COMRADES
By Maxim Gorki
The burning July sun blazed dazzlingly over Smolkena, pouring down upon the old huts a generous stream of resplendent rays. A goodly share of the sunlight fell to the roof of theStarosta’s[2]hut, newly recovered with smoothly-planed, yellow, fragrant planks. It was Sunday, and almost the entire population of the village had gone out into the street, thickly overgrown with grass and bespattered in spots with quantities of dry mud. A large group of peasants—men and women—had gathered in front of theStarosta’shut. Some sat on the earthwork around the house, others simply stood; while the children chased one another in and out of the throng, calling forth from the elders rebukes and blows.
The centre of the crowd was a tall man, with large, drooping mustaches. To judge from his swarthy face, covered with thick gray bristles and a network of deep wrinkles, as well as from the gray tufts of hair which forced their way from under the dirty straw hat, he might have beenfifty years of age. He was gazing on the ground, and the nostrils of his large, gristly nose were quivering; and when he raised his head, throwing his glance upon the windows of theStarosta’shut, his eyes—large, melancholy, and even morose—became visible; they were sunk deep within their orbits, and the bushy brows cast shadows over their dark pupils. He was dressed in the brown under-cassock of a lay-brother, worse for the wear; it hardly covered his knees, and was girt with cord. Over his back was flung a bag; in his right hand he carried a long stick with iron ferrule; his left hand he held in his bosom. The people eyed him suspiciously, derisively, with contempt; and with evident joy in having caught a wolf before he had had time to do hurt to their flock. He was passing through the village, and had asked for a drink at the window of theStarosta’shut. TheStarostagave him cider and entered into conversation with him. The wayfarer, however, unlike his kind, answered unwillingly. TheStarostaasked him for his passport, but none was forthcoming. It was decided to send him to the local magistrate. TheStarostachose as the man’s escort the village deputy, and was now in the hut giving him directions, having in the meantime left the prisoner in the midst of the mob which made sport of him.
The prisoner stood near the trunk of a willow and rested against it his stooped back.
Presently there appeared on the staircase of the hut a dim-eyed old man, with a foxy face and a gray, wedge-shaped beard. He lowered his booted feet step by step, measuredly, and his round stomach moved from side to side solidly under the long calico shirt. Just over his shoulder came to view the bearded, four-cornered face of the deputy.
“Do you understand me, Efimushka?” theStarostaquestioned the deputy.
“Why shouldn’t I understand? It’s easy enough. Simply means I am to take this man to the magistrate—and there’s an end of it!” The deputy, pronouncing his speech with measured emphasis and with comical dignity, winked at the public.
“And the papers?”
“The papers are stuck away in my bosom.”
“Well, all right, then,” said theStarosta, and, scratching his sides energetically, he added:
“Go, and God be with you!”
“Well, shall we march on, father?” said the deputy to the prisoner.
“You might furnish a conveyance,” grumbled the prisoner at the deputy’s proposition.
TheStarostasmiled.
“A con—vey—ance? The idea! There are lots of you fellows tramping across fields and villages. Where are all the horses to come from? You’ve got to make it on foot; that’s all there’s to it!”
“That’s nothing, father; let us go,” said the deputy cheerfully. “Do you think it so far? Can’t be more than twenty versts! You’ll be there before you know it. We shall make a nice trip of it. And afterwards you shall have a rest.”
“In a cool place,” explained theStarosta.
“That’s nothing,” the deputy hastened to say. “A man, when he is very tired, will find rest even in jail. And especially after a hot day you will find it cool and comfortable there.”
The prisoner eyed his escort sharply; the latter smiled good-naturedly and frankly.
“Well, come along, honest father! Good-bye, Vasil Gavrilich! Let’s go!”
“God be with you, Efimushka! Use both your eyes.”
“Yes, you’ll have to look sharp!” was the suggestion thrown at the deputy by a young peasant in the crowd.
“What, do you think I’m an infant?”
