“How could I help liking it?  One is his own master, goes where he likes, and does what he pleases.  If he succeeds in supporting himself and has no weight dragging at his neck, what more can he ask?  He can have as good a time as he likes provided he doesn’t forget God.”

Tchelkache spat contemptuously and interrupted the boy’s questions by turning his back to him.

“Look at me, for instance,” said the other, with sudden animation.  “When my father died, he left little.  My mother was old, the land worn out, what could I do?  One must live.  But how?  I don’t know.  A well-to-do family would take me in as a son-in-law, to be sure!  If the daughter only received her share!  But no!  The devil of a father-in-law never wants to divide the property.  So then, I must toil for him . . . a long time . . . years.  Do you see how it stands?  While if I could put by a hundred and fifty rubles, I should feel independent and be able to talk to the old man.  ’Will you give Marfa her share?’ No!  ’All right!  She’s not the only girl in the village, thank God.’  And so I’d be perfectly free, my own master.  Yes!” The lad sighed.  “As it is, there’s nothing for it but to go into a family.  I’ve thought that if I were to go to Koubagne, I’d easily make two hundred rubles.  Then I should have a chance for myself.  But no, nothing has come my way, I’ve failed in everything!  So now it’s necessary to enter a family, be a slave, because I can’t get along with what I have—­impossible!  Ehe! . . .”

The lad detested the idea of becoming the husband of some rich girl who would remain at home.  His face grew dull and sad.  He moved restlessly about on the ground; this roused Tchelkache from the reflections in which his speech had plunged him.

Tchelkache felt that he had no more desire to talk, but he nevertheless asked: 

“Where are you going, now?”

“Where am I going?  Home, of course!”

“Why of course? . . .  Perhaps you’d like to go to Turkey.”

“To Turkey?” drawled the boy.  “Do Christians go there?  What do you mean by that?”

“What an imbecile you are!” sighed Tchelkache, and he again turned his back on his interlocutor, thinking this time that he would not vouchsafe him another word.  This robust peasant awakened something obscure within him.

A confused feeling was gradually growing up, a kind of vexation was stirring the depths of his being and preventing him from concentrating his thoughts upon what he had to do that night.

The lad whom he had just insulted muttered something under his breath and looked askance at him.  His cheeks were comically puffed out, his lips pursed up, and he half closed his eyes in a laughable manner.  Evidently he had not expected that his conversation with this moustached person would end so quickly and in a manner so humiliating for him.

Tchelkache paid no more attention to him.  Sitting on the block, he whistled absent-mindedly and beat time with his bare and dirty heel.