A Day In The Country

by Anton Chekhov

BETWEEN eight and nine o'clock in the morning.

A dark leaden-coloured mass is creeping over the sky towards the sun. Red
zigzags of lightning gleam here and there across it. There is a sound of far-
away rumbling. A warm wind frolics over the grass, bends the trees, and stirs
up the dust. In a minute there will be a spurt of May rain and a real storm will
begin.

Fyokla, a little beggar-girl of six, is running through the village, looking for
Terenty the cobbler. The white-haired, barefoot child is pale. Her eyes are
wide-open, her lips are trembling.

"Uncle, where is Terenty?" she asks every one she meets. No one answers.
They are all preoccupied with the approaching storm and take refuge in their
huts. At last she meets Silanty Silitch, the sacristan, Terenty's bosom friend.
He is coming along, staggering from the wind.

"Uncle, where is Terenty?"

"At the kitchen-gardens," answers Silanty.

The beggar-girl runs behind the huts to the kitchen-gardens and there finds
Terenty; the tall old man with a thin, pock-marked face, very long legs, and
bare feet, dressed in a woman's tattered jacket, is standing near the vegetable
plots, looking with drowsy, drunken eyes at the dark storm-cloud. On his long
crane-like legs he sways in the wind like a starling-cote.

"Uncle Terenty!" the white-headed beggar-girl addresses him. "Uncle, darling!"

Terenty bends down to Fyokla, and his grim, drunken face is overspread with
a smile, such as come into people's faces when they look at something little,
foolish, and absurd, but warmly loved.

"Ah! servant of God, Fyokia," he says, lisping tenderly, "where have you come
from?"

"Uncle Terenty," says Fyokia, with a sob, tugging at the lapel of the cobbler's
coat. "Brother Danilka has had an accident! Come along!"

"What sort of accident? Ough, what thunder! Holy, holy, holy. . . . What sort of
accident?"

"In the count's copse Danilka stuck his hand into a hole in a tree, and he can't
get it out. Come along, uncle, do be kind and pull his hand out!"

"How was it he put his hand in? What for?"

"He wanted to get a cuckoo's egg out of the hole for me."

"The day has hardly begun and already you are in trouble. . . ." Terenty shook
his head and spat deliberately. "Well, what am I to do with you now? I must
come . . . I must, may the wolf gobble you up, you naughty children! Come,
little orphan!"

Terenty comes out of the kitchen-garden and, lifting high his long legs, begins
striding down the village street. He walks quickly without stopping or looking
from side to side, as though he were shoved from behind or afraid of pursuit.
Fyokla can hardly keep up with him.

They come out of the village and turn along the dusty road towards the count's
copse that lies dark blue in the distance. It is about a mile and a half away.
The clouds have by now covered the sun, and soon afterwards there is not a
speck of blue left in the sky. It grows dark.

"Holy, holy, holy . . ." whispers Fyokla, hurrying after Terenty. The first rain-
drops, big and heavy, lie, dark dots on the dusty road. A big drop falls on
Fyokla's cheek and glides like a tear down her chin.

"The rain has begun," mutters the cobbler, kicking up the dust with his bare,
bony feet. "That's fine, Fyokla, old girl. The grass and the trees are fed by the
rain, as we are by bread. And as for the thunder, don't you be frightened, little
orphan. Why should it kill a little thing like you?"

As soon as the rain begins, the wind drops. The only sound is the patter of
rain dropping like fine shot on the young rye and the parched road.

"We shall get soaked, Fyolka," mutters Terenty. "There won't be a dry spot left
on us. . . . Ho-ho, my girl! It's run down my neck! But don't be frightened,
silly. . . . The grass will be dry again, the earth will be dry again, and we shall
be dry again. There is the same sun for us all."

A flash of lightning, some fourteen feet long, gleams above their heads. There
is a loud peal of thunder, and it seems to Fyokla that something big, heavy,
and round is rolling over the sky and tearing it open, exactly over her head.

