I only had to read something once or twice and I knew it by heart. My tutors and patrons were astonished and assumed that I would become an outstanding scholar, a luminary of the church. I did contemplate going to Kiev to continue my studies, but my parents wouldn’t agree to this. “You’ll be studying all your life,” my father said, “so when can we expect to see you again?” Hearing this, I gave up my studies and took up a church appointment. Of course, I never became a scholar – but then, I didn’t disobey my parents. I was a comfort to them in their old age and gave them a decent funeral. Obedience means more than fasting and prayers!’

‘I reckon you must have forgotten every single thing you learnt!’ observed Kuzmichov.

‘And is it surprising? Praise be to God, I’m in my seventies now. I still remember a little bit of philosophy and rhetoric, but I’ve completely forgotten languages and mathematics.’

Father Khristofor screwed up his eyes, reflected for a moment and softly said:

‘What is substance? Substance is an independent entity needing no other for its effectuation!’

He twisted his head round and laughed from emotion.

‘Nourishment for the spirit!’ he said. ‘Verily, matter nourishes the flesh, but spiritual sustenance feeds the soul!’

‘Learning’s all very well,’ sighed Kuzmichov, ‘but we’ll have learned our lessons all right if we don’t catch up with Varlamov!’

‘That man’s not a needle in a haystack, we’ll find him. He’s wandering around somewhere in these parts.’

The familiar three snipe flew over the sedge and in their shrill cries there was a note of alarm and annoyance at having been driven off the stream. The horses steadily champed and whinnied; Deniska bustled around. Trying to demonstrate how completely indifferent he was to the cucumbers, pies and eggs that his masters were eating he embarked upon the slaughter of the horseflies and common flies that were clinging to the horses’ bellies and backs. Uttering peculiar, viciously exultant cries of triumph from deep in his throat, he swatted his victims with gusto and when he missed he grunted with frustration, following with his eyes every single one that was fortunate enough to escape death.

‘Deniska! What are you up to? Come and eat!’ Kuzmichov said with a deep sigh to show he had eaten his fill.

Deniska meekly went over to the felt mat and selected five large yellow gherkins known as ‘yellties’ (he did not dare take any of the smaller, fresher ones), picked out two hard-boiled eggs that were black and cracked, after which he timidly, as if afraid of being struck on his outstretched arm, touched a small pie with his finger.

‘Help yourself! Go on!’ urged Kuzmichov.

Deniska took the pie with determination, walked some distance away and sat down on the ground with his back to the carriage, whereupon such a loud chewing was heard that even the horses turned round and eyed Deniska suspiciously.

When he had eaten, Kuzmichov took a sack containing something out of the carriage.

‘I’m going to sleep now,’ he told Yegorushka. ‘Now, mind no one takes this sack from under my head.’

Father Khristofor removed his cassock, belt and caftan. Yegorushka took one look and was absolutely amazed. Not for one moment had he supposed that priests wore trousers, but Father Khristofor was wearing real canvas trousers tucked into his high boots and a short, coarse cotton jacket. Seeing him in a costume that was totally unbecoming to someone in holy orders and with that long hair and beard, Yegorushka thought he bore a striking resemblance to Robinson Crusoe. When he had unrobed, Father Khristofor lay down face to face with Kuzmichov in the shade under the carriage and they closed their eyes. After he had finished chewing Deniska stretched himself out belly upwards in the full glare of the sun and closed his eyes too.

‘Mind no one steals the horses!’ he told Yegorushka and immediately fell asleep.

Silence fell. All that could be heard was the snorting and champing of the horses and the snores of the sleepers. Some way off a solitary lapwing wailed and there was an occasional squeak from the three snipe that had flown up to see if the uninvited guests had left. The stream softly lisped and gurgled, but none of these sounds broke the silence or stirred the lifeless air – on the contrary, they made nature still drowsier.

Gasping from the heat which he found particularly oppressive after his meal, Yegorushka ran to the sedge and from there he surveyed the locality. He saw exactly what he had seen that morning: the plain, hills, sky, the lilac distance. Only, the hills were nearer and there was no sign of the windmill which had been left far behind by now. From behind the rocky hill where the stream was flowing rose another, smoother and wider, with a tiny hamlet of five or six farmsteads clinging to it. Around the huts there were no people, trees or shade to be seen and it was as if the hamlet had choked in the burning air and withered away. For want of something to do Yegorushka caught a fiddler-cricket in the grass, raised it to his ear in his fist and for a long time he listened to it playing its fiddle. Tiring of this music, he chased a swarm of yellow butterflies that had flown to the sedge to drink and he did not notice that he had come back to the carriage again. Uncle and Father Khristofor were fast asleep; now they would be sleeping for another two or three hours until the horses had rested. How could he pass the long hours and where could he escape the heat? No easy task… Without thinking, Yegorushka put his lips under the stream that was flowing from the pipe.