Fifty-Two Stories

A sound burst through the still air and scattered over the steppe. Something far away made a terrible bang, struck against the stone, and raced over the steppe, going “takh! takh! takh! takh!” When the sound died away, the old man looked questioningly at the indifferent, motionlessly standing Pantelei.

“That was a bucket falling down a mineshaft,” said the young shepherd on reflection.

Dawn was breaking. The Milky Way was growing paler and gradually melted like snow, losing its contours. The sky was becoming somber and dull, so that it was impossible to tell whether it was clear or completely covered with clouds, and only by a clear, glossy strip in the east and the remaining stars here and there could you tell which it was.

The first morning breeze, without a murmur, went flitting down the road, cautiously stirring the spurge and the tall brown stems of last year’s weeds.

The overseer awoke from his thoughts and shook his head. He tugged at the saddle with both hands, felt the girth, and, as if undecided about mounting the horse, again stood thinking.

“Yes,” he said, “so near and yet so far…Luck is there, but there’s no knowing how to find it.”

And he turned his face to the shepherds. His stern face was sad and scornful, as in a disappointed man.

“Yes, so you die without seeing what this luck amounts to…,” he said slowly, raising his left foot to the stirrup. “Those who are younger might live to see it, but for us it’s time we stopped thinking about it.”

Stroking his long, dew-covered moustache, he seated himself heavily on the horse and, with a look as if he had forgotten something or not finished speaking, narrowed his eyes toward the distance. In the bluish distance, where the furthest visible hill merged with the mist, nothing stirred; the lookout and burial mounds that rose here and there on the horizon and the boundless steppe kept a severe and deathly watch; in their stillness and silence one sensed long ages and a total indifference to man; another thousand years will pass, billions of people will die, and they will stand there as they stand now, without the least regret for the dead or interest in the living, and not a single soul will know why they stand and what secret of the steppe is hidden beneath them.

Rooks awoke and flew silently and solitarily over the earth. Neither in the lazy flight of these long-lived birds, nor in the morning that was punctually repeated each day, nor in the boundlessness of the steppe—in none of it was any sense to be seen. The overseer grinned and said:

“Such vastness, Lord have mercy! Go find your luck! Here,” he went on, lowering his voice and making a serious face, “here for sure two treasures are buried. The masters don’t know about them, but the old peasants, especially the soldiers, have precise knowledge of them. Somewhere on that ridge” (the overseer pointed out the direction with his whip) “robbers once fell upon a caravan with gold; this gold was being transported from Petersburg to the emperor Peter, who was in Voronezh then building the fleet.⁶ The robbers killed the drivers and buried the gold, and later couldn’t find it. Our Don Cossacks buried the other treasure. In the year ’twelve they plundered no end of silver, and gold, and all sorts of goods from the French.⁷ On their way home, they heard that the authorities wanted to take all the gold and silver from them. Rather than give it to the authorities for nothing, the fine lads went and buried it, so that their children at least would get it, but where they buried it—nobody knows.”

“I’ve heard about those treasures,” the old man muttered sullenly.

“Yes.” Pantelei again fell to thinking. “So…”

Silence ensued. The overseer pensively looked into the distance, grinned, and touched the reins, still with that same expression as if he had forgotten something or not finished speaking. The horse set off reluctantly at a slow pace. Having gone about a hundred steps, Pantelei shook his head resolutely, awoke from his thoughts, and, whipping up his horse, went on at a canter.

The shepherds remained alone.

“That was Pantelei from the Makarov estate,” the old man said. “Gets a hundred and fifty roubles a year, plus grub. An educated man…”

The sheep—there were some three thousand of them—woke up and reluctantly, having nothing else to do, began grazing on the low, half-trampled grass. The sun was not up yet, but the barrows were all visible already, as was Saur’s Grave with its pointed peak,⁸ far off, looking like a cloud. If you climb up that grave, from it you can see the plain, as flat and boundless as the sky, you can see manor houses, German and Molokan farmsteads, villages, and a keen-sighted Kalmuk⁹ will even see the town and the railroad trains. Only from there can you see that in this world, besides the silent steppe and the age-old barrows, there is another life, which has nothing to do with buried treasure and sheep’s thoughts.