'How perfectly swcet!' said Mary Bityugov, sucking in hcr breath rapturously. 'Now, isn't that nice, children? And how quiet it is!'
'Yes, very nice indecd,' agreed Layevsky, who liked the view. Looking at the sky, and then at blue smoke issuing from the inn's chimney, he suddenly fclt sad for some reason. 'Ycs, very nice,' he repeated.
'Do describe the view for us, Mr. Laycvsky,' Mary Bityugov asked plaintively.
'Now, why should I?' replied Layevsky. 'The impact beggars all description. This wealth of colour and sound which we all receive from nature through our senses—writcrs only make a hideous, dis- torted mess of it.'
'Think so?' askcd Von Koren coldly, choosing thc largest rock near the water and trying to climb up and sit on it.
'Think so, do you?' he repeatcd, staring at Layevsky. 'What of Romeo andJnliet? Or Pushkin's "'Ukrainian Night", say? Nature should come and do homage to them.'
'Pcrhaps,' Layevsky agrecd, too lazy to think of a rejoinder.
'What are Romeo and Juliet, anyway?' he added a littlc latcr.
'Romanric, poetical, sacred love—that's really only roses strewn over corruption to hide it. Romeo's an animal like anyone else.'
'Whatever one discusses with you, you always bring it down to '
Von Koren looked at Katya and left his remark unfinishcd.
'What do I bring it downwn to?' asked Layevsky.
'One remarks "What a fine bunch of grapes," say. "Yes," say you. "But how ugly when they've been chewed up and digested in people's stomachs." Why say it? It's not original, and—it's a pretty odd way to talk, anyway.'
Layevsky fcared Von Koren, aware as he was of the other man's dislike. In Von Koren's presence people seemed inhibited, he felt, as if each had someone breathing down his neck. Layevsky walked away without answering, and regretted having come.
'Quick march, everyone! Fetch wood for the fire!' commanded Samoylenko.
All went off this way and that, only Kirilin, Achmianov and Mr. Bityugov remaining behind. Kerbalay brought some chairs, spread a rug on the ground, and set downwn several bottles of wine. Inspector Kirilin, a tall, imposing man, who wore a cloak over his tunic in all weathers, resembled a young provincial chief constable in his self- important bearing, dignified gait and thick, rather raucous voice. He looked dejected and sleepy, as ifhe had just been woken up against his will.
'What's that you've brought, you swine?' he asked Kerbalay, enunciating each word dowly. 'I told you to serve Kvarel, but what have you brought, you Tatar bastard? Eh? What?'
'We have plenty of wine of our ownwn, Mr. Kirilin,' Mr. Bityugov observed nervously and politely.
'What of it? I want you to have some of my wine. I'm one of the party, and I presume I'm fully entitled to contribute my whack. I presume so, sir! Bring ten bottles of Kvarel!'
'But why so many?' wondered Mr. Bityugov, knowing that Kirilin had no money.
'Twenty bottles! Thirty!' shouted Kirilin.
'Never mind, let him do it,' Achmianov whispered to Bityugov. 'I'll pay.'
Nadezhda was in gay, skittish mood. She felt like skipping, laughing, shouting, teasing, flirting. In her cheap cotton dress with blue polka dots, red shoes and the same straw hat, she felt tiny, artless, light and airy as a butterfly. R^^ng over the rickety little bridge, she looked at the water for a minute to make herself dizzy, then shrieked and ran laughing towards the barn on the far bank, feeling that all the men, even Kerbalay, could not take their eyes off hcr. When the rapid onset of dusk had merged trees and mountains, horses and carriages, while a gleam of light showed in the windows of the inn, she climbed a wind- ing path between rocks and thorns up the hillside, and sat on a rock. Down below the fire was alrcady ablaze.
The deacon pottered ncar it, his sleeves rolled up and his long black shadow moving in a radius round the flames. He added brush- wood and stirred the pot with a spoon tied to a long stick. Samoylenko, his face copper-red, was bustling about near the fire as if in his own kitchen.
'Where's the salt, you people?' he shouted. 'Forgot it, eh? Why loll around? Think you're the lords of crearion? Am I to do all the work?'
Layevsky and Nicodemus Bityugov sat side by side on the fallen tree, gazing pensively at the fire. Mary Bityugov, Katya and Kostya took the tea things and the bowls out of the baskets. Folding his arms and putting one foot on a rock, Von Koren stood wrapped in thought on the bank near the very edge of thc water. Shadows and red patches thrown by the bonfire flickered on the ground near the dark shapes of people and quivered on mountain, trees, bridge and barn. The precipi- tous, rutted, opposite bank was brightly lit, its glimmerings reflected in the water, but cut to shreds by the churning torrent.
The deacon went to fetch the fish which Kerbalay was cleaning and washing on the bank, but stopped half-way to look around.
'God, how wonderful!' he thought. 'People, rocks, fire, dusk, misshapen tree—that's all, but isn't it beautiful!'
A group of strangers appeared near the barn on the far bank. The flickering of the light and the bonfire smoke blown across the brook blurred the group as a whole, but details of it could be discerned— here a shaggy fur cap and a grey beard, there a navy-blue skirt, else- where rags from shoulder to knee, and a dagger across the stomach, or a young swarthy face with black brows thick and sharp as if drawn in charcoal. About fivc people sat down in a circle on the ground, and anothcr half dozen went into the barn. Hands thrust behind him, one man stood in thc doorway with his back to the fire, and began to tell a story. That it was a fascinating talc was shown v.rhen Samoy- lcnko added wood to the fire and it flared up, flashing sparks and casting a bright light on the barn—whereupon two faces, calm but expressing rapt attention, were seen looking through the door, while those sitting in the circle had turned round and were listening too. A little later the sitters quietly intoned a leisurely, tuneful song like the chanting at a church service in Lent.
As he listened, the deacon imagined himself returning from the expedition in about ten years' time. He is a young monk, a missionary, a celebrated author with a glorious p.ist. He is made archimandrite, then bishop. He conducts a cathedral service in his golden mitre with his bishop's insignia worn on a chain round his neck, stepping forward to the ambo and making the sign of the cross over the assembled people with his triple and his double candelabrum.
'O God, look do-wn from heaven,' he proclaims. 'Behold and visit this vineyard which Thy right hand hath planted.' In angelic voices children sing the response: 'Holy God '
'Where's that fish, Deacon?' Samoylenko was heard to say.
Returning to the fire, the deacon pictured a church procession on a dusty road oil a hot July day, led by peasants carrying banners, followed by women and girls with icons, and then by choir-boys and the church clerk, with his cheek bandaged and straw in his hair. He is followed in due order by the deacon himself and the priest with his velvet cap and cross, while a throng of peasants—men, women and boys—raises the dust belind them. There, in the crowd, is the priest's wife and the deacon's o-wn wife, both in kerchiefs. The choir sings, children bawl, quails shriek, a lark carols.
Now they stop to sprinkle the herd with holy water.
They move on and pray for rain on bended knee. Food and conversa- tion follow.
'Not such a bad prospect either,' the deacon reflected.
VII
Kirilin and Achmianov climbed the path up the mountainside. Achmianov lagged behind and stopped, but Kirilin went up to Nadezhda.
'Good evening,' he saia, saluting.