"Holy, holy, holy . . ." says Terenty, crossing himself. "Don't be afraid, little
orphan! It is not from spite that it thunders."

Terenty's and Fyokla's feet are covered with lumps of heavy, wet clay. It is
slippery and difficult to walk, but Terenty strides on more and more rapidly.
The weak little beggar-girl is breathless and ready to drop.
But at last they go into the count's copse. The washed trees, stirred by a gust
of wind, drop a perfect waterfall upon them. Terenty stumbles over stumps
and begins to slacken his pace.

"Whereabouts is Danilka?" he asks. "Lead me to him."

Fyokla leads him into a thicket, and, after going a quarter of a mile, points to
Danilka. Her brother, a little fellow of eight, with hair as red as ochre and a
pale sickly face, stands leaning against a tree, and, with his head on one side,
looking sideways at the sky. In one hand he holds his shabby old cap, the
other is hidden in an old lime tree. The boy is gazing at the stormy sky, and
apparently not thinking of his trouble. Hearing footsteps and seeing the
cobbler he gives a sickly smile and says:

"A terrible lot of thunder, Terenty. . . . I've never heard so much thunder in all
my life."

"And where is your hand?"

"In the hole. . . . Pull it out, please, Terenty!"

The wood had broken at the edge of the hole and jammed Danilka's hand: he
could push it farther in, but could not pull it out. Terenty snaps off the broken
piece, and the boy's hand, red and crushed, is released.

"It's terrible how it's thundering," the boy says again, rubbing his hand. "What
makes it thunder, Terenty?"

"One cloud runs against the other," answers the cobbler. The party come out
of the copse, and walk along the edge of it towards the darkened road. The
thunder gradually abates, and its rumbling is heard far away beyond the
village.

"The ducks flew by here the other day, Terenty," says Danilka, still rubbing his
hand. "They must be nesting in the Gniliya Zaimishtcha marshes. . . . Fyolka,
would you like me to show you a nightingale's nest?"

"Don't touch it, you might disturb them," says Terenty, wringing the water out
of his cap. "The nightingale is a singing-bird, without sin. He has had a voice
given him in his throat, to praise God and gladden the heart of man. It's a sin
to disturb him."

"What about the sparrow?"

"The sparrow doesn't matter, he's a bad, spiteful bird. He is like a pickpocket
in his ways. He doesn't like man to be happy. When Christ was crucified it was
the sparrow brought nails to the Jews, and called 'alive! alive!' "

A bright patch of blue appears in the sky.

"Look!" says Terenty. "An ant-heap burst open by the rain! They've been
flooded, the rogues!"

They bend over the ant-heap. The downpour has damaged it; the insects are
scurrying to and fro in the mud, agitated, and busily trying to carry away their
drowned companions.

"You needn't be in such a taking, you won't die of it!" says Terenty, grinning.
"As soon as the sun warms you, you'll come to your senses again. . . . It's a
lesson to you, you stupids. You won't settle on low ground another time."

They go on.
"And here are some bees," cries Danilka, pointing to the branch of a young
oak tree.

The drenched and chilled bees are huddled together on the branch. There are
so many of them that neither bark nor leaf can be seen. Many of them are
settled on one another.

"That's a swarm of bees," Terenty informs them. "They were flying looking for
a home, and when the rain came down upon them they settled. If a swarm is
flying, you need only sprinkle water on them to make them settle. Now if, say,
you wanted to take the swarm, you would bend the branch with them into a
sack and shake it, and they all fall in."

Little Fyokla suddenly frowns and rubs her neck vigorously. Her brother looks
at her neck, and sees a big swelling on it.

"Hey-hey!" laughs the cobbler. "Do you know where you got that from, Fyokia,
old girl? There are Spanish flies on some tree in the wood. The rain has
trickled off them, and a drop has fallen on your neck -- that's what has made
the swelling."

