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Updated: May 6, 2025
"What about your tea?" Still thinking what to complain of, Yegorushka leaned his head against the wall and broke into sobs. "Well, well!" repeated Father Christopher, getting up and going to the sofa. "Yegory, what is the matter with you? Why are you crying?" "I'm . . . I'm ill," Yegorushka brought out. "Ill?" said Father Christopher in amazement.
Father Christopher glanced apprehensively towards the door, and went on in a whisper: "Ivan Ivanitch will assist. He won't desert you. He has no children of his own, and he will help you. Don't be uneasy." He looked grave, and whispered still more softly: "Only mind, Yegory, don't forget your mother and Ivan Ivanitch, God preserve you from it.
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.
"Yegory, then. . . . The holy martyr Yegory, the Bearer of Victory, whose day is the twenty-third of April. And my christian name is Panteley, . . . Panteley Zaharov Holodov. . . . We are Holodovs . . . . I am a native of maybe you've heard of it Tim in the province of Kursk. My brothers are artisans and work at trades in the town, but I am a peasant. . . . I have remained a peasant.
It was all right. . . . Have you got down, Yegory? Well, go into the hut; it is all right. . . ." "Holy, holy, holy!" wheezed Emelyan, "it must have struck something . . . . Are you of these parts?" he asked the giants. "No, from Glinovo. We belong to Glinovo. We are working at the Platers'." "Threshing?" "All sorts. Just now we are getting in the wheat. The lightning, the lightning!
I say there is no establishment for teaching them to be very clever. . . . No, that's true a nice little lad, no harm in him. . . . He'll grow up and be a help to his father . . . . You, Yegory, are little now, but you'll grow big and will keep your father and mother. . . . So it is ordained of God, 'Honour your father and your mother. . . . I had children myself, but they were burnt. . . . My wife was burnt and my children, . . . that's true. . . . The hut caught fire on the night of Epiphany. . . . I was not at home, I was driving in Oryol.
There was a flash of lightning on the right, and, like a reflection in the looking-glass, at once a second flash in the distance. "Yegory, take this," cried Panteley, throwing up something big and dark. "What is it?" asked Yegorushka. "A mat. There will be rain, so cover yourself up." Yegorushka sat up and looked about him.
"No; he ought to have something hot. . . . Yegory, have a little drop of soup? Eh?" "I . . . don't want any," said Yegorushka. "Are you feeling chilly?" "I was chilly before, but now . . . now I am hot. And I ache all over. . . ." Ivan Ivanitch went up to the sofa, touched Yegorushka on the head, cleared his throat with a perplexed air, and went back to the table.
He was convinced that the thunder would kill him in another minute, that he would accidentally open his eyes and see the terrible giants, and he left off crossing himself, calling the old man and thinking of his mother, and was simply numb with cold and the conviction that the storm would never end. But at last there was the sound of voices. "Yegory, are you asleep?" Panteley cried below.
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