II + 

Having finished his tea, Vasíli seated himself before the fire. He could not go to bed as yet, for he had to wait for his horse to cool before he could feed it. The Yakút horse is not particularly heavy, but it has great powers of endurance. The natives use these horses to carry butter and other products to the remote mines, to the woods where the Tungus live, and to the distant Oochur, riding hundreds of versts through places where to obtain hay is out of the question. When they wish to camp, they shovel away the snow, make a fire, and drive the horses into the woods, where the intelligent creatures provide for themselves, nibbling last year’s grass from under the snow, and in the morning are again ready for another long expedition. The animal has, however, one peculiarity. It cannot be fed immediately on arriving from a journey or just before starting, and frequently a well fed horse goes without food for twenty hours or more before starting on a journey. + 

Vasíli had to wait three hours, and, as I did not feel inclined to go to bed myself, we sat chatting at intervals. Vasíli⁠—or Bagyláï, as he was in the habit of calling himself⁠—now and then added wood to the fire. This was a habit of his, which he had acquired during the long evenings of the Yakút Winter. + 

“Far away,” he suddenly exclaimed, after a prolonged silence, as if in answer to his own thoughts. + 

“What is far?” I asked. + 

“Our country, Russia.⁠ ⁠… Everything is so different here, whichever way you turn. Take, for instance, the cattle, or a horse. Our horses, after a long journey, are fed without delay; but if this one were to be fed now, it would die. Look at the people!⁠—They live in the woods, feed on horseflesh and raw meat; even carrion is not despised! It is shocking! They have no delicacy.⁠—If you open a tobacco-pouch in a yourt, immediately all stretch out their hands, like beggars, and you are obliged to share with them.” + 

“Well, that is their custom,” I replied. “They also give in their turn. They have helped to set you up.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Yes. That is true.” + 

“Do you really feel satisfied with your life?” I asked, watching him closely. + 

He smiled enigmatically. + 

“With life⁠ ⁠…” he echoed, tossing another log into the fire. The flames lighted his face; his eyes looked dim. + 

“Well, sir, if I should begin to tell you!⁠ ⁠… I have seen very little good in my life, and little do I see now. Until my eighteenth year it was fairly pleasant, and I lived happily as long as I obeyed my parents. When I ceased obeying them, my life ended. Since that time, I cannot call it a life⁠—only a vain struggle.” + 

Shadows flitted across his face, and his lower lip trembled convulsively, like that of a child; he seemed to be living in imagination in the time when he “obeyed his parents.” He had become a child again, and, childlike, was ready to weep over his own ruined life. + 

Noticing that I was looking at him intently, he shook his head. + 

“It is of no use talking about it! Wouldn’t you like to hear how we escaped from the island of Saghálin?” + 

Of course, I eagerly assented; and all night, until the break of day, I listened to the vagrant’s tale. + 