They started, keeping close to the huts, so as to be within the strip of shadow. The man in the cassock walked in front, with the loose but rapidgait of a being accustomed to roaming. The deputy, with a sturdy stick in his hand, followed.
Efimushka was a little peasant, low in stature, but built strongly, with a broad, good-natured face framed in an unkempt red beard beginning just below his bright gray eyes. He nearly always smiled at something, showing his healthy yellow teeth, and wrinkling his nose as if he wanted to sneeze. He was dressed in a long garment whose folds were caught up at the waist with a belt, so that they might not hamper his feet; on his head was stuck a dark green cap, without a visor, reminding one of a prisoner’s cap.
His companion moved on as if oblivious of another presence. They walked along by a narrow by-path, which wound its way through a billowy sea of rye; and the shadows of the travellers glided along against the gold of the corn.
Looking towards the horizon, the crest of a wood appeared blue against the sky. To the left stretched endlessly field upon field; in their midst, like a dark patch, lay a village; and beyond the village again fields, losing themselves finally in the bluish haze.
To the right, from behind a group of willows, a church spire covered with tin-plate, as yet unpainted, pierced the blue sky. It glistened sostrongly in the sun that it was painful to look at.
Up high the larks twittered; and in the rye the cornflowers smiled; and it was hot—almost stifling. From under the feet of the travellers the dust flew up.
Efimushka, clearing his throat, began to sing in falsetto voice.
“It’s no use. I can’t make my voice carry! And yet—there was a time when I could sing.... The Vishensky teacher would say, ‘Well, Efimushka, make a start!’ And we would sing together! A fine fellow he was, too!”
“Who was he?”, asked the man in the cassock, in a dull bass voice.
“The Vishensky teacher.”
“Was Vishensky his name?”
“No, brother; that’s the name of the village. The teacher’s name was Pavel Mikhalich. A first-rate sort he was. Died three years ago.”
“Was he young?”
“He wasn’t thirty.”
“What did he die of?”
“Of grief, I take it.”
Efimushka’s companion glanced at him askance and smiled.
“You see, my dear fellow, this is how it happened. He taught—seven years at a stretch he taught. Well, he began to cough. He coughedand he coughed, and then got to grieving.... Well, you know how it is—grief drove him to drink. And Father Alexei did not like him; and when he started drinking, Father Alexei sent a report to town—told this and that: the teacher is drinking, and that sort of thing. It’s a scandal, to be sure. And the people in town sent back an answer and a woman teacher. She was tall, bony, big-nosed. Well, Pavel Mikhalich saw how things stood. He felt hurt. ‘Here,’ thought he,’ I have taught and taught ... and now you—— ’ ... From the school he went straight to the hospital, and within five days gave up his soul to God.... That’s all.”
For a time they went on in silence. They were approaching the wood, which with every step loomed larger and larger and was turning from blue to green.
“Shall we go by the wood?” asked Efimushka’s fellow traveller.
“We will only catch the edge of it, for a half-verst or so. But what are you up to? I shall keep my eye on you, my good man.”
And Efimushka, shaking his head, laughed.
“What ails you?” the prisoner asked.
“Oh, nothing! But you are a funny one! ‘Shall we go by the wood?’ says he. You are a simpleton, dear fellow; another wouldn’t haveasked this question—that is, if he were any smarter. He would have made straight for the wood, and——”
“Well?”
“Oh, nothing! I see through you, brother. Your game is like a very thin reed! I should advise you to drop this idea about the wood! Do you think you can get around me? I can handle three like you; as for you, I can manage you with my left hand. Do you understand?”
“Understand you? You’re a fool!” said the prisoner simply but with emphasis.
“Ah, I hit the mark that time!” said Efimushka triumphantly.
“Blockhead! What mark did you hit?” asked the prisoner, with a wry smile.
“About the wood. I understand, I do. You were thinking that when we reached the wood you would knock me down—yes, knock me down—and then make a break for the fields or for the woods. Now, isn’t that so?”
“You’re a fool,” said the apprehended man, shrugging his shoulders. “Where could I go?”
“Well, where you wish—that’s your affair.”
“But where?”
Efimushka’s companion was either angry or else he really wished to know from his escort precisely in what direction he could run.
“I told you, where you wished,” replied Efimushka calmly.
“There’s nowhere where I could run, nowhere,” said his companion quietly.
“W-well!” the escort pronounced incredulously, and waved his hand. “There’s always some place where one could run to. The world is large. There will be always enough room in it for one man.”
“Tell me, then: do you really want me to run away?” the prisoner, smiling, ventured to ask.
“Ah, you! You are terribly good! What will come of it? You’ll run away, and in your place some one else will have to go to jail. And that one will be me. No, I’m simply making conversation.”
“You are a blessed fool—otherwise you seem a good sort of fellow,” said Efimushka’s companion, uttering a sigh. Efimushka quite agreed with him.
“It is true I am called blessed by some people; and that I’m a good fellow is also true. I am a simple man—that’s at the bottom of it. Other people say things with cunning, in an underhand sort of way, but why should I? I am alone in the world. Deal wrongly—and you die; deal rightly—you die also. And so I’ve kept straight, mostly.”
“That is the right way,” remarked the prisoner indifferently.
“How else should it be? Why should I let my soul go wrong when I am alone here? I am a free man, brother. As I wish, so I live. I have my own idea of life, and live according to it. So it goes. By the way, how are you called?”
“How? Well, you may call me Ivan Ivanov.”
“So! Are you of the priesthood?”
“N-no.”
“Well! And I thought you were——”
“Because of my dress?”
“Well, you look like a runaway monk or an unfrocked priest.... But your face is not at all suited; it looks more like a soldier’s. God knows what kind of man you are!” Efimushka cast a curious glance at the stranger. The other sighed, readjusted his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and asked the deputy:
“Do you smoke?”
“Happy to afford you the pleasure. To be sure, I do!”
He drew out of his bosom a soiled pouch and, lowering his head, without decreasing his gait, began to fill a clay pipe with tobacco.
“Well, have your smoke.” The prisoner paused, inclined his head to receive a light from a match held by the convoy, and drew inhis cheeks. A thin blue smoke rose in the air.
“You haven’t told me as yet to what class you belong.”
“The gentry,” replied the prisoner curtly, and spat out sideways.
“So that’s it! How come you, then, to be strolling about without a passport?”
“I simply choose to.”
“So—so! What an occupation! You gentry do not usually take to this wolfish life. Ah, but you are a poor wretch!”
“Well, let it go at that ... and stop your chattering,” remarked the poor wretch dryly.
Efimushka, however, surveyed the passportless man with increased curiosity and interest, and, shaking his head in a perplexed manner, continued:
“Eh, but how fate does play with a man, when you come to think of it! And it is very likely true that you are of the gentry, because you have a grand manner about you. Have you lived long like this?”
The man with the grand manner looked gloomily at Efimushka, and waved him aside like some pestering wasp.
“Drop it, I tell you! Why do you stick at it like a woman?”
“Now, don’t be vexed,” said Efimushka reassuringly. “I speak from the heart ... and I am really kind-hearted....”
“Well, that’s lucky for you.... On the other hand, your tongue keeps on babbling without a stop—that’s unlucky for me!”
“No more, then, since you object. I can keep quiet, since you want none of my conversation. Still, you’re vexed for nothing. Is it my fault that you are leading a vagabond’s life?”
The prisoner stopped and clamped his jaws together so that his cheek-bones stood out like two sharp corners and the gray bristle covering them rose rigidly on end. He measured Efimushka from head to foot with passionate disdain and with a screwed-up expression at the eyes. Before Efimushka could note this, the other once more began to measure the ground with a broad stride.
The face of the loquacious deputy assumed an aspect of distraught pensiveness. He gazed upwards, whence sounded the trills of the larks, and with them whistled between his teeth, at the same time swinging his stick to the measure of his steps.
They approached the edge of the forest. It stood there like an immovable, dark wall. Not a sound came from it to greet the travellers. Thesun already had set, and its oblique rays colored the tops of the trees purple and gold. The trees exhumed a fragrant dampness; and the gloom and the concentrated silence which filled the forest gave birth to sombre feelings.
When a forest stands before us dark and immovable, when it is all plunged in a mysterious silence, and every tree assumes the attitude as of listening to something, then it seems that the entire forest is filled with something alive, and that that something is only hiding for a time. And you await the next moment in the expectation that it will bring forth something huge and incomprehensible to the human mind, and that it will speak in a mighty voice about the great mysteries of creation.
At the edge of the wood, Efimushka and his companion decided to rest, and so they sat themselves on the grass beside the trunk of a huge oak. The prisoner slowly took down the bag from his shoulder and asked his convoy indifferently:
“Do you want some bread?”
“If you’ll give me, I’ll not refuse,” Efimushka replied with a smile.
And in silence they began to eat their bread. Efimushka ate slowly and sighed continually,directing his gaze across the field to his left, somewhere into the distance, while his companion was all absorbed in the process of gratifying his appetite. He ate rapidly and munched audibly, measuring with his eyes his crust of bread. The dusk began to settle upon the field, and the corn had already lost its golden lustre and assumed a rose-yellow hue. Towards the southwest small fleecy clouds advanced across the sky; they cast shadows upon the field and crept across the ears of corn towards the forest, where sat two dark human figures. Other shadows were cast on the ground by the trees, and they breathed melancholy into the soul.
“Glory be to Thee, O Lord!” exclaimed Efimushka, gathering up the crumbs of his piece of bread and licking them up from the palm of his hand with his tongue. “The Lord hath fed us—no one hath seen us; and He who hath seen us, His eye was unoffended! Comrade, what do you say to sitting here another hour or so? Plenty time for the cold cell, eh?”
His comrade nodded his assent.
“Well, well.... A very good place—it has a place in my heart.... Over there, to the left, once stood the manor of the Tuchkovs.”
“Where?” quickly inquired the prisoner, wheelingaround in the direction indicated by Efimushka.
“Over there, behind that hill. All the land hereabouts belonged to them. They were very rich; but after the emancipation they didn’t do as well.... I too belonged to them—all of us belonged to them. It was a big family.... There was the Colonel himself—Alexander Nikitich Tuchkov. Then, there were four sons—where could they all have gone to? It is as if the wind carried them along, like leaves in the autumn. Only Ivan Alexandrovich remains—I am taking you to him now. He is our magistrate ... quite an old man.”
The prisoner laughed. His laugh had a hollow sound in it; it was a strange inward sort of laugh: his chest and stomach shook, but the face remained unmoved; and when he showed his teeth, there issued from between them hollow, dog-like sounds.
Efimushka, trembling apprehensively, reached out for his stick and placed it nearer within his reach. He asked:
“What is the matter with you now?”
“Nothing.... It was just a passing thought,” said the prisoner abruptly, but kindly. “Go on with your story.”
“W-well, yes. As I was saying, they wereimportant people, the Tuchkovs, and now they are here no more.... Some of them have died, some of them have simply vanished, and not a soul knows what’s become of them. One especially I have in mind—the very youngest. Victor was his name—Vic for short. He was a comrade of mine.... At the time of the emancipation we were, both of us, fourteen years old.... He was a fine lad, and may God be good to his soul! A pure stream! Running along beautifully all day—and gurgling.... Where is he now? Is he living or dead?”
“In what way was he so ‘good’?” Efimushka’s companion asked quietly.
