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, wheeling around 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 were important 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 we must 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 for me 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 had already 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, but simply 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 astonished Efimushka. “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 forest arose 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 the _Starosta_, 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 Efimushka softly. “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.