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He cares for nobody, he respects nobody, and is afraid of nobody. . . . You know he laughs at everybody, he says silly things, speaks familiarly to anyone. You wouldn't believe it, Varlamov came here one day and Solomon said such things to him that he gave us both a taste of his whip. . . . But why whip me? Was it my fault?
It was hard to recognize the mysterious elusive Varlamov, who was sought by everyone, who was always "on his rounds," and who had far more money than Countess Dranitsky, in the short, grey little man in big boots, who was sitting on an ugly little nag and talking to peasants at an hour when all decent people were asleep.
"What a business, only think!" sighed Panteley, looking towards the settlement, too, and shuddering at the morning freshness. "He has sent a man to the settlement for some papers, and he doesn't come . . . . He should have sent Styopka." "Who is that, Grandfather?" asked Yegorushka. "Varlamov." My goodness! Yegorushka jumped up quickly, getting upon his knees, and looked at the white cap.
Fanatically devoted to his work, Kuzmitchov always, even in his sleep and at church when they were singing, "Like the cherubim," thought about his business and could never forget it for a moment; and now he was probably dreaming about bales of wool, waggons, prices, Varlamov. . . . Father Christopher, now, a soft, frivolous and absurd person, had never all his life been conscious of anything which could, like a boa-constrictor, coil about his soul and hold it tight.
It preened its wings, and without its stomach flew off to the horses. A loud sigh was heard from under the chaise. It was Kuzmitchov waking up. He quickly raised his head, looked uneasily into the distance, and from that look, which passed by Yegorushka and Deniska without sympathy or interest, it could be seen that his thought on awaking was of the wool and of Varlamov.
"Whose sheep are these?" asked Kuzmitchov. "Varlamov's," the old man answered in a loud voice. "Varlamov's," repeated the shepherd standing at the other end of the flock. "Did Varlamov come this way yesterday or not?" "He did not; his clerk came. . . ." "Drive on!" The chaise rolled on and the shepherds, with their angry dogs, were left behind.
A creature is a self-existing object, not requiring anything else for its completion." He shook his head and laughed with feeling. "Spiritual nourishment!" he said. "Of a truth matter nourishes the flesh and spiritual nourishment the soul!" "Learning is all very well," sighed Kuzmitchov, "but if we don't overtake Varlamov, learning won't do much for us." "A man isn't a needle we shall find him.
Thus, in the present expedition, he was not so much interested in wool, in Varlamov, and in prices, as in the long journey, the conversations on the way, the sleeping under a chaise, and the meals at odd times. . . . And now, judging from his face, he must have been dreaming of Bishop Christopher, of the Latin discussion, of his wife, of puffs and cream and all sorts of things that Kuzmitchov could not possibly dream of.
Who was this elusive, mysterious Varlamov of whom people talked so much, whom Solomon despised, and whom even the beautiful countess needed? Sitting on the box beside Deniska, Yegorushka, half asleep, thought about this person. He had never seen him. But he had often heard of him and pictured him in his imagination.
"That is just what you would expect from a Pole," said Father Christopher. "And little does it trouble her. Young and foolish, as they say, her head is full of nonsense." Yegorushka, for some reason, longed to think of nothing but Varlamov and the countess, particularly the latter.
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