“Good! good!” said the Tatar, shivering with cold.

“What is good?” asked Canny.

“His wife, his daughter....  What of prison and what of sorrow!—­anyway, he did see his wife and his daughter....  You say, want nothing.  But ‘nothing’ is bad!  His wife lived with him three years—­that was a gift from God.  ‘Nothing’ is bad, but three years is good.  How not understand?”

Shivering and hesitating, with effort picking out the Russian words of which he knew but few, the Tatar said that God forbid one should fall sick and die in a strange land, and be buried in the cold and dark earth; that if his wife came to him for one day, even for one hour, that for such happiness he would be ready to bear any suffering and to thank God.  Better one day of happiness than nothing.

Then he described again what a beautiful and clever wife he had left at home.  Then, clutching his head in both hands, he began crying and assuring Semyon that he was not guilty, and was suffering for nothing.  His two brothers and an uncle had carried off a peasant’s horses, and had beaten the old man till he was half dead, and the commune had not judged fairly, but had contrived a sentence by which all the three brothers were sent to Siberia, while the uncle, a rich man, was left at home.

“You will get used to it!” said Semyon.

The Tatar was silent, and stared with tear-stained eyes at the fire; his face expressed bewilderment and fear, as though he still did not understand why he was here in the darkness and the wet, beside strangers, and not in the Simbirsk province.

Canny lay near the fire, chuckled at something, and began humming a song in an undertone.

“What joy has she with her father?” he said a little later.  “He loves her and he rejoices in her, that’s true; but, mate, you must mind your ps and qs with him, he is a strict old man, a harsh old man.  And young wenches don’t want strictness.  They want petting and ha-ha-ha! and ho-ho-ho! and scent and pomade.  Yes....  Ech! life, life,” sighed Semyon, and he got up heavily.  “The vodka is all gone, so it is time to sleep.  Eh?  I am going, my lad....”

Left alone, the Tatar put on more twigs, lay down and stared at the fire; he began thinking of his own village and of his wife.  If his wife could only come for a month, for a day; and then if she liked she might go back again.  Better a month or even a day than nothing.  But if his wife kept her promise and came, what would he have to feed her on?  Where could she live here?

“If there were not something to eat, how could she live?” the Tatar asked aloud.

He was paid only ten kopecks for working all day and all night at the oar; it is true that travelers gave him tips for tea and for vodkas but the men shared all they received among themselves, and gave nothing to the Tatar, but only laughed at him.  And from poverty he was hungry, cold, and frightened....  Now, when his whole body was aching and shivering, he ought to go into the hut and lie down to sleep; but he had nothing to cover him there, and it was colder than on the river-bank; here he had nothing to cover him either, but at least he could make up the fire....