“In every way!” exclaimed Efimushka. “He had beauty, good sense, a kind heart.... My dear man, he was a ripe berry. Ah, but you should have seen then the two of us!... The games we played! The merry life we led! There were times when he would cry, ‘Efimka, let’s go hunting!’ He had a gun—a birthday gift from his father—and I used to carry it. And off we would wander into the woods for a whole day, or for two days, or even three! Once back home, he would get a scolding, and I a birching; the next day you’d forget all about it and start life anew. This time he would call, ‘Efimushka, let us go after mushrooms!’ Thousands of birds wemust have killed! We gathered these mushrooms by the ton! He used to catch butterflies and bugs and stick them on pins in little boxes. And he taught me my letters.... ‘Efimka,’ he said to me,’ I will teach you. Begin,’ said he, and I began. ‘Say,’ says he, ‘A!’ I roared out, ‘A—a!’ How we did laugh! At the start I took it as a joke—what does a man like me want with reading and writing?... But he rebuked me: ‘You, fool, have been granted freedom that you might learn.... If you knew how to read, it would help you to know how to live and where to seek the truth.’ ... To be sure, he was an apt child; and he had probably heard such speeches from his elders, and began to talk that way himself.... Of course, we know it’s nonsense. Real learning is in the heart; and only the heart can point the way to truth.... It is all-seeing.... And so he taught me.... Stuck so hard to his business that he gave me no rest! It was torture to me. ‘Vic,’ I would appeal to him, ‘it’s impossible for me to learn my letters. I really can’t manage it!’ ... You should have seen him rage at me! Sometimes he threatened me with a whip! But teach me he would! ‘Be merciful!’ I’d cry.... Once I tried to dodge the lesson, and there was a row, let me tell you. He sought forme all day long with a gun—wanted to shoot me. And later he told me that had he met me that day he certainly would have shot me! He was a fearless one. He was unbending and fiery—a real lord.... He loved me; his was an ardent soul.... Once my father used the birch on my back, and when Vic saw it, off he went at once to my father’s house. Good Lord, but there was a scene! He was all pale and trembling, and clenched his fists, and followed my father up into the loft. Says he, ‘How dared you?’ The old man replied, ‘But I’m his father!’ ‘So? Very well, father, I can’t manage you single-handed, but your back all the same shall be like Efimka’s!’ He gave way to tears after that, and ran out of the house.... And what do you say to this? He actually carried out his word. He must have said something to his servants, for one day father came home groaning; he tried to take off his shirt, and it stuck to his back.... My father was very angry with me at the time. ‘I’m suffering on your account. You are an informer.’ And he gave me a good beating. But as to being an informer, that I was not....”
“That’s true, Efim, you were not!” said the prisoner, with emphasis, and trembled violently. “It’s evident even now that you couldn’t have been an informer,” he added hastily.
“That’s it!” exclaimed Efimushka. “I simply loved him—this fellow Vic.... Such a talented child he was! All loved him, not alone I.... Fine speeches he used to make.... I can’t remember any of them now—thirty years have passed since then.... Oh, Lord! Where is he now? If he is alive, he must be having a grand job, or else—he is having the very devil of a time of it.... Life is a most strange thing! It seethes and seethes—and still nothing comes of it.... And people perish.... It is pitiful, to the very death, how pitiful!”
Efimushka, sighing deeply, inclined his head on his bosom.... There was a brief silence.
“And are you sorry for me?” asked the prisoner cheerfully, while his face lit up with a good, kindly smile.
“You are a queer one!” exclaimed Efimushka. “Why shouldn’t I feel sorry for you? What are you, when you come to think of it? If you are roaming about, that only shows that you haven’t a thing on earth of your own—not a corner, not a chip.... And, aside from that, perhaps you are burdened with some great sin—who knows? In a word, you’re a miserable man.”
“That’s how it is,” replied the prisoner.
Once more there was a pause. The sun hadalready set, and the shadows grew more dense. The air was fragrant with the fresh moisture of the earth, with the smell of flowers, and with that pungent odor that comes from the woods. For a long time they sat there in silence.
