Memory, that scourge of the unfortunate, brings to life even the stones
of the past, and, even to the poison, drunk in former days, adds drops
of honey; and all this only to kill man by the consciousness of his
faults, and to destroy in his soul all faith in the future by causing
him to love the past too well.

Tchelkache was enveloped in a peaceful whiff of natal air that was
wafting toward him the sweet words of his mother, the sage counsel of
his father, the stern peasant, and many forgotten sounds and savory
odors of the earth, frozen as in the springtime, or freshly ploughed,
or lastly, covered with young wheat, silky, and green as an
emerald. . . Then he felt himself a pitiable, solitary being, gone
astray, without attachments and an outcast from the life where the
blood in his veins had been formed.

"Hey! Where are we going?" suddenly asked Gavrilo.

Tchelkache started and turned around with the uneasy glance of a wild
beast.

"Oh! the devil! Never mind. . . Row more cautiously. . . We're almost
there."

"Were you dreaming?" asked Gavrilo, smiling.

Tchelkache looked searchingly at him. The lad was entirely himself
again; calm, gay, he even seemed complacent. He was very young, all
his life was before him. That was bad! But perhaps the soil would
retain him. At this thought, Tchelkache grew sad again, and growled
out in reply: