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 sigh: “Auntie Anfisa knows better than you.” “What does she know?” asked Ignat, smiling. “Everything,” replied the boy, convincedly. No wonderful kingdom appeared before him. But often cities appeared on the banks of the river, just such cities as the one where Foma lived. Some of them were larger, some smaller, but the people, and the houses, and the churches--all were the same as in his own city. Foma examined them in company with his father, but was still unsatisfied and returned to the steamer gloomy and fatigued. “Tomorrow we shall be in Astrakhan,” said Ignat one day. “And is it just the same as the other cities?” “Of course. How else should it be?” “And what is beyond Astrakhan?” “The sea. The Caspian Sea it is called.” “And what is there?” “Fishes, queer fellow! What else can there be in the water?” “There’s the city Kitezh standing in the water.” “That’s a different thing! That’s Kitezh. Only righteous people live there.” “And are there no righteous cities on the sea?” “No,” said Ignat, and, after a moment’s silence, added: “The sea water is bitter and nobody can drink it.” “And is there more land beyond the sea?” “Certainly, the sea must have an end. It is like a cup.” “And are there cities there too?” “Again cities. Of course! Only that land is not ours, it belongs to Persia. Did you see the Persians selling pistachio-nuts and apricots in the market?” “Yes, I saw them,” replied Foma, and became pensive. One day he asked his father: “Is there much more land left?”