’As you like. Only, as far as acquaintance
goes ... you needn’t expect much satisfaction
from it, sir; he’s grown very weak in his head,
and in conversation he’s silly as a little child.
As well he may be; he’s past his eightieth year.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Vassily Fomitch. Guskov’s his surname.’
‘And the deacon?’
’The deacon? ... his nickname’s Cucumber.
Every one about here calls him so; but what his real
name is—God knows! A foolish creature!
A regular ne’er-do-well.’
‘Do they live together?’
‘No; but there—the devil has tied
them together, it seems.’
We approached the platform. The brigadier cast
one glance upon us ... and promptly fixed his eyes
on the float; Cucumber jumped up, pulled back his
rod, took off his worn-out clerical hat, passed a trembling
hand over his rough yellow hair, made a sweeping bow,
and gave vent to a feeble little laugh. His bloated
face betrayed him an inveterate drunkard; his staring
little eyes blinked humbly. He gave his neighbour
a poke in the ribs, as though to let him know that
they must clear out.... The brigadier began to
move on the seat.
‘Sit still, I beg; don’t disturb yourselves,’
I hastened to say. ’You won’t interfere
with us in the least. We’ll take up our
position here; sit still.’
Cucumber wrapped his ragged smock round him, twitched
his shoulders, his lips, his beard.... Obviously
he felt our presence oppressive and he would have
been glad to slink away, ... but the brigadier was
again lost in the contemplation of his float....
The ‘ne’er-do-weel’ coughed twice,
sat down on the very edge of the seat, put his hat
on his knees, and, tucking his bare legs up under
him, he discreetly dropped in his line.
‘Any bites?’ Narkiz inquired haughtily,
as in leisurely fashion he unwound his reel.
‘We’ve caught a matter of five loaches,’
answered Cucumber in a cracked and husky voice:
‘and he took a good-sized perch.’
‘Yes, a perch,’ repeated the brigadier
in a shrill pipe.
I fell to watching closely—not him, but
his reflection in the pond. It was as clearly
reflected as in a looking-glass—a little
darker, a little more silvery. The wide stretch
of pond wafted a refreshing coolness upon us; a cool
breath of air seemed to rise, too, from the steep,
damp bank; and it was the sweeter, as in the dark blue,
flooded with gold, above the tree tops, the stagnant
sultry heat hung, a burden that could be felt, over
our heads. There was no stir in the water near
the dike; in the shade cast by the drooping bushes
on the bank, water spiders gleamed, like tiny bright
buttons, as they described their everlasting circles;
at long intervals there was a faint ripple just perceptible
round the floats, when a fish was ‘playing’
with the worm. Very few fish were taken; during
