9. Ivan Wakes Up

It was almost noon, there was no shade; if a little spot could be found under a bushy tree, the warm rays of the sun passing between the leaves, under the old cherry-tree of the court, soon found it out. A golden cobweb swung at each breath of the wind which moved the foliage.

For some time, a burning ray had penetrated the window, near which Ivan was sleeping after his copious repast, and had fallen directly on his cheek. His face was very red under the sun’s heat. He felt vaguely that he was being burned, but he was so happy in his sleep that he did not wish to awake. “If I open my eyes,” he said to himself, half asleep, “if I change my place, all this happiness is ended, I shall sleep no more.” A plaintive smile, trembling on his lips, helped one to decipher his thoughts.

Nevertheless, he suddenly gave a jump as if he had been touched with a hot iron. The truth is, his cheek was on fire. He put his hand on it and drew it away as if burned by the contact.

He withdrew from the window; his sleepy eyes glanced around the interior of the room; mechanically he rearranged his uniform and his face struggled to assume its usual expression of indifference.

Where was he? Gradually his memory returned to him. His wicked eyes examined even the white walls of the cottage. The house was indeed empty! He was alone; why? Bah! Old Knich had probably gone away in order to allow his guest to sleep more comfortably.

But how long had he slept? He became uneasy. He began calling, his voice was not remarkable for softness, it was hoarse and loud, and gave sudden bursts like the crashing of broken branches. His cries were soon heard in all the corners of the court.

“Hallo! Hallo! Old man! Thunder! Will you come?”

Maroussia and little Tarass, hearing him, ran toward the house, but, thinking it useless to brave such a terrible awakening, hid themselves behind a clump of lilies and listened.

When Ivan was silent, nothing could be heard except the sweet murmuring of a beautiful summer day, when all nature is expanding, every little leaf breathing, and the very blades of grass seem to tremble with happiness.

When the soldier began calling again there was no more quiet. A thousand demons could not have made more noise.

“Where is that cursed old man?”

Ivan felt that he was belated; with a violent kick he opened the door, and, saber in hand, he appeared on the door sill, turning his head alternatively from right to left, like a man undecided in which direction to strike.

“May the devil fly away with me, if I know which way to turn,” the angry soldier cried at last.