'It ain't no use to us. 'Tis good enough roasted, but stewed—powerful tough it be, I reckon!'
'Oh, bother it. I could take it to the squire's lot on the estate. They'd give me halfa rouble, but that's a way off—ten mile, it be.'
The stranger sat downwn, unslung his gun and put it by him. He seemed torpid and sleepy as he smiled and squinted in the light, evi- dently thinking agreeable thoughts. They gave him a spoon and he started eating.
'And who might you be?' asked Dymov.
Not hearing the question, the smiler neither answered nor even looked at Dymov. He probably could not taste the stew either, for he chewed lazily and rather automatically, his spoon sometimes chock full and sometimes quite empty as he raised it to his mouth. He was not drunk, but he did seem a trifle unhinged.
'I asked you who you were,' Dymov repeated.
'Me?' The stranger gave a start. 'I'm Constantine Zvonyk from Rovnoye, about three miles from here.'
To make it clear from the beginning that he was a cut above your average peasant, he hastened to add that he kept bees and pigs.
'Do you live with your father or in a place of your ownwn?'
'Oh, I'm by myself now, set up on me I have. I was married ^^ month after St. Peter's Day. So now I'm a husband. 'Tis the eight^nth day since we was wed.'
'That's a fine thing,' said Panteley. 'No harm in having a wife. God has bl^ttd you.'
'His young wife sleeps at home while he's a-wandering the steppes,' laughed Ki^^^a. 'Strange doings!'
Constantine winced as though pinched in a sensitive place, laughed and flared up. 'Lord love us, she ain't at home,' he said, quickly taking the spoon from his mouth and s^^eying everyone with glad surprise. 'That she ain't. She's gone to her mother's for two days. Aye, off she's gone, and I'm a bachelor, like.'
Constantine dismissed the subject with a gesture and flexed his ne^, wanting to go on th^&ng but hindered by the joy irradiating his face. He shifted his position, as if sitting was uncomfortable, laughed and then made another dismissive gesture. He was ashamed to betray his pleasant thoughts to strangers, yet felt an irresistible urge to share his happiness. 'She's gone to her mother's at Demidovo.' He blushed and moved his gun to another place. 'She'll be back tomorrow, she said she'd be back for diner.'
'Do you mi« her?' Dymov asked.
'Lord, yes—what do you think? I ain't been wed but a few days and she's already gone. See what I m^rn? And she's a little bundle of mischief, Lord love us. Aye, she's m^ellous she is, marvellous, always a-laughing and a-singing, a proper han^^ she be. When I'm with her I don't know whether I'm on me head or me heels, and without her I feel as how I've lost something and I wander over the steppe like a fool. I've been at it since diner—past praying for, I
Constantine rubbed his eyes, looked at the fire and laughed.
'You must love her then,' said Panteley, but Constantine did not hear.
'She's marvellous, m^ellous,' he repeated. 'She's such a good housewife, so clever, so intelligent—you couldn't find another woman like her in the whole county, not among us co^rnon folk you couldn't. She's gone away. But she misses me, I know. Aye, that she does, the naughty little thing. She said she'd be back by dinner tomorrow. But what a business it was.' Constantine almost shouted, suddenly pitching his voice higher and shifting his position. 'She loves me and miues me now, but she never did want to wed me, you know.'
'Have something to eat,' said Kiryukha.
'She wouldn't marry me,' Constantine went on, not hearing. 'Three years I spent arguing with her. I saw her at Kalachik fair, and I fell madly in love, I were downright desperate. I live at Rovnoye and she was at Demidovo nigh on twenty mile away and there weren't nothing I could do. I send matchmakers to her, but she says no, the naughty little creature. Well I one thing and another. I send her ear-rings, cakes and twenty pound of honey, but it's still no. Can you believe it? But then again, when you come to think of it, I'm no match for her. She's young, beautiful and a proper little spitfire, but I'm old —fll soon be thirty. And then I'm so handsome, ain't 1—what with me fine beard the size of a matchstick and me face so smooth that it's one mass of pimples? What chance had I got with her? The only thing was, we are quite well off, but them Vakhramenkos live well too. They keep six oxen and two labourers.
