sunlight was streaming upon them—­were flying over the house.  All of them—­Rodion, the two Lytchkovs, and Volodka—­thought of the white horses, the little ponies, the fireworks, the boat with the lanterns; they remembered how the engineer’s wife, so beautiful and so grandly dressed, had come into the village and talked to them in such a friendly way.  And it seemed as though all that had never been; it was like a dream or a fairy-tale.

They trudged along, tired out, and mused as they went....  In their village, they mused, the people were good, quiet, sensible, fearing God, and Elena Ivanovna, too, was quiet, kind, and gentle; it made one sad to look at her, but why had they not got on together?  Why had they parted like enemies?  How was it that some mist had shrouded from their eyes what mattered most, and had let them see nothing but damage done by cattle, bridles, pincers, and all those trivial things which now, as they remembered them, seemed so nonsensical?  How was it that with the new owner they lived in peace, and yet had been on bad terms with the engineer?

And not knowing what answer to make to these questions they were all silent except Volodka, who muttered something.

“What is it?” Rodion asked.

“We lived without a bridge...” said Volodka gloomily.  “We lived without a bridge, and did not ask for one... and we don’t want it....”

No one answered him and they walked on in silence with drooping heads.

DREAMS

Two peasant constables—­one a stubby, black-bearded individual with such exceptionally short legs that if you looked at him from behind it seemed as though his legs began much lower down than in other people; the other, long, thin, and straight as a stick, with a scanty beard of dark reddish colour—­were escorting to the district town a tramp who refused to remember his name.  The first waddled along, looking from side to side, chewing now a straw, now his own sleeve, slapping himself on the haunches and humming, and altogether had a careless and frivolous air; the other, in spite of his lean face and narrow shoulders, looked solid, grave, and substantial; in the lines and expression of his whole figure he was like the priests among the Old Believers, or the warriors who are painted on old-fashioned ikons.  “For his wisdom God had added to his forehead”—­that is, he was bald—­which increased the resemblance referred to.  The first was called Andrey Ptaha, the second Nikandr Sapozhnikov.

The man they were escorting did not in the least correspond with the conception everyone has of a tramp.  He was a frail little man, weak and sickly-looking, with small, colourless, and extremely indefinite features.  His eyebrows were scanty, his expression mild and submissive; he had scarcely a trace of a moustache, though he was over thirty.  He walked along timidly, bent forward, with his hands thrust into his sleeves.  The collar