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the peasants bow he makes no response。
In Obrutchanovo everyone has grown older； Kozov is dead。 In
Rodion's hut there are even more children。 Volodka has grown a
long red beard。 They are still as poor as ever。
In the early spring the Obrutchanovo peasants were sawing wood
near the station。 And after work they were going home； they
walked without haste one after the other。 Broad saws curved over
their shoulders； the sun was reflected in them。 The nightingales
were singing in the bushes on the bank； larks were trilling in
the heavens。 It was quiet at the New Villa； there was not a soul
there； and only golden pigeons golden because the sunlight was
streaming upon them were flying over the house。 All of them
Rodion； the two Lytchkovs； and Volodka thought of the white
horses； the little ponies； the fireworks； the boat with the
lanterns； they remembered how the engineer's wife； so beautiful
and so grandly dressed； had come into the village and talked to
them in such a friendly way。 And it seemed as though all that had
never been； it was like a dream or a fairy…tale。
They trudged along； tired out； and mused as they went。 。 。 。 In
their village； they mused； the people were good； quiet； sensible；
fearing God； and Elena Ivanovna； too； was quiet； kind； and
gentle； it made one sad to look at her； but why had they not got
on together？ Why had they parted like enemies？ How was it that
some mist had shrouded from their eyes what mattered most； and
had let them see nothing but damage done by cattle； bridles；
pincers； and all those trivial things which now； as they
remembered them； seemed so nonsensical？ How was it that with the
new owner they lived in peace； and yet had been on bad terms with
the engineer？
And not knowing what answer to make to these questions they were
all silent except Volodka； who muttered something。
〃What is it？〃 Rodion asked。
〃We lived without a bridge 。 。 。〃 said Volodka gloomily。 〃We
lived without a bridge； and did not ask for one 。 。 。 and we
don't want it。 。 。 。〃
No one answered him and they walked on in silence with drooping
heads。
DREAMS
Two peasant constables one a stubby； black…bearded individual
with such exceptionally short legs that if you looked at him from
behind it seemed as though his legs began much lower down than in
other people； the other； long； thin； and straight as a stick；
with a scanty beard of dark reddish colour were escorting to
the district town a tramp who refused to remember his name。 The
first waddled along； looking from side to side； chewing now a
straw； now his own sleeve； slapping himself on the haunches and
humming； and altogether had a careless and frivolous air； the
other； in spite of his lean face and narrow shoulders； looked
solid； grave； and substantial； in the lines and expression of his
whole figure he was like the priests among the Old Believers； or
the warriors who are painted on old…fashioned ikons。 〃For his
wisdom God had added to his forehead〃 that is； he was bald
which increased the resemblance referred to。 The first was called
Andrey Ptaha； the second Nikandr Sapozhnikov。
The man they were escorting did not in the least correspond with
the conception everyone has of a tramp。 He was a frail little
man； weak and sickly…looking； with small； colourless； and
extremely indefinite features。 His eyebrows were scanty； his
expression mild and submissive； he had scarcely a trace of a
moustache； though he was over thirty。 He walked along timidly；
bent forward； with his hands thrust into his sleeves。 The collar
of his shabby cloth overcoat； which did not look like a
peasant's； was turned up to the very brim of his cap； so that
only his little red nose ventured to peep out into the light of
day。 He spoke in an ingratiating tenor； continually coughing。 It
was very； very difficult to believe that he was a tramp
concealing his surname。 He was more like an unsuccessful priest's
son； stricken by God and reduced to beggary； a clerk discharged
for drunkenness； a merchant's son or nephew who had tried his
feeble powers in a theatrical career； and was now going home to
play the last act in the parable of the prodigal son； perhaps；
judging by the dull patience with which he struggled with the
hopeless autumn mud； he might have been a fanatical monk；
wandering from one Russian monastery to another； continually
seeking 〃a peaceful life； free from sin；〃 and not finding it。 。 。
。
The travellers had been a long while on their way； but they
seemed to be always on the same small patch of ground。 In front
of them there stretched thirty feet of muddy black…brown mud；
behind them the same； and wherever one looked further； an
impenetrable wall of white fog。 They went on and on； but the
ground remained the same； the wall was no nearer； and the patch
on which they walked seemed still the same patch。 They got a
glimpse of a white； clumsy…looking stone； a small ravine； or a
bundle of hay dropped by a passer…by； the brief glimmer of a
great muddy puddle； or； suddenly； a shadow with vague outlines
would come into view ahead of them； the nearer they got to it the
smaller and darker it became； nearer still； and there stood up
before the wayfarers a slanting milestone with the number rubbed
off； or a wretched birch…tree drenched and bare like a wayside
beggar。 The birch…tree would whisper something with what remained
of its yellow leaves； one leaf would break off and float lazily
to the ground。 。 。 。 And then again fog； mud； the brown grass at
the edges of the road。 On the grass hung dingy； unfriendly tears。
They were not the tears of soft joy such as the earth weeps at
welcoming the summer sun and parting from it； and such as she
gives to drink at dawn to the corncrakes； quails； and graceful；
long…beaked crested snipes。 The travellers' feet stuck in the
heavy； clinging mud。 Every step cost an effort。
Andrey Ptaha was somewhat excited。 He kept looking round at the
tramp and trying to understand how a live； sober man could fail
to remember his name。
〃You are an orthodox Christian； aren't you？〃 he asked。
〃Yes；〃 the tramp answered mildly。
〃H'm。 。 。 then you've been christened？〃
〃Why； to be sure！ I'm not a Turk。 I go to church and to the
sacrament； and do not eat meat when it is forbidden。 And I
observe my religious duties punctually。 。 。 。〃
〃Well； what are you called； then？〃
〃Call me what you like； good man。〃
Ptaha shrugged his shoulders and slapped himself on the haunches
in extreme perplexity。 The other constable； Nikandr Sapozhnikov；
maintained a staid silence。 He was not so naive as Ptaha； and
apparently knew very well the reasons which might induce an
orthodox Christian to conceal his name from other people。 His
expressive face was cold and stern。 He walked apart and did not
condescend to idle chatter with his companions； but； as it were；
tried to show everyone； even the fog； his sedateness and
discretion。
〃God knows what to make of you；〃 Ptaha persisted in addressing
the tramp。 〃Peasant you are not； and gentleman you are not； but
some sort of a thing between。 。 。 。 The other day I was washing a
sieve in the pond and caught a reptile see； as long as