A.P. Chekhov - Uprooted
I WAS on my way back from evening service. The clock in the
belfry of the Svyatogorsky Monastery pealed out its soft
melodious chimes by way of prelude and then struck twelve. The
great courtyard of the monastery stretched out at the foot of
the Holy Mountains on the banks of the Donets, and, enclosed by
the high hostel buildings as by a wall, seemed now in the night,
when it was lighted up only by dim lanterns, lights in the
windows, and the stars, a living hotch-potch full of movement,
sound, and the most original confusion. From end to end, so far
as the eye could see, it was all choked up with carts,
old-fashioned coaches and chaises, vans, tilt-carts, about which
stood crowds of horses, dark and white, and horned oxen, while
people bustled about, and black long-skirted lay brothers
threaded their way in and out in all directions. Shadows and
streaks of light cast from the windows moved over the carts and
the heads of men and horses, and in the dense twilight this all
assumed the most monstrous capricious shapes: here the tilted
shafts stretched upwards to the sky, here eyes of fire appeared
in the face of a horse, there a lay brother grew a pair of black
wings. . . . There was the noise of talk, the snorting and
munching of horses, the creaking of carts, the whimpering of
children. Fresh crowds kept walking in at the gate and belated
carts drove up.
The pines which were piled up on the overhanging mountain, one
above another, and leaned towards the roof of the hostel, gazed
into the courtyard as into a deep pit, and listened in wonder;
in their dark thicket the cuckoos and nightingales never ceased
calling. . . . Looking at the confusion, listening to the
uproar, one fancied that in this living hotch-potch no one
understood anyone, that everyone was looking for something and
would not find it, and that this multitude of carts, chaises and
human beings could not ever succeed in getting off.
More than ten thousand people flocked to the Holy Mountains for
the festivals of St. John the Divine and St. Nikolay the
wonder-worker. Not only the hostel buildings, but even the
bakehouse, the tailoring room, the carpenter's shop, the
carriage house, were filled to overflowing. . . . Those who had
arrived towards night clustered like flies in autumn, by the
walls, round the wells in the yard, or in the narrow passages of
the hostel, waiting to be shown a resting-place for the night.
The lay brothers, young and old, were in an incessant movement,
with no rest or hope of being relieved. By day or late at night
they produced the same impression of men hastening somewhere and
agitated by something, yet, in spite of their extreme
exhaustion, their faces remained full of courage and kindly
welcome, their voices friendly, their movements rapid. . . . For
everyone who came they had to find a place to sleep, and to
provide food and drink; to those who were deaf, slow to
understand, or profuse in questions, they had to give long and
wearisome explanations, to tell them why there were no empty
rooms, at what o'clock the service was to be where holy bread
was sold, and so on. They had to run, to carry, to talk
incessantly, but more than that, they had to be polite, too, to
be tactful, to try to arrange that the Greeks from Mariupol,
accustomed to live more comfortably than the Little Russians,
should be put with other Greeks, that some shopkeeper from
Bahmut or Lisitchansk, dressed like a lady, should not be
offended by being put with peasants There were continual cries
of: "Father, kindly give us some kvass! Kindly give us some
hay!" or "Father, may I drink water after confession?" And the
lay brother would have to give out kvass or hay or to answer:
"Address yourself to the priest, my good woman, we have not the
authority to give permission." Another question would follow,
"Where is the priest then?" and the lay brother would have to
explain where was the priest's cell. With all this bustling
activity, he yet had to make time to go to service in the
church, to serve in the part devoted to the gentry, and to give
full answers to the mass of necessary and unnecessary questions
which pilgrims of the educated class are fond of showering about
them. Watching them during the course of twenty-four hours, I
found it hard to imagine when these black moving figures sat
down and when they slept.
When, coming back from the evening service, I went to the hostel
in which a place had been assigned me, the monk in charge of the
sleeping quarters was standing in the doorway, and beside him,
on the steps, was a group of several men and women dressed like
"Sir," said the monk, stopping me, "will you be so good as to
allow this young man to pass the night in your room? If you
would do us the favour! There are so many people and no place
left -- it is really dreadful!"
