It's a great pleasure, frankly, is burying a Belikov. On our way back from the cemetery we wore modest, sober expressions. No one wanted to show how pleased he felt—it was a pleasure which we had known long, long ago as children when our elders had gone out and we ran about the garden for an hour or two enjoying absolute freedom. Freedom, oh freedom! Even a hint, even the faint hope ofits possibility . .. it makes one's spirits soar, doesn't it?
We came back from the cemetery in a good mood. But within a week life was back in its old rut. It was just as austere, wearisome and pointless as before: a life which was neither forbidden in the school rules, nor yet wholly sanctioned either. There was no improvement. We had buried Belikov, adinittedly. But what a lot of other men in capsules he had left behind him! And we shall see plenty more of them in the future.
'My point exactly,' said Ivan Ivanovich, and lit his pipe.
'We shall see plenty more of them,' repeated Burkin.
The schoolmaster came out of the bam. He was a short, fat, com- pletely bald man with a black beard almost down to his waist. Two dogs came out with him.
'What a moon!' said he, looking up.
It was midnight. On his right could be seen the whole village, and a long road stretching about three miles into the distance. Everything was plunged in deep, peaceful slumber. There was no movement, no sound—it was incredible, indeed, that nature could be so quiet. When you see a broad village street by moonlight—a street with its huts, ricks and sleeping willows—your heart is at peace, and takes refuge in this calm, in the shadows of the night, from its toils, trials and tribula- tions. It is gentle, sad, serene. The stars seem to look down with lo.ving kindness, there seems to be no evil in the world—all seems for the best. On the left, at the edge of the village, open country began. It could be seen stretchuig away as far as the horizon, and in the cntire breadth of these moonlit fields there was neither movement nor sound.
'My point exactly,' repeated Ivan Ivanovich. 'What about us living in a stuffy, crowded to^, writing our futile papers and playing our bridge? Isn't all that a kind ofcapsule? To spend our whole lives among loafers, mischievous litigants and stupid, idle women, talking and hearing various forms of nonsense . .. isn't that a capsule too? Now, if you like I'U tell you an extremely edifying story.'
'No, it's time to sleep,' said Burkin. 'Tell it tomorrow.'
They went into the bam and lay down on the hay. Each had covered himself up and started dozing, when suddenly the padding offootsteps was heard.
Someone was walking near the bam. The steps passed and stopped. Then, a ^mute later, you would hear the same padding sound.
The dogs whimpered.
'That's Mavra,' Burkin said.
The steps died away.
'People are such liars,' said Ivan Ivanovich, turning over. 'To see them, to hear them, to put up with their lies . . and be called a fool for your pains! The insults, the humiliations, that you suffer! Not daring to proclaim aloud that you are on the side of honest, free men! The lies you yourself tell, the smiles you give ! And all this to earn your daily bread and a roof over your head—all for the sake of some miser- able little job not worth a farthing! No—one can't go on living like this!'
'Now, that's another story,' said the teacher. 'Let's go to sleep.'
Ten ^mutes later Burkin was asleep. But Ivan Ivanovich kept tossing from side to side and sighing. Then he got up, went outside again, sat down by the door and lit his pipe.
GOOSEBERRIES
Rain clouds lud fillcd the whole sky since early morning. Itwas quiet weather—not hot and tediow as it is on those dull grey days when clouds hang over the countryside for hours on end while you wait for rain which never comes. Ivan Ivanovich the vet and Burkin the school- ^^ter were tired of walking, and the fields seemed to go on for ever. Far ah«d of them the windmilU of Mironositskoye village could just be ^rn. ^n their right was a chain of hills which vanished far beyond the villige, and which—as they both knew—rrurked a river bank. There were meadows, green willows and homesteads over there. And if you st^^ on one of those hills you could see another eqwlly vast expa^ of fields, a telegraph line and a train crawling caterpillar-like in the distance. In cleu weather you could even see the town. On ^^ calm when all ruture semed gentle and pensive, Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were filled v.;th love of ^^ open landscape, and both thought how vast, how glorious a bnd it was.
'Tlut time we stayed in Elder Prokofy's barn . . . you were
going to tel me some story,' Burkin said.
'Ya—about my brother.'
Ivan Ivanovi^. gave a long sigh, and lit a pipe as a prelude to h.U rurrative, but just then the rain began. Five minutes later it was a^^ lutely pel^^ do^—looked as if it would never end. Ivan Ivanovich and Burk.in paused, wondering wlut to do. The doS'—wet, tails their legs-s—st^^ and gazed at them devotedly.
'We mwt find shelter,' »id Bur^^ 'Let's go to Alyo^^'s, it's qwte nur. '
'M right.'
They ^^^d off and rrude acros mown fields—now wal.king straight ahead, now ^^rng to the right—until they hit the road. Poplan ^n ap^^ed, an orchard and red-roofed b^ro. There ^^ a gleam of river, and then a view of a wide reach with its ^^ and white bathing-hut. ^^ wa! Soi^mo, Alyokhin's place.
The ^^ was working, and dro^ed the noise of rain. The weir quivered. Wet ho^a st^^ with bowed heads by some and men over their heads moved about. It was tamp, muddy, d^late—and clut reach of river lud a cold, ^Jig^mt look. Ivan
Ivanovich and Burkiu felt wet, unclean and uncoi^ortable all over. Their feet were heavy with mud. When they had passed the weir and climbed up to the manor barns they were not speaking—and so seemed angry with each other.
From one shed came the noise of a winnowing-fan, and there was a surge of dust through the open door. On the threshold stood the boss —Alyokhin, a man of about forty, tall, stout, long-haired, more like a professor or artist than a landowner. He wore a white shirt which needed washing and a rope for a belt. He had underpants on instead of trousers, and he had mud and straw sticking to his high boots. His eyes and nose were black with dust. He recognized Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin, and was obviously glad to see them.
'Come in, gentlemen, come inside the house,' he smiled. 'Be with you m a moment.'
It was a large, nvo-storeyed house. Alyokhin lived downstairs in two rooms with vaulted ceilings and small windows—once his bailiffs' quarters. It was all very unpretentious, smelling of rye bread, cheap vodka and harness. His best rooms, upstairs, he used very seldom, only when he had visitors. Ivan Ivanovich and Burkin were received in the house by the maid: a young woman so beautiful that both halted in their tracks and stared at each other.
'You can't imagine how glad I am to see you gentlemen,' said Alyo^m, following them into the hall. 'What a nice surprise!
'Give the guests something to change into, Pelageya,' he told the maid. 'And I'll change too while I'm about it. But I must go and wash first—feel as if I hadn't washed since spring. Would you like to come to the bathing-hut while they get things ready?'
The fair Pelageya—so delicate, so gentle-looking—brought towels and soap, and took his guests to the bathing place.
'Yes, 1 haven't washed for ages,' he said, undressing. 'I have a good bathing-hut, as you see—my father built it—but somehow I never have time for a bathe.'