OLD SEMYON, nicknamed Canny, and a young Tatar, whom no one knew by name, were sitting on the river-bank by the camp-fire; the other three ferrymen were in the hut.Semyon, an old man of sixty, lean and toothless, but broad shouldered and still healthy-looking, was drunk; he would have gone in to sleep long before, but he had a bottle in his pocket and he was afraid that the fellows in the hut would ask him for vodka.The Tatar was ill and weary, and wrapping himself up in his rags was describing how nice it was in the Simbirsk province, and what a beautiful and clever wife he had left behind at home.He was not more than twenty five, and now by the light of the camp-fire, with his pale and sick, mournful face, he looked like a boy.
"To be sure, it is not paradise here," said Canny."You can see for yourself, the water, the bare banks, clay, and nothing else.
...Easter has long passed and yet there is ice on the river, and this morning there was snow...""It's bad! it's bad!" said the Tatar, and looked round him in terror.
The dark, cold river was flowing ten paces away; it grumbled, lapped against the hollow clay banks and raced on swiftly towards the far-away sea.Close to the bank there was the dark blur of a big barge, which the ferrymen called a "karbos." Far away on the further bank, lights, dying down and flickering up again, zigzagged like little snakes; they were burning last year's grass.And beyond the little snakes there was darkness again.
There little icicles could be heard knocking against the barge It was damp and cold....
The Tatar glanced at the sky.There were as many stars as at home, and the same blackness all round, but something was lacking.At home in the Simbirsk province the stars were quite different, and so was the sky.
"It's bad! it's bad!" he repeated.
"You will get used to it," said Semyon, and he laughed."Now you are young and foolish, the milk is hardly dry on your lips, and it seems to you in your foolishness that you are more wretched than anyone; but the time will come when you will say to yourself: 'I wish no one a better life than mine.' You look at me.Within a week the floods will be over and we shall set up the ferry; you will all go wandering off about Siberia while I shall stay and shall begin going from bank to bank.I've been going like that for twenty-two years, day and night.The pike and the salmon are under the water while I am on the water.And thank God for it, I want nothing; God give everyone such a life."The Tatar threw some dry twigs on the camp-fire, lay down closer to the blaze, and said:
"My father is a sick man.When he dies my mother and wife will come here.They have promised.""And what do you want your wife and mother for?" asked Canny.
"That's mere foolishness, my lad.It's the devil confounding you, damn his soul! Don't you listen to him, the cursed one.Don't let him have his way.He is at you about the women, but you spite him; say, 'I don't want them!' He is on at you about freedom, but you stand up to him and say: 'I don't want it!' I want nothing, neither father nor mother, nor wife, nor freedom, nor post, nor paddock; I want nothing, damn their souls!"Semyon took a pull at the bottle and went on:
"I am not a simple peasant, not of the working class, but the son of a deacon, and when I was free I lived at Kursk; I used to wear a frockcoat, and now I have brought myself to such a pass that Ican sleep naked on the ground and eat grass.And I wish no one a better life.I want nothing and I am afraid of nobody, and the way I look at it is that there is nobody richer and freer than Iam.When they sent me here from Russia from the first day I stuck it out; I want nothing! The devil was at me about my wife and about my home and about freedom, but I told him: 'I want nothing.' I stuck to it, and here you see I live well, and Idon't complain, and if anyone gives way to the devil and listens to him, if but once, he is lost, there is no salvation for him:
he is sunk in the bog to the crown of his head and will never get out.
"It is not only a foolish peasant like you, but even gentlemen, well-educated people, are lost.Fifteen years ago they sent a gentleman here from Russia.He hadn't shared something with his brothers and had forged something in a will.They did say he was a prince or a baron, but maybe he was simply an official -- who knows? Well, the gentleman arrived here, and first thing he bought himself a house and land in Muhortinskoe.'I want to live by my own work,' says he, 'in the sweat of my brow, for I am not a gentleman now,' says he, 'but a settler.' 'Well,' says I, 'God help you, that's the right thing.' He was a young man then, busy and careful; he used to mow himself and catch fish and ride sixty miles on horseback.Only this is what happened: from the very first year he took to riding to Gyrino for the post; he used to stand on my ferry and sigh: 'Ech, Semyon, how long it is since they sent me any money from home!' 'You don't want money, Vassily Sergeyitch,' says I.'What use is it to you? You cast away the past, and forget it as though it had never been at all, as though it had been a dream, and begin to live anew.Don't listen to the devil,' says I; 'he will bring you to no good, he'll draw you into a snare.Now you want money,' says I, ' but in a very little while you'll be wanting something else, and then more and more.If you want to be happy,' says I, the chief thing is not to want anything.Yes....If,' says I, 'if Fate has wronged you and me cruelly it's no good asking for her favor and bowing down to her, but you despise her and laugh at her, or else she will laugh at you.' That's what I said to him....
"Two years later I ferried him across to this side, and he was rubbing his hands and laughing.' I am going to Gyrino to meet my wife,' says he.'She was sorry for me,' says he; 'she has come.