And he indicated a short figure in a light overcoat and a straw
hat. I consented, and my chance companion followed me. Unlocking
the little padlock on my door, I was always, whether I wanted to
or not, obliged to look at the picture that hung on the doorpost
on a level with my face. This picture with the title, "A
Meditation on Death," depicted a monk on his knees, gazing at a
coffin and at a skeleton laying in it. Behind the man's back
stood another skeleton, somewhat more solid and carrying a
"There are no bones like that," said my companion, pointing to
the place in the skeleton where there ought to have been a
pelvis. "Speaking generally, you know, the spiritual fare
provided for the people is not of the first quality," he added,
and heaved through his nose a long and very melancholy sigh,
meant to show me that I had to do with a man who really knew
something about spiritual fare.
While I was looking for the matches to light a candle he sighed
once more and said:
"When I was in Harkov I went several times to the anatomy
theatre and saw the bones there; I have even been in the
mortuary. Am I not in your way?"
My room was small and poky, with neither table nor chairs in it,
but quite filled up with a chest of drawers by the window, the
stove and two little wooden sofas which stood against the walls,
facing one another, leaving a narrow space to walk between them.
Thin rusty-looking little mattresses lay on the little sofas, as
well as my belongings. There were two sofas, so this room was
evidently intended for two, and I pointed out the fact to my
"They will soon be ringing for mass, though," he said, "and I
shan't have to be in your way very long."
Still under the impression that he was in my way and feeling
awkward, he moved with a guilty step to his little sofa, sighed
guiltily and sat down. When the tallow candle with its dim,
dilatory flame had left off flickering and burned up
sufficiently to make us both visible, I could make out what he
was like. He was a young man of two-and-twenty, with a round and
pleasing face, dark childlike eyes, dressed like a townsman in
grey cheap clothes, and as one could judge from his complexion
and narrow shoulders, not used to manual labour. He was of a
very indefinite type; one could take him neither for a student
nor for a man in trade, still less for a workman. But looking at
his attractive face and childlike friendly eyes, I was unwilling
to believe he was one of those vagabond impostors with whom
every conventual establishment where they give food and lodging
is flooded, and who give themselves out as divinity students,
expelled for standing up for justice, or for church singers who
have lost their voice. . . . There was something characteristic,
typical, very familiar in his face, but what exactly, I could
not remember nor make out.
For a long time he sat silent, pondering. Probably because I had
not shown appreciation of his remarks about bones and the
mortuary, he thought that I was ill-humoured and displeased at
his presence. Pulling a sausage out of his pocket, he turned it
about before his eyes and said irresolutely:
"Excuse my troubling you, . . . have you a knife?"
I gave him a knife.
"The sausage is disgusting," he said, frowning and cutting
himself off a little bit. "In the shop here they sell you
rubbish and fleece you horribly. . . . I would offer you a
piece, but you would scarcely care to consume it. Will you have
In his language, too, there was something typical that had a
very great deal in common with what was characteristic in his
face, but what it was exactly I still could not decide. To
inspire confidence and to show that I was not ill-humoured, I
took some of the proffered sausage. It certainly was horrible;
one needed the teeth of a good house-dog to deal with it. As we
worked our jaws we got into conversation; we began complaining
to each other of the lengthiness of the service.
"The rule here approaches that of Mount Athos," I said; "but at
Athos the night services last ten hours, and on great feast-days
-- fourteen! You should go there for prayers!"
"Yes," answered my companion, and he wagged his head, "I have
been here for three weeks. And you know, every day services,
every day services. On ordinary days at midnight they ring for
matins, at five o'clock for early mass, at nine o'clock for late
mass. Sleep is utterly out of the question. In the daytime there
are hymns of praise, special prayers, vespers. . . . And when I
was preparing for the sacrament I was simply dropping from
exhaustion." He sighed and went on: "And it's awkward not to go
to church. . . . The monks give one a room, feed one, and, you
know, one is ashamed not to go. One wouldn't mind standing it
for a day or two, perhaps, but three weeks is too much -- much
too much I Are you here for long?"
"I am going to-morrow evening."
"But I am staying another fortnight."
