irred up by the
two vessels strike against one another and splash against the steamers'
sides, and the vessels are rocked upon the water. On the slope of the
mountainous bank are verdant carpets of winter corn, brown strips of
fallow ground and black strips of ground tilled for spring corn. Birds,
like little dots, soar over them, and are clearly seen in the blue
canopy of the sky; nearby a flock is grazing; in the distance they look
like children's toys; the small figure of the shepherd stands leaning on
a staff, and looks at the river.

The glare of the water--freedom and liberty are everywhere, the meadows
are cheerfully verdant and the blue sky is tenderly clear; a restrained
power is felt in the quiet motion of the water; above it the generous
May sun is shining, the air is filled with the exquisite odour of
fir trees and of fresh foliage. And the banks keep on meeting them,
caressing the eyes and the soul with their beauty, as new pictures
constantly unfold themselves.

Everything surrounding them bears the stamp of some kind of tardiness:
all--nature as well as men--live there clumsily, lazily; but in that
laziness there is an odd gracefulness, and it seems as though beyond the
laziness a colossal power were concealed; an invincible power, but as
yet deprived of consciousness, as yet without any definite desires and
aims. And the absence of consciousness in this half-slumbering life
throws shades of sadness over all the beautiful slope. Submissive
patience, silent hope for something new and more inspiriting are heard
even in the cry of the cuckoo, wafted to the river by the wind from the
shore. The melancholy songs sound as though imploring someone for help.
And at times there is in them a ring of despair. The river answers the
songs with sighs. And the tree-tops shake, lost in meditation. Silence.

Foma spent all day long on the captain's bridge beside his father.
Without uttering a word, he stared wide-eyed at the endless panorama of
the banks, and it seemed to him he was moving along a broad silver path
in those wonderful kingdoms inhabited by the sorcerers and giants of his
familiar fairy-tales. At times he would load his father with questions
about everything that passed before them. Ignat answered him willingly
and concisely, but the boy was not pleased with his answers; they
contained nothing interesting and intelligible to him, and he did not
hear what he longed to hear. Once he told his father with a s