Fifty-Two Stories

The old man felt around him, found his “gerlyga,” a long staff with a hook at the upper end, and stood up. He was silent and thoughtful. The childlike expression of fear and curiosity had not yet left the young man’s face. He was under the impression of what he had heard and waited impatiently for new stories.

“Grandpa,” he said, getting up and taking his gerlyga, “what did your brother Ilya do with that soldier?”

The old man did not hear the question. He glanced absently at the young man and replied, munching his lips:

“And you know, Sanka, I keep thinking about that tag they showed the soldier in Ivanovka. I didn’t tell Pantelei, God help him, but there was a place indicated on that tag that even an old woman could find. Do you know what place? Rich Ravine, at that place, you know, where it splits like a goose foot into three gullies. It’s in the middle one.”

“So you’re going to dig?”

“I’ll try my luck…”

“And what will you do with the treasure, grandpa, once you find it?”

“Who, me?” The old man grinned. “Hm!…Just let me find it, and then…I’ll give them all a hot time…Hm!…I know what to do…”

The old man was not able to say what he would do with the treasure if he found it. The question had probably presented itself to him that morning for the first time in his life, and judging by the expression of his face, carefree and indifferent, it did not seem important to him and worthy of reflection. In Sanka’s head another perplexity was stirring: why did only old men look for treasure, and what was the use of such earthly luck to people who might die of old age any day? But Sanka was unable to turn this perplexity into a question, and it was unlikely the old man would have found an answer for him.

Surrounded by a light haze, the enormous crimson sun appeared. Wide strips of light, still cold, bathing in the dewy grass, stretching out and looking cheerful, as if trying to show that they were not sick of it, began to spread over the ground. Silvery wormwood, the light blue flowers of wild onion, yellow rapeseed, cornflowers—all this multicolored joyfulness took the sunlight for its own smile.

The old man and Sanka split up and went to stand at the edges of the flock. They both stood like posts, not moving, looking at the ground and thinking. The former was still gripped by thoughts of luck, while the latter was thinking about what had been talked about during the night; he was interested not in luck itself, which he did not need or understand, but in the fantastic and fairy-tale nature of human luck.

A hundred or so sheep gave a start and, in some incomprehensible terror, as if at a signal, rushed away from the flock. And Sanka, as if the sheep’s thoughts, long and drawn-out, momentarily communicated themselves to him, also rushed away in the same incomprehensible animal terror, but at once came to his senses and shouted:

“Pah, you loonies! Gone hog wild, dad blast you!”

And when the sun, promising a long, invincible heat, began to scorch the earth, everything alive, that had moved and produced sounds during the night, sank into slumber. The old man and Sanka stood with their staffs at opposite ends of the herd, stood without moving, like fakirs at prayer, fixed on their thoughts. They no longer noticed each other, and each of them lived his own life. The sheep were also thinking…

1887

THE SIREN

AFTER ONE OF THE SESSIONS of the N. justice of the peace court, the justices gathered in the assembly room to take off their uniforms, have a moment’s rest, and go home for dinner. The chairman of the session, a very imposing man with fluffy side-whiskers, who held “a particular opinion” on one of the cases just examined, was sitting at a desk and hurriedly writing out his opinion. A local justice of the peace, Milkin, a young man with a languid, melancholy face, reputed to be a philosopher, displeased with his milieu and seeking a purpose in life, stood by the window and looked sorrowfully outside. Another local justice and one of the honorary justices had already left. The remaining honorary justice, a flabby, heavily breathing fat man, and an associate prosecutor, a young German with a catarrhal face, were sitting on a little sofa, waiting for the chairman to finish writing so that they could go to dinner together. Before them stood the secretary of the session, Zhilin, a small man with little side-whiskers around his ears and an expression of sweetness on his face. With a honeyed smile, looking at the fat man, he was saying in a low voice: