II.

On arriving at the skirts of the wood Efimushka and his comrade

resolved to rest, and sat down on the grass round the trunk of a huge

oak. The prisoner slowly unloosed his knapsack from his shoulder, and

said to the Sotsky indifferently: "Would you like some bread?"

"Give me some, and I'll show you," said Efimushka, smiling.

And they began to munch their bread in silence. Efimushka ate slowly,

sighing to himself from time to time, and gazing about the fields to

the left of him; but his comrade, altogether absorbed in the process

of assimilation, ate quickly, and chewed noisily, with his eyes

fixed steadily on his morsel of bread. The fields were growing dark,

the ears of corn had already lost their golden colouring, and were

turning a rosy-yellow; ragged clouds were creeping up the sky from the

south-west, and their shadows fell upon the plain--fell and crept along

the corn towards the wood, where sat the two dusky human figures. And

from the trees also shadows descended upon the earth, and the breath

of these shadows wafted sorrow into the soul.

"Glory be to Thee, O Lord!" exclaimed Efimushka, gathering up the

crumbs of his piece of bread from the ground, and licking them off the

palm of his hand.... "The Lord hath fed us, no eye beheld us. And if

any eye hath seen, unoffended it hath been. Well, friend, shall we sit

here a little while? How about that cold dungeon of ours?"

The other shook his head.

"Well, this is a very nice place, and has many memories for me. Over

there used to be the mansion of Squire Tuchkov...."

"Where?" asked the prisoner quickly, turning in the direction indicated

by a wave of Efimushka's hand.

"Over there, behind that rising land. Everything around here belongs

to them They were the richest people hereabouts, but after the

emancipation they dwindled ... I also belonged to them once. All of us

hereabouts belonged to them It was a great family. The squire himself,

Aleksander Nikietich Tuchkov, was a colonel. There were children, too,

four sons; I wonder what has become of them all now? Really folks are

carried away like autumn leaves by the wind. Only one of them, Ivan

Aleksandrovich, is safe and sound--I am taking you to him now--he is

our district magistrate.... He is old already."

The prisoner laughed. It was a hollow, internal sort of laugh--his

bosom and his stomach were convulsed, but his face remained immovable,

and through his gnashing teeth came hollow sounds like sharp barks.

Efimushka shuddered painfully, and, moving his stick closer to his

hand, asked: "What ails you? Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing--or at any rate, it is all over now," said the prisoner,

spasmodically, but amicably--"but go on with your story."

"Well, that's how it is, you see--the Tuchkov Squires used to be

something here, and now there are none left.... Some of them died,

and some of them came to grief, and now never a word do you hear of

them--never a word. There was one in particular who used to be here ...

the youngest of the lot ... they called him Victor ... Vick.... He

and I were comrades. In the days when the emancipation was promulgated,

he and I were lads fourteen years old.... Ah, what a fine young chap he

was--the Lord be good to his dear little soul! A pure stream, if ever

there was one!--flashing along and gurgling merrily all day long. I

wonder where he is now? Alive or already no more?"

"Was he such a frightfully good fellow as all that?" inquired

Efimushka's fellow-traveller quietly.

"That he was!" exclaimed Efimushka, "handsome, with a head of his own,

and such a good heart! Ah, thou pilgrim man, good heart alive, he _was_

a ripe berry if you like! If only you--could have seen the pair of us

in those days! Aye, aye, aye! What games we did play! What a merry

life was ours!--raspberries la la[1]!--'Efimka!' he would cry, 'let

us go a hunting!' He had a gun of his own--his father gave it to him

on his name-day--and he let me carry it for him. And off we went to

the woods for a whole day, nay, for two, for three days! When we came

home--he had an imposition, and I had a whacking. Yet look you! the

next day he would say: 'Efimka! shall we go after mushrooms?' Thousands

of birds we killed together. And as for mushrooms--we gathered poods[2]

of them! And the butterflies and cockchafers he caught, and stuck them

on pins in little boxes! And he taught me my lessons too! 'Efimka,'

