The door opened, and before my astonished gaze appeared – Musk-Ox. He was dressed in a short svitka of Great Russian peasant cloth, coarse homespun trousers and a pair of tall, rather dilapidated Russian leather boots. By contrast, on his head he had a tall, black hat of the type worn by monastic novices. So little had his physiognomy changed that I recognized him at first sight.

‘Vasily Petrovich! Is it you?’ I said, going to greet my friend, and at the same time thinking: ‘Oh, who better than you can tell me how the years of bitter experience have passed over the heads of those who live here?’

Musk-Ox appeared glad to see me, and the Father Almoner was astonished to see that we appeared to be old friends.

‘Well, that’s splendid, splendid,’ he muttered. ‘Pour the tea, Vasya.’

‘You know perfectly well that I’m no good at pouring tea,’ Musk-Ox replied.

‘True, true. Perhaps our guest will pour it, then.’

I began to pour tea into the cups.

‘Have you been here long, Vasily Petrovich?’ I asked, handing Musk-Ox a cup.

He bit off a piece of sugar, threw it into his tea and, taking two or three gulps, replied:

‘About nine months now.’

‘Where will you go after this?’

‘Nowhere for the meantime.’

‘And may I ask where you came here from?’ I asked, finding it impossible not to smile as I remembered the way in which Musk-Ox usually used to answer questions of this type.

‘You may.’

‘From Perm?’

‘No.’

‘Where, then?’

Musk-Ox drained his cup, set it down, and said:

‘I’ve been everywhere and nowhere.’

‘Did you see Chelnovsky?’

‘No. I didn’t go there.’

‘Is your mother still alive?’

‘No, she died in the almshouse.’

‘Alone?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘A long time ago?’

‘About a year ago, they say.’

‘Off you go and take a walk, boys – I want to have a nap until vespers,’ said the Father Almoner, for whom any exertion was difficult.

‘No, I want to drive over to the lake,’ I replied.

‘Aha! Well, off you go, then, and God be with you – you can take Vasya along with you: he’ll show you the way.’

‘Let’s be off, Vasily Petrovich.’

Musk-Ox scratched himself, picked up his hat, and said:

‘I daresay.’

We took our leave of the Father Almoner until the next day and went out. In the granary we harnessed up my little mare and drove off. Vasily Petrovich sat behind me, back to back, declaring he was unable to ride in any other fashion, as he could not get enough air if he was facing the back of someone’s head. During the ride he got up to all sorts of odd tricks, although he was extremely untalkative, the only question he kept asking me being whether I had met any intelligent people in Moscow, and what had been their opinions. Having ceased to question me, he would begin to whistle – now like a nightingale, now like an oriole.

This continued throughout the whole of the drive.

Outside the cabin that had long been familiar to us we were met by the short, red-haired novice who had taken the place of Father Sergius – he had died some three years earlier, bequeathing his tools and prepared materials to the carefree Father Vavila. Father Vavila was not at home: following his custom, he was walking above the lake, watching a heron swallow some obedient frogs. Father Vavila’s new companion was as delighted to see us as a country landowner’s daughter is to hear the sound of sleighbells. He rushed to unharness our mare, prepared the samovar himself, and kept assuring us that ‘Father Vavila will be back any minute now.’ Musk-Ox and I listened to these assurances, sat down on the earth embankment beneath the wall, and both maintained an agreeable silence. Neither of us felt like talking.

The sun had already set behind the tall trees that surrounded the entire monastery lake in a dense thicket. The smooth surface of the water appeared to be almost black. The air was calm, but oppressive.

‘We shall have a thunderstorm tonight,’ Father Prokhor said as he hauled the bolsters of my racing droshky into the outhouse.

‘Why worry about it?’ I replied. ‘It may not come this way.’

‘It’s all right, sir, I’m not really worried; but I’ll take the mare over into the passage, too,’ he said, re-emerging from the cabin.

‘But why, Father Prokhor?’

‘There’s going to be a great storm; if she takes fright, she might break loose. No, sir, I’d better take her into the outhouse. She’ll be all right in there.’

Father Prokhor untethered our mare and, going into the outhouse, pulled her by the reins, saying: ‘Come on, old girl! Come on, you silly thing! What are you afraid of?’

‘That’s better,’ he said, when he had found a place for the mare in a corner and had poured some oats into an old sieve for her. ‘Father Vavila’s been away a long time, that’s for sure,’ he said, walking round the corner of the cabin. ‘And now it’s beginning to cloud over,’ he added, pointing to a greyish-pink cloud.

Outside it had grown quite dark.

‘I’m going to take a look and see if I can see Father Vavila coming,’ Musk-Ox said and, giving his forelocks a twirl, he strode off into the forest.

‘Don’t go: you’ll never find him.’

‘No doubt,’ Musk-Ox replied, and with that he set off.

Father Prokhor took an armful of firewood and went into the cabin. Soon the windows were lit by the glow of the fire he had made in the stove, and the water in the billycan began to boil. There was no sign of either Musk-Ox or Father Vavila. Meanwhile the tops of the trees were beginning to sway from time to time, although the surface of the lake was still as smooth as lead. Only occasionally was it possible to observe the white splashes of a playful carp. The frogs, in chorus, kept up their single, monotonous, melancholy note. I continued to sit on the earth embankment, looking over at the dark lake and remembering my past years, which had flown away into the dark distance. Here, in those bygone days, had been moored those ungainly boats, to which the mighty Nevstruyev had carried me; here I had slept beside the novices, when everything had been so pleasant, so cheerful, so complete. Now it all seemed just the same – yet something was missing.