Then he ran quickly out of the palace, across the farmyard and down the
willow-lined path to the pond. He walked briskly, swinging the towel, with the
flute under his arm. The sky shimmered with heat through the willows, and his
aching body begged to dive into the water. On the right of Feight began a dense
patch of burdock, into which he spat en passant. All at once there was a
rustling in the tangle of big leaves, as if someone was dragging a log. With a
sudden sinking feeling in his stomach, Alexander Semyonovich turned his head
towards the burdock in surprise. There had not been a sound from the pond for
two days. The rustling stopped, and above the burdock the smooth surface of the
pond flashed invitingly with the grey roof of the changing hut. Some
dragon-flies darted to and fro in front of Alexander Semyonovich. He was about
to turn off to the wooden platform, when there was another rustle in the
burdock accompanied this time by a short hissing like steam coming out of an
engine. Alexander Semyonovich tensed and stared at the dense thicket of weeds.
At that moment the voice of Feight's wife rang
out, and her white blouse flashed in and out through the raspberry bushes.
"Wait for me, Alexander Semyonovich. I'm coming for a swim too."
His wife was hurrying to the pond, but
Alexander Se-myonovich's eyes were riveted on the burdock and he did not reply.
A greyish olive-coloured log had begun to rise out of the thicket, growing ever
bigger before his horrified gaze. The log seemed to be covered with wet
yellowish spots. It began to straighten up, bending and swaying, and was so
long that it reached above a short gnarled willow. Then the top of the log
cracked, bent down slightly, and something about the height of a Moscow
electric lamp-post loomed over Alexander Semyonovich. Only this something was
about three times thicker that a lamp-post and far more beautiful because of
its scaly tattooing. Completely mystified, but with shivers running down his
spine, Alexander Semyonovich looked at the top of this terrifying lamp-post,
and his heart almost stopped beating. He turned to ice on the warm August day,
and everything went dark before his eyes as if he were looking at the sun
through his summer trousers.
On the tip of the log was a head. A flattened,
pointed head adorned with a round yellow spot on an olive background. In the
roof of the head sat a pair of lidless icy narrow eyes, and these eyes
glittered with indescribable malice. The head moved as if spitting air and the
whole post slid back into the burdock, leaving only the eyes which glared at
Alexander Semyonovich without blinking. Drenched with sweat,
the latter uttered five incredible fear-crazed words. So piercing were
the eyes between the leaves.
"What the devil's going on..."
Then he remembered about fakirs... Yes, yes,
in India, a wicker basket and a picture. Snake-charming.
The head reared up again, and the body began
to uncoil. Alexander Semyonovich raised his flute to his lips, gave a hoarse
squeak and, gasping for breath, began to play the waltz from Eugene Onegin. The
eyes in the burdock lit up at once with implacable hatred for the opera.
"Are you crazy, playing in this
heat?" came Manya's cheerful voice, and out of the corner of his eye
Alexander Semyonovich glimpsed a patch of white.
Then a terrible scream shattered the farm,
swelling, rising, and the waltz began to limp painfully. The head shot out of
the burdock, its eyes leaving Alexander Semyonovich's soul to repent of his
sins. A snake about thirty feet long and as thick as a man uncoiled like a
spring and shot out of the weeds. Clouds of dust sprayed up from the path, and
the waltz ceased.
The snake raced past the state farm
manager straight to the white blouse.
Feight saw everything clearly: Manya
went a yellowish-white, and her long hair rose about a foot above her head like
wire. Before Feight's eyes the snake opened its mouth, something fork-like
darting out, then sank its teeth into the shoulder of
Manya, who was sinking into the dust, and jerked her up about two feet above
the ground.
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