said he, 'I'll teach you.' And he went at it hammer and tongs. 'Come,

begin,' says he; 'say A,' and I roared 'A-a-a!' How we laughed. At

first I looked upon it as a joke. What does a boor want with reading

and writing? But he persuaded me. 'Come, you little fool,' says he,

'the emancipation was given to you that you might learn. You _must_

learn your letters in order to know how to live and where to seek for

justice.' Of course, children heard their parents speak like that in

those days, and began to talk the same way themselves.--It was all

nonsense, of course--true learning is in the heart, and it is the heart

that teaches the right way. So he taught me, you see! How he made

me stick to it! He gave me no rest, I can tell you. What torments!

'Vick,' I said, 'I can't learn my letters. It's not in me. I really

can't do it.' Oh, how he pitched into me. Sometimes he lambed it into

me with a whip--but teach me he would! 'Oh, be merciful,' I'd cry!

'Learn, then,' he would say! Once I ran away from him, regularly

bolted, and there was a to do. He searched for me all day with a

gun--he would have shot me. He said to me afterwards: 'If I had met you

that day,' said he, 'I should have shot you;' that's what he said! Ah,

he was so fierce! Fiery, unbending, a genuine master. He loved me, and

he had a soul of flame. Once my papa scored my back with the birch-rod,

and when Vick saw it he rushed off to our hut, and there was a scene,

my brother! He was all pale and trembling, clenched his fists, and

went after my father into his bedroom 'How dare you do it?' he asked.

Papa said: 'But I'm his father!' 'Father, eh? Very well, father! I

cannot cope with you single-handed, but your back shall be the same

as Efimka's.' He burst into tears after these words, and ran away.

And what do you say to this, my father--he was as good as his word.

Evidently he said something to the manor-house servants about it. For

one day my father came home groaning, and began to take off his shirt,

but it was sticking to his back! My father was very angry with me that

time. 'I've suffered all through you,' he said, 'you're a sneak, the

squire's sneak.' And he gave me a sound hiding. But he was wrong about

my being the squire's sneak I was never that, he might have let it

alone."

[1] Equivalent to "beer and skittles."

[2] A pood = 40 lb.

"No, you were never that, Efim!" said the prisoner with conviction,

and he trembled all over, "that's plain, you could not become a

lickspittle," he added hastily.

"Ah, he was a one!" exclaimed Efimushka, "and I loved him. Ah, Vick,

Vick! Such a talented lad, too. Everyone loved him, it was not only

I. He spoke several languages ... I don't remember what they were.

It's thirty years ago. Ah! Lord, Lord! Where is he now? Well, if he be

alive, he is either in high places ... or else he's in hot water. Life

is a strange distracting thing! It seethes and seethes, and makes a

pretty brew of the best of us! And folks, vanish away; it is pitiful,

to the last gasp it is pitiful!" Efimushka sighed heavily, and his head

sank upon his breast. For a moment there was silence.

"And are you sorry for _me_?" asked the prisoner merrily. There was no

doubt about his merry way of asking, his whole face was lit up by a

good and kindly smile.

"You're a rum 'un!" exclaimed Efimushka; "one cannot but pity you of

course! What are you, if you come to think of it? Wandering about as

you do, it is plain that you have nothing of your own in the earth--not

a corner, not a chip that you can call your own. Maybe, too, you carry

about with you some great sin--who knows what you are? In a word,

you're a miserable creature."

"So it is," answered the prisoner.

And again they were silent. The sun had already set, and the shadows

were growing thicker. In the air there was a fresh smell of earth and

flowers and sylvan humidity. For a long time they sat there in silence.

"However nice it may be to stay here we must still be going. We have

some eight versts before us. Come now, my father, let us be going!"

"Let us sit a little longer," begged "the father."

"Well, I don't care, I love to be about the woods at night myself. But

when shall we get to the district magistrate? He will blow me up, it is

late."

"Rubbish, he won't blow you up."

