The Horse-Stealers and other stories

t one moment of a calm, boundless sea, at the next of an immense white wall. The air is damp and chilly. Morning is still far off. A step from the bye-road which runs along the

uck out straight in front of him, and is trying to while away the time with work. He bends his long neck, and breathing loudly through his nose, makes a spoon out of a big crooked bit of wood; the other—a little scraggy, pock-marked peasant with an aged face, a scanty moustache, and a little goat’s beard—sits w

leep, Syoma . . .”

asleep . . .” stam

ful to sit here alone, one would be fright

t. You sit like a scarecrow in the garden and roll your eyes at the fire. You can’t say anything properly . . . when you speak

he goat-beard a

flicted you and given you no understanding. You must make an effort, Syoma. . . . You should listen hard when anything good’s being said, note it well, and keep thinking and thinking. . . . If there is any word you don’t underst

e leaves as though torn from the very top of the tree and falls to the ground. All this is

e little birds,” s

for the birds to fly

ure, it

lly creature, it is tender. Such cold is death to it. I am

e flame irresolutely licks the black twigs with its little tongues, then suddenly, as though at the word of command, catches them and throws a crimson light on the faces, the road, the white linen with its prominences where the hands an

e stillness of the night, then slow footsteps are audible, and the dark figure of a man in a short monkish cassoc

, since no horses were to be seen. ‘Aren’t they thieves,’ I wondered, ‘aren’t they robbers lying in wait for a rich Lazarus? Aren’t they the gypsy people offering sacrifices to idols? And my soul leapt for joy. ‘Go, Feodosy, servant of G

-even

u know how to reach the Maku

there will be Ananova, our village. From the village, father, you turn to the right b

lth. And why are

atching. You see, ther

t body? Ho

pected sight has an overpowering effect upon him. He huddles together and stands as though rooted to the spot, with wide-

along not meddling with anyone, an

enquires the young

know Mi . . . Mihail Polikarpitch, the foreman of the brickyard? Well

ing . . . we

cassock, passing his hand over his eyes.

s a st

anything, my dear souls! And only fancy! while this man was alive he wasn’t noticed, while now when he is dead and given over

he was murdered, or may

others? Maybe his soul is now

is body,” says the young man. “It does n

now! It sets one’s teeth chattering. . . .

ge, and then you turn to t

re. . . . Why am I standing still?

k takes five steps al

the burying,” he says. “Good ortho

asteries. If he died a natural death it would go for

better keep my money. Oh, sins, sins! Give me a thousand roubles

wly moves away

to go on is dreadful, too. The dead man will haunt me all the way in the darkness. . . . The Lord has chastised me indeed! Ove

adful, tha

aid of the dead. I am afraid of them, and that is all about it. Good

d not to go awa

l see! The Lord will reward you a hundredfold! Old m

simple,” says

friend; I will give

head, “but I was told not to. If Syoma here, our simpleton, wil

the simplet

k. A minute later the sound of their steps and their talk dies away. Syoma shuts his eyes a