“It is fine to sit here; but, for all that, we’ve got to go. Still eight more versts to do.... Come along, father; get up!”
“Let’s sit here a while longer,” begged the other.
“I don’t mind it myself—I love to be near the woods at night.... But when shall we ever get to the magistrate’s? I will catch it if I get there late.”
“Never fear, they shan’t say anything.”
“Perhaps you’ll put in a word for me,” said the deputy, with a smile.
“I may.”
“You?”
“And why not?”
“You’re a wag! He’ll try a little pepper on you.”
“You mean, he’ll flog me?”
“He’s a terror! And right clever, too. He’ll punch you with his fist on the ear, and I’ll warrant you—you’ll not be steady on your feet.”
“We’ll see to that,” said the prisoner reassuringly, touching the convoy’s shoulder in a friendly manner.
This familiarity did not please Efimushka. Everything else considered, he, after all, stood for the law, and this goose should bear in mind that Efimushka wore under his coat a brass badge. Efimushka arose, took his stick in his hand, rearranged the badge in a conspicuous place on his breast, and said gruffly:
“Get up! We’ve got to be on the move.”
“I am not going,” said the prisoner.
Efimushka was nonplussed, and, opening his eyes wide, remained for the moment silent—not comprehending why the prisoner had become all of a sudden such a joker.
“Well, don’t make a fuss, and come along,” said he more softly.
“I am not going,” the prisoner repeated resolutely.
“What do you mean by saying you’re not going?” shouted Efimushka, in astonishment and anger.
“Just that. I want to spend the night with you here. Come, build a fire.”
“Let you spend the night here, will I? As to the fire, I’ll build it on your back, I will,” growled Efimushka. But in the depths of his soul he was amazed. Here is a man who says, “I am not going,” and yet shows no opposition, nor any desire to quarrel, butsimply lies on the ground, and that’s all. What is one to do?
“Don’t shout so, Efim,” suggested the prisoner calmly.
Efimushka again became silent, and, changing his weight from foot to foot, he looked down on the prisoner with wide-awake eyes. But the other returned his gaze and smiled. Efimushka was thinking very hard as to what his next move should be.
What he could not understand was that this vagabond, who had been all the time morose and malignant in his manner, should suddenly develop such good spirits. What was to prevent Efimushka from falling on the fellow, wrenching his arms, hitting him once or twice across the neck, and ending this farce? Assuming the most severe, authoritative tone of which he was capable, Efimushka said:
“Well, you piece of putty, enough of that! Up with you! Or else I’ll bind you—and then you’ll go along all right, never fear! Do you understand me? Well? I’ll flog you!”
“M-me?” asked the prisoner, with a chuckle.
“Whom else do you think?”
“What, you’ll flog Vic Tuchkov?”
“None of that, now!” cried the astonishedEfimushka. “But who are you, really? What sort of game are you playing?”
“Don’t shout so, Efimushka; it is time you recognized me,” said the prisoner, smiling calmly, and rising to his feet. “Why don’t you say ‘how d’you do?’”
Efimushka drew back from the hand stretched out to him, and, open-eyed, looked into the face of the prisoner. Then his lips trembled and his face contracted.
“Victor Alexandrovich!... Really, is it you?” he asked in a whisper.
“If you insist, I’ll show you my papers. But I’ll do better—I’ll remind you of old times.... Now, let me see—do you remember how you once fell into a wolves’ lair in the pine forest of Ramensk? And how I climbed up a tree after a nest and hung head downwards from a limb? And how we stole cream from the old woman Petrovna? And the tales she told us?”
Overpowered by this recital, Efimushka sat down on the ground and laughed in a confused manner.
“Do you believe now?” the prisoner asked, as he sat down at Efimushka’s side, looking straight in his companion’s face and placing his hand on his shoulder. Efimushka was silent. The landscape had grown dark by this time. In the forestarose a confused murmuring and whispering. Somewhere from its distant depths came the sounds of a night-bird’s song. A cloud was passing over the wood with an almost imperceptible motion.
