Dmitro Borisovich was lost in thought. Actem was looking at him, still entertaining some hopes that the archeologist would find a solution any minute now, would do something decisive about it. And they would return to inform the rest of a remarkable find. Lida would raise her eyebrows in envious surprise… She did it so charmingly… It was worth painting a picture of… But wait, what did Lida have to do with all this? It was much more important to evoke the interest of Ivan Semenovich! Then he would stop objecting to their archeological pursuits… Or, in the words of Dmitro Borisovich, to “the archeological line” of their work… Those eyebrows… they arched such perfectly straight lines above Lida’s green eyes… And my, how they sparkled! Again Lida was on his mind! There were serious matters awaiting his attention… Maybe they were on the verge of some extraordinary discovery, so why he should be thinking about Lida all the time?… Soon Dmitro Borisovich would come up with a solution, and then… and then…
But Artem’s hopes fell. Dmitro Borisovich put his lamp on the ground with an abrupt gesture of resignation.
“I don’t know,” he said with a sign. “I’ve never come across anything of the kind before and have never heard of anything like this being encountered by other archeologists. We need to think it over, discuss it, and avoid unnecessary haste. That’s probably the most important thing in such situations, Artem — avoid haste! Yes, that’s the thing. Now, young man, we’ll start back,” he said with determination. “Take this envelope. Collect samples of dust, first, at this wall, then at that one. I’ll take samples in the center.”
“And what purpose can that dust serve?”
Artem’s voice was brimming with bitter disappointment. It had all begun so promisingly — only to end so miserably! Dust indeed! A very valuable find, a lot to be proud about on coming back…
“Ah, young man,” said Dmitro Borisovich with a condescending smile, “you’ll never make a true, committed archeologist, no, no way. You’re after treasures, gold and valuables, aren’t you? Your mood would be much improved if you chanced upon any, correct? My young friend, dust can also be of great help to an archeologist. Don’t you understand how? Go ahead, collect it, and while you’re doing it I’ll prove the point, and you’ll have more respect for this modest gray dust. Back in the lab, we’ll examine this dust minutely, we’ll subject it to analysis. Maybe this analysis will reveal that the dust is partly composed of, say, rotten pieces of clothing, grain, bread or something else. And then it’ll be quite easy to answer the question which now seems so complicated: that will mean the mysterious walled-off recess was used by the ancients as a storing place for clothing or as a granary. Everything will fall nicely into place and explanations will be easily available. Do you understand now of what significance this despicable gray- dust can be?”
“Oh, yes, it’s quite thrilling,” Artem muttered, disconcerted. “If it is as you say, it wasn’t worth the trouble of getting in here. We’ve just dirtied our clothes for nothing. And the lecture you’ve given me I could’ve listened to in comfort at home.”
“What you’ve said is, my friend, first, discourteous and second, balderdash if you ask me. Science needs all possible kinds of evidence. Every little bit of new knowledge is important. Archeology, by the way, is based almost entirely on such tiny bits of evidence. All you have to do is look hard and see what you can see, examine whatever you find, and systematize. The abilities and qualities of a true archeologist are revealed through his attitude to such tiny bits of knowledge. Yes, my friend, in his attitude, and not in vociferous enthusiasm, not in clamorous interjections over an ancient artifact, even a very valuable one!”
Artem listened to this spontaneous lecture and methodically collected dust into envelopes. No matter what Dmitro Borisovich said about these bits of knowledge, it would be so much more exciting to find a pottery shard or even a bronze vessel, not to mention the crown of some Scythian tribal chief… Oh, that would be really terrific!
All of a sudden Artem stopped short, his eyes riveted to a spot at the foot of the wall just two steps away. It might be just another protruding stone, but it looked a bit different from the rest… like an artificial stone cube covered with dirt and dust… What kind of stone could it be? Artem glanced briskly back at the archeologist.
Dmitro Borisovich was pouring some dust into the envelope with great concentration and could not see what Artem was doing, so the younger man immediately set about removing dirt and dust from the rectangular protrusion. The surface was hard and rough… no, it wasn’t a stone and… not just a protrusion either… Artem’s heart began to race. He worked in a mounting frenzy.
