Yegorushka inspected his coat. It was greyish, with large bone buttons and cut like a frock-coat. As it was something new and expensive, it had not hung in the hall at home but in the bedroom together with Mother’s dresses and he was allowed to wear it only on holidays and church festivals. Looking at it, Yegorushka felt sorry for it and remembered that both he and the coat had been left to the mercy of fate, that neither of them would ever go back home and he sobbed so loud that he nearly fell off the heap.
A large white rain-drenched dog, with woolly wisps like curling-papers on its muzzle, came into the shed and eyed Yegorushka very inquisitively. Clearly it was wondering if it should bark or not. Deciding not to bark, it cautiously approached Yegorushka, ate the sticky paste and departed.
‘They’re Varlamov’s men!’ someone shouted in the street.
After a good cry Yegorushka left the shed, skirted a large puddle and made his way to the street. Right in front of the gates stood the wagons. As sluggish and drowsy as autumn flies, the wet drivers were wandering around nearby in their muddy boots or sitting on the wagons shafts. Yegorushka looked at them.
‘How boring, how tiresome to be a peasant!’ he thought. He went up to Panteley and sat next to him on a shaft.
‘Grandpa, I’m cold!’ he said, shivering, and he pulled his sleeves down over his hands.
‘It’s all right, we’ll soon be there,’ yawned Panteley. ‘It’s all right… you’ll soon get warm.’
The wagons moved off early, when it was still cool. Yegorushka lay on his bale and trembled with cold, although the sun soon appeared and dried his clothes, the bale and the ground. Hardly had he closed his eyes when he saw Titus and the windmill again. With a feeling of nausea and heaviness all over his body he tried all he could to dispel those images, but hardly had they disappeared than that bully Dymov – red-eyed, fists upraised and bellowing – would throw himself on Yegorushka or would be heard complaining how bored he was. Varlamov would come riding past on his Cossack pony and that happy Konstantin would pass by with his smile and his bustard. How depressing, insufferable and tiresome all these people were!
Once, towards evening, Yegorushka raised his head to ask for a drink. The wagon train had come to a stop on a large bridge spanning a wide river. Down below dark smoke hung over the river and through it a steamer could be seen, with a barge in tow. Ahead, beyond the river, was an enormous, brightly coloured hill, dotted with houses and churches and at its foot a locomotive was shunting some goods wagons.
Never before had Yegorushka seen steamers or locomotives, or wide rivers, but now as he looked at them he was neither surprised nor afraid. His face did not show even the slightest trace of curiosity. All he felt was nauseous and he hurried to lie chest downwards on the edge of the bale. He was sick. Panteley cleared his throat and shook his head when he saw this.
‘Our lad’s real poorly!’ he exclaimed. ‘Must’ve caught a chill on his stomach… that lad… far from home. Oh, that’s bad!’
VIII
The wagons had halted at a large commercial inn close to the quayside. As he climbed down from the wagon Yegorushka recognized a familiar voice. Someone helped him and said:
‘We were already here yesterday evening… been waiting for you all day. We wanted to catch you up yesterday but we didn’t manage it – we came a different way. Hey, you’ve made a right mess of your coat! You’ll catch it from Uncle!’
Yegorushka peered into the mottled face of the speaker and remembered that this was Deniska.
‘Your uncle and Father Khristofor are in their room at the inn,’ continued Deniska. ‘They’re having tea. Come on!’
He led Yegorushka to a large, dark and dreary two-storey building similar to the almshouse at N—. After they had passed through a lobby, up some dark stairs and down a long corridor, Yegorushka and Deniska entered a small room where Kuzmichov and Father Khristofor were indeed sitting at a small tea-table. Both old men showed joy and surprise when they saw the boy.
‘Aha, young sir!’ intoned Father Khristofor. ‘Mr Lomonosov in person!’
‘Yes, it’s His Lordship himself,’ Kuzmichov said. ‘Pray make yourself welcome!’
Yegorushka took off his coat, kissed Uncle’s and Father Khristofor’s hands and sat down at the table.
‘Well, did you like the journey, puer bone?’ asked Father Khristofor, showering him with questions, pouring him some tea and smiling his usual radiant smile. ‘I bet it was boring, eh? And God save us all from travelling by wagon or ox-cart! On and on you go, you look ahead and the steppe’s always the same ramblingly stretched-out affair as ever – you think it’s never going to end! That’s not travelling – it’s a sheer abomination. Why don’t you drink your tea? Come on, drink up. While you were trailing along with the wagons we pulled off a fantastic deal, praise be to God! We sold the wool to Cherepakhin at a price anyone would envy… Came out of it very well, we did.’
When he first saw his own people Yegorushka felt an irresistible urge to complain. He did not listen to Father Khristofor and wondered where to begin and what precisely he should complain about. But Father Khristofor’s voice sounded so harsh and unpleasant that it prevented him from concentrating and only muddled his thoughts. After sitting for barely five minutes at the table he got up, went over to the sofa and lay down.
‘Well now!’ exclaimed Father Khristofor. ‘And what about your tea?’
Still trying to think of something to complain about, Yegorushka pressed his forehead against the back of the sofa and suddenly burst out sobbing.
‘Well now!’ repeated Father Khristofor, getting up and going over to the sofa. ‘What’s the matter, Yegor? Why are you crying?’
‘I-I’m ill!’ murmured Yegorushka.
‘Ill?’ Father Khristofor said, disconcerted. ‘That’s no good, my boy. It’s no good falling ill when you’re travelling. Oh dear, no good at all… eh?’
He pressed his hand to Yegorushka’s head and touched his cheek.
‘Yes, your head’s burning… you must have caught a chill… or it’s something you’ve eaten… you must pray to God.’
‘We could give him some quinine,’ Kuzmichov said, rather taken aback.
‘No, he should eat something warm. Yegorushka, would you like a nice little drop of soup? Eh?’
‘No, I don’t want any soup,’ replied Yegorushka.
‘Got the shivers?’
‘I had them before, but now I feel hot. I’m aching all over.’
Kuzmichov went over to the sofa, touched Yegorushka’s head, gave a troubled cough and returned to the table.
‘Now, you’d better get undressed and go to bed,’ said Father Khristofor. ‘What you need is a good sleep.’
He helped Yegorushka undress, gave him a pillow, covered him with a quilt, laid Kuzmichov’s coat over it, tiptoed away and sat at the table. Yegorushka closed his eyes and immediately had the feeling that he wasn’t in the room at the inn at all, but on the high road, by the camp fire. Yemelyan was ‘conducting’, while red-eyed Dymov lay on his stomach eyeing Yegorushka mockingly.
‘Hit him! Hit him!’ Yegorushka shouted out loud.
‘The boy’s delirious,’ Father Khristofor said in an undertone.
‘It’s a real nuisance,’ sighed Kuzmichov.
‘We must rub him down with oil and vinegar. With God’s help he’ll be better tomorrow.’
To free himself from these oppressive visions Yegorushka opened his eyes and looked at the light. Father Khristofor and Kuzmichov had finished their tea now and were whispering together. The former was happily smiling: obviously he was quite unable to forget about the handsome profit he had made on his wool. It wasn’t the profit so much that cheered him as the thought of gathering his large family around him when he was back home, giving them sly winks and roaring with laughter. First he would string them along and tell them he had sold the wool at a loss – and then he would hand his brother-in-law Mikhailo a fat wallet. ‘Here you are!’ he would say, ‘that’s how to do business!’ But Kuzmichov was not happy. His face expressed that same businesslike detachment and anxiety.