As he rode past Yegorushka he did not look at him; only his pony deigned to look at him with its large, foolish eyes – and most indifferently at that. Panteley bowed low to Varlamov who noticed this and, without taking his eyes off the papers and burring his consonants told him, ‘Goot tay, grantpa!’
Varlamov’s exchange with the horseman and that flourish of his whip evidently had a depressing effect on all the drivers: all of them looked serious. Demoralized by that powerful man’s wrath, the horseman stood bareheaded by the front wagon, slackened the reins and said nothing, as if he could scarcely believe that the day had started so badly for him.
‘He’s a harsh old man,’ muttered Panteley. ‘Real harsh! But never mind… he’s a good man… wouldn’t harm no one without good reason… he’s all right…’
After inspecting the papers, Varlamov put the book back in his pocket. As if reading his thoughts, the pony did not wait for orders, shuddered and tore off down the road.
VII
The following night the drivers made a halt and cooked their meal. This time everything was coloured by some indefinable melancholy from the very start. It was humid and everyone had drunk a great deal, without in the least managing to quench their thirst. The moon rose a deep crimson, sullen, as if she were ailing. The stars were sullen too, the mist thicker, the distance hazier. Nature seemed to be languishing in anticipation of some disaster.
Around the camp fire there was none of yesterday’s animation and conversation. Everyone was depressed, everyone spoke listlessly and grudgingly. All Panteley could do was sigh and complain about his feet, every now and then raising the subject of ‘dying impenitent’.
Dymov was lying on his stomach, silently chewing a straw. His expression was malevolent, weary, and showed revulsion, as if the straw had a bad smell. Vasya complained of jaw-ache and predicted bad weather; Yemelyan had stopped waving his arms and sat still, gloomily surveying the fire. And Yegorushka was wilting, too. The slow pace had exhausted him and the day’s heat had given him a headache.
When the stew was cooked Dymov started picking on his mates – out of sheer boredom.
‘Look, Old Lumpy’s all sprawled out nice and easy over there – but he’ll be first to the pot with ’is spoon!’ he said, glowering at Yemelyan. ‘Greedy-guts! Always tries to barge ‘is way first to the pot. Just because he used to sing in a choir he thinks he’s a gent. The roads are packed with singers like you begging for sweet charity!’
‘What you picking on me for?’ asked Yemelyan, angrily glaring back.
‘To teach you not to be always first to the pot. Who d’ye think you are!’
‘You’re a fool, that’s what,’ Yemelyan said hoarsely.
Knowing from experience how such conversations usually ended, Panteley and Vasya intervened and urged Dymov not to pick quarrels for nothing.
‘Fancy you in a choir!’ the bully persisted with a contemptuous cough. ‘Anyone can sing like that – you just sit in the church porch and sing, “Alms for Christ’s sake!” Ugh, damn you!’
Yemelyan said nothing. His silence exasperated Dymov, who looked with even greater loathing at the ex-chorister.
‘It’s only because I don’t want to dirty my hands on you, or I’d soon take you down a peg or two.’
‘Why are you picking on me, scum of the earth! Have I ever done anything to you?’ said Yemelyan, flaring up.
‘What did you call me?’ asked Dymov, drawing himself up; his eyes became bloodshot. ‘What? Scum am I? Yes? Well, take that! Now, go and look for it!’
Dymov snatched the spoon from Yemelyan’s hands and flung it far to one side. Kiryukha, Vasya and Styopka jumped up and ran off to look for it, while Yemelyan stared imploringly and questioningly at Panteley. His face suddenly became small and wrinkled, started twitching – and the ex-chorister wept like a baby.
Yegorushka, who had long hated Dymov, suddenly felt that he was choking to death in that unbearably humid air and that the camp fire flames were scorching his face. He wanted to escape as quickly as possible to the darkness by the wagons, but that bully’s evil, bored eyes drew Yegorushka to him. Longing to say something extremely insulting, he took a step towards Dymov.
‘You’re the worst of the lot!’ he gasped. ‘I can’t stand you!’
After that he should have escaped to the wagons, but he felt rooted to the spot.
‘You’ll burn in hell in the next world!’ he went on. ‘I’m going to tell Uncle Ivan about you! Don’t you dare insult Yemelyan!’
‘Ooh, ’ark at ’im!’ laughed Dymov. ‘Little piggy’s still wet behind the ears and thinks he can lay down the law! Fancy a clout on the ear-’ole?’
Yegorushka felt unable to breathe; suddenly he started shaking all over and stamped his feet – something that had never happened to him before.
‘Hit him! Hit him!’ he shrieked.
Tears spurted from his eyes. He felt ashamed and he ran staggering to the wagons. What impression his outburst had made he did not see. Lying on the bale weeping, he jerked his arms and legs and whispered, ‘Mummy, Mummy!’
The men, the shadows around the camp fire, the dark bales, the lightning that was flashing in the far distance every minute – all this struck him as hostile and terrifying now. Yegorushka was horrified and he asked himself in despair how and why he had come to this unknown land, in the company of terrible peasants? Where were Uncle, Father Khristofor and Deniska? Why were they taking so long? Had they forgotten him? At the thought that he had been forgotten and left to the mercy of fate he felt chilled and so frightened that several times he felt like jumping off the bales and running headlong back along the road without looking behind him. But the memory of those dark, grim crosses which he was bound to pass on the way and the distant flashes of lightning stopped him. Only when he whispered ‘Mummy!’ did he feel a little better, it seemed.
The drivers must have been frightened, too. After Yegorushka had run away from the camp fire they first said nothing for a long time and then spoke in hollow undertones about something, saying that it was coming and they must hurry to escape from it. They quickly finished their supper, put out the fire and started harnessing the horses in silence. From their agitation and broken phrases they were clearly expecting some disaster.
Before they set off Dymov went over to Panteley.
‘What’s his name?’ he quietly asked.
‘Yegorushka,’ replied Panteley.
Dymov put one foot on the wheel, gripped the cord that was tied around a bale and hauled himself up. Yegorushka saw his face and curly head. His face was pale, tired and serious – but no longer spiteful.
‘Hullo, little boy!’ he said softly. ‘Come on, hit me!’
Yegorushka looked at him in amazement. At that moment there was a flash of lightning.
‘It’s all right – hit me!’ Dymov repeated.
And without waiting for Yegorushka to hit him or speak, he leapt down and said, ‘God, I’m bored!’
Then, swaying from one foot to the other and moving his shoulders, he idly sauntered along the string of wagons, repeating in a half-plaintive, half-irritated voice, ‘God, I’m bored! Now, don’t get the needle, Yemelyan,’ he said as he passed him. ‘What hopeless, wretched lives we lead…!’
Lightning flashed to the right and immediately flashed again in the distance, like a reflection in a mirror.
‘Here, take this, Yegory,’ Panteley shouted, handing up something large and dark.
‘What is it?’ asked Yegorushka.
‘Matting. Cover yourself with it when it rains.’