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Updated: May 15, 2025
He was very young, all his life was before him. That was bad! But perhaps the soil would retain him. At this thought, Tchelkache grew sad again, and growled out in reply: "I'm tired! . . . and the boat rocks!" "Of course it rocks! So, now, there's no danger of being caught with this?" Gavrilo kicked the bales. "No, be quiet. I'm going to deliver them at once and receive the money. Yes!"
In front of Gavrilo, at another table, was a drunken sailor, with a red beard, all covered with charcoal and tar. He was humming, interrupted by frequent hiccoughs, a fragment of a song very much out of tune. He was evidently not a Russian. Behind him were two ragged women from Moldavia, black-haired and sun-burned; they were also grinding out a song.
For a minute the boat quivered and stopped. The oars rested in the water, setting it foaming, and Gavrilo moved uneasily on his seat. "Row!" A sharp oath rang out in the air. Gavrilo swung the oars. The boat moved with rapid, irregular jerks, noisily cutting the water. "Steady!"
At this, Gavrilo began to run, to run far away, yonder, to where the shadow of that ragged cloud overhung the misty steppe. The murmuring waves, coursing over the sands, joined him and ran on and on, never stopping. The foam hissed, the spray flew through the air. The rain fell. Slight at first, it soon came down thickly, heavily and came from the sky in slender streams.
From the moment when he had bidden him row more slowly, Gavrilo had again been overcome by that intense agony of expectation.
He took Gavrilo by the arm, led and gently pushed him from the public house and deposited him in the shade of a pile of cut wood; he sat down beside him and lighted his pipe. Gavrilo stirred a little, muttered something and went to sleep. "Well, is it ready?" asked Tchelkache in a low voice to Gavrilo who was looking after the oars.
Behind him, too, could be seen black blurs of some sort, while in front, in the opening between the wall and the side of that coffin, he could see the sea, a silent waste, with the storm-clouds crawling above it. Everything was cold, black, malignant. Gavrilo felt panic-stricken.
They'll come and fetch it. Well, we must say good-bye! It's eight versts from here to the town. What are you going to do? Coming back to the town, eh?" Chelkash's face was radiant with a good-humoredly sly smile, and altogether he had the air of a man who had thought of something very pleasant for himself and a surprise to Gavrilo. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he rustled the notes there.
At this, Gavrilo was filled with great respect for his master, who, despite his knavish exterior, was so well known and treated with so much confidence. "There, let us eat a bite, and talk afterward. Wait for me an instant, I will be back directly." He went out. Gavrilo looked around him. The ale-house was in a basement; it was damp and dark and reeking with tobacco smoke, tar and a musty odor.
"Dear fellow!" Gavrilo melted into a drunken, good-natured smile. "Never fear! I respect you! That is, look here! Let me kiss you! eh?" "Come, come! A drop more!" Gavrilo drank, and at last reached a condition when everything seemed waving up and down in regular undulations before his eyes. It was unpleasant and made him feel sick.
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