Suddenly the door shrieked on its pulley, and the floor trembled from someone’s footsteps. A light wind blew at Egorushka, and it seemed to him that a big black bird swept past him and flapped its wings just by his face. He opened his eyes ... His uncle, the sack in his hands, ready for the road, was standing by the sofa. Father Khristofor, holding his broad-brimmed top hat, was bowing and smiling to someone, not gently and tenderly, as always, but with a strained deference that was very unsuited to his face. And Moisei Moiseich, as if his body had broken into three parts, was balancing and trying all he could not to fall apart. Only Solomon stood in the corner as if nothing had happened, his arms crossed, and smiling as contemptuously as before.
‘‘Your Excellency, forgive us, it’s not clean here!’’ moaned Moisei Moiseich with a painfully sweet smile, no longer noticing Kuzmichov or Father Khristofor, but only balancing his whole body so as not to fall apart. ‘‘We’re simple people, Your Excellency!’’
Egorushka rubbed his eyes. Indeed, in the middle of the room stood an excellency in the guise of a young, very beautiful and shapely woman in a black dress and a straw hat. Before Egorushka had time to make out her features, he recalled for some reason the solitary slender poplar he had seen that day on a hill.
‘‘Did Varlamov pass here today?’’ asked a woman’s voice.
‘‘No, Your Excellency!’’ replied Moisei Moiseich.
‘‘If you see him tomorrow, ask him to stop at my place for a minute.’’
Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, an inch from his eyes, Egorushka saw black velvety eyebrows, big brown eyes, and pampered woman’s cheeks with dimples, from which a smile spread all over her face like rays from the sun. There was a scent of something magnificent.
‘‘What a pretty boy!’’ said the lady. ‘‘Whose boy is he? Kazimir Mikhailovich, look, how lovely! My God, he’s asleep! My dear little chubsy . . .’’
And the lady kissed Egorushka hard on both cheeks, and he smiled and, thinking he was asleep, closed his eyes. The door pulley shrieked, and hurried steps were heard: someone was going in and out.
‘‘Egorushka! Egorushka!’’ came the thick whisper of two voices. ‘‘Get up, we’re leaving!’’
Someone, probably Deniska, stood Egorushka on his feet and led him by the arm; on the way he half opened his eyes and once more saw the beautiful woman in the black dress who had kissed him. She was standing in the middle of the room and, seeing him leave, smiled and nodded to him amiably. When he reached the door, he saw some handsome and thickset dark-haired man in a bowler hat and leggings. This must have been the lady’s escort.
‘‘Whoa!’’ came from the yard.
By the porch Egorushka saw a new luxurious carriage and a pair of black horses. On the box sat a lackey in livery with a long whip in his hand. Only Solomon came out to see the departing guests off. His face was tense with the desire to burst out laughing; he looked as if he was waiting with great impatience for their departure in order to laugh at them all he wanted.
‘‘Countess Dranitsky,’’ whispered Father Khristofor, getting into the britzka.
‘‘Yes, Countess Dranitsky,’’ Kuzmichov repeated, also in a whisper.
The impression produced by the countess’s arrival was probably very strong, because even Deniska spoke in a whisper and only dared to shout and whip up the bays when the britzka had gone about a quarter of a mile and instead of the inn nothing but a dim little light could be seen far behind them.
IV
WHO, FINALLY, WAS this elusive, mysterious Varlamov, of whom there was so much talk, whom Solomon held in contempt, and whom even the beautiful countess needed? Sitting on the box beside Deniska, the half-sleepy Egorushka was thinking precisely about this man. He had never seen him, but he had heard about him very often and had frequently pictured him in his imagination. It was known to him that Varlamov owned several thousand-score acres of land, about a hundred thousand sheep, and a lot of money; of his way of life and activities Egorushka knew only that he was always ‘‘circling around in these parts’’ and was always sought after.
Egorushka had also heard much at home about the countess Dranitsky. She, too, had several thousand-score acres, many sheep, a stud farm, and a lot of money, but she did not ‘‘circle around,’’ but lived on her rich estate, about which their acquaintances and Ivan Ivanych, who had visited the countess more than once on business, told many wonders. For instance, they said that in the countess’s drawing room, where portraits of all the Polish kings hung, there was a big table clock in the form of a crag, and on the crag stood a rearing golden steed with diamond eyes, and on the steed sat a golden rider who swung his saber right and left each time the clock struck the hour. They also told how twice a year the countess gave a ball to which the nobility and officials of the whole province were invited, and even Varlamov came, the guests all drank tea from silver samovars, ate all sorts of extraordinary things (for instance, raspberries and strawberries were served in winter, for Christmas), and danced to music that played day and night ...
‘‘And she’s so beautiful!’’ thought Egorushka, remembering her face and smile.
Kuzmichov was probably also thinking about the countess, because when the britzka had gone some two miles, he said:
‘‘This Kazimir Mikhailych robs her good and proper! Two years ago, remember, when I bought wool from her, he made about three thousand on my purchase alone.’’
‘‘You’d expect nothing else from a Polack,’’ said Father Khristofor.
‘‘And she doesn’t care a whit. As they say, young and stupid. Wind blowing around in her head!’’
Egorushka, for some reason, wanted to think only about Varlamov and the countess, especially the latter. His sleepy brain totally rejected ordinary thoughts, it was clouded and retained only fantastic fairy-tale images, which have the convenience of emerging in the brain somehow of themselves, without any bother on the thinker’s part, and also of themselves—you need only give a good shake of the head— of vanishing without a trace. And besides, nothing around disposed him to ordinary thoughts. To the right were dark hills, which seemed to screen off something unknown and terrible; to the left, the whole sky above the horizon was covered with a crimson glow, and it was hard to tell whether there was a fire somewhere or the moon was about to rise. The distance was visible, as in the daytime, but now its delicate purple color, shaded by the dusk of evening, disappeared, and the whole steppe was hiding in the dusk, like Moisei Moiseich’s children under the blanket.
On July evenings and nights, the quails and corncrakes no longer cry, the nightingales do not sing in the wooded gullies, the flowers give off no scent, but the steppe is still beautiful and filled with life. As soon as the sun sets and the earth is enveloped in dusk, the day’s anguish is forgotten, all is forgiven, and the steppe breathes easily with its broad chest. As if because the grass does not see its old age in the darkness, a merry, youthful chirring arises in it, such as does not happen in the daytime; chirping, whistling, scratching, steppe basses, tenors, and trebles—everything blends into a ceaseless, monotonous hum, a good background for remembrance and sorrow. The monotonous chirring lulls you like a cradle song; you ride along and feel you are falling asleep, but then from somewhere comes the abrupt, alarmed cry of a sleepless bird or some indefinite noise resembling someone’s voice, like an astonished ‘‘Ahh!’’ and the drowsiness lets go of your eyelids. And then it happens that you drive past a little gully thick with brush, and you hear a bird that the steppe people call a ‘‘sleepik,’’ crying ‘‘Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!’’ to someone, and another guffaws or dissolves in hysterical sobbing—that is an owl. Whom they cry to and who listens to them on this plain, God only knows, but there is much sorrow and plaintiveness in their cries ... There is a scent of hay, dried grass, and late flowers, but the scent is thick, sweetly cloying, and tender.