the witch and other stories(女巫)-第14节
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THE WITCH AND OTHER STORIES
peasants； men and women； stood in a crowd at the gate and looked into the
garden； and the faces of all were grave。 They were the peasants who had
come to greet them for the holiday； but seeing the Lytchkovs； they were
ashamed and did not go in。
The next morning Elena Ivanovna went with the children to Moscow。
And there was a rumour that the engineer was selling his house。 。 。 。
V
The peasants had long ago grown used to the sight of the bridge； and it
was difficult to imagine the river at that place without a bridge。 The heap
of rubble left from the building of it had long been overgrown with grass；
the navvies were forgotten； and instead of the strains of the 〃Dubinushka〃
that they used to sing； the peasants heard almost every hour the sounds of
a passing train。
The New Villa has long ago been sold； now it belongs to a government
clerk who comes here from the town for the holidays with his family；
drinks tea on the terrace； and then goes back to the town again。 He wears a
cockade on his cap； he talks and clears his throat as though he were a very
important official； though he is only of the rank of a collegiate secretary；
and when the peasants bow he makes no response。
In Obrutchanovo everyone has grown older； Kozov is dead。 In
Rodion's hut there are even more children。 Volodka has grown a long red
beard。 They are still as poor as ever。
In the early spring the Obrutchanovo peasants were sawing wood near
the station。 And after work they were going home； they walked without
haste one after the other。 Broad saws curved over their shoulders； the sun
was reflected in them。 The nightingales were singing in the bushes on the
bank； larks were trilling in the heavens。 It was quiet at the New Villa； there
was not a soul there； and only golden pigeons golden because the
sunlight was streaming upon them were flying over the house。 All of
them Rodion； the two Lytchkovs； and Volodka thought of the white
horses； the little ponies； the fireworks； the boat with the lanterns； they
remembered how the engineer's wife； so beautiful and so grandly dressed；
had come into the village and talked to them in such a friendly way。 And it
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THE WITCH AND OTHER STORIES
seemed as though all that had never been； it was like a dream or a fairy…
tale。
They trudged along； tired out； and mused as they went。 。 。 。 In their
village； they mused； the people were good； quiet； sensible； fearing God；
and Elena Ivanovna； too； was quiet； kind； and gentle； it made one sad to
look at her； but why had they not got on together？ Why had they parted
like enemies？ How was it that some mist had shrouded from their eyes
what mattered most； and had let them see nothing but damage done by
cattle； bridles； pincers； and all those trivial things which now； as they
remembered them； seemed so nonsensical？ How was it that with the new
owner they lived in peace； and yet had been on bad terms with the
engineer？
And not knowing what answer to make to these questions they were
all silent except Volodka； who muttered something。
〃What is it？〃 Rodion asked。
〃We lived without a bridge 。 。 。〃 said Volodka gloomily。 〃We lived
without a bridge； and did not ask for one 。 。 。 and we don't want it。 。 。 。〃
No one answered him and they walked on in silence with drooping
heads。
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THE WITCH AND OTHER STORIES
DREAMS
Two peasant constables one a stubby； black…bearded individual with
such exceptionally short legs that if you looked at him from behind it
seemed as though his legs began much lower down than in other people；
the other； long； thin； and straight as a stick； with a scanty beard of dark
reddish colour were escorting to the district town a tramp who refused
to remember his name。 The first waddled along； looking from side to side；
chewing now a straw； now his own sleeve； slapping himself on the
haunches and humming； and altogether had a careless and frivolous air；
the other； in spite of his lean face and narrow shoulders； looked solid；
grave； and substantial； in the lines and expression of his whole figure he
was like the priests among the Old Believers； or the warriors who are
painted on old…fashioned ikons。 〃For his wisdom God had added to his
forehead〃 that is； he was bald which increased the resemblance
referred to。 The first was called Andrey Ptaha； the second Nikandr
Sapozhnikov。
The man they were escorting did not in the least correspond with the
conception everyone has of a tramp。 He was a frail little man； weak and
sickly…looking； with small； colourless； and extremely indefinite features。
His eyebrows were scanty； his expression mild and submissive； he had
scarcely a trace of a moustache； though he was over thirty。 He walked
along timidly； bent forward； with his hands thrust into his sleeves。 The
collar of his shabby cloth overcoat； which did not look like a peasant's；
was turned up to the very brim of his cap； so that only his little red nose
ventured to peep out into the light of day。 He spoke in an ingratiating tenor；
continually coughing。 It was very； very difficult to believe that he was a
tramp concealing his surname。 He was more like an unsuccessful priest's
son； stricken by God and reduced to beggary； a clerk discharged for
drunkenness； a merchant's son or nephew who had tried his feeble powers
in a theatrical career； and was now going home to play the last act in the
parable of the prodigal son； perhaps； judging by the dull patience with
which he struggled with the hopeless autumn mud； he might have been a
fanatical monk； wandering from one Russian monastery to another；
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continually seeking 〃a peaceful life； free from sin；〃 and not finding it。 。 。 。
The travellers had been a long while on their way； but they seemed to
be always on the same small patch of ground。 In front of them there
stretched thirty feet of muddy black…brown mud； behind them the same；
and wherever one looked further； an impenetrable wall of white fog。 They
went on and on； but the ground remained the same； the wall was no nearer；
and the patch on which they walked seemed still the same patch。 They got
a glimpse of a white； clumsy…looking stone； a small ravine； or a bundle of
hay dropped by a passer…by； the brief glimmer of a great muddy puddle； or；
suddenly； a shadow with vague outlines would come into view ahead of
them； the nearer they got to it the smaller and darker it became； nearer still；
and there stood up before the wayfarers a slanting milestone with the
number rubbed off； or a wretched birch…tree drenched and bare like a
wayside beggar。 The birch…tree would whisper something with what
remained of its yellow leaves； one leaf would break off and float lazily to
the ground。 。 。 。 And then again fog； mud； the brown grass at the edges of
the road。 On the grass hung dingy； unfriendly tears。 They were not the
tears of soft joy such as the earth weeps at welcoming the summer sun and
parting from it； and such as she gives to drink at dawn to the corncrakes；
quails； and graceful； long…beaked crested snipes。 The travellers' feet stuck
in the heavy； clinging mud。 Every step cost an effort。
Andrey Ptaha was somewhat excited。 He kept looking round at the
tramp and trying to understand how a live； sober man could fail to
remember his name。
〃You are an orthodox Christian； aren't you？〃 he asked。
〃Yes；〃 the tramp answered mildly。
〃H'm。 。 。 then you've been christened？〃
〃Why；
