the witch and other stories-第13章

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Lytchkov　the　son　walked　up；　too；　he；　too；　was　bareheaded　and　had
a　stick　in　his　hand；　he　stopped　and　fixed　his　drunken　senseless
eyes　on　the　verandah。

〃It　is　not　my　business　to　settle　your　affairs；〃　said　the
engineer。　〃Go　to　the　rural　captain　or　the　police　officer。〃

〃I　have　been　everywhere。　。　。　。　I　have　lodged　a　petition　。　。　。〃
said　Lytchkov　the　father；　and　he　sobbed。　〃Where　can　I　go　now？　He
can　kill　me　now；　it　seems。　He　can　do　anything。　Is　that　the　way　to
treat　a　father？　A　father？〃

He　raised　his　stick　and　hit　his　son　on　the　head；　the　son　raised
his　stick　and　struck　his　father　just　on　his　bald　patch　such　a
blow　that　the　stick　bounced　back。　The　father　did　not　even　flinch；
but　hit　his　son　again　and　again　on　the　head。　And　so　they　stood
and　kept　hitting　one　another　on　the　head；　and　it　looked　not　so
much　like　a　fight　as　some　sort　of　a　game。　And　peasants；　men　and
women；　stood　in　a　crowd　at　the　gate　and　looked　into　the　garden；
and　the　faces　of　all　were　grave。　They　were　the　peasants　who　had
come　to　greet　them　for　the　holiday；　but　seeing　the　Lytchkovs；
they　were　ashamed　and　did　not　go　in。

The　next　morning　Elena　Ivanovna　went　with　the　children　to　Moscow。
And　there　was　a　rumour　that　the　engineer　was　selling　his　house。　。
。　。

V

The　peasants　had　long　ago　grown　used　to　the　sight　of　the　bridge；
and　it　was　difficult　to　imagine　the　river　at　that　place　without　a
bridge。　The　heap　of　rubble　left　from　the　building　of　it　had　long
been　overgrown　with　grass；　the　navvies　were　forgotten；　and
instead　of　the　strains　of　the　〃Dubinushka〃　that　they　used　to
sing；　the　peasants　heard　almost　every　hour　the　sounds　of　a
passing　train。

The　New　Villa　has　long　ago　been　sold；　now　it　belongs　to　a
government　clerk　who　comes　here　from　the　town　for　the　holidays
with　his　family；　drinks　tea　on　the　terrace；　and　then　goes　back　to
the　town　again。　He　wears　a　cockade　on　his　cap；　he　talks　and
clears　his　throat　as　though　he　were　a　very　important　official；
though　he　is　only　of　the　rank　of　a　collegiate　secretary；　and　when
the　peasants　bow　he　makes　no　response。

In　Obrutchanovo　everyone　has　grown　older；　Kozov　is　dead。　In
Rodion's　hut　there　are　even　more　children。　Volodka　has　grown　a
long　red　beard。　They　are　still　as　poor　as　ever。

In　the　early　spring　the　Obrutchanovo　peasants　were　sawing　wood
near　the　station。　And　after　work　they　were　going　home；　they
walked　without　haste　one　after　the　other。　Broad　saws　curved　over
their　shoulders；　the　sun　was　reflected　in　them。　The　nightingales
were　singing　in　the　bushes　on　the　bank；　larks　were　trilling　in
the　heavens。　It　was　quiet　at　the　New　Villa；　there　was　not　a　soul
there；　and　only　golden　pigeons　　golden　because　the　sunlight　was
streaming　upon　them　　were　flying　over　the　house。　All　of　them　
Rodion；　the　two　Lytchkovs；　and　Volodka　　thought　of　the　white
horses；　the　little　ponies；　the　fireworks；　the　boat　with　the
lanterns；　they　remembered　how　the　engineer's　wife；　so　beautiful
and　so　grandly　dressed；　had　come　into　the　village　and　talked　to
them　in　such　a　friendly　way。　And　it　seemed　as　though　all　that　had
never　been；　it　was　like　a　dream　or　a　fairy…tale。

They　trudged　along；　tired　out；　and　mused　as　they　went。　。　。　。　In
their　village；　they　mused；　the　people　were　good；　quiet；　sensible；
fearing　God；　and　Elena　Ivanovna；　too；　was　quiet；　kind；　and
gentle；　it　made　one　sad　to　look　at　her；　but　why　had　they　not　got
on　together？　Why　had　they　parted　like　enemies？　How　was　it　that
some　mist　had　shrouded　from　their　eyes　what　mattered　most；　and
had　let　them　see　nothing　but　damage　done　by　cattle；　bridles；
pincers；　and　all　those　trivial　things　which　now；　as　they
remembered　them；　seemed　so　nonsensical？　How　was　it　that　with　the
new　owner　they　lived　in　peace；　and　yet　had　been　on　bad　terms　with
the　engineer？

And　not　knowing　what　answer　to　make　to　these　questions　they　were
all　silent　except　Volodka；　who　muttered　something。

〃What　is　it？〃　Rodion　asked。

〃We　lived　without　a　bridge　。　。　。〃　said　Volodka　gloomily。　〃We
lived　without　a　bridge；　and　did　not　ask　for　one　。　。　。　and　we
don't　want　it。　。　。　。〃

