When he was taking the money Bulkin’s mental agitation reached its utmost limits. He gesticulated like a man in despair, almost crying.
“Good people!” he shouted, addressing the whole ward in his frenzy. “Look at him! He keeps lying! Whatever he says, it’s nothing but lies, lies and lies!”
“But what is it to you,” cried the convicts wondering at his fury, “you ridiculous fellow?”
“I won’t let him tell lies!” cried Bulkin with flashing eyes, bringing his fist down on the bed with all his might. “I don’t want him to tell lies!”
Every one laughed. Varlamov took the money, bowed to me and grimacing, hurried out of the ward, to the publican, of course. And then he seemed for the first time to become aware of Bulkin.
“Well, come along!” he said to him, stopping in the doorway, as though he were of some use to him. “You walking-stick!” he added as he contemptuously made way for the mortified Bulkin to pass out before him, and began twanging the balalaika again.
But why describe this Bedlam! The oppressive day came to an end at last. The convicts fell heavily asleep on the plank bed. They talked and muttered in their sleep that night even more than usual. Here and there they were still sitting over cards. The holiday, so long looked forward to, was over. To-morrow the daily round, to-morrow work again.
On the third day in Christmas week we had the first performance of our theatricals. A great deal of trouble had no doubt been spent on getting them up, but the actors had undertaken it all so that the rest of us had no idea how things were going, what was being done. We did not even know for certain what was to be performed. The actors had done their best during those three days to get hold of costumes when they went out to work. When Baklushin met me he did nothing but snap his fingers with glee. Even the major seemed to be in a decent mood, though we really were not sure whether he knew of the theatricals.
