Give us Thy blessing, 0h Lord!" exclaimed Kononov with emotion.
"Let go astern! Forward!" ordered the captain. The massive "Ilya
Murometz," heaving a mighty sigh, emitted a thick column of white
steam toward the side of the landing-bridge, and started upstream
easily, like a swan.
"How it started off," enthusiastically exclaimed commercial
counsellor Lup Grigoryev Reznikov, a tall, thin, good-looking
man. "Without a quiver! Like a lady in the dance!"
"Half speed!"
"It's not a ship, it's a Leviathan!" remarked with a devout sigh
the pock-marked and stooping Trofim Zubov, cathedral-warden and
principal usurer in town.
It was a gray day. The sky, overcast with autumn clouds, was
reflected in the water of the river, thus giving it a cold leaden
colouring. Flashing in the freshness of its paint the steamer
sailed along the monotonous background of the river like a huge
bright spot, and the black smoke of its breath hung in the air
like a heavy cloud. All white, with pink paddle-boxes and bright
red blades, the steamer easily cut through the cold water with
its bow and drove it apart toward the shores, and the round
window-panes on the sides of the steamer and the cabin glittered
brilliantly, as though smiling a self-satisfied, triumphant
smile.
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