‘‘Jailbird!’’ he cried in a hollow, tearful voice. ‘‘Why’d you kill a grass snake? What did it do to you, curse you! Look, he’s killed a grass snake! And what if somebody did the same to you?’’
‘‘You shouldn’t kill grass snakes, that’s for sure . . .’’ Pantelei muttered placidly. ‘‘You shouldn’t ... It’s not an asp. It has the looks of a viper, but it’s a quiet, innocent beast ... It loves man ... Your grass snake . . .’’
Dymov and the black-bearded fellow probably felt ashamed, because they laughed loudly and, without answering the protests, trudged lazily to their wagons. When the last wagon came even with the place where the dead snake lay, the man with the bound-up face, standing over the snake, turned to Pantelei and asked in a tearful voice:
‘‘Why’d he kill the grass snake, grandpa?’’
His eyes, as Egorushka now made out, were small, lackluster, his face was gray, sickly, and also as if lackluster, and his chin was red and appeared badly swollen.
‘‘Why’d he kill it, grandpa?’’ he repeated, striding beside Pantelei.
‘‘A stupid man, got an itch in his hands, that’s why he killed it,’’ the old man replied. ‘‘And you shouldn’t kill a grass snake ... That’s for sure ... We all know Dymov, he’s a prankster, he’ll kill anything he gets his hands on, and Kiriukha didn’t interfere. He ought to have interfered, but it was just ha-ha-ha and ho-ho-ho ... But don’t you get angry, Vasya ... Why get angry? They killed it, and God help them ... Dymov’s a prankster, and Kiriukha does it from his stupid wits ... Never mind ... They’re stupid people, with no understanding, and God help them. Emelyan here will never touch what he oughtn’t. Never, that’s for sure ... Because he’s an educated man, and they’re stupid ... Your Emelyan ... He won’t ...’’
The wagoner in the reddish coat and with the spongy bump, who conducted the invisible choir, stopped on hearing his name, waited until Pantelei and Vasya came even with him, and walked beside them.
‘‘What’s the talk about?’’ he said in a wheezing, stifled voice.
‘‘Vasya here’s getting angry,’’ said Pantelei. ‘‘I use various words, so he won’t get angry, I mean ... Eh, my ailing, frostbitten little feet! Ehh! They got itchy for the sake of Sunday, the Lord’s feast day!’’
‘‘It’s from walking,’’ observed Vasya.
‘‘No, lad, no . . . Not from walking. When I walk, it seems easier, but when I lie down and get warm—it’s the death of me. Walking’s freer for me.’’
Emelyan in his reddish coat stood between Pantelei and Vasya and waved his hand as if they were going to sing. After waving it for a while, he lowered his hand and grunted hopelessly.
‘‘I’ve got no voice!’’ he said. ‘‘Sheer disaster! All night and all morning I’ve been imagining the triple ‘Lord have mercy!’ that we sang at Marinovsky’s wedding; it’s sitting in my head and throat ... so it seems I could just up and sing it, but I can’t! I’ve got no voice!’’
He fell silent for a moment, thinking about something, then went on:
‘‘For fifteen years I was in the choir, in the whole Lugansk factory, maybe, there was no such voice, but then, deuce take it, I went swimming in the Donets two years ago, and ever since I’ve been unable to hit a single note clearly. I caught a chill in my throat. And me without a voice is the same as a workman without a hand.’’
‘‘That’s for sure,’’ agreed Pantelei.
‘‘The way I look at myself is, I’m a lost man and nothing more.’’
At that moment Vasya happened to catch sight of Egorushka. His eyes became unctuous and grew still smaller.
‘‘And there’s a young master coming with us!’’ he said and covered his nose with his sleeve, as if abashed. ‘‘What a grand coachman! Stay with us, you can go around with the wagons carting wool.’’
The notion of combining a young master and a coachman in one body probably seemed very curious and witty to him, because he tittered loudly and went on developing the thought. Emelyan also glanced up at Egorushka, but fleetingly and coldly. He was occupied with his thoughts, and if it had not been for Vasya, he would not have noticed Egorushka’s presence. Before five minutes had passed, he again began waving his hand, then, describing to his companions the beauties of the wedding ‘‘Lord have mercy,’’ which had come to his mind during the night, he put the whip under his arm and waved both hands.
