"Who was it rapped at the window?" asked Dimov.
"At the window? Must have been a saint or an angel, for there was no one about. . . . When we got outside there was not a human being anywhere . . . the work of God!"
Panteli told other stories, and in all of them alike the "long knives" played a role, and all alike had the same note of un- reality. Had he heard these tales from someone, or had he himself invented them in the far away past, and later, when his memory failed, mixed his experiences with fiction and ceased to be able to distinguish the one from the other? Any- thing may be true, but one thing was strange that this time and during the whole journey, when he happened to tell a story, he ostensibly gave the preference to fiction and never !>poke of what he had experienced. At the moment Egorooshka accepted this all as pure gold and believed every word; sub- sequently it seemed to him odd, that a man who in the course of his life had been all over Russia, who knew and who bad seen so much, a man whose wife and children had been burnt, should so undervalue the richness of his life as each time, sitting by the fire, or remaining silent or talking, to dwell on that which had never been.
They all ate their gruel in silence thinking over what they had heard. Life is so fearful and wonderful that, however fearful is the story you tell in Russia, and however you set it off with robbers' dens, long knives and wonders, it always evokes in the mind of the listener that which has been, and it is only he who is deeply tinctured with learning who looks askance and grows taciturn. The crosses by the road, the dark bales, the wide steppe, and the fates of the people gath- ered around the fire were in themselves so wonderful and fear- ful, that the fantastic unreal paled and mingled with the real.
They all ate out of the cauldron except Panteli, who sat a little apart and ate his gruel out of a wooden cup. His spoon was not like those of the others, but of cypress wood, with a little cross. Egorooshka looked at him, and, remembering the little lamp-glass, whispered to Stepka:
"Why does the old dad sit apart?"
"He belongs to the Old Faith," answered Stepka and Vassia in a whisper, and as they said it they conveyed the impression of having mentioned some failing or secret vice.
They all remained silently occupied with their own thoughts. After the terrible tales no one felt inclined to talk of the usual things. Suddenly, amid the stillness, Vassia sat bolt upright, pricked up his ears, and strained his eyes at some invisible object.
"What is it?" Dimov inquired of him.
"There is somebody walking," answered Vassia.
"Where do you see him?"
"Over there . . . you can hardly see him."
There. where Vassia was looking, was nothing to be seen except the darkness; they all listened, but they could hear no iootsteps.
"Is he coming down the road?" asked Dimov.
"Nay, over the grass . . . he is coming here."
A minute went by in silence.
"Maybe it is the merchant whom they buried here haunt- ing the steppe," said Dimov.
They all cast furtive glances at the cross, then looked at each other, and finally burst out laughing: they were ashamed of their timidity.
"Why should he walk?" said Panteli. "It is only those whom the ground will not keep who walk at night. But the mer- chant was all right . . . he received the crown of martyr- dom."
But now they heard footsteps; someone was approaching ir. haste.
"He is carrying something," said Vassia.
One could hear the rustle of the grass and the crackling of the steppe-grass, but beyond the light of the fire there was nothing to be seen. At last the footsteps sounded quite close, and someone coughed; the flickering light seemed to with- draw, and, as if a veil had fallen from their eyes, the drivers suddenly saw before them the figure of a man.
Either it was that the fire gleamed brightly, or that they were all so anxious primarily to see this man's face, that what they saw of him first of all was not his face nor his clothes but his smile. It was a most unusually kind, broad, gentle smile, like that of a waking child, one of those infectious smiles to which it is difficult not to respond with a smile. The stranger, when they had taken him in, appeared to be a man of about thirty, not good-looking or with anything very characteristic. He was a tall "Top-knot," long-legged, long-armed, and long-nosed; in fact everything about him was long except his neck, which was so short that he might have been con- sidered hump-backed. He wore a clean white shirt with an embroidered collar, wide white trousers and new boots, and in comparison to the drivers was quite a dandy. He was carry ing in his arms something large and white and queer; and over his shoulder peeped the barrel of a gun, which was also long.
A.s he entered the bright circle out of the darknesa, he stood as if rooted to the spot, and for a full half minute looked at the drivers as if he meant to say: "Just look what a smile I have!" Then he walked up to the fire, smiling even more radi- antly, and said:
"Good cheer, mates!"
"Be welcome!" Panteli answered for them all.
The stranger put down by the fire that which he bad been carrying—it was a great bustard—and again gave them a greeting.
They all went to have a look at the bustard.
"A fine bird! What did you get him with?" Dimov asked.
"A bullet . . . shot would be no good, wouldn't reach him . . . . Buy him, mates! I will give him up to you for twenty kopecks."
"And what should we do with it? Roasted it is all right, but boiled it would be tough and tasteless."
"Oh bother! If I take it to the people at the farm they will give me fifty kopecks, but it is a long way, fifteen versts!"
The new-comer sat down, and laid his gun by his side; he seemed sleepy and languid, smiled, blinked at the fire, and apparently was thinking of something pleasant. They gave him a spoon, and be began to eat.
"Who are you?" Dimov asked him.
The stranger did not hear the question; he returned no answer, and did not even look at Dimov. Apparently this smiling individual did not notice the taste of the gruel, for he munched as it were mechanically, lazily putting the spoon to his mouth—at one time very full, at another quite empty. He was not drunk, but there was something crazy at work in his brain.
"I am asking you who you are," repeated Dimov.
"Who, I?" said the unknown, with a start. "Constantine Zvonik of Rovno. Four versts from here."
Then, anxious to make it clear from the very first that he was not a peasant as were the others, but better than they, Constantine hastened to add:
"We keep bees and pigs."
"Do you live with your father or by yourself?"
"No, by myself. We parted. This month, after the St. Peter, >- was married. I am a husband now! . . . This is the eight, senth day since I was law-bound."
"Excellent business," said Panteli. "A good wife . . . God's blessing. . . ."
"The young woman is sleeping at home while he wanders over the steppe," Kiruha joked. "Queer fellow!"
Constantine gave a start as if he had been touched to the quick, laughed and flushed.
"But Lord, she is not at home!" he said quickly, withdraw- ing his spoon from his mouth, and giving them all a look of joy and surprise. "She is not! She has gone to her mother fot two days! God to witness she went. and I am as it were un- married . . . .''
Constantine flourished his hand and shook his head; he wanted to continue his thoughs, but his felicity was too great. Just as if he were uncomfortable sitting down, he changed his attitude, laughed, and again flourished his hand. He felt a certain compunction at yielding his pleasant thought to strangers, but at the same time he had an overwhelming de- sire to let them share his joy.