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Updated: June 3, 2025
Feeling that this was not sufficient to express his hatred, he thought a minute and added: "You blackguard! You son of a bitch!" But Dymov, as though nothing were the matter, took no further notice of Yegorushka, but swam off to Kiruha, shouting: "Ha-ha-ha! Let us catch fish! Mates, let us catch fish." "To be sure," Kiruha agreed; "there must be a lot of fish here."
She suddenly felt poignantly sorry for Dymov, for his boundless love for her, for his young life, and even for the desolate little bed in which he had not slept for so long; and she remembered his habitual, gentle, submissive smile. She wept bitterly, and wrote an imploring letter to Korostelev. It was two o'clock in the night.
From their fluster and the broken phrases they uttered it was apparent they foresaw some trouble. Before they set off on their way, Dymov went up to Panteley and asked softly: "What's his name?" "Yegory," answered Panteley. Dymov put one foot on the wheel, caught hold of the cord which was tied round the bales and pulled himself up. Yegorushka saw his face and curly head.
Knowing by experience how such conversations usually ended, Panteley and Vassya intervened and tried to persuade Dymov not to quarrel about nothing. "A church-singer!" The bully would not desist, but laughed contemptuously. "Anyone can sing like that sit in the church porch and sing 'Give me alms, for Christ's sake! Ugh! you are a nice fellow!" Emelyan did not speak.
She wanted to explain to him that it had been a mistake, that all was not lost, that life might still be beautiful and happy, that he was an extraordinary, rare, great man, and that she would all her life worship him and bow down in homage and holy awe before him.... "Dymov!" she called him, patting him on the shoulder, unable to believe that he would never wake again. "Dymov! Dymov!"
Look! he has the face of a Bengal tiger and an expression as kind and sweet as a gazelle. Ah, the darling!" The visitors ate, and, looking at Dymov, thought, "He really is a nice fellow"; but they soon forgot about him, and went on talking about the theatre, music, and painting. The young people were happy, and their life flowed on without a hitch.
Burrowing in the slimy, liquid mud, he felt something sharp and unpleasant perhaps it really was a crayfish. But at that minute someone seized him by the leg and pulled him to the surface. Spluttering and coughing, Yegorushka opened his eyes and saw before him the wet grinning face of the dare-devil Dymov.
There was nothing to be seen but darkness in the direction in which Vassya was looking; everyone listened, but they could hear no sound of steps. "Is he coming by the highroad?" asked Dymov. "No, over the open country. . . . He is coming this way." A minute passed in silence. "And maybe it's the merchant who was buried here walking over the steppe," said Dymov.
Dymov, the son of a well-to-do peasant, lived at ease, enjoyed himself and had known no trouble till he was twenty, when his stern harsh father, anxious to train him to work, and afraid he would be spoiled at home, had sent him to a carrier's to work as a hired labourer.
A man in a white cap and a suit of cheap grey material, mounted on a little Cossack stallion, was talking to Dymov and Kiruha beside the foremost waggon. A mile and a half ahead there were long low white barns and little houses with tiled roofs; there were neither yards nor trees to be seen beside the little houses. "What village is that, Grandfather?" asked Yegorushka.
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