"I suppose you'll say a little word on our behalf, eh?" remarked the

Sotsky with a smile.

"I may."

"Oh--ai!"

"What do you mean?"

"You're a joker. He'll pepper you finely."

"Flog me, eh?"

"He's cruel! And quick to box one's ears, and at any rate you'll leave

him a little groggy on your pins."

"Well, well, we'll make it all right with him," said the prisoner

confidently, at the same time giving his escort a friendly tap on the

shoulder.

This familiarity did not please Efimushka. At any rate he, after all,

was the person in authority, and this blockhead ought not to have

forgotten that Efimushka carried his copper plaque of office on his

bosom. Efimushka rose to his feet, took up his stick, drew forth his

plaque, let it hang openly on the middle of his breast, and said,

severely:

"Stand up! Let's be off!"

"I'm not going," said the prisoner.

Efimushka was flabbergasted. Screwing up his eyes he was silent for a

moment, not understanding why this prisoner should suddenly have taken

to jesting.

"Come, don't make a pother, let's be going!" he said somewhat more

softly.

"I am not going," repeated the prisoner emphatically.

"Why not?" shrieked Efimushka, full of rage and amazement.

"Because I want to pass the night here with you. Come! let us light a

fire!"

"I let you pass the night here? I light a fire here by your side, eh? A

pretty thing, indeed!" growled Efimushka Yet at the bottom of his soul

he was amazed. The man had said: I won't go! but had shown no signs

of opposition, no disposition to quarrel, but simply lay down on the

ground and that was all. What was to be the end of it?

"Don't make a row, Efim!" advised the prisoner coolly.

Efimushka was again silent, and, shifting from leg to leg as he stood

over the prisoner, regarded him with wide-open eyes. And the latter

kept looking at him and looking at him and smiling. Efimushka fell a

pondering as to what he ought to be doing next.

And how was it that this vagabond, who had been so surly and sullen all

along, should all at once have become so gentle? Wouldn't it be as well

to fall upon him, twist his arms, give him a couple of whacks on the

neck, and so put an end to all this nonsense? And with as severely an

official tone as he could command, Efimushka said:

"Come, you rascal, stir your stumps! Get up, I say! And I tell you

this, I'll make you trot along then, never fear! Do you understand?

Very well! Look! I am about to strike."

"Strike _me?_" asked the prisoner with a smile.

"Yes, you; what are you thinking about, eh?"

"What! would you, Efimushka Gruizlov, strike me, Vic Tuchkov?"

"Alas! you are a little wide of the mark, you are," cried Efimushka in

astonishment; "but who are you, really? What sort of game is this?"

"Don't screech so, Efimushka! It is about time you recognised me, I

think," said the prisoner, smiling quietly and regaining his feet; "how

do you find yourself, eh?"

Efimushka bounded back from the hand extended to him, and gazed with

all his eyes at the face of his prisoner. Then his lips began to

tremble, and his whole face puckered up.

"Viktor Aleksandrovich--is it really and truly you?" he asked in a

whisper.

"If you like I'll show you my documents, or better still, I'll call to

mind old times. Let's see--don't you recollect how you fell into the

wolf's lair in the Ramensky fir-woods? Or how I climbed up that tree

after the nest, and hung head downwards for the fun of the thing? Or

how we stole the plums of that old Quaker woman Petrovna? And the tales

she used to tell us?"

Efimushka sat down on the ground heavily and laughed awkwardly.

"You believe me now, eh?" asked the prisoner, and he sat down alongside

of him, looked him in the face, and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

Efimushka was silent. It had grown absolutely dark around them. In the

forest a confused murmuring and whispering had arisen. Far away in the

thickest part of the wood the wail of a night-bird could be heard. A

cloud was passing over the wood with an almost perceptible motion.

"Well, Efim, art thou not glad to meet me? Or art thou so very glad

after all? Ah--holy soul! Thou hast remained the child thou wert wont

to be. Efim? _Say_ something, my dear old paragon!"

Efimushka cleared his throat violently.