No　one　answered　him　and　they　walked　on　in　silence　with　drooping
heads。


DREAMS

Two　peasant　constables　　one　a　stubby；　black…bearded　individual
with　such　exceptionally　short　legs　that　if　you　looked　at　him　from
behind　it　seemed　as　though　his　legs　began　much　lower　down　than　in
other　people；　the　other；　long；　thin；　and　straight　as　a　stick；
with　a　scanty　beard　of　dark　reddish　colour　　were　escorting　to
the　district　town　a　tramp　who　refused　to　remember　his　name。　The
first　waddled　along；　looking　from　side　to　side；　chewing　now　a
straw；　now　his　own　sleeve；　slapping　himself　on　the　haunches　and
humming；　and　altogether　had　a　careless　and　frivolous　air；　the
other；　in　spite　of　his　lean　face　and　narrow　shoulders；　looked
solid；　grave；　and　substantial；　in　the　lines　and　expression　of　his
whole　figure　he　was　like　the　priests　among　the　Old　Believers；　or
the　warriors　who　are　painted　on　old…fashioned　ikons。　〃For　his
wisdom　God　had　added　to　his　forehead〃　　that　is；　he　was　bald　
which　increased　the　resemblance　referred　to。　The　first　was　called
Andrey　Ptaha；　the　second　Nikandr　Sapozhnikov。

The　man　they　were　escorting　did　not　in　the　least　correspond　with
the　conception　everyone　has　of　a　tramp。　He　was　a　frail　little
man；　weak　and　sickly…looking；　with　small；　colourless；　and
extremely　indefinite　features。　His　eyebrows　were　scanty；　his
expression　mild　and　submissive；　he　had　scarcely　a　trace　of　a
moustache；　though　he　was　over　thirty。　He　walked　along　timidly；
bent　forward；　with　his　hands　thrust　into　his　sleeves。　The　collar
of　his　shabby　cloth　overcoat；　which　did　not　look　like　a
peasant's；　was　turned　up　to　the　very　brim　of　his　cap；　so　that
only　his　little　red　nose　ventured　to　peep　out　into　the　light　of
day。　He　spoke　in　an　ingratiating　tenor；　continually　coughing。　It
was　very；　very　difficult　to　believe　that　he　was　a　tramp
concealing　his　surname。　He　was　more　like　an　unsuccessful　priest's
son；　stricken　by　God　and　reduced　to　beggary；　a　clerk　discharged
for　drunkenness；　a　merchant's　son　or　nephew　who　had　tried　his
feeble　powers　in　a　theatrical　career；　and　was　now　going　home　to
play　the　last　act　in　the　parable　of　the　prodigal　son；　perhaps；
judging　by　the　dull　patience　with　which　he　struggled　with　the
hopeless　autumn　mud；　he　might　have　been　a　fanatical　monk；
wandering　from　one　Russian　monastery　to　another；　continually
seeking　〃a　peaceful　life；　free　from　sin；〃　and　not　finding　it。　。　。
。

The　travellers　had　been　a　long　while　on　their　way；　but　they
seemed　to　be　always　on　the　same　small　patch　of　ground。　In　front
of　them　there　stretched　thirty　feet　of　muddy　black…brown　mud；
behind　them　the　same；　and　wherever　one　looked　further；　an
impenetrable　wall　of　white　fog。　They　went　on　and　on；　but　the
ground　remained　the　same；　the　wall　was　no　nearer；　and　the　patch
on　which　they　walked　seemed　still　the　same　patch。　They　got　a
glimpse　of　a　white；　clumsy…looking　stone；　a　small　ravine；　or　a
bundle　of　hay　dropped　by　a　passer…by；　the　brief　glimmer　of　a
great　muddy　puddle；　or；　suddenly；　a　shadow　with　vague　outlines
would　come　into　view　ahead　of　them；　the　nearer　they　got　to　it　the
smaller　and　darker　it　became；　nearer　still；　and　there　stood　up
before　the　wayfarers　a　slanting　milestone　with　the　number　rubbed
off；　or　a　wretched　birch…tree　drenched　and　bare　like　a　wayside
beggar。　The　birch…tree　would　whisper　something　with　what　remained
of　its　yellow　leaves；　one　leaf　would　break　off　and　float　lazily
to　the　ground。　。　。　。　And　then　again　fog；　mud；　the　brown　grass　at
the　edges　of　the　road。　On　the　grass　hung　dingy；　unfriendly　tears。
They　were　not　the　tears　of　soft　joy　such　as　the　earth　weeps　at
welcoming　the　summer　sun　and　parting　from　it；　and　such　as　she
gives　to　drink　at　dawn　to　the　corncrakes；　quails；　and　graceful；
long…beaked　crested　snipes。　The　travellers'　feet　stuck　in　the
heavy；　clinging　mud。　Every　step　cost　an　effort。

Andrey　Ptaha　was　somewhat　excited。　He　kept　looking　round　at　the
tramp　and　trying　to　understand　how　a　live；　sober　man　could　fail
to　remember　his　name。

〃You　are　an　orthodox　Christian；　aren't　you？〃　he　asked。

〃Yes；〃　the　tramp　answered　mildly。

〃H'm。　。　。　then　you've　been　christen