A deep sigh came from under the britzka. This was Kuzmichov waking up. He quickly raised his head, gazed uneasily into the distance, and it was evident from this look, which slipped insensibly past Egorushka and Deniska, that on waking up, he had thought of wool and Varlamov.
‘‘Father Khristofor, get up, it’s time!’’ he began in alarm. ‘‘Enough sleeping, we’ve slept through business as it is! Deniska, harness up!’’
Father Khristofor woke up with the same smile he had fallen asleep with. His face was crumpled and wrinkled from sleep and seemed to have become twice smaller. After washing and dressing, he unhurriedly took a small, greasy Psalter from his pocket and, turning his face to the east, began reading in a whisper and crossing himself.
‘‘Father Khristofor!’’ Kuzmichov said reproachfully. ‘‘It’s time to go, the horses are ready, and you, by God ...’’
‘‘Right away, right away ...’’ Father Khristofor murmured. ‘‘I must read the kathismas7 ... I haven’t read any today.’’
‘‘The kathismas can wait till later.’’
‘‘Ivan Ivanych, I have a rule for each day ... I can’t.’’
‘‘God’s not a stickler.’’
For a whole quarter of an hour Father Khristofor stood motionless, facing the east and moving his lips, while Kuzmichov looked at him almost with hatred and impatiently shrugged his shoulders. He was especially angry when, after each ‘‘Glory,’’ Father Khristofor drew his breath, quickly crossed himself, and, deliberately raising his voice so that the others would cross themselves, said three times:
‘‘Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, glory to Thee, O God!’’
At last he smiled, looked up into the sky, and, putting the Psalter into his pocket, said:
‘‘Finis!’’
A minute later the britzka started on its way. As if it was driving backwards and not forwards, the travelers saw the same things as before noon. The hills were still sinking into the purple distance, and there was no end of them in sight; tall weeds flashed past, boulders, mowed fields rushed by, and the same rooks, and the kite, sedately flapping its wings, flew over the steppe. The air congealed still more from the heat and the stillness, obedient nature grew torpid in the silence. No wind, no brisk, fresh sound, no clouds.
But then, finally, as the sun began to sink in the west, the steppe, the hills, and the air could bear no more oppression, and, worn out, their patience exhausted, they attempted to throw off the yoke. An ash-gray curly cloud unexpectedly appeared from behind the hills. It exchanged glances with the steppe—I’m ready, it seemed to say—and frowned. Suddenly something broke in the stagnant air, a strong gust of wind came and, whistling noisily, went wheeling around the steppe. At once the grass and last year’s weeds raised a murmur, the dust of the road whirled into a spiral, ran across the steppe, and, drawing straw, dragonflies, and feathers with it, rose up into the sky in a black, spinning pillar and obscured the sun. Tumbleweed rolled hither and thither, stumbling and leaping, over the steppe, and one bush got into the whirl, spun like a bird, flew up into the sky, and, turning into a black speck there, disappeared from sight. After it swept another, then a third, and Egorushka saw two tumbleweeds collide in the blue height and clutch at each other as if in combat.
A kestrel took flight just by the roadside. Flashing its wings and tail, bathed in sunlight, it looked like an angler’s fly or a pond moth whose wings merge with its feelers as it flashes over the water, and it seems to have feelers growing on it in front, and behind, and on the sides ... Quivering in the air like an insect, sporting its motley colors, the kestrel rose high up in a straight line, then, probably frightened by the cloud of dust, veered off to one side, and its flashing could be seen for a long time ...
And now, alarmed by the wind and not understanding what it was about, a corncrake flew up from the grass. It flew with the wind, not against it as all birds do; this ruffled its feathers, puffing it up to the size of a hen, and it looked very angry and imposing. Only the rooks, grown old on the steppe and used to its turmoil, calmly raced over the grass or else, paying no attention to anything, indifferently pecked the tough ground with their fat beaks.
From beyond the hills came a dull rumble of thunder; there was a breath of coolness. Deniska whistled merrily and whipped up the horses. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov, holding on to their hats, turned their eyes to the hills ... It would be nice if it spat some rain!
A little more, it seemed, the smallest effort, a single push, and the steppe would gain the upper hand. But the invisible oppressive force gradually fettered the wind and the air, settled the dust, and again came stillness, as if nothing had happened. The cloud hid, the sunburnt hills frowned, the air obediently congealed, and only the alarmed peewits wept somewhere and bemoaned their fate ...
Soon after that, evening came.
III
IN THE EVENING twilight a big, one-story house appeared, with a rusty iron roof and dark windows. This house was called an innyard, though there was no yard around it, and it stood in the midst of the steppe not fenced by anything. Slightly to one side of it, a pathetic little cherry orchard with a wattle fence could be seen, and under its windows, their heavy heads bowed, sunflowers stood sleeping. In the orchard a tiny little windmill rattled away, set there so that the noise would frighten the hares. Besides that, there was nothing to be seen or heard near the house but the steppe.
The britzka had barely stopped by the covered porch when joyful voices were heard inside the house—one male, the other female. The sliding door shrieked on its pulley, and in an instant a tall, skinny figure rose up by the britzka, flapping its arms and coattails. This was the innkeeper Moisei Moiseich, a middle-aged man with a very pale face and a handsome ink-black beard. He was dressed in a worn black frock coat that hung on his narrow shoulders as if on a hanger, and its tails flapped like wings each time Moisei Moiseich clasped his hands in joy or horror. Besides the frock coat, the landlord was wearing wide white untucked trousers and a velvet vest with orange flowers resembling gigantic bedbugs.
Moisei Moiseich, recognizing the visitors, first stopped dead from the flood of emotion, then clasped his hands and groaned. His frock coat flapped its tails, his back bent into a curve, and his pale face twisted into such a smile as if the sight of the britzka was not only pleasant for him but also painfully sweet.
‘‘Ah, my God, my God!’’ he began in a high singsong voice, breathless and bustling, his movements hindering the passengers from getting out of the britzka. ‘‘And what a happy day it is for me! Ah, and what am I to do now! Ivan Ivanych! Father Khristofor! What a pretty little sir is sitting on the box, God punish me! Ah my God, what am I doing standing here and not inviting the guests in? Please, I humbly beg you ... come in! Give me all your things ... Ah, my God!’’
While rummaging in the britzka and helping the visitors to get out, Moisei Moiseich suddenly turned around and shouted in such a wild, strangled voice, as if he were drowning and calling for help:
‘‘Solomon! Solomon!’’
‘‘Solomon, Solomon!’’ the woman’s voice repeated in the house.
The door shrieked on its pulley, and a young Jew appeared on the threshold, of medium height, red-haired, with a big bird’s nose and a bald spot in the midst of his stiff, curly hair; he was dressed in a short, very worn jacket with rounded tails and too short sleeves, and tricot trousers, also too short, as a result of which he himself looked short and skimpy, like a plucked bird. This was Solomon, Moisei Moiseich’s brother. Silently, not offering any greeting but only smiling somehow strangely, he approached the britzka.