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His face, a simple Russian sunburnt face with a small grey beard, was red, wet with dew and covered with little blue veins; it had the same expression of businesslike coldness as Ivan Ivanitch's face, the same look of fanatical zeal for business. But yet what a difference could be felt between him and Kuzmitchov!
Without speaking, he brooded over something pleasant and nice, and a kindly, genial smile remained imprinted on his face. It seemed as though some nice and pleasant thought were imprinted on his brain by the heat. "Well, Deniska, shall we overtake the waggons to-day?" asked Kuzmitchov.
We'll stay a quarter of an hour and then go on; we can stay the night at the Molokans'." "A quarter of an hour!" squealed Moisey Moisevitch. "Have you no fear of God, Ivan Ivanitch? You will compel me to hide your caps and lock the door! You must have a cup of tea and a snack of something, anyway." "We have no time for tea," said Kuzmitchov.
Two of the inhabitants of N. were sitting in the chaise; they were a merchant of N. called Ivan Ivanitch Kuzmitchov, a man with a shaven face wearing glasses and a straw hat, more like a government clerk than a merchant, and Father Christopher Sireysky, the priest of the Church of St.
Father Christopher and Kuzmitchov held their hats and looked intently towards the hills. . . . How pleasant a shower of rain would have been! One effort, one struggle more, and it seemed the steppe would have got the upper hand.
"Never mind, never mind, Yegor boy, never mind," Father Christopher muttered rapidly "never mind, my boy. . . . Call upon God. . . . You are not going for your harm, but for your good. Learning is light, as the saying is, and ignorance is darkness. . . . That is so, truly." "Do you want to go back?" asked Kuzmitchov. "Yes, . . . yes, . . ." answered Yegorushka, sobbing.
After taking off their outer garments Kuzmitchov and Father Christopher lay down in the shade under the chaise, facing one another, and closed their eyes. Deniska, who had finished munching, stretched himself out on his back and also closed his eyes. "You look out that no one takes away the horses!" he said to Yegorushka, and at once fell asleep. Stillness reigned.
Looking at his face, Kuzmitchov smiled ironically and asked: "Solomon, why did you not come to our fair at N. this summer, and act some Jewish scenes?" Two years before, as Yegorushka remembered very well, at one of the booths at the fair at N., Solomon had performed some scenes of Jewish life, and his acting had been a great success. The allusion to this made no impression whatever upon Solomon.
"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.
In the distance, as before, a windmill whirled its sails, and still it looked like a little man waving his arms. It was wearisome to watch, and it seemed as though one would never reach it, as though it were running away from the chaise. Father Christopher and Kuzmitchov were silent.
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