The sun appears from behind the clouds and floods the wood, the fields, and
the three friends with its warm light. The dark menacing cloud has gone far
away and taken the storm with it. The air is warm and fragrant. There is a
scent of bird-cherry, meadowsweet, and lilies-of-the-valley.

"That herb is given when your nose bleeds," says Terenty, pointing to a
woolly-looking flower. "It does good."

They hear a whistle and a rumble, but not such a rumble as the storm-clouds
carried away. A goods train races by before the eyes of Terenty, Danilka, and
Fyokla. The engine, panting and puffing out black smoke, drags more than
twenty vans after it. Its power is tremendous. The children are interested to
know how an engine, not alive and without the help of horses, can move and
drag such weights, and Terenty undertakes to explain it to them:

"It's all the steam's doing, children. . . . The steam does the work. . . . You see,
it shoves under that thing near the wheels, and it . . . you see . . . it works. . . ."

They cross the railway line, and, going down from the embankment, walk
towards the river. They walk not with any object, but just at random, and talk
all the way. . . . Danilka asks questions, Terenty answers them. . . .

Terenty answers all his questions, and there is no secret in Nature which
baffles him. He knows everything. Thus, for example, he knows the names of
all the wild flowers, animals, and stones. He knows what herbs cure diseases,
he has no difficulty in telling the age of a horse or a cow. Looking at the
sunset, at the moon, or the birds, he can tell what sort of weather it will be
next day. And indeed, it is not only Terenty who is so wise. Silanty Silitch, the
innkeeper, the market-gardener, the shepherd, and all the villagers, generally
speaking, know as much as he does. These people have learned not from
books, but in the fields, in the wood, on the river bank. Their teachers have
been the birds themselves, when they sang to them, the sun when it left a
glow of crimson behind it at setting, the very trees, and wild herbs.

Danilka looks at Terenty and greedily drinks in every word. In spring, before
one is weary of the warmth and the monotonous green of the fields, when
everything is fresh and full of fragrance, who would not want to hear about the
golden may-beetles, about the cranes, about the gurgling streams, and the
corn mounting into ear?
The two of them, the cobbler and the orphan, walk about the fields, talk
unceasingly, and are not weary. They could wander about the world
endlessly. They walk, and in their talk of the beauty of the earth do not notice
the frail little beggar-girl tripping after them. She is breathless and moves with
a lagging step. There are tears in her eyes; she would be glad to stop these
inexhaustible wanderers, but to whom and where can she go? She has no
home or people of her own; whether she likes it or not, she must walk and
listen to their talk.

Towards midday, all three sit down on the river bank. Danilka takes out of his
bag a piece of bread, soaked and reduced to a mash, and they begin to eat.
Terenty says a prayer when he has eaten the bread, then stretches himself on
the sandy bank and falls asleep. While he is asleep, the boy gazes at the
water, pondering. He has many different things to think of. He has just seen
the storm, the bees, the ants, the train. Now, before his eyes, fishes are
whisking about. Some are two inches long and more, others are no bigger
than one's nail. A viper, with its head held high, is swimming from one bank to
the other.

Only towards the evening our wanderers return to the village. The children go
for the night to a deserted barn, where the corn of the commune used to be
kept, while Terenty, leaving them, goes to the tavern. The children lie huddled
together on the straw, dozing.

The boy does not sleep. He gazes into the darkness, and it seems to him that
he is seeing all that he has seen in the day: the storm-clouds, the bright
sunshine, the birds, the fish, lanky Terenty. The number of his impressions,
together with exhaustion and hunger, are too much for him; he is as hot as
though he were on fire, and tosses from, side to side. He longs to tell
someone all that is haunting him now in the darkness and agitating his soul,
but there is no one to tell. Fyokla is too little and could not understand.

"I'll tell Terenty to-morrow," thinks the boy.

The children fall asleep thinking of the homeless cobbler, and, in the night,
Terenty comes to them, makes the sign of the cross over them, and puts
bread under their heads. And no one sees his love. It is seen only by the
moon which floats in the sky and peeps caressingly through the holes in the
wall of the deserted barn.