A mile from the village, the train stopped by a well with a sweep. Lowering his bucket into the well, the black-bearded Kiriukha leaned his belly on the rail and thrust his shaggy head, shoulders, and part of his chest into the dark hole, so that Egorushka could see only his short legs, which barely touched the ground; seeing the reflection of his head far away at the bottom of the well, he rejoiced and dissolved into stupid bass laughter, and the well’s echo answered him the same way; when he stood up, his face and neck were crimson red. Dymov was the first to run over and drink. He drank laughing, often tearing himself away from the bucket and telling Kiriukha about something funny, then he turned and, loudly, for the whole steppe to hear, uttered five bad words. Egorushka did not understand the meaning of these words, but he knew very well that they were bad. He knew the repugnance his family and acquaintances silently nursed for them, shared this feeling, not knowing why himself, and was accustomed to think that only drunk and riotous people had the privilege of uttering these words aloud. He remembered the killing of the grass snake, listened to Dymov’s laughter, and felt something like hatred for this man. And, as if on purpose, just then Dymov caught sight of Egorushka, who got off the wagon and was walking towards the well. He laughed loudly and shouted:
‘‘Brothers, the old man gave birth to a boy last night!’’
Kiriukha coughed from his bass laughter. Someone else laughed, too, and Egorushka blushed and decided finally that Dymov was a very wicked man.
Blond, curly-headed, hatless, and with the shirt unbuttoned on his chest, Dymov seemed handsome and extraordinarily strong; his every movement revealed the prankster and strongman who knows his own worth. He rolled his shoulders, set his arms akimbo, talked and laughed louder than anybody else, and looked as if he were about to lift something very heavy with one hand and astonish the whole world by it. His mischievous, mocking gaze glided over the road, the wagon train, and the sky, did not pause on anything, and, from having nothing to do, seemed to be looking for some creature to kill or something to make fun of. Evidently he was not afraid of anyone, knew no restraint, and probably had no interest at all in Egorushka’s opinion ... But with all his soul, Egorushka now hated his blond head, clear face, and strength, listened with fear and repugnance to his laughter, and tried to think of some abusive word to say to him in revenge.
Pantelei also went over to the bucket. He took a green icon-lamp glass from his pocket, wiped it with a rag, dipped from the bucket and drank, then dipped again, wrapped the glass in the rag, and put it back in his pocket.
‘‘Grandpa, why do you drink from an icon lamp?’’ Egorushka was surprised.
‘‘Some drink from a bucket, some from an icon lamp,’’ the old man answered evasively. ‘‘To each his own . . . You drink from a bucket, well, so drink in good health . . .’’
‘‘My dear little heart, my sweet little beauty,’’ Vasya suddenly started speaking in a tender, tearful voice. ‘‘My dear little heart!’
His eyes were aimed off into the distance, they became unctuous, smiled, and his face acquired the same expression as when he had looked at Egorushka earlier.
‘‘Who are you talking to?’’ asked Kiriukha.
‘‘A sweet little fox ... it’s lying on its back and playing like a puppy ...’’
They all began looking into the distance, seeking the fox with their eyes, but found nothing. Vasya alone saw something with his gray, lackluster little eyes, and admired. As Egorushka later became convinced, he had strikingly keen eyesight. He saw so well that, for him, the dirty brown, empty steppe was always filled with life and content. He had only to peer into the distance to see a fox, a hare, a bustard, or some other animal that keeps away from people. It is not hard to see a fleeing hare or a flying bustard—anyone crossing the steppe has seen that—but it is not given to everyone to see wild animals in their home life, when they are not fleeing, not hiding or looking around in alarm. But Vasya could see foxes frolicking, hares washing themselves with their forepaws, bustards spreading their wings, kestrels beating their wings ‘‘in place.’’ Thanks to such keen eyesight, besides the world that everyone could see, Vasya had another world of his own, inaccessible to anyone else, and probably a very nice one, because when he looked and admired, it was hard not to envy him.