“What ails you, Efim? Aren’t you glad to meet me, or are you so glad? Eh, you holy soul! As you were as a babe, so are you now. Well, Efim! Say something, dear creature!”
Efimushka tried to control himself.
“Well, brother, why don’t you speak?” said the prisoner, shaking his head reproachfully. “What ails you, any way? You should be ashamed! Here you are in your fiftieth year, and occupied with such trifling business! Give it up!” And, taking hold of the deputy by the shoulders, he shook him lightly. The deputy burst into laughter, and at last delivered himself, without glancing at his neighbor:
“Well, who am I? Of course, I’m glad.... And it’s really you? How am I to believe it? You, and ... such a business as this! Vic ... and in such a shape! Going to jail.... Without passport ... without tobacco.... Oh, Lord! Is that the proper order of things? At least, if I were only in your place, and you were the deputy! Even that would have been easier to bear! But instead... how can I look you straight in your eyes? I had always recalled you with joy ... Vic.... One sometimes thinks about it.... And the heart aches at the thought.... But now—look! Oh, Lord! ... if one were to tell people about it, they wouldn’t believe it.”
His eyes fixed intently upon the ground, he mumbled his broken phrases, and now and then gripped his hand to his bosom or to his throat.
“Never mind telling people about it; it is unnecessary. And stop lamenting.... Don’t worry on my account. I have my papers. I didn’t show them to theStarosta, because I didn’t want to be recognized.... My brother Ivan shan’t send me to jail, but will help to put me on my feet. I will remain with him, and once more will we two go hunting.... Now, you see how well everything will end.”
Vic said this gently, using the intonation which elders employ in calming their aggrieved young. The passing cloud and the moon met by this time; and the edge of the cloud, touched up with the silver rays, took on a soft, opal tint. From among the corn came the cries of the quail; somewhere or other the railbird prattled. The darkness grew denser....
“To think that it’s really true,” began Efimushkasoftly. “Ivan Alexandrovich will surely lend a helping hand to his own brother; and that means you will begin life anew. It is really so.... And we will go hunting.... And yet, somehow, it is different.... I thought you would do things in this world! But instead, here’s what it’s come to!”
Vic Tuchkov laughed.
“I, brother Efimushka, have done enough deeds in my day.... I have squandered my share in the estate; I have given up my position in the service; I have been an actor; I have been a clerk in the lumber trade; afterwards I have had my own troupe of actors.... Then I lost everything, contracted debts, got mixed up in a bad affair ... eh! I have had everything.... And I have lost everything!”
The prisoner waved his hand and laughed good-naturedly.
“And, brother Efimushka, I am no longer a gentleman. I am cured of that. Now we will have good times together! Eh? what do you say? Come, cheer up!”
“What should I say,” began Efimushka, in a subdued voice. “I am ashamed. I have been telling you such things ... such nonsense!... I am only a peasant....And we will spend the night here? I’ll light a fire.”
“Well, go ahead!”
The prisoner stretched himself upon the ground, face upwards, while the deputy went into the woods, from whence soon came sounds of the cracking of twigs. Presently Efimushka reappeared with an armful of firewood, and in a jiffy a small serpent of flame was merrily working its way upward through the pile of wood.
The old comrades, sitting opposite each other, watched it pensively, and took turns at smoking the pipe.
“Just as in the old days,” said Efimushka sadly.
“Only, the times are not the same,” said Tuchkov.
“W-well, yes, life is sterner than character.... Ah, but she has broken you....”
“That still remains to be seen—whether I’m stronger or she,” smiled Tuchkov.
They became silent.
Behind them loomed the dark wall of the softly whispering forest; the bonfire crackled merrily; around it danced the silent shadows; and across the field lay an impenetrable darkness.