“What are you crying for?”
“At Kherson I killed a horse with my fists. And at Taganrog some roughs fell upon me at night, fifteen of them. I took off their caps and they followed me, begging: ‘Uncle, give us back our caps.’ That’s how I used to go on.”
“What are you crying for, then, you silly?”
“But now it’s all over . . . I feel it. If only I could go to Vyazma!”
A pause followed. After a silence Shtchiptsov suddenly jumped up and seized his cap. He looked distraught.
“Good-bye! I am going to Vyazma!” he articulated, staggering.
“And the money for the journey?”
“H’m! . . . I shall go on foot!”
“You are crazy. . . .”
The two men looked at each other, probably because the same thought—of the boundless plains, the unending forests and swamps—struck both of them at once.