Overcome by the welter of day-dreams, artistically powerful images of thc past, and sweet prescntiments of happiness, the poor man falls silent and merely moves his lips, as though whispering to himself. The blissful set smile does not leave his face. Thc constables are silent. They are deep in thought, their heads bowed. In the autumn stillness, when the cold grim mist off the land settles on your soul, when it looms before your eyes like a prison wall, and con- stantly reminds you how restricted is man's free will, it is sweet to think of broad, fast rivers with banks that are open to the sky, impenetrable forests and boundless steppes. Slowly and calmly the imagination paints you a picture of early morning, when the bloom of dawn still lingers in the sky, and a man no bigger than a speck is making his way along a steep, deserted river bank; theage-old masts of pines, piled high in terraces on either side of the torrent, stare grimly at the free man, and grumble moodily; roots, huge boulders and thorny bushes bar his way, hut he is strong in body and bold of spirit, he does not fear pines, boulders, his own loneliness, or the rumbling echo that repeats his every stcp.
The constables paint to themselves pictures of a free life such as thev have never lived. Perhaps they are dimly recalling images of something they heard of long ago, or perhaps they inherited their ideas of this free life with their own flesh and blood from distant forebears who were themselves free. Who knows?
The first to break the silence is Nikandr Sapozhnikov, who has not uttered a singleword until now. Whether he has suddenly envied the tramp his illusory happiness, or feels in his heart that thesedreams of happiness do not accord with the grey mist and the brownish-black mud - either way, he looks sternly at the tramp and says:
'Be that as it may, that's all well and good, brother, only you're not going to get to them places of freedom and plenty. You don't stand a chance. You'II have had it before you've gone three hundred versts. Look how weedy you are! You've only done six versts and you're struggling to get your wind!'
The tramp turns slowly towards Nikandr and the blissful smile vanishes from his face. He looks at the grave face of the constable apprehensively and sheepishly, evidently begins to recall something, and hangs his head. Again they are silent . . . All three are thinking. The constables are straining their imaginations to encompass what probably God alone can imagine, namely the terrible expanse that separates them from the realm of freedom. The tramp's head, though, is crowded with clear, distinct pictures that are more terrible by far than that cxpanse. Befor: hun me vivid images of all the legal delays, the transfa prisons and the penal colony prisons, the con- victs' barges, the exhausting stups en route, the freezmg hard win- ters, the illnesses and dcarhs of fellow-prisoners . . .
The tramp blmks sheepishly, brushes the tiny beads of sweat from his forehcad with his sleeve, and blows out a long breath, as though he has just |umpcd our of a sweltering hot bath-house, then he wipes his forehead with the other sleeve, and looks around fearfully.
'Too right you won't get there!' agrees Prakha. 'What kind of a walker arc you? Look at yourself: all skin and bones! You'll die first, brother!'
'Of courst he will! He doesn't stand a chance!' says Nikandr. 'They'll pur him straight in the infirmary . . . I'm telling you!'
The man with no name looks in terror at the severe, impassive faces uf his hostile companions and, without raking his cap off, hurriedly crosses himself, his eyes staring . . . He trembles all over, his head shakes, and the whole of him begins to writhe like a caterpillar that has bcen trodden on. . .
'Right, time to go,' says Nikandr, getting up. 'We've had our rest!'
A minute later and the travellers arc trudging along the muddy road. The tramp has hunchcd himself up even more and shoved his hands even further into his sleeves. Ptakha is silent.
The Orator
One fine morning they buried Collegiate Assessor Kirill lvanovich Babylonov. He died oftwo complaints so frequently encountered in our native land: a nagging wife and alcoholism. When the funeral procession moved off from the church on its way to the cemetery, one of the deceased's colleag:.^es, a certain Poplavsky, hailed a cab and dashed round to his friend, Grigory Petrovich Vodkin. Vodkin is a young man, but has already made quite a name for himself. As many readers will know, he possesses a rare gift foi making impromptu speeches at weddings, anniversaries and funerals. He can speak in any condition: half-asleep, on an empty stomach, drunk as a lord, or in a raging fever. Words flow as smoothly and evenly from his mouth as water from a drainpipe, and as copiously; black beetles in a tavern are not more numerous than the maudlin words in his vocabulary. He always speaks eloquently and at great length, so that sometimes, particularly at merchant weddings, the only way to stop him is to summon the police.
'I've come to ask you a favour, old man,' began Poplavsky, finding him at home. 'Put your coat on straight away and let's go. One ofour lot has died, we're just seeing him off to the next world, and some- one's got to whiffle a few words of farewell . . . We're banking on you, old man. We wouldn't have bothered you for one of the small fry, but this time it's our secretary - a pillar of the department, you might say. You can't bury a big shot like that without a speech.'
'Your secretary?' yawned Vodkin. 'The one who was aiways drunk?'
'Yes, him. There'll be pancakes and a good spread . . . cab fares on us. Come on, old son! Spin us some Ciceronian palaver by the grave, and we'll give you a right royal thank-you!'
Vodkin gladly agreed. He ruffled up his hair, put on a melancholy face and left with Poplavsky.
'I remember that secretary of yours,' he said, seating himself in the cab. 'You'd have to go a long way to find a bigger cheat and swindler, God rest his soul.'
'Now then Grisha, one shouldn't speak ill of the dead.'
'Of course not - aut mortttis «ifcil - but the man's still a crook.'
The friends caught up with the funeral procession and |oined it. Thc dcad man was bcingborne along slowly, so that before reaching the cemetcry thcy had time to nip into scvcral pubs 01nd knock back a quick one for the good of Babylonov's soul.
At the cemetery a short service of committal was held. Mother-in- law, wife and sister-m-law, following established custom, wept pro- fusely. As the coffin was being lowered into the grave, the wife even shouted: 'Stand back - let me join him!' - but did not, probably remembering the pension. Vodkin waited until everything had quietened down, then stepped forward, took in all his listeners at a glance, and began:
'Surely our eyes and ears deceive us.; This grave, these tcar-stained faces, this moaning and wailmg: is it not all some terrible dream? Alas, it is no dream andour vision doth not deceive us! He whom we saw only the other day so cheerful, so youthfully fresh and pure, who only the other day, like the indefatigable bee, before our very eyes was bearmg his honey to the hive of his country's common weal, he who - who - that man has now been reduced to dust, to an objective vacuum. Implacable Death placed its withering hand upon him at a time when, for all his ripeness of years, he was still at the height of his powers and fullof the most radiant hopes. Oh, irreparable loss! Who can possibly replace him? We have no dearth of good civil servants, but there was only one Prokofy Osipych. He was devoted to his honourable duties heart and soul, never did he spare himself, many were the sleepless nights he spent, he was unselfish and incorruptible . . . How he despised those who tried to suborn him to the detriment of the common good, who sought with life's little comforts to lure him into betraying his duty! Why, with our very eyes we have seen Prokofy Osipych divide his meagre salary among his poorest col- leagues, and you yourselves have just heard the wailing of the widows and orphans who depended upon his charity. Devoted as he was to the call of dury and to good works, he was a stranger to the joys of life and even turned his back on domestic felicity; as you know, he remained a bachelor to the end of his days! And who will replace him as a colleague ? How clearly I can see before me now that tender, clean-shaven face, turned towards us with a kindly smile, how clearly I can hear the note of loving friendship in that gentle mice! May you rest in peace, Prokofy Osipych! Sleep well — thou true and faithful servant!'