“Once again I must remark that you’re prone to lapses of discipline, my dear young man,” Artem heard the archeologist’s voice coming as though from afar. “Did I tell you to take samples at that spot? I must say, you’re very inattentive, my friend, yes, you are, and very undisciplined too!”
Artem swiveled around. Dmitro Borisovich was holding the envelope, packed with dust, and looking at him in disapproval.
“And why are you wearing such a perturbed look on your face?” the archeologist went on to say. “As though you’re contemplating some neck-breaking stunt… or maybe you’re not quite all right and can barely stand?”
Artem took a deep breath and was again able to control himself. But his voice broke when he began to speak:
“Dmitro Borisovich, the thing is… I’ve found one tiny bit of knowledge here. Only I’m afraid it’s a little too big to fit into the envelope…”
Dmitro Borisovich did not suspect anything unusual hidden behind Artem’s seemingly inaffected, even indifferent voice.
“What tiny bit? Which envelope? What kind of claptrap is that, young man?”
“You’ve been talking all the time about some tiny bit of knowledge, right? And here, one such tiny bit has presented itself. It’s rather outsized, though. A sort of a box or something.”
In a twinkling, Dmitro Borisovich was at Artem’s side.
“What? Where? What box?”
“Right here, see for yourself.”
Artem pointed to the mysterious object which he had just been cleaning up. What had emerged was a small square chest, crudely made, embossed with an ornamental design. It was half-hidden in a niche. The bright white light of the lamps revealed the dark, greenish bronze under the dust. Artem looked at Dmitro Borisovich in triumph: what would he say now?
But the archeologist was oblivious of Artem, of his precious envelopes, of all the world. Now only the chest existed for him. He squatted beside it and touched its top as though he were afraid it was hot enough to burn his fingers. His hands trembled; his lips were moving, shaping inaudible words. He was evidently very agitated and overexcited, and Artem sensed it was not the right time for taunting him. It would be sacrilegious.
“Dmitro Borisovich, it’s a real big find, isn’t it? Is it valuable?” he asked in an undertone, feeling the excitement spread through him, too.
It was hardly worth asking since just one look at the archeologist was enough to tell the whole story. He tried hard to control himself but was not very successful. His efforts at constraint were easily visible. Dmitro Borisovich did everything that had to be done, that his long years of archeological experience had taught him to do, but he seemed merely to be going through the motions; his movements were mechanical, almost like that of an automaton. He took his camera out, photographed the chest from various angles, the same procedure as before the stone wall, but the mere fact that he almost dropped the flash twice, stumbled on the even floor, and did not comment his own unusual awkwardness allowed Artem to deduce that he was in a state of extreme agitation and tension. Artem, who kept his eyes glued to the archeologist, said eagerly:
“Can I help you?”
But Dmitro Borisovich did not even hear Artem. He lifted the chest off the ground and held it at the arms’ length as one holds a basin filled to the brim with water. After holding it in this manner for a few moments, he carefully lowered it back to the ground. Then he approached the chest from the other side. His hair was dishevelled; his spectacles lop-sided. But he didn’t see anything or hear anything; he was heedless of everything except for the chest…
Artem could make out a few words Dmitro Borisovich was muttering as though answering some questions he had silently put to himself:
“Yes… by the looks of it… dating to the Scythians… why only bronze?… strange, there’s no iron… hidden away for no one to see… a relic… extraordinary!… a real hiding place!…”
“So you think it’s Scythian?” Artem asked timidly.
But the archeologist was still quite inaccessible. He walked around the chest once again, bending his neck to one side like a hen that is aiming to peck at a seed it has just discovered. He looked at the chest first with one eye, then with the other, half-closing them at times. Then, suddenly rousing himself from his trance, he turned to Artem as though the young man had just appeared.
“Artem, my dear boy, this is quite extraordinary!” he cried out, grabbing the young man by his sleeve. “What stroke of luck brought you here? How did you guess the chest was hidden in precisely this corner?”