"But I thought it was not the rule to stay for so long here?" I
"Yes, that's true: if anyone stays too long, sponging on the
monks, he is asked to go. Judge for yourself, if the proletariat
were allowed to stay on here as long as they liked there would
never be a room vacant, and they would eat up the whole
monastery. That's true. But the monks make an exception for me,
and I hope they won't turn me out for some time. You know I am a
"I am a Jew baptized. . . . Only lately I have embraced
Now I understood what I had before been utterly unable to
understand from his face: his thick lips, and his way of
twitching up the right corner of his mouth and his right
eyebrow, when he was talking, and that peculiar oily brilliance
of his eyes which is only found in Jews. I understood, too, his
phraseology. . . . From further conversation I learned that his
name was Alexandr Ivanitch, and had in the past been Isaac, that
he was a native of the Mogilev province, and that he had come to
the Holy Mountains from Novotcherkassk, where he had adopted the
Having finished his sausage, Alexandr Ivanitch got up, and,
raising his right eyebrow, said his prayer before the ikon. The
eyebrow remained up when he sat down again on the little sofa
and began giving me a brief account of his long biography.
"From early childhood I cherished a love for learning," he began
in a tone which suggested he was not speaking of himself, but of
some great man of the past. "My parents were poor Hebrews; they
exist by buying and selling in a small way; they live like
beggars, you know, in filth. In fact, all the people there are
poor and superstitious; they don't like education, because
education, very naturally, turns a man away from religion. . . .
They are fearful fanatics. . . . Nothing would induce my parents
to let me be educated, and they wanted me to take to trade, too,
and to know nothing but the Talmud. . . . But you will agree, it
is not everyone who can spend his whole life struggling for a
crust of bread, wallowing in filth, and mumbling the Talmud. At
times officers and country gentlemen would put up at papa's inn,
and they used to talk a great deal of things which in those days
I had never dreamed of; and, of course, it was alluring and
moved me to envy. I used to cry and entreat them to send me to
school, but they taught me to read Hebrew and nothing more. Once
I found a Russian newspaper, and took it home with me to make a
kite of it. I was beaten for it, though I couldn't read Russian.
Of course, fanaticism is inevitable, for every people
instinctively strives to preserve its nationality, but I did not
know that then and was very indignant. . . ."
Having made such an intellectual observation, Isaac, as he had
been, raised his right eyebrow higher than ever in his
satisfaction and looked at me, as it were, sideways, like a cock
at a grain of corn, with an air as though he would say: "Now at
last you see for certain that I am an intellectual man, don't
you?" After saying something more about fanaticism and his
irresistible yearning for enlightenment, he went on:
"What could I do? I ran away to Smolensk. And there I had a
cousin who relined saucepans and made tins. Of course, I was
glad to work under him, as I had nothing to live upon; I was
barefoot and in rags. . . . I thought I could work by day and
study at night and on Saturdays. And so I did, but the police
found out I had no passport and sent me back by stages to my
father. . . ."
Alexandr Ivanitch shrugged one shoulder and sighed.
"What was one to do?" he went on, and the more vividly the past
rose up before his mind, the more marked his Jewish accent
became. "My parents punished me and handed me over to my
grandfather, a fanatical old Jew, to be reformed. But I went off
at night to Shklov. And when my uncle tried to catch me in
Shklov, I went off to Mogilev; there I stayed two days and then
I went off to Starodub with a comrade."
Later on he mentioned in his story Gonel, Kiev, Byelaya,
Tserkov, Uman, Balt, Bendery and at last reached Odessa.
"In Odessa I wandered about for a whole week, out of work and
hungry, till I was taken in by some Jews who went about the town
buying second-hand clothes. I knew how to read and write by
then, and had done arithmetic up to fractions, and I wanted to
go to study somewhere, but I had not the means. What was I to
do? For six months I went about Odessa buying old clothes, but
the Jews paid me no wages, the rascals. I resented it and left
them. Then I went by steamer to Perekop."
"Oh, nothing. A Greek promised me a job there. In short, till I
was sixteen I wandered about like that with no definite work and
no roots till I got to Poltava. There a student, a Jew, found
out that I wanted to study, and gave me a letter to the Harkov
students. Of course, I went to Harkov. The students consulted
together and began to prepare me for the technical school. And,
you know, I must say the students that I met there were such
that I shall never forget them to the day of my death. To say
nothing of their giving me food and lodging, they set me on the
right path, they made me think, showed me the object of life.
