Nothing was left of the camp-fire but two little red eyes that dwindled and dwindled. The carters and Constantine sat round it— dark, still figures—and there seemed to be f^r more of them than before. The twin crosses were equally visible, and somewhere far away on the road a red light glowed—someone else cooking a meal, probably.
'Here's to good old Mother Russia, Finest nation in the world,'
Kiryukha suddenly sang out in a harsh voice, then choked and grew silent. The prairie echo caught his voice and carried it on so that the very spirit of stupidity seemed to be trundling over the steppe on heavy wheels.
'Time to go,' said Panteley. 'Up you get, mates.'
While they were hitching up Constantine was walking about by the wagons singing his wife's praises. 'Thanks for the hospitality, lads, and good-bye,' he shouted as the convoy moved off. 'I'll make for the other fi.re. It's all too much for me, it is.'
He quickly disappeared in the gloom, and could long be heard walking towards the glimmering light so that he could tell those other strangers of his happiness.
When the boy woke up next day it was early morning and the sun had not risen. The wagons had halted. Talking to Dymov and Kiryukha by the leading vehicle was a man on a Cossack pony—he wore a white peaked cap and a suit of cheap grey cloth. About a mile and a half ahead of the wagons were long, low white barns and con.iges with tiled roofs. Neither yards nor trees were to be seen near them.
'What village is that?' Yegorushka asked the old man.
'Them farms are Armenian, young feller,' answered Panteley. ' 'Tis where the Armenians live—not a bad lot, they ain't.'
The man in grey finished talking to Dymov and Kiryukha, reined in his pony and looked at the farms.
' 'Tis a proper botheration,' sighed Panteley, also looking at the farms and shivering in the cool of the morning. 'He sent a man to the farm for some bit of paper, but he hasn't come back. He should have sent Styopka.'
'But who is he?' asked the boy.
'Varlamov.'
Varlamov! Yegorushka quickly jumped to his knees and looked at die white cap. It was hard to recognize the mysterious, elusive Varla- mov, who was so much in demand, who was always 'knocking around', and who had far more money than Countess Dranitsky, in this short, grey, large-booted little man on the ugly nag who was talking to peasants at an hour when all decent people are abed.
'He's all right, a good sort he is,' said Panteley, looking at the farms. 'God grant him health, he's a fine gentleman, is Simon Varlamov. It's the likes ofhim as keeps the world a-humming, lad. Aye, that they do. It ain't cock-crow yet, and he's already up and about. Another man would be asleep, or he'd be at home gallivanting with his guests, but Varlamov's out on the steppe all day, knocking around like. Never misses a deal, he don't—and good for him, say I.'
Varlamov was staring fixedly at one of the farms, discussing some- thing while his pony shifted impatiently from foot to foot.
'Hey, Mr. Varlamov!' shouted Panteley, taking off his hat. 'Let me send Styopka. Yemelyan, give a shout—send Styopka, tell 'em.'
But now at last a man on horseback was seen to leave the farm. Leaning heavily to one side and swinging his whip over his head, as if giving a rodeo performance and wanting to dazzle everyone with his horsemanship, he flew like a bird to the wagons.
'That must be one of his rangers,' said Panteley. 'A hundred of them he has, or more.'
Reaching the first wagon, the rider pulled up his horse, doffed his cap and gave a little book to Varlamov, who removed several papers from it and read them.
'Dut where's Ivanchuk's letter?' he shouted.
The horseman took the book back, looked at the papers and shrugged. He began saying sometliing, probably in self-defence, and asked permiaion to go back to the farms. The pony suddenly gave a start as if Varlamov had become heavier, and Varlamov also gave a start.
'Clear out!' he shouted angrily, brandishing his whip at the rider. Then he turned his pony round and rode along the wagons at a walk, examining the papers in the book. When he reached the last wagon Yegorushka strained his eyes to get a good look. Varlamov was quite old. He had a small grey beard, and his simple, sunburnt, typically Russian face was red, wet with dew and covered with little blue v^ra.
He had exactly the same busineslike expression as Ivan Kuzmichov, and the same fanatical devotion to affairs. But what a difference you could feel between him and Kuzmichov! Besides wearing an air of businesslike reserve, Uncle Ivan always looked worried and afraid— of not finding Varlamov, of being late, of missing a bargain. But in Varlamov's face and figure there was nothing of your typical little man's dependent look. This man fixed the price himselЈ He didn't go round looking for people, and he depended on no one. Nondescript though his appearance might be, everything about him—even the way he held his whi^^onveyed a sense ofpower and the habit of authority over the steppe.
He did not glance at the boy as he rode past. Only his pony deigned to notice Yegorushka, gazing at him with large, foolish eyes—and even the pony was not very interested. Panteley bowed to Varlamov, who noticed this but did not take his eyes olfhis papers and just said: 'Greetings, grandpa,' gargling the 'r's in his throat.
Varlamov's interchange with the horseman and the swish of his whip had evidently demoralized the whole party, for al looked grave. Quailing before the strong man's wrath, the horseman remained by the front wagon with his head bare, let his reins hang loose and said nothing, as if unable to believe that the day had begun so badly for him.
'He's a rough old boy,' muttered Panteley. 'Real hard. But he's all right—a good sort he is. He don't harm no one without reason. He's al right he is!'
After examining the papers, Varlamov thrust the book in his pocket. Seeming to understand his thoughts, the pony quivered and careered do^wn the road without waiting for orders.
VII
On the following night the wagoners again halted to cook their meal, but on this occasion everything seemed tinged with melancholy from the start. It was sultry and they had all dr^^ a great deal, but without in the least quenching their thirst. The moon rose—intensely crimson and sullen, as if it were ailing. The stars were gloomy too, the mist was thicker, the distant prospect was hazier, and all nature seemed to wilt at some intimation of doom.
There was no more of the previous day's excitement and conversa- tion round the camp-fire. Al were depressed, all spoke listlessly and reluctantly. Panteley did nothing but sigh and complain of his feet, while occasionally invoking the topic of dying 'contumaciously'.
Dymov lay on his stomach, silently chewing a straw. He wore a fastidious expresion as if the straw had a bad smell, and he looked il- tempered and tired. Vasya complained that his jaw ached, and for^^t bad weather. Yemelyan had stopped waving his a^re, and sat still, looking grimly at the fire. Yegorushka was wilting too. The slow pace had tired ^m, and he had a headache from the day's heat.
When the stew was cooked Dymov began picking on his mates out of boredom. He glared spitefully at Yemelyan. 'Look at old Lumpy Jaws sprawling there! Always first to shove his spoon in, he is. Talk about greed! Can't wait to grab first place by the pot, ^ he? Thi^a he's the lord of creation because he ^d to be a singer. We know your sort of choirboy, mister—there's tramps like you a-plenty singing for their suppers up and downwn the high road.'