“It’s true, father.…”

They went on like that for about half an hour—the peasant telling of a fierce wicked man, whose life was burdened by many failures; while Savel spoke of another man, a strong one, who worked stubbornly, a man who would let nothing slip away from him, nothing escape him, a man with a fine soul.

With a broad smile on his face, the peasant said:

“I’ve made it up with Peter.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Yes. Made it up. We had a drink together. I said to him: ‘What are you up to, you devil?…’ And he said: ‘Well, what about you?’ Yes. A fine man, damn his soul.…”

“You’re both the children of one God.”

“A fine man. And clever, too. Father—what about my getting married?”

“Of course. She’s the one for you to marry.”

“Anfisa?”

“Why, yes. She’s a good housewife. What a beauty she is, too, and what strength she has. She’s a widow; her first husband was an old man, and she had a bad time with him; but you two will get on well together, take my word for it.…”

“I will get married…really.”

“So you should.”

Then the peasant proceeded to relate something unintelligible about a dog, about letting cider out of a barrel; he went on with his stories, guffawing like a wood-sprite. His sullen, brigand’s scowl had become completely transformed, and he now had the silly, good-natured look of a domesticated animal.

“Well, Olesha, move on, here’s someone else coming.”

“More sufferers? All right…”

Olesha descended to the brook, drank some water out of the palm of his hand, then sat down for a few moments motionless as a stone, threw himself back on the ground, folded his arms under his head and apparently went to sleep at once. Then there came a crippled girl, in a motley frock, a thick brown plait down her back, and with big blue eyes. Her face was striking and like a picture; but her skirt was annoyingly vivid, covered with green and yellow spots, and there were scarlet spots, the color of blood, on her white blouse.

The old man welcomed her with joy, and tenderly bade her sit down. Then a tall, black old woman, looking like a nun, appeared, and with her a large-headed, tow-haired lad with a congealed smile on his fat face.

Savel hastily led the girl away into the cave, and concealing her there, closed the door—I could hear the wooden hinges screech.

He sat on a stone between the old woman and the boy, his head bent down, and listened to her murmur in silence for a long time.

“Enough!” he suddenly pronounced, sternly and loudly “So he does not listen to you, you say?”