand that there are moments when even a reserved scholar, burdened with age, knowledge and experience, turns into an over-enthusiastic boy all of a sudden. And when you have understood it, you’ll remember your taunts — and feel ashamed of them. All right, let’s forget about it. Light the way, Artem, I’m in mortal fear of stumbling and somehow damaging our find.”