“Three years later, I remember, on the eve of the Assumption, there was shouting from the further bank.  I went over with the ferry, and what do I see but the lady, all wrapped up, and with her a young gentleman, an official.  A sledge with three horses....  I ferried them across here, they got in and away like the wind.  They were soon lost to sight.  And towards morning Vassily Sergeyitch galloped down to the ferry.  ’Didn’t my wife come this way with a gentleman in spectacles, Semyon?’ ’She did,’ said I; ‘you may look for the wind in the fields!’ He galloped in pursuit of them.  For five days and nights he was riding after them.  When I ferried him over to the other side afterwards, he flung himself on the ferry and beat his head on the boards of the ferry and howled.  ’So that’s how it is,’ says I. I laughed, and reminded him ’people can live even in Siberia!’ And he beat his head harder than ever....

“Then he began longing for freedom.  His wife had slipped off to Russia, and of course he was drawn there to see her and to get her away from her lover.  And he took, my lad, to galloping almost every day, either to the post or the town to see the commanding officer; he kept sending in petitions for them to have mercy on him and let him go back home; and he used to say that he had spent some two hundred roubles on telegrams alone.  He sold his land and mortgaged his house to the Jews.  He grew gray and bent, and yellow in the face, as though he was in consumption.  If he talked to you he would go, khee—­khee—­khee,... and there were tears in his eyes.  He kept rushing about like this with petitions for eight years, but now he has grown brighter and more cheerful again:  he has found another whim to give way to.  You see, his daughter has grown up.  He looks at her, and she is the apple of his eye.  And to tell the truth she is all right, good-looking, with black eyebrows and a lively disposition.  Every Sunday he used to ride with her to church in Gyrino.  They used to stand on the ferry, side by side, she would laugh and he could not take his eyes off her.  ‘Yes, Semyon,’ says he, ’people can live even in Siberia.  Even in Siberia there is happiness.  Look,’ says he, ’what a daughter I have got!  I warrant you wouldn’t find another like her for a thousand versts round.’  ‘Your daughter is all right,’ says I, ‘that’s true, certainly.’  But to myself I thought:  ’Wait a bit, the wench is young, her blood is dancing, she wants to live, and there is no life here.’  And she did begin to pine, my lad....  She faded and faded, and now she can hardly crawl about.  Consumption.

“So you see what Siberian happiness is, damn its soul!  You see how people can live in Siberia....  He has taken to going from one doctor to another and taking them home with him.  As soon as he hears that two or three hundred miles away there is a doctor or a sorcerer, he will drive to fetch him.  A terrible lot of money he spent on doctors, and to my thinking he had better have spent the money on drink....  She’ll die just the same.  She is certain to die, and then it will be all over with him.  He’ll hang himself from grief or run away to Russia—­that’s a sure thing.  He’ll run away and they’ll catch him, then he will be tried, sent to prison, he will have a taste of the lash....”