A bustard took flight just by the roadside. Bathed in sunlight, its wings and tail flashing, it resembled an angler’s bait or a pond moth whose wings appear to blend with its antennae when it darts over the water, so that it seems to have antennae growing at the front, at the back and along its sides… Quivering in the air like an insect and displaying all its many colours, the bustard soared to a great height in a straight line and then, probably taking fright at the cloud of dust, flew off to one side – and its flashing could be seen for a long time afterwards…
And then a corncrake, alarmed by the whirlwind and unable to understand what was happening, rose from the grass. It flew after the wind and not into it – unlike all other birds. As a result its feathers grew ruffled, it swelled to the size of a hen and took on a very angry, intimidating look. Only the rooks, which had grown old on the steppe and were used to all its commotions, calmly hovered over the grass or, ignoring all else, casually pecked away at the hard earth with their thick beaks.
From beyond the hills came the dull roar of thunder; there was a sudden breath of freshness in the air. Deniska cheerfully whistled and whipped the horses. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov held on to their hats and strained their eyes towards the hills. How welcome a light shower would be!
Just one small effort, it seemed, just one more exertion and the steppe would have prevailed. But an invisible, oppressive force gradually fettered both wind and air and settled the dust; and once again silence fell, as if nothing had happened. The cloud went into hiding, the sun-baked hills frowned, the air humbly grew still and somewhere only frightened lapwings wailed and bemoaned their fate…
Evening quickly set in.
III
A large single-storey building with a rusty iron roof and dark windows appeared in the twilight gloom. It was called an inn although it had no stable-yard and stood completely exposed in the middle of the steppe. A little to one side was the dark patch of a miserable little cherry orchard with a hurdle fence, while beneath the windows stood drowsy sunflowers, their heads heavy with sleep. A miniature windmill set up to frighten the hares off was rattling away in the orchard. Around the inn there was nothing to be seen or heard but the steppe.
No sooner had the carriage stopped by the canopied porch than joyful voices came from the inn – one a man’s, the other a woman’s. The door creaked on its block and in the twinkling of an eye a tall skinny figure loomed up by the carriage, swinging its arms and coat-skirts. It was Moses Moisevich the innkeeper, a middle-aged, extremely pale-faced man with a handsome jet-black beard. He was wearing a black, threadbare frock-coat which dangled loosely from his narrow shoulders as if suspended from a clothespeg and every time he threw up his hands, whether in joy or horror, its skirts flapped like wings. Besides this frock-coat, the innkeeper was wearing broad white trousers that were not tucked into his boots and a velvet waistcoat with a pattern of reddish-brown flowers resembling gigantic bed-bugs.
When he recognized his visitors, Moses at first stood rooted to the spot from a rush of emotion, then he threw up his hands and groaned. The skirts of his frock-coat flapped, his back bent double and his pale face twisted into a smile that seemed to be saying that the sight of the carriage was not only agreeable but excruciatingly sweet.
‘Ah, goodness me, goodness me!’ he gasped in a thin singsong voice, fussing so much that his wild contortions prevented the passengers from leaving the carriage. ‘Such happy day this for me! Ah, what ever shall I do first! Ivan Kuzmichov! Father Khristofor! What pretty young gentleman is sitting on the box – or may God punish me! Ah, goodness me, why am I standing here like this and not inviting guests into parlour? Come in, I most humbly beg you! Welcome! Let me take your luggage… Ah, goodness me!’
As Moses was rummaging around in the carriage and helping the guests out, he suddenly turned around and cried, ‘Solomon! Solomon!’ in such a frenzied, strangled voice that he sounded like a drowning man calling for help.
‘Solomon! Solomon!’ a woman’s voice repeated from inside the inn.
The door creaked on its block and in the doorway appeared a shortish, young red-headed Jew with a large beaked nose and a bald patch surrounded by wiry, curly hair. He was wearing a short, exceedingly shabby jacket with cutaway flaps and short sleeves, and short woollen trousers – all of which made him look as short and skimpy as a plucked fowl. This was Solomon, Moses’ brother. Without a word of greeting and with a rather strange smile he approached the carriage.
‘Ivan Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor are here!’ Moses told him in a tone that intimated he was afraid Solomon might not believe him. ‘Ay vay, what surprise to have such lovely people suddenly dropping in on us like this! Come on, Solomon, take their things. This way, my honoured guests!’
Shortly afterwards Kuzmichov, Father Khristofor and Yegorushka were sitting at an ancient oak table in a large, gloomy, empty room. This table was almost totally isolated, since, apart from the wide sofa upholstered in oil-cloth that was full of holes and three chairs there was no other furniture in that large room. As for the chairs, not everyone would have dignified them by that name. They were a pathetic semblance of furniture, covered with oil-cloth that had seen better days and with backs that had been bevelled with such unnatural severity they closely resembled children’s toboggans. It was hard to imagine what comforts that mysterious carpenter who had so mercilessly bent those chairs’ backs had in mind and one was inclined to think that it was not the carpenter who was to blame, but some vagrant Hercules who, intent on vaunting his strength, had first bent the chairs’ backs, tried to straighten them but had only bent them even more. The room had a sombre look. The walls were grey, the ceiling and cornices grimy and the floor was full of cracks and gaping holes of unfathomable provenance (one was inclined to think they had been produced by the heel of that same Hercules), and you felt that even if a dozen lamps were to be hung in that room it would still be as dark as ever. Neither walls nor windows displayed anything remotely resembling decoration. However, on one wall, in a grey wooden frame, hung a list of regulations under a two-headed eagle5 and on another, in a similar frame, there was some kind of engraving with the inscription ‘Man’s Indifference’. To what men were indifferent was impossible to ascertain, since the engraving had faded appreciably with time and was considerably fly-blown. There was a musty, sour smell in the room.
After leading his guests into the room, Moses renewed his contortions, throwing his arms up, bending up and down and uttering joyful exclamations – all this he considered essential in order to give an exceptionally courteous, friendly impression.
‘When did our wagons pass by?’ Kuzmichov asked him.
‘One wagon train came past this morning, Ivan Kuzmichov, and another stopped for rest and meal and left in early evening.’
‘Oh… did Varlamov come by or didn’t he?’
‘No, he didn’t, Ivan Kuzmichov. But yesterday morning his bailiff Grigory passed by and he told me that Varlamov had most likely gone over to the Molokan’s6 farm.’