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"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 what are you talking of, you fools? With whom are you daring to compare yourselves? Take care lest I report you to the Cossacks!" I have listened to many such arguments, and always found them distasteful, even as I have done discussions regarding the soul. Hence I feel inclined to depart. At this moment, however, Konev makes his appearance.
What churches and shops and stone houses there are in it! In fact, one shop sells a machine on which you can play anything you like, any sort of a tune!" "As well as, probably, the fool," comments Konev in an undertone, though the young fellow is too enthralled with the memory of the amenities of his cantonal capital to notice the remark.
"You are not harmless," with angry emphasis the woman from Riazan interposes. Konev closes his eyes with a smile, and says nothing more. Almost until the vigil service is over are we kept kicking our heels about that forecourt, like sheep in a slaughter-house.
As for the women, they withdraw to the darkest corner of the hut, and lie down, while the young fellow disappears after probing the walls and floor, and returns with an armful of straw which he strews upon the hard, beaten clay. Then he stretches himself thereon with hands clasped behind his battered head. "See the resourcefulness of that fellow from Penza!" comments Konev enviously.
Striking a match, I approach the spot, and pull Konev away. He is in no way abashed, but merely cooled in his ardour as, seated on the floor at my feet, and panting and expectorating, he says reprovingly to the woman: "When folk wish merely to have a game with you, you ought not to let yourself lose your temper. Fie, fie!" "Are you hurt?" the woman inquires quietly. "What do you suppose?
"Oh dear!" ejaculates Konev, dancing with nervousness. "Oh dear, oh dear!" The smacking, smashing blows fall in regular cadence as, prone on his face, the young fellow kicks, struggles and puffs up the dust.
The rest is well-known to me, for all too frequently have I heard it and similar tales. Unfortunately, I cannot now take the trouble to stop him; so once more I am forced to let his complaints come oozing tediously into my ears. "The wench was plump," says Konev, "and panting for love; so we just got married, and brats began to come tumbling from her like bugs from a bunk."
Well, I do not know, for only once, to tell the truth, have I been in the town, and that was when some of us famine folk were set to a job of roadmaking." "Well, well!" gasps Konev, as he rises and takes his departure. The vagabonds, huddled against the churchyard wall, look like litter driven thither by the steppe wind, and as liable to be whirled away again whenever the wind shall choose.
Two more warders are engaged in throwing dice. A fourth is superintending the pumping of water by two convicts, and superciliously marking time for their lever with the formula, "Mashkam, dashkam! Dashkam, mashkam!" I move towards the wall. "Is that you, Konev?" is my inquiry. "It is," he mutters as he thrusts his head a little further through the grating.
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