Laevsky knew that Von Koren had no love for him. He feared him for this reason, and in his presence, he felt as though everyone were encumbered and that someone was looking over his shoulder. He did not give a reply, walked off to the side and regretted ever having come on the trip.
“Ladies and gentlemen, march! Find kindling for the fire!” commanded Samoylenko.
They all dispersed in every which direction, and the only ones to remain were Kirilin, Achmianov and Nikodim Aleksandrich. Kerbalay had brought over chairs, spread a rug out on the ground and put out several bottles of wine. The police captain, Kirilin, a tall, stately man, who wore his greatcoat over his service jacket regardless of the weather, with a proud gait and a deep albeit hoarse voice, resembled a typical young provincial chief of police. His countenance was sad and sleepy, as though he had just been awoken against his wishes.
“What did you bring us, you dolt?” he asked Kerbalay, slowly pronouncing each word. “I ordered you to bring Kvareli, and you, Tartar-face, what did you bring? Well? What?”
“We have plenty of our own wine, Igor Alekseich,” Nikodim Aleksandrich noted timidly and politely.
“What’s that? Well, I want my wine served here too. I’m participating in this picnic and I think it’s only proper that I contribute my rightful share. On-ly pro-per! Bring us ten bottles of Kvareli!”
“Why so many?” Nikodim Aleksandrich was taken aback, knowing that Kirilin had no money.
“Twenty bottles! Thirty!” cried Kirilin.
“Forget it, let him,” whispered Achmianov to Nikodim Aleksandrich. “I’ll pay for it.”
Nadezhda Fyodorovna was in a cheerful, mischievous mood. She wanted to hop around, laugh at the top of her lungs, yell, tease, play the coquette. In her cheap calico print dress with little blue eyelets, in little red shoes and in that very same straw hat, she perceived herself as being petite, simple, light and ethereal, like a butterfly. She ran across a weak little bridge and stared into the water for a minute so her head would start spinning, then uttered a little cry and ran off laughing to the opposite bank toward the shed where grain was dried. It seemed to her that all the men and even Kerbalay were admiring her. Then, in the fast approaching darkness, the trees merged with the mountains, the horses with the carriages, and lights began to shimmer in the windows of the dukhan; she walked along the little path that wound through boulders and thorny bushes, she made her way up a mountain and sat down on a rock. Below her a campfire had already been lit. The deacon, his shirtsleeves rolled up, milled about near the fire, and his long black shadow formed a radius that circled around the fire. He was adding kindling and stirring the contents of the cauldron with a spoon tied to a long stick. Samoylenko, with a coppery-red face, plodded around near the fire, as he would in his own kitchen, and shouted ferociously:
“Ladies and gentlemen, where is the salt? For heaven’s sake, have we forgotten it? Why has everyone settled in as though they were the lords of the manor while I alone toil?”
Laevsky and Nikodim Aleksandrich sat next to one another on a fallen tree and stared at the fire lost in thought. Maria Konstantinovna, Katya and Kostya were removing a tea service and plates from a basket. Von Koren stood at the bank nearly at the water’s edge, his arms crossed and one leg lifted up on a rock, his thoughts on something. Red spots from the fire joined with the shadows, meandered along the earth near the darkened human forms, quivered upon the mountains, upon the trees, upon the bridge, upon the drying shed. On the opposite shore the precipitous, pitted little bank was fully illuminated, it glimmered and was reflected in the river, and the speeding turbulent river tore its reflection to shreds.
The deacon went to get the fish that Kerbalay had been cleaning and washing on the shore, but halfway there he stopped and looked all around him.
My lord, how good it is here! he thought. The people, the rocks, the fire, the twilight, that disfigured tree—that’s all there is, but how good it is!
Strangers appeared on the opposite bank near the drying shed. Because of the fading light and the smoke of the campfire wafting to the opposite shore, it was not possible to make out all the people immediately. They came into view in parts, here a shaggy hat and a gray beard, there a blue shirt, here rags from shoulders to the knees and a dagger across the stomach, there a young swarthy face with black eyebrows so bushy and gruff, they appeared to have been drawn with charcoal. Five of them sat on the ground in a circle around the campfire, while the other five continued on to the drying shed. One of them stood in the doorway with his back to the campfire, hands folded behind his back, and began to tell a story that must have been very interesting, because when Samoylenko added kindling to the fire it flared up shooting off sparks and brightly illuminating the drying shed; two tranquil countenances appearing to pay close attention became visible in the doorway, likewise those sitting in the circle turned and began to listen to the story. Not long after, those seated in the circle began to sing, something drawn-out, melodic, similar to the hymn of receiving the host, the deacon realized what would become of him in ten years’ time when he had returned from the expedition—he, the young Hieromonk-missionary, an author with a name and a remarkable past. He’s been granted the appointment of Archimandrite, then Architrave. He presents the liturgy in a cathedral-esque church. In a golden mitre with the Panagia he steps out onto the ambo with the trikerion and the dikerion and makes the sign of the cross before a mass of people. He proclaims: “Look down from Heaven, O God, and behold this vineyard, as it was Your right hand that planted it!” While children with angelic voices sing a response of: “Holy God …”
“Deacon, where’s the fish?” Samoylenko’s voice was heard.
Returning to the fire, the deacon imagined a pageant procession along a dusty road on a hot July day following the path of the cross. The men carry a gonfalon up ahead, and the women and girls, icons. Next the choirboys and the sexton, his jaw tied and straw in his hair. Next, according to sequence, comes he, the deacon. Behind him the priest in a skull-cap and cross, and behind him a crowd of men, women and little boys fill the air with dust. There in the crowd are the priest’s wife and the deaconess, their heads covered by shawls. The singing of the choir, the wails of the children, the cries of the quail, the skylarks’ warble … Now they stop and the flock is doused with holy water … They proceed and in genuflection pray for rain. Later a snack, conversation …
And that’s good too …, the deacon thought.
VII
Kirilin and Achmianov made their way up the mountain along a little path. Achmianov lingered and stopped, but Kirilin approached Nadezhda Fyodorovna.
“Good evening!” he said, touching the visor of his cap.
“Good evening.”
“Yes, milady!” Kirilin said, looking up at the sky and thinking.
“What do you mean—’Yes, milady’?” asked Nadezhda Fyodorovna, who was momentarily silent, noticing that Achmianov was observing them both.
“Well, what I mean is,” the officer spoke, slowly, “it seems that our love has withered before ever having blossomed, so to speak. This is what you expect me to understand? The coquetry was all from your side. It’s the way of your kind. Unless you consider me a vagrant, with whom you may act however you please.”
“It was all a mistake! Leave me alone!” Nadezhda Fyodorovna said harshly, on this brilliant evening full of wonder, looking at him with fear and asking herself in bewilderment: Could it be that in fact there was a moment when she had liked this man and he had been close to her?