Among them were intellectual remarkable people who by now are
celebrated. For instance, you have heard of Grumaher, haven't
"No, I haven't."
"You haven't! He wrote very clever articles in the Harkov
Gazette, and was preparing to be a professor. Well, I read a
great deal and attended the student's societies, where you hear
nothing that is commonplace. I was working up for six months,
but as one has to have been through the whole high-school course
of mathematics to enter the technical school, Grumaher advised
me to try for the veterinary institute, where they admit
high-school boys from the sixth form. Of course, I began working
for it. I did not want to be a veterinary surgeon but they told
me that after finishing the course at the veterinary institute I
should be admitted to the faculty of medicine without
examination. I learnt all Khner; I could read Cornelius Nepos,
livre ouvert; and in Greek I read through almost all Curtius.
But, you know, one thing and another, . . . the students leaving
and the uncertainty of my position, and then I heard that my
mamma had come and was looking for me all over Harkov. Then I
went away. What was I to do? But luckily I learned that there
was a school of mines here on the Donets line. Why should I not
enter that? You know the school of mines qualifies one as a
mining foreman -- a splendid berth. I know of mines where the
foremen get a salary of fifteen hundred a year. Capital. . . . I
entered it. . . ."
With an expression of reverent awe on his face Alexandr Ivanitch
enumerated some two dozen abstruse sciences in which instruction
was given at the school of mines; he described the school
itself, the construction of the shafts, and the condition of the
miners. . . . Then he told me a terrible story which sounded
like an invention, though I could not help believing it, for his
tone in telling it was too genuine and the expression of horror
on his Semitic face was too evidently sincere.
"While I was doing the practical work, I had such an accident
one day!" he said, raising both eyebrows. "I was at a mine here
in the Donets district. You have seen, I dare say, how people
are let down into the mine. You remember when they start the
horse and set the gates moving one bucket on the pulley goes
down into the mine, while the other comes up; when the first
begins to come up, then the second goes down -- exactly like a
well with two pails. Well, one day I got into the bucket, began
going down, and can you fancy, all at once I heard, Trrr! The
chain had broken and I flew to the devil together with the
bucket and the broken bit of chain. . . . I fell from a height
of twenty feet, flat on my chest and stomach, while the bucket,
being heavier, reached the bottom before me, and I hit this
shoulder here against its edge. I lay, you know, stunned. I
thought I was killed, and all at once I saw a fresh calamity:
the other bucket, which was going up, having lost the
counter-balancing weight, was coming down with a crash straight
upon me. . . . What was I to do? Seeing the position, I squeezed
closer to the wall, crouching and waiting for the bucket to come
full crush next minute on my head. I thought of papa and mamma
and Mogilev and Grumaher. . . . I prayed. . . . But happily . .
. it frightens me even to think of it. . . ."
Alexandr Ivanitch gave a constrained smile and rubbed his
forehead with his hand.
"But happily it fell beside me and only caught this side a
little. . . . It tore off coat, shirt and skin, you know, from
this side. . . . The force of it was terrific. I was unconscious
after it. They got me out and sent me to the hospital. I was
there four months, and the doctors there said I should go into
consumption. I always have a cough now and a pain in my chest.
And my psychic condition is terrible. . . . When I am alone in a
room I feel overcome with terror. Of course, with my health in
that state, to be a mining foreman is out of the question. I had
to give up the school of mines. . . ."
"And what are you doing now?" I asked.
"I have passed my examination as a village schoolmaster. Now I
belong to the orthodox church, and I have a right to be a
teacher. In Novotcherkassk, where I was baptized, they took a
great interest in me and promised me a place in a church parish
school. I am going there in a fortnight, and shall ask again."
Alexandr Ivanitch took off his overcoat and remained in a shirt
with an embroidered Russian collar and a worsted belt.
"It is time for bed," he said, folding his overcoat for a
pillow, and yawning. "Till lately, you know, I had no knowledge
of God at all. I was an atheist. When I was lying in the
hospital I thought of religion, and began reflecting on that
subject. In my opinion, there is only one religion possible for
a thinking man, and that is the Christian religion. If you don't
believe in Christ, then there is nothing else to believe in, . .
. is there? Judaism has outlived its day, and is preserved only
owing to the peculiarities of the Jewish race. When civilization
reaches the Jews there will not be a trace of Judaism left. All
young Jews are atheists now, observe. The New Testament is the
natural continuation of the Old, isn't it?"
I began trying to find out the reasons which had led him to take
so grave and bold a step as the change of religion, but he kept
repeating the same, "The New Testament is the natural
continuation of the Old" -- a formula obviously not his own, but
acquired -- which did not explain the question in the least. In
spite of my efforts and artifices, the reasons remained obscure.
If one could believe that he had embraced Orthodoxy from
conviction, as he said he had done, what was the nature and
foundation of this conviction it was impossible to grasp from
his words. It was equally impossible to assume that he had
changed his religion from interested motives: his cheap shabby
clothes, his going on living at the expense of the convent, and
the uncertainty of his future, did not look like interested
motives. There was nothing for it but to accept the idea that my
companion had been impelled to change his religion by the same
restless spirit which had flung him like a chip of wood from
town to town, and which he, using the generally accepted
formula, called the craving for enlightenment.
Before going to bed I went into the corridor to get a drink of
water. When I came back my companion was standing in the middle
of the room, and he looked at me with a scared expression. His
face looked a greyish white, and there were drops of
perspiration on his forehead.
"My nerves are in an awful state," he muttered with a sickly
smile," awful I It's acute psychological disturbance. But that's
of no consequence."
And he began reasoning again that the New Testament was a
natural continuation of the Old, that Judaism has outlived its
day. . . . Picking out his phrases, he seemed to be trying to
put together the forces of his conviction and to smother with
them the uneasiness of his soul, and to prove to himself that in
giving up the religion of his fathers he had done nothing
dreadful or peculiar, but had acted as a thinking man free from
prejudice, and that therefore he could boldly remain in a room
all alone with his conscience. He was trying to convince
himself, and with his eyes besought my assistance.
Meanwhile a big clumsy wick had burned up on our tallow candle.
It was by now getting light. At the gloomy little window, which
was turning blue, we could distinctly see both banks of the
Donets River and the oak copse beyond the river. It was time to
"It will be very interesting here to-morrow," said my companion
when I put out the candle and went to bed. "After early mass,
the procession will go in boats from the Monastery to the
Raising his right eyebrow and putting his head on one side, he
prayed before the ikons, and, without undressing, lay down on
his little sofa.
"Yes," he said, turning over on the other side.
"Why yes?" I asked.
"When I accepted orthodoxy in Novotcherkassk my mother was
looking for me in Rostov. She felt that I meant to change my
religion," he sighed, and went on: "It is six years since I was
there in the province of Mogilev. My sister must be married by
After a short silence, seeing that I was still awake, he began
talking quietly of how they soon, thank God, would give him a
job, and that at last he would have a home of his own, a settled
position, his daily bread secure. . . . And I was thinking that
this man would never have a home of his own, nor a settled
position, nor his daily bread secure. He dreamed aloud of a
village school as of the Promised Land; like the majority of
people, he had a prejudice against a wandering life, and
regarded it as something exceptional, abnormal and accidental,
like an illness, and was looking for salvation in ordinary
workaday life. The tone of his voice betrayed that he was
conscious of his abnormal position and regretted it. He seemed
as it were apologizing and justifying himself.
Not more than a yard from me lay a homeless wanderer; in the
rooms of the hostels and by the carts in the courtyard among the
pilgrims some hundreds of such homeless wanderers were waiting
for the morning, and further away, if one could picture to
oneself the whole of Russia, a vast multitude of such uprooted
creatures was pacing at that moment along highroads and
side-tracks, seeking something better, or were waiting for the
dawn, asleep in wayside inns and little taverns, or on the grass
under the open sky. . . . As I fell asleep I imagined how amazed
and perhaps even overjoyed all these people would have been if
reasoning and words could be found to prove to them that their
life was as little in need of justification as any other. In my
sleep I heard a bell ring outside as plaintively as though
shedding bitter tears, and the lay brother calling out several
"Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy upon us! Come to
When I woke up my companion was not in the room. It was sunny
and there was a murmur of the crowds through the window. Going
out, I learned that mass was over and that the procession had
set off for the Hermitage some time before. The people were
wandering in crowds upon the river bank and, feeling at liberty,
did not know what to do with themselves: they could not eat or
drink, as the late mass was not yet over at the Hermitage; the
Monastery shops where pilgrims are so fond of crowding and
asking prices were still shut. In spite of their exhaustion,
many of them from sheer boredom were trudging to the Hermitage.
The path from the Monastery to the Hermitage, towards which I
directed my steps, twined like a snake along the high steep
bank, going up and down and threading in and out among the oaks
and pines. Below, the Donets gleamed, reflecting the sun; above,
the rugged chalk cliff stood up white with bright green on the
top from the young foliage of oaks and pines, which, hanging one
above another, managed somehow to grow on the vertical cliff
without falling. The pilgrims trailed along the path in single
file, one behind another. The majority of them were Little
Russians from the neighbouring districts, but there were many
from a distance, too, who had come on foot from the provinces of
Kursk and Orel; in the long string of varied colours there were
Greek settlers, too, from Mariupol, strongly built, sedate and
friendly people, utterly unlike their weakly and degenerate
compatriots who fill our southern seaside towns. There were men
from the Donets, too, with red stripes on their breeches, and
emigrants from the Tavritchesky province. There were a good many
pilgrims of a nondescript class, like my Alexandr Ivanitch; what
sort of people they were and where they came from it was
impossible to tell from their faces, from their clothes, or from
their speech. The path ended at the little landing-stage, from
which a narrow road went to the left to the Hermitage, cutting
its way through the mountain. At the landing-stage stood two
heavy big boats of a forbidding aspect, like the New Zealand
pirogues which one may see in the works of Jules Verne. One boat
with rugs on the seats was destined for the clergy and the
singers, the other without rugs for the public. When the
procession was returning I found myself among the elect who had
succeeded in squeezing themselves into the second. There were so
many of the elect that the boat scarcely moved, and one had to
stand all the way without stirring and to be careful that one's
hat was not crushed. The route was lovely. Both banks -- one
high, steep and white, with overhanging pines and oaks, with the
crowds hurrying back along the path, and the other shelving,
with green meadows and an oak copse bathed in sunshine -- looked
as happy and rapturous as though the May morning owed its charm
only to them. The reflection of the sun in the rapidly flowing
Donets quivered and raced away in all directions, and its long
rays played on the chasubles, on the banners and on the drops
splashed up by the oars. The singing of the Easter hymns, the
ringing of the bells, the splash of the oars in the water, the
calls of the birds, all mingled in the air into something tender
and harmonious. The boat with the priests and the banners led
the way; at its helm the black figure of a lay brother stood
motionless as a statue.
When the procession was getting near the Monastery, I noticed
Alexandr Ivanitch among the elect. He was standing in front of
them all, and, his mouth wide open with pleasure and his right
eyebrow cocked up, was gazing at the procession. His face was
beaming; probably at such moments, when there were so many
people round him and it was so bright, he was satisfied with
himself, his new religion, and his conscience.
When a little later we were sitting in our room, drinking tea,
he still beamed with satisfaction; his face showed that he was
satisfied both with the tea and with me, that he fully
appreciated my being an intellectual," but that he would know
how to play his part with credit if any intellectual topic
turned up. . . .
"Tell me, what psychology ought I to read?" he began an
intellectual conversation, wrinkling up his nose.
"Why, what do you want it for?"
"One cannot be a teacher without a knowledge of psychology.
Before teaching a boy I ought to understand his soul."
I told him that psychology alone would not be enough to make one
understand a boy's soul, and moreover psychology for a teacher
who had not yet mastered the technical methods of instruction in
reading, writing, and arithmetic would be a luxury as
superfluous as the higher mathematics. He readily agreed with
me, and began describing how hard and responsible was the task
of a teacher, how hard it was to eradicate in the boy the
habitual tendency to evil and superstition, to make him think
honestly and independently, to instil into him true religion,
the ideas of personal dignity, of freedom, and so on. In answer
to this I said something to him. He agreed again. He agreed very
readily, in fact. Obviously his brain had not a very firm grasp
of all these "intellectual subjects."
Up to the time of my departure we strolled together about the
Monastery, whiling away the long hot day. He never left my side
a minute; whether he had taken a fancy to me or was afraid of
solitude, God only knows! I remember we sat together under a
clump of yellow acacia in one of the little gardens that are
scattered on the mountain side.
"I am leaving here in a fortnight," he said; "it is high time."
"Are you going on foot?"
"From here to Slavyansk I shall walk, then by railway to
Nikitovka; from Nikitovka the Donets line branches off, and
along that branch line I shall walk as far as Hatsepetovka, and
there a railway guard, I know, will help me on my way."
I thought of the bare, deserted steppe between Nikitovka and
Hatsepetovka, and pictured to myself Alexandr Ivanitch striding
along it, with his doubts, his homesickness, and his fear of
solitude. . . . He read boredom in my face, and sighed.
"And my sister must be married by now," he said, thinking aloud,
and at once, to shake off melancholy thoughts, pointed to the
top of the rock and said:
"From that mountain one can see Izyum."
As we were walking up the mountain he had a little misfortune. I
suppose he stumbled, for he slit his cotton trousers and tore
the sole of his shoe.
"Tss!" he said, frowning as he took off a shoe and exposed a
bare foot without a stocking. "How unpleasant! . . . That's a
complication, you know, which . . . Yes!"
Turning the shoe over and over before his eyes, as though unable
to believe that the sole was ruined for ever, he spent a long
time frowning, sighing, and clicking with his tongue.
I had in my trunk a pair of boots, old but fashionable, with
pointed toes and laces. I had brought them with me in case of
need, and only wore them in wet weather. When we got back to our
room I made up a phrase as diplomatic as I could and offered him
these boots. He accepted them and said with dignity:
"I should thank you, but I know that you consider thanks a
He was pleased as a child with the pointed toes and the laces,
and even changed his plans.
"Now I shall go to Novotcherkassk in a week, and not in a
fortnight," he said, thinking aloud. "In shoes like these I
shall not be ashamed to show myself to my godfather. I was not
going away from here just because I hadn't any decent clothes. .
When the coachman was carrying out my trunk, a lay brother with
a good ironical face came in to sweep out the room. Alexandr
Ivanitch seemed flustered and embarrassed and asked him timidly:
"Am I to stay here or go somewhere else?"
He could not make up his mind to occupy a whole room to himself,
and evidently by now was feeling ashamed of living at the
expense of the Monastery. He was very reluctant to part from me;
to put off being lonely as long as possible, he asked leave to
see me on my way.
The road from the Monastery, which had been excavated at the
cost of no little labour in the chalk mountain, moved upwards,
going almost like a spiral round the mountain, over roots and
under sullen overhanging pines. . . .
The Donets was the first to vanish from our sight, after it the
Monastery yard with its thousands of people, and then the green
roofs. . . . Since I was mounting upwards everything seemed
vanishing into a pit. The cross on the church, burnished by the
rays of the setting sun, gleamed brightly in the abyss and
vanished. Nothing was left but the oaks, the pines, and the
white road. But then our carriage came out on a level country,
and that was all left below and behind us. Alexandr Ivanitch
jumped out and, smiling mournfully, glanced at me for the last
time with his childish eyes, and vanished from me for ever. . .
The impressions of the Holy Mountains had already become
memories, and I saw something new: the level plain, the
whitish-brown distance, the way side copse, and beyond it a
windmill which stood with out moving, and seemed bored at not
being allowed to wave its sails because it was a holiday.
St. Nikolay: Nicholas the Wonder-Worker was a popular saint in
pre-1917 Russia; his day was December 6 (Julian Calendar)
Little Russians: Ukrainians
kvass: a Russian beer made from rye or barley
livre ouvert : from an open book
Jules Verne: 1828-1905, French science adventure novelist
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