II
The path went along a high cliff over the sea, and wandered through the shade of ancient olive trees, The sea gleamed between the trunks now and then, and seemed at times to stand like a calm and mighty wall on the horizon; its colour was the more blue, the more intense, because of the contrast seen through the trellis-work of silver verdant leaves. In the grass, amongst the kizil shrubs, wild roses and vines, and even on the branches of the trees, swarmed the grasshoppers, and the air itself trembled from the monotonously sounding and unceasing murmur of their legs and wing-cases. The day turned out to be a sultry one; there was no wind, and the hot earth burnt the soles of the feet.
Sergey, going as usual ahead of grandfather, stopped, and waited for the old man to catch up to him.
“What is it, Serozha?” asked the organ-grinder.
“The heat, grandfather Lodishkin ... there’s no bearing it! To bathe would be good....”
The old man wiped his perspiring face with his sleeve, and hitched the organ to a more comfortable position on his back.
“What would be better?” he sighed, looking eagerly downward to the cool blueness of the sea. “Only, after bathing, one gets more hungry, you know. A village doctor once said to me: ‘Salt has more effect on man than anything else ... that means, it weakens him ... sea-salt....’”
“He lied, perhaps,” remarked Sergey, doubtfully.
“Lied! What next? Why should he lie? A solid man, non-drinker ... having a little house in Sevastopol. What’s more, there’s no getting down to the sea here. Wait a bit, we’ll get to Miskhor, and there rinse our sinful bodies. It’s fine to bathe before dinner ... and afterwards to sleep, we three ... and a splendid bit of work....”
Arto, hearing conversation behind him, turned and ran back, his soft blue eyes, half shut from the heat, looked up appealingly, and his hanging tongue trembled from quick breathing.