'Well, I were in love with her, lads—proper crazy I was. Couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. God help us, I were that befuddled. I longed to see her, but she was at Demidovo. And do you know—1 ain't lying, as God's my witness—I used to walk there about three times a week just to look at her. I stopped working, and I were in such a pother I even wanted to hire myself out as a labourer at Dcmidovo to be closer to her like. Sheer torture it was. My mother called in a village woman that could cast spells, and my father was ready to beat me a dozen times. Well, I put up with it for three years, and then I decided I'd go and be a cabbie in townwn, botheration take it! It weren't to be, I reckoned. At Easter I went to Demidovo for a last look at her.'
Constantine threw his head back and gave a peal of merry chuckles, as if he had just brought off a particularly cunning piece of deception. 'I see her with some lads near the stream,' he went on. 'And I feel proper angry. I call her to one side and I say all manner of things to her —for a full hour, maybe. And she falls in love with me! For three years she didn't love me, but she loved me for them words.'
'But what were them words?' Dymov asked.
'The words? I don't recall—how could I? At the time it all comes straight out like water from a gutter—blah, blah, blah, without me stopping to breathe. But I couldn't say one word of it now. So she weds me. And now she's gone to see her mother, the naughty lass, and here I am a-wandering the steppes without her. I can't stay at home, I can't abide to.'
Constantine awkwardly unwound his legs from under him, stretched out on the ground, propped his head on his fists, and then stood up and sat do-wn again. By now everyone could clearly see that here was a man happy in love, poignantly happy. His smile, his eyes, his every movement reflected overwhelming bli». He fidgeted, not knowing what posture to adopt or avoid, being drained of ,.;tality through excess of delectable thoughts. Having poured his heart out to strangers, he settled do^ quietly at last, deep in thought as he gazed at the fire.
Seeing a happy man, the others felt depretted, wanting to be happy themselves, and fell to pondering. D^nov stood up and slowly strolled about near the fire, his walk and the movement ofhis shoulder- blades showing how weary and depresed he was. He stood still for a while, looked at Constantine and sat do^.
The camp-fire was dying do^ by now, no longer flickering, and the patch of red had shrunk and di^rned. And the quicker the fire b^M out the clearer the moonlight became. Now the road could be seen in its full width—the bales of wool, the wagon shafts, the munch- ing horses. On the other side was the hazy outline of the second cross.
Dymov propped his cheek on his hand and softly sang a mournfUl ditty. Constantine smiled drowsily, and joined in with his reedy little voice. They sang for less than a minute and fell silent. Yemelyan gave a start, flexed his elbows and flicked his fingers. 'I say, lads, let's nng a holy song,' he entreated them.
Tears came into his eyes and he presed his hand to his heart, repeat- ing his appeal to sing 'a holy song'. Constantine said he 'didn't know any', and everyone else refused. Then Yemelyan started on his o^. He conducted with both hands, he totted his head back and he opened his mouth, but from his throat burst only a hoarse, voiceless breath. He sang with his arms, head and eyes, and even with the swelling on his cheek. He sang fervidly and with anguish, and the more he strained his chest to extract a note, be it but a single one, the lett sound did his breath carry.
Overcome by depreuion like everyone else, Yegorushka went to his wagon, climbed on the bales and lay downwn. He looked at the sky, t^^^g of lucky Constantine and his wife. Why do people marry? Why are there women in the world, the boy vaguely wondered, thinking how nice it must be for a man to have a loving, cheerful, beautiful woman constantly at his side. For some reason thoughts of Counteu Dranitsky came into his head. How agreeable it must be to live with a woman like that! Perhaps he would have liked to marry her himself, had the notion not been so embarrassing. He recalled her eyebrows, the pupils of her eyes, her coach and the clock with the horseman. The quiet, warm night settled do^ over him, whispering something in his ear, and he felt as if that same beautiful woman was bending over him, looking at him, smiling, wanting to kiss him.