Artem shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed: what could he say really? He had just happened upon it; that was all…
But Dmitro Borisovich did not wait for him to answer. He went on speaking with ardor:
“My dear friend, you’ve surely got the luck of the devil on your side! It is doubtless of Scythian origin. And it is equally clear that the chest was placed here on purpose… As to who did it, I’d rather avoid making conjectures at this stage… It was hidden here, and then this recess was sealed off by a stone wall. I believe that solves the mystery of why the wall should be here! Do you follow me? It’s as clear as the fact that we’re standing here and now!”
Now Artem looked at the chest with more than mere curiosity. Other thoughts flooded the young man’s excitable mind.
Long centuries passed, days and nights inexorably following one another. Generations succeded each other. And all this time, the small chest had rested peacefully in the tightly sealed recess of the cave. Many centuries of time had enshrouded the chest; utter stillness had guarded it, and along with that, had lain the secret it concealed. Now, this relic of remote past has been discovered. It would be taken to the surface, and in the bright sunlight, the mysterious chest would yield up its secrets…
“Dmitro Borisovich, what do you think is inside?”
“Inside this chest?” The archeologist glanced at the chest once again and spread his hands in the gesture of helplessness. “I reckon your question could be answered here and now only by a clairvoyant, but even he, in my opinion, wouldn’t be able to make a very definite statement. What’s inside, really? It could be anything. Jewels, or… No, it’s no good racking our brains over it. All the more so, that I, no matter how hard I try, cannot recollect any similar finds made or described in archeology. Some very interesting and important discoveries have been made in the barrows — the ancient burial mounds — finds made during the excavation of ancient settlements. But never anything like this chest…” Dmitro Borisovich stroked the lid gently.
“To find such a bronze chest sitting all by itself in a cave, sealed by a stone wall — no, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Well, all right, soon we’ll know everything. Let’s get moving.”
The archeologist lifted the chest with great care and headed for the hole they had made in the wall.
“Light the way for me, Artem, give me some light!”
The yellowish envelopes, filled with the dust that had been collected in the cave, were abandoned. Dmitro Bori- sovicli, carrying the chest, stepped on one of them. The heavy trample tore the envelope and scattered the dust. But the archeologist paid no heed, for all his attention was concentrated on the bronze chest. Artem, who noticed all this, smiled to himself. In spite of the great solemnity of the moment, he couldn’t help launching another taunt. As soon as they got through the hole, he looked at the archeologist who was moving majestically, holding the chest in his arms as though it were an object of the greatest value on earth. The elder man was coughing to indicate the significance of the event, and his younger colleague said in a solemn voice, making considerable effort not to burst into laughter:
“I am grieved to inform you, Dmitro Borisovich, that unfortunately you’ll never make a true archeologist…”
“What’s that?”
“I said you’d never make a true archeologist, Dmitro Borisovich. You’re the kind of a person who is interested only in valuable finds. Chests, for example, or something else of that sort…”
“Oh, come off it! What is it you’re driving at?”
“You see, Dmitro Borisovich, archeology is a comprehensive science. It deals with not only occasional finds of artifacts, no matter how valuable, but with what you might call ‘trifles.’ Rather it deals mostly with the tiniest details. It is they, these details, when systematized, that are of greatest value to archeology. Archeology looks for such details everywhere. It examines, studies and systematizes them. It can draw most helpful conclusions from the analysis of, say, dust. True archeologists never discard the collected,samples, much less trample them mercilessly under foot, because they are never overwhelmed by individual finds, no matter how fascinating. That’s something truly dedicated archeologists never do… By the way, Dmitro Borisovich, don’t get too worked up. My ear is out of your reach now, so you’ll have some problems trying to grab it. Besides your Jiands are nicely occupied with the chest, this individual artifact…”
“How dare you! What impertinence!”
“Maybe I’m being cheeky, yes. But I’ll continue since I believe I’ll be able to make some things clear to you. As I’ve said archeology studies even what seems to be the most insignificant things and it is unthinkable for a dedicated archeologist to cast them on the ground and trample them disdainfully… like some archeologists I happen to know personally… Isn’t it so, Dmitro Borisovich, or am I mistaken?”
