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Updated: May 6, 2025
"What is 'God' in Tatar?" asked the deacon, going into the duhan. "Your God and my God are the same," said Kerbalay, not understanding him. "God is the same for all men, only men are different. Some are Russian, some are Turks, some are English there are many sorts of men, but God is one." "Very good.
The flag on the duhan hung limp, soaked by the rain, and the duhan itself with its wet roof seemed darker and lower than it had been before. Near the door was standing a cart; Kerbalay, with two mountaineers and a young Tatar woman in trousers no doubt Kerbalay's wife or daughter were bringing sacks of something out of the duhan, and putting them on maize straw in the cart.
"Come to the duhan, drink tea," he said to Kerbalay. "Me wants to eat." Kerbalay spoke good Russian, but the deacon imagined that the Tatar would understand him better if he talked to him in broken Russian. "Cook omelette, give cheese. . . ." "Come, come, father," said Kerbalay, bowing. "I'll give you everything . . . . I've cheese and wine. . . . Eat what you like."
They all wandered off in different directions, and no one was left but Kirilin, Atchmianov, and Nikodim Alexandritch. Kerbalay brought chairs, spread a rug on the ground, and set a few bottles of wine.
The deacon went for the fish which Kerbalay was cleaning and washing on the bank, but he stood still half-way and looked about him. "My God, how nice it is!" he thought. "People, rocks, the fire, the twilight, a monstrous tree nothing more, and yet how fine it is!" On the further bank some unknown persons made their appearance near the drying-shed.
While they were moving about the carriages and taking their seats, Kerbalay stood in the road, and, laying his hands on his stomach, he bowed low, showing his teeth; he imagined that the gentry had come to enjoy the beauties of nature and drink tea, and could not understand why they were getting into the carriages. The party set off in complete silence and only the deacon was left by the duhan.
Kerbalay nodded his shaven head and muttered something, and only those sitting in the last carriage could hear: "We've got trout, your Excellency." "Bring them, bring them!" said Von Koren. Five hundred paces from the duhan the carriages stopped.
She ran over the rickety bridge and looked for a minute into the water, in order to feel giddy; then, shrieking and laughing, ran to the other side to the drying-shed, and she fancied that all the men were admiring her, even Kerbalay.
"What have you brought this for, you brute?" he asked Kerbalay, deliberately articulating each word. "I ordered you to give us kvarel, and what have you brought, you ugly Tatar? Eh? What?" "We have plenty of wine of our own, Yegor Alekseitch," Nikodim Alexandritch observed, timidly and politely. "What?
Kerbalay, a nimble little Tatar in a blue shirt and a white apron, was standing in the road, and, holding his stomach, he bowed low to welcome the carriages, and smiled, showing his glistening white teeth. "Good-evening, Kerbalay," shouted Samoylenko. "We are driving on a little further, and you take along the samovar and chairs! Look sharp!"
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