At the sight of this happy man everyone felt dejected and wanted to be happy, too. Everyone became thoughtful. Dymov stood up, slowly walked around the fire and it was plain from his walk and the movements of his shoulderblades that he was feeling weary and depressed. He stood still for a moment, glanced at Kiryukha and sat down again.
The fire was dying down now. No longer did the light flicker and the red patch had grown narrow and dim… And the faster the fire died down the brighter the moonlight became. Now the whole width of the road, the bales, the wagon shafts, the champing horses could be seen. On the other side of the road was the dim outline of the other cross.
Dymov propped his cheek on one hand and softly sang some plaintive ditty. Konstantin smiled sleepily and joined in with his shrill little voice. They sang for about half a minute and stopped. Yemelyan gave a start, shifted his elbows and flicked his fingers.
‘Lads,’ he said imploringly, ‘let’s sing a sacred song!’
Tears sprang to his eyes as he repeated the request, pressing his hand to his heart.
‘I don’t know any,’ said Konstantin.
All the others refused, so Yemelyan sang on his own. Conducting with both arms he tossed his head back and opened his mouth, but only a voiceless hoarse breathing burst from his throat. He sang with his arms, his head, his eyes and even with the swelling under his eye; he sang passionately, with anguish, and the more he strained his chest to extract but one note the hollower his breathing sounded.
Like all the others, Yegorushka was overcome with depression. He went to his wagon, climbed onto the bale and lay down. He looked at the sky and thought of that happy Konstantin and his wife. Why do people marry? Why are there women in the world? Yegorushka vaguely asked himself and thought: how pleasant it must be for a man to have a loving, cheerful and beautiful woman constantly by his side. For some reason thoughts of Countess Dranitsky came to mind. How pleasant to live with a woman like her, he thought. Most probably he would have been delighted to marry her himself had he not been so embarrassed at the thought. He recalled her eyebrows, the pupils of her eyes, her coach, the clock with the horseman. The quiet warm night descended upon him, whispering something in his ear and he felt as if that same beautiful woman were bending over him, smiling as she looked at him and wanting to kiss him.
Two small, ever-dwindling red eyes were all that remained of the fire. The drivers and Konstantin were sitting near them, dark and motionless, and there seemed to be far more of them than before. The two crosses were also visible and somewhere, far far away, a small red light gleamed – probably someone else was cooking his stew as well.
‘ “Dear old Mother Russia rules the wo-or-ld!” ’ Kiryukha suddenly sang in a wild voice, had a fit of coughing and fell silent. The echoing steppe caught up his voice and bore it away, so that the stupid nonsense itself seemed to roll over the plains on heavy wheels.
‘It’s time to go,’ said Panteley. ‘Get up, lads!’
While they were harnessing the horses, Konstantin strolled around the wagons, singing the praises of his wife.
‘Goodbye, lads!’ he shouted when the wagon train moved off. ‘Thanks for the grub! I’m going on to that other fire. Oh, it’s all too much!’
He soon disappeared into the gloom and for a long time they could hear him striding out towards the gleaming light, to tell the strangers there all about his happiness.
When Yegorushka awoke next day it was early morning and the sun had not risen. The wagons were standing still. Some man in a white forage cap and a cheap suit of grey cloth was sitting on a Cossack pony by the leading wagon, talking to Dymov and Kiryukha about something. About a mile ahead of the wagons were low white barns and cottages with tiled roofs; near the cottages neither yards nor trees were to be seen.
‘What village is that, grandpa?’ Yegorushka asked.
‘Them’s Armenian farms, lad,’ replied Panteley. ‘It’s where the Armenians live… Decent folk – them Armenians…’
Having finished his conversation with Dymov and Kiryukha, the man in grey reined back his pony and looked towards the farms.
‘It’s real vexatious!’ Panteley sighed, also looking at the farms and shrinking in the cool of the morning. ‘He sent a man over to a farm for some bit of paper, but he ain’t come back. He should’ve sent Styopka!’
‘Who is he, grandpa?’ asked Yegorushka.
‘Varlamov.’
Heavens! Varlamov! Yegorushka quickly jumped up to his knees and looked at the white cap. In that short, grey-clad little man with his riding-boots, seated on an ugly little nag and talking to peasants when all respectable people were in bed it was hard to recognize the mysterious, elusive Varlamov, whom everyone needed, who was always ‘hanging around’ and was worth far more than Countess Dranitsky.
‘He’s not a bad man… real decent sort…’ Panteley said, looking at the farms. ‘God grant him health… he’s a wonderful man – that Semyon Aleksandrych Varlamov… It’s people like him lad, what keep the world going… that’s a fact. The cocks ain’t crowed yet but he’s already up and about… Any other man would be asleep in bed or making tittle-tattle with visitors. But he’s out on the steppe all day… running around… He don’t miss out on a deal – oh no! A fine fellow!’
Varlamov didn’t take his eyes off one of the farms and carried on talking, while his pony impatiently shifted from one foot to the other.
‘Semyon Aleksandrych Varlamov!’ cried Panteley, doffing his cap. ‘Let me send Styopka. Yemelyan! Give ’em a shout! Tell ’em to send Styopka.’
But then at last someone on horseback rode away from the farm. Leaning heavily to one side, swinging his whip over his head as if performing some fancy tricks and wanting to astonish everyone with his daring horsemanship, he raced to the wagons with the speed of a bird.
‘That must be one of his horse patrols,’ said Panteley. ‘He’s got about a hundred of them patrols – maybe more.’
Drawing level with the first wagon the horseman reined in his horse, doffed his cap and handed Varlamov some kind of notebook. Varlamov removed a few sheets of paper from it and read them.
‘And where’s Ivanchuk’s letter?’ he shouted.
The horseman took the book back, examined the papers and shrugged his shoulders. He started speaking – most likely making excuses – and then he asked permission to return to the farm. Varlamov’s pony gave a start as if his rider had suddenly grown heavier. Varlamov gave a start, too.
‘Clear off!’ he angrily shouted, shaking his whip at the horseman.
Then he turned his pony back and rode at walking pace past the wagons, still scrutinizing the papers. When he reached the last wagon, Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a better look. Varlamov was quite elderly. His simple, typically Russian face with its small grey beard was red, wet with dew and covered with little blue veins. It displayed that same matter-of-fact aloofness as Kuzmichov’s, the same fanatical passion for business. But what a difference between him and Kuzmichov! Besides that habitual, businesslike detachment, Kuzmichov’s face always betrayed anxiety and fear that he would not find Varlamov, that he would be late and thus miss out on a good price. Nothing remotely like this – so typical of your small, dependent businessman – was discernible in Varlamov’s face or figure. This man fixed prices himself, ran after no one and depended on no one. However unremarkable his appearance, in everything else – even in the way he held his whip – you could see a man conscious of his own power and his established dominion over the steppe.