The archeologist’s reply was, to Artem’s great surprise, unexpectedly mild and placatory:
“You’re after your revenge, my friend? You want to get under my skin, you want to be witty at my expense, eh? My dear boy, you’re free to do as you like. But I have to tell you frankly that at the moment, I really don’t care. I’ll tell you one thing. When you yourself will become an experienced geologist… or maybe an archeologist, who knows?… then you’ll understand that there are moments when even a reserved scholar, burdened with age, knowledge and experience, turns into an over-enthusiastic boy all of a sudden. And when you have understood it, you’ll remember your taunts — and feel ashamed of them. All right, let’s forget about it. Light the way, Artem, I’m in mortal fear of stumbling and somehow damaging our find.”
“Yes, sir.”
Artem did not crack any more jokes. Even now, though he was still a long way from becoming a real scholar, he understood that the “moments” Dmitro Borisovich had been speaking about so earnestly, did in fact occur. If he, Artem, was so excited himself, then what a great effect this remarkable find must have had on the accomplished scholar who realized only too well the importance of this extraordinary discovery!
They were on their way out. The tall archeologist was walking in front of Artem, carefully watching his step, carrying in both hands the mysterious bronze chest that had been lying hidden for many centuries with its secret contents. Dmitro Borisovich said there could be jewels inside or anything else imaginable. Artem was itching to know what in fact it contained. What treasure, what unexpected things did this small chest with half-effaced embossing on the lid contain?
Artem was extremely anxious to get back to the others and show it to them and open it! The romantic youth was already seeing with his mind’s eye the exotic things that they’d be sure to find in the chest. There surely must be something especially precious in it — otherwise why should it have been hidden so thoroughly by the ancient Scythians?…What if it was the… the gold crown of a Scythian chieftain? This thought sent Artem’s heart racing madly. A gold crown!
But did Scythian chieftains wear gold crowns? What a pity he knew so little about Scythians! Well, perhaps it wasn’t a crown but some expensive headgear made of gold and studded with precious stones — it didn’t make too much difference, did it? One way or the other, the chest was sure to contain something extremely rare and valuable, there was absolutely no doubt about it!
But how slowly Dmitro Borisovich was walking! The chieftain’s crown! It would surely make a most worthy contribution to the famed collection of Scythian gold in the Hermitage Museum, the one Dmitro Borisovich had been talking so much about. And who had found it after all? Whose modest person would be for ever linked with the discovery of this extraordinary thing?
Artem couldn’t stand the torture of expectation any longer. His heart was about to burst with impatience. What was inside the mysterious chest, what secret was locked in it?
“It’s a wonderful morning, isn’t it, Diana?”
The dog gave a short but expressive bark in reply and looked quizzically at her companion, so full of joie de vivre. The dog’s short ears were pricked, the muscles of her strong legs taut, ready for jumps and capers. Diana was waiting for the command to start frolicking as it always happened during outings with Lida. But this time the girl was slow to start the fun, standing on a hillock, filling her lungs with fresh, fragrant air.
“Oh, how wonderful!”
She was knee-deep in luxuriant green grass and thistles; the warm rays of the July morning sun were caressing her face, the light wind seemed to be cuddling her, embracing her lithe, supple figure; it was stroking her neck, touching her hair with its invisible fingers. Everything was wonderful indeed! The girl surveyed her surroundings.
Once impenetrable forest thickets had covered the area, or at least that’s what Dmitro Borisovich said. Such a pity they were all gone! It would be so pleasant to wander through them! There must have been a plenty of wild animals living here, and the river must have been wider and deeper… And what now? No forests at all, only occasional small bushes. The river was narrow and the current slow, one could swim across in no time. It meandered like a snake, making a turn every ten meters or so, twisting this way and that, so if one swam for speed, one couldn’t see how far behind the rest were lagging; that was what had happened the day before when Lida challenged Artem. It wasn’t really any fun… Then she realized she had not seen Artem this morning yet.