"Is that you, Konev?" is my inquiry.
"It is," he mutters as he thrusts his head a little further through the
grating. "Yes, Konev I am, but who you are I have not a notion."
"What are you here for?"
"For a matter of base coin, though, to be truthful, I am here
accidentally, without genuine cause."
The warder rouses himself, and, with his keys jingling like a set of
fetters, utters drowsily the command:
"Do not stand still. Also, move further from the wall. To approach it
is forbidden."
"But it is so hot in the middle of the yard, sir!"
"Everywhere it is hot," retorts the man reprovingly, and his head
subsides again. From above comes the whispered query:
"Who ARE you?"
"Well, do you remember Tatiana, the woman from Riazan?"
"DO I remember her?" Konev's voice has in it a touch of subdued
resentment. "DO I remember her? Why, I was tried in court together with
her!"
"Together with HER? Was she too sentenced for the passing of base coin?"
"Yes. Why should she not have been? She was merely the victim of an
accident, even as I was."
As I resume my walk in the stifling shade I detect that, from the
windows of the basement there is issuing a smell of, in equal parts,
rotten leather, mouldy grain, and dampness. To my mind there recur
Tatiana's words: "Amid a great sorrow even a small joy becomes a great
felicity," and, "I should like to build a village on some land of my
own, and create for myself a new and better life."
And to my recollection there recur also Tatiana's face and yearning,
hungry breast. As I stand thinking of these things, there come dropping
on to my head from above the low-spoken, ashen-grey words:
"The chief conspirator in the matter was her lover, the son of a
priest. He it was who engineered the plot. He has been sentenced to ten
years penal servitude."
"And she?"
"Tatiana Vasilievna? To the same, and I also. I leave for Siberia the
day after tomorrow. The trial was held at Kutair. In Russia I should
have got off with a lighter sentence than here, for the folk in these
parts are, one and all, evil, barbaric scoundrels."
"And Tatiana, has she any children?"
"How could she have while living such a rough life as this? Of course
not! Besides, the priest's son is a consumptive."
"Indeed sorry for her am I!"
"So I expect." And in Konev's tone there would seem to be a touch of
meaning. "The woman was a fool--of that there can be no doubt; but also
she was comely, as well as a person out of the common in her pity for
folk."
"Was it then that you found her again?"
"When?"
"On that Feast of the Assumption?"
"Oh no. It was only during the following winter that I came up with
her. At the time she was serving as governess to the children of an old
officer in Batum whose wife had left him."
Something snaps behind me--something sounding like the hammer of a
revolver. However, it is only the warder closing the lid of his huge
watch before restoring the watch to his pocket, giving himself a
stretch, and yawning to the utmost extent of his jaws.
"You see, she had money, and, but for her restlessness, might have
lived a comfortable life enough. As it was, her restlessness--"
"Time for exercise is up!" shouts the warder.
"Who are you?" adds Konev hastily. "Somehow I seem to remember your
face; but I cannot place it."
Yet so stung am I with what I have heard that I move away in silence:
save that just as I reach the top of the steps I turn to cry:
"Goodbye, mate, and give her my greeting."
"What are you bawling for?" blusters the warder....
The corridor is dim, and filled with an oppressive odour. The warder
swings his keys with a dry, thin clash, and I, to dull the pain in my
heart, strive to imitate him. But the attempt proves futile; and as the
warder opens the door of my cell he says severely:
"In with you, ten-years man!"
Entering, I move towards the window. Between some grey spikes on a wall
I can just discern the boisterous current of the Kura, with sakli
[warehouses] and houses glued to the opposite bank, and the figures of
some workmen on the roof of a tanning shed. Below, with his cap pushed
to the back of his head, a sentry is pacing backwards and forwards.
Wearily my mind recalls the many scores of Russian folk whom it has
seen perish to no purpose. And as it does so it feels crushed, as in a
vice, beneath the burden of great and inexorable sorrow with which all
life is dowered.