Taking his overcoat off, the boy kissed his uncle's hand and Father Christopher's, and sat do-wn at the table.
'Well, how was thejo^rcey, puer bone?' Father Christopher showered him with questions, pouring him tea and smiling his habitual radiant smile. 'Sick of it, I'll be bound? Never travel with a wagon train or by ox-cart, God forbid. You go on, on, on, Lord help us, you glance ahead and the steppe's just as Iong-windedly elongated as ever, no end or limit to it. It's not travel, it's a do^right travesty of it. But why don't you drink your tea? Go on! Well, while you were trailing along with the wagons we fixed things up to a tee here, thank God. We've sold our wool to Cherepakhin at tip-top prices—done pretty well, we have.'
On first seeing his people, the boy felt an irresistible urge to complain. Not listening to Father Christopher, he wondered where to start and what exactly to complain oЈ But Father Christopher's voice, seeming harsh and disagrceable, prevented him from concentrating and confused his thoughts. Aftcr sitting for less than five minutes, he got up from table, wcnt to the sofa and lay do^.
Fathcr Christophcr was amazed. 'Well, I never! What about your tea?'
Still wondering what to complain of, Yegorushka preaed his fore- head against the back of his sofa and burst into sobs.
'Well, I never!' repeated Father Christopher, getting up and going over to him. 'What's the matter with you, boy? Why the tears?'
1-I'm ill.'
'Ill, eh?' Father Christopher was rather put out. 'Now, that's quite wrong, old son. You mustn't fall ill on a journey. Oh dear me, what a t^^ to do, old son, eh ?'
He placed his hand on the boy's head and touied his cheek.
'Yes, your head's hot. You must have caught a chill, or else you've eaten something. You must pray to God.'
'We might try quinine.' Kuzmichov was somewhat abashed.
'No, he should eat something nice and hot. How about a nice bowl of soup, boy?'
'No—1 don't want any,' answered Yegorushka.
'Feeling shivery, eh?'
'I was, but now I feel hot. I ache all over.'
Kuzmichov went over, tou^ed the boy's head, cleared his throat in perplexity, and went back to the table.
'Well, you'd better get undresed and go to sleep,' said Father Christopher. 'What you need is a good rest.'
He helped the boy undres, gave him a pillow, covered him with a quilt Ku^zmichov's topcoat over it, and then tiptoed off and sat at the table. Closing his eyes, Yegorushka i^mediately imagined that he was not in an in room but on the high road by the camp-fire. Yemelyan swung his invisible baton while red-eyed Dymov lay on his stomach looking sarcastically at Yegorushka.
'Hit ^m, hit him!' the boy shouted.
'He's delirious,' said Father Christopher in an undertone.
Kuzmichov sighed. 'Oh, what a nuisance!'
'We ought to rub him with oil and vinegar. Let's hope to God he'll be better tomorrow.'
Trying to shake off his irksome fancies, Yegorushka opened his eyes and looked at the light. Father Christopher and Kuzmichov had fnished their tea and were having a whispered di^^sion. The former smiled happily, obviously unable to forget that he had netted a good profit on his wool. It was lew the actual profit that ^eered him than the prospect of auembling all his large family on his re^m, and of giving a knowing ^^ and a mighty chuckle. First he would mislead them, claiming to have sold the wool below its value, but then he'd give his son-in-law Michael a fat wallet. 'There you are,' he'd say. 'That's how to do a deal.' But Kuzmichov did not seem pleased, reuining his old air of busineslike r^^e and anxiety. 'If only I'd kno^ Cherepakhin would pay that much!' He spoke in an under- tone. 'I wouldn't have sold Makarov that five tons at home, drat it. But who could have kno^ that the price had gone up here?'
A white-shirted waiter cleared the samovar away, and lit the lamp before the icon in the comer. Father Christopher whispered something in his ear. He gave an enigmatic, conspiratorial look as if to say he understood, went out, came back a little later and placed a bowl under the sofa. Kuzmichov made up a bed on the floor, ya^ed several times, lazily said his prayers and lay do^.
'I'm thinking of going to the cathedral tomorrow,' said Father Christopher. 'I know a sacristan there. I ought to go and see the Bishop after the service, but he's said to be il.' He ya^wned and put out the lamp. Now only the icon lamp was b^ing. 'They say he doesn't see anyone.' Father Christopher was removing his robes. 'So I shall just leave without meeting him.'
When he took off his caftan he seemed just like Robinson Crusoe to Yegorushka. Crusoe mixed something in a dish, and went up to the boy. 'Asleep, are we, Master Lomonosov? Just sit up and I'll rub you with oil and vinegar. It'll do you good, but you must say a prayer.'
Yegorushka quickly raised himself and sat up. Father Christopher took the boy's shirt off and began rubbing his chest, cowering and breathing jerkily, as if it was he that was being tickled.
'In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,' he whis- pered. 'Now tum on to your face. That's the idea. You'll be well to- morrow, but don't let it happen again. Why, he's almost on fire! I suppose you were on the road in the storm.'
'Yes.'
'No wonder you're poorly. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. No wonder at all.'
When the rubbing was finished Father Christopher put Yegorushka's shirt back on, covered him, made the sign of the cross over him, and went away. Then the boy saw him praying. The old man must know a lot of prayers because he stood whispering before the icon for quite a time. His devotions completed, he made the sign of the crou over the windows, the door, Yegormlka and Kuzmichov. Then he lay on a divan without a pillow, covering himself with his caftan. The cor- ridor clock struck ten. Remembering how much time was left before morning, the boy miserably pressed his forehead against the sofa back, no longer ^^ng to shake off his hazy, irksome fancies. But morning came much sooner than he expected.
He seemed to have been lying there with his forehead against the sofa back for only a short time, but when he opened his eyes sun- beams were slanting to the floor from the room's two windows. Father Christopher and Kuzmichov had gone out, and the place had been tidied. It was bright, comfortable and redolent of Father Christopher, who always smelt ofcypress and dried co^^owers—at home he made his holy-water sprinklers out of cornflowen, also decorating icon cases with them, and that was why he had become saturated with their scent. Looking at the piUow, the slanting sunbeams and his boots— now cleaned and standing side by side near the sofa—the boy laughed. He found it odd that he was not on the bale of wool, that all around him was dry, and that there was no thunder or lightning on the ceiling.
J^ping up, he began to dress. He felt wonderful. Nothing remained ofyesterday's illness but a slight weakness ofthe legs and neck. Thc oil and vinegar must have done the trick. Remembering the steamer, the railway engine and the wide river that he had dimly glimpsed yester- day, he was in a hurry to dress so that he could run to the quayside and look at them. He washed, and the door catch suddenly clicked as he was putting on his red shirt. On the threshold appeared the top-hatted Father Christopher wearing a bro^ silk cassock over his canvas caft^ and carrying his staff. Smiling and beaming—old men are always radiant when just ret^rong from church—he placed a piece of com- munion bread and a parcel on the table and prayed to the icon.
'God has been merciful,' he addcd. 'Better, are we?'
'Al right now.' The boy kiued his hand.
'Thank God. I'm just back from service. I went to see my friend the sacristan. He asked me in for breakfast, but I didn't go. I don't like calling on people too early in the mo^rng, dash it.'
He took his cauock off, stroked his chest and unhuriedly undid the bundle. The boy saw a tin of unpressed caviare, a piece of smoked sturgeon and a French loaЈ