‘Yes, Countess Dranitsky,’ Kuzmichov repeated, also in a whisper.
The countess’s arrival must have made a very strong impression, since even Deniska spoke in a whisper and only ventured to lash the bays and shout when the carriage had travelled several hundred yards and when, far behind, all that could be seen of the inn was a small dim light.
IV
Who then was this elusive, mysterious Varlamov of whom people talked so much, whom Solomon despised and whom even the beautiful countess needed? As he sat on the box next to Deniska drowsy Yegorushka was thinking about precisely that man. He had never set eyes on him, but he had very often heard people talk about him and frequently tried to visualize him. He knew that Varlamov owned tens of thousands of acres, about one hundred thousand head of sheep and had piles of money. Of his way of life and activities, all Yegorushka knew was that he was always ‘hanging around these parts’ and that he was in constant demand.
At home Yegorushka had heard a great deal about Countess Dranitsky as well. She too owned some tens of thousands of acres, a great many sheep, a stud farm and had a lot of money. However, she did not ‘hang around’ but lived on a magnificent estate, of which Kuzmichov – who was often there on business – and some people he knew told many wondrous tales. For example, they said that the countess’s drawing-room was hung with the portraits of all the kings of Poland, that there was a large rock-shaped table-clock crowned by a prancing diamond-eyed golden horse with a golden rider who swung his sabre right and left whenever the clock struck. They said that the countess gave a ball twice a year to which she invited gentry and officials from all over the province and which even Varlamov attended. All the guests drank tea from water boiled in silver samovars and they ate the most exotic dishes – at Christmas, for example, they were served raspberries and strawberries – and they danced to a band that played day and night.
‘How beautiful she is!’ thought Yegorushka, recalling her face and smile.
Kuzmichov must have been thinking about the countess, too, as after the carriage had driven about a mile and a half he said, ‘And that Casimir Mikhaylych swindles her right and left. Remember when I bought some wool from her two years ago? He netted three thousand from that deal alone.’
‘What do you expect from a lousy Pole?’ Father Khristofor said.
‘But it doesn’t worry her in the slightest. As they say – young and foolish and nothing upstairs!’
For some reason Yegorushka wanted to think only about Varlamov and the countess – particularly the countess. His drowsy brain utterly rejected prosaic thoughts, became muddled and retained only those fantastic, magical images that have the advantage that somehow of their own accord and with no effort from the thinker they spring to mind and then vanish without trace after a good shake of the head. And in fact there was nothing in his surroundings that might encourage pedestrian thoughts. To the right were dark hills which seemed to be concealing something mysterious and terrifying; to the left the whole sky above the horizon was suffused with a crimson glow and it was hard to tell if there was a fire somewhere or if the moon was about to rise. The far distance was as visible as by day, but now its soft lilac hue had faded, veiled by the twilight gloom in which the whole steppe was hiding – just like Moses’ children under their quilt.
On July evenings quails and corncrakes no longer call, nightingales do not sing in wooded river-beds, there is no scent of flowers, yet the steppe is still beautiful and full of life. No sooner has the sun set and darkness enfolded the earth than the day’s sorrows are forgotten and the steppe heaves a faint sigh from its broad bosom. A cheerful, youthful trilling that cannot be heard by day rises from the grass, as if it cannot see in the darkness how it has aged; chirring, whistling, scratching – those bass, tenor and treble voices of the steppe – everything blends in one unbroken din and against the background of these sounds it is pleasant to reminisce and to be sad. The monotonous chirring is as soothing as a lullaby. On and on you drive and you feel that you are falling asleep. But suddenly the abrupt alarm call of a wakeful bird reaches your ears, some vague sound, like a human voice uttering a long ‘Ah-ah!’ of astonishment rings out – and slumber seals your eyelids. Or you may be driving past a gully where bushes grow and you hear the bird called the ‘sleeper’ by steppe-dwellers crying ‘I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping!’ – whilst another bird guffaws or breaks into hysterical weeping – it is an owl. For whom are they crying? Who can hear them on the steppes? God alone knows, but their cries are filled with sadness and complaining. There is a scent of hay, dry grass and late flowers – dense, richly-cloying and soft.
Everything is visible through the haze, but colours and outlines are difficult to make out. All things appear in a different light. As you travel on suddenly you see a monk-like silhouette by the roadside. It is standing motionless, waiting and holding something in its hands. Can it be a highwayman? The figure approaches, grows larger – now it is level with the carriage – and then you see that it is no human being but a lonely bush or boulder. These motionless figures stand on the hills and lie in wait, hide behind the barrows, peep out from the grass – all of them resembling human beings, all arousing suspicion.
But when the moon rises the night grows pale and languorous. It is as if the darkness never existed. The air is crystal clear, fresh and warm, everything is perfectly visible and even individual stalks of grass by the road can be made out. Far and wide over that immense expanse skulls and rocks are visible. The suspicious, monk-like figures seem darker and more sinister against the bright background of night. That surprised ‘Ah-ah!’ rings out more often amid the monotonous chattering and disturbs the still air, or the cry of some wakeful or delirious bird is heard. Broad shadows pass over the plain like clouds across the sky and if you peer for long into the inscrutable distance, hazy, weird shapes loom up, towering one behind the other. It is all rather eerie. And if you look up at the pale-green, star-spangled sky where there is not one small cloud or speck, you will understand why the warm air is so still, why nature is on her guard and is afraid to stir: she is terrified and unwilling to forfeit even one moment of life. Only at sea or on the steppe at night, when the moon is shining, can you judge the sky’s unfathomable depth and boundlessness. It is awesome, beautiful and inviting, looking down languidly and beckoning you – and your head grows dizzy from its blandishments.
On you drive for an hour or two… By the roadside you pass a silent, ancient barrow or a stone image put up by God knows whom and when. A night bird flies silently over the earth and gradually you recall all those legends of the steppe, wayfarers’ stories, folk-tales told by some old nurse from the steppe, together with all that you yourself have seen and grasped with the spirit. And then, in the buzzing of the insects, in the sinister figures and ancient barrows,8 in the depths of the sky, in the moonlight and in the flight of the night bird – in all that you see or hear – there are glimpses of triumphant beauty, of youth in its prime and a passionate lust for life. Your spirit responds to its beautiful, austere homeland and you long to fly over the steppe with the night bird. And in this triumph of beauty, in this abundance of happiness, you are conscious of tension and sad yearning, as if the steppe realizes how lonely she is and that her wealth and inspiration are lost to the world – unsung and unneeded – and through all the joyful clamour you can hear her anguished, despairing call for a bard, a poet to call her own!
‘Whoa! Hullo, Panteley! Everything all right!’
‘Yes, Ivan Kuzmichov, thank God.’
‘Seen Varlamov, lads?’