‘There’s our wayward friend!’

‘Where?’ Father Prokhor and I inquired in unison, both staring out of the window.

‘Over there, beside the pine tree.’

And indeed, clearly delineated some dozen or so yards from the burning pine tree was a silhouette which could be recognized at first sight as being that of Musk-Ox. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back; his head raised, he was observing the burning boughs.

‘Shall I shout to him?’ Father Prokhor asked.

‘He won’t hear us,’ Father Vavila replied. ‘There’s still too much noise.’

‘And he’ll lose his temper,’ I added, well acquainted with the character of my friend.

We continued to stand looking out of the window for a while. Musk-Ox did not move. We referred to him a few times as ‘the Wayward’, and then lay down in our respective sleeping berths. Vasily Petrovich’s oddities had long ago ceased to astonish me; but on this occasion I felt unbearably sorry for my suffering friend … As he stood there cutting such a melancholy figure beside the burning pine tree, I saw him as a tragic clown.

7

When I woke up it was already quite late. The ‘bookless’ fathers were no longer in the cabin. At the table sat Vasily Petrovich. He was clutching a large hunk of rye bread in his hands and gulping milk straight out of the jug that stood before him. Observing that I was awake, he glanced at me and silently continued his breakfast. I did not say anything to him. In this fashion some twenty minutes passed.

‘Why are you lying there?’ Vasily Petrovich said, at last, putting down the milk-jug which he had drained to the bottom.

‘What do you suggest we do, then?’

‘Let’s take a stroll.’

Vasily Petrovich was in a most cheerful mood. Of this I was thoroughly glad, and I did not venture to question him about his nocturnal perambulations. As soon as we were out of the cabin, however, he began to tell me about them himself.

‘What a night of storms that was!’ Vasily Petrovich began. ‘I simply can’t recall one like it.’

‘It didn’t rain much, though.’

‘It started several times, but it couldn’t get going. I simply love nights like that.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, what’s so marvellous about them? Everything gets twisted and broken.’

‘Hm! That may not altogether be a bad thing.’

‘Things get destroyed for no reason.’

‘Yes, it’s funny, isn’t it?’

‘That pine tree, for example.’

‘It burned so beautifully.’

‘Yes, we saw it.’

‘So did I. It’s a good life in the woods.’

‘Except that there are rather too many mosquitoes.’

‘Oh, you namby-pambies! The mosquitoes would eat you alive.’

‘They annoy the bears, too, Vasily Petrovich.’

‘Yes, and yet the bears never leave the woods. I’ve grown very attached to this way of life,’ Vasily Petrovich continued.

‘In the woods, you mean?’

‘These northern woods are so lovely! They’re thick, quiet – the leaves are blue – splendid!’

‘But they don’t stay like that for long.’

‘It’s good there in winter, too.’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that.’

‘I am.’

‘What do you like about the woods in winter?’

‘The quiet: there’s a strength in quiet like that.’

‘And what about the people?’

‘What do you mean – what about the people?’

‘What are their lives like, what expectations do they have?’

Vasily Petrovich thought for a while.

‘You did spend two years among them after all, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, two years and a bit.’

‘And were you able to fathom them?’

‘What is there to fathom?’

‘What’s hidden in the people who live there?’

‘A lot of nonsense, that’s what.’

‘But you didn’t think that before?’

‘I didn’t think, full stop. Of what value are our thoughts? They’re just built out of words. “Dissent”, you hear – dissent, power, protest – and think you’ve discovered heaven knows what in them. You keep thinking that the right word is there somewhere, that they know it, and it’s simply that they don’t trust you, and that’s why you can’t get to the heart of the matter.’

‘Well, so what are they really?’

‘They’re just dry-as-dust pedants.’

‘But did you manage to get along with them?’

‘How could I get along with them? I mean, I didn’t go there in order to fool around.’

‘But you must have managed somehow! I’m interested to know how you did it. Go on, please tell me!’

‘It’s very simple: I arrived, got myself hired as a labourer, and worked like an ox … I say, let’s lie down above the lake, here.’

We lay down, and Vasily Petrovich continued his story, as was his custom, in short, jerky phrases.

‘Yes, I worked. In winter I offered to copy books for them. I soon got the hang of writing in the old Slavonic characters. The devil only knows what the books they gave me were. At any rate, they weren’t the ones I’d hoped for. It was a tedious life. Work and the singing of prayers – that was all there was. Nothing else. Then they started saying to me: “Come and live with us permanently!” I said: “It’s all the same, I’m yours already as it is.” “Why don’t you find a nice girl and settle down in someone’s household?” they said.