"Well, my brother! Aye, aye, aye!" and the prisoner shook his head

reproachfully. "What's up, eh? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Here

are you, in your fiftieth year, and yet you waste your time in this

wretched sort of business. Chuck it!"--and putting his arm round the

Sotsky's shoulder he lightly shook him. The Sotsky laughed, a tremulous

sort of laugh, and at last he spoke, without looking at his neighbour.

"What am I?... I'm glad, of course... And you to be like this? How can

I believe it? You and ... such a business as this! Vic--and in such a

plight! In a dungeon ... without passports ... living on crusts of

bread ... without tobacco ... Oh, Lord!... Is this a right state of

things? If I were like that for instance ... and you were even a Sotsky

... even that would be easier to bear! And now how will it end? How can

I look you in the face? I had always a joyful recollection of you ...

Vic ... as you may think ... Even then my heart ached. But now! Oh,

Lord! Why, if I were to tell people--they wouldn't believe it."

He murmured these broken phrases, gazing fixedly at his feet, and

clutching now his bosom and now his throat with one hand.

"There's no need to tell folks anything about it. And pray cease ... it

is not your fault, is it? Don't be disquieted about me ... I've got my

papers. I didn't show them to the Starosta because I didn't want to be

known about here. Brother Ivan won't put me in quod; on the contrary,

he will help to put me on my legs again ... I'll stay with him a bit,

and you and I shall go out hunting again, eh ... You see how well

things are turning out."

Vic said these words soothingly, in the tone used by grown-up people

when they would soothe spoilt children. The moon emerged from the

forest to meet the advancing cloud, and the edge of the cloud, silvered

by her rays, assumed a soft opal tint In the corn the quails were

calling; somewhere or other a land-rail rattled. The darkness of the

night was growing denser and denser.

"And this is all really true," began Efimushka softly; "Ivan

Aleksandrovich will be glad to see his own brother, and you, of course,

will begin your life again. And this is really so ... And we will go

hunting again ... Only 'tis not altogether as it was. I daresay you

have done some deeds in the course of your life. And it is--ah, what is

it?"

Vic Tuchkov laughed.

"Brother Efimushka, I have certainly done deeds in my life and to

spare ... I have run through my share of the property ... I have

not succeeded in the service, I have been an actor, I have been a

timber-trade clerk, after that I've had a troupe of actors of my own

... and after that I've gone quite to the dogs, have owed debts right

and left, got mixed up in a shady affair. Ah! I've been everything--and

lost everything."

The prisoner waved his hand and smiled good-humouredly.

"Brother Efimushka, I am no longer a gentleman. I am quite cured of

that. Now you and I will live together. Eh! what do you say?"

"Nothing at all," said Efimushka with a stifled voice; "I'm ashamed,

that's all. Here have I been saying to you all sorts of things ...

senseless words, and all sorts of rubbish. If it were a muzhik I could

understand it.... Well, shall we make a night of it here? I'll make a

fire."

"All right! make it!"

The prisoner stretched himself at full length on the ground, face

upwards, while the Sotsky disappeared into the skirt of the wood, from

whence speedily resounded the cracking of twigs and branches. Soon

Efimushka reappeared with an armful of firewood, and in a few moments

a fiery serpent was merrily creeping along a little hillock of dry

branches.

The old comrades gazed at it meditatively, sitting opposite each other,

and smoking their one pipe alternately.

"Just like it used to be," said Efimushka sadly.

"Only times are changed," said Tuchkov.

"Well, life is stronger than character. Lord, how she has broken you

down."

"It is still undecided which of the two will prevail--she or I,"

laughed Tuchkov.

For a time they were silent.

"Oh, Lord God! Vic! how lightly you take it all!" exclaimed Efimushka

bitterly.

"Certainly! Why not? What has been--is gone for ever!" observed Tuchkov

philosophically.

Behind them arose the dark wall of the softly whispering forest, the

bonfire crackled merrily; all around them the shadows danced their

noiseless dance, and over the plain lay impenetrable darkness.