Dreams opens on a qui­et road where two con­sta­bles, Andrey Pta­ha and Nikan­dr Sapozh­nikov, accom­pa­ny a name­less tramp toward the dis­trict town. The air is thick with damp­ness, and the path stretch­es end­less­ly, sur­round­ed by fog and soft mud. Pta­ha, live­ly and talk­a­tive, takes a light­heart­ed approach to the jour­ney, attempt­ing to draw out sto­ries or laugh­ter. Sapozh­nikov, by con­trast, walks in silence, his tall frame and solemn face resem­bling an icon paint­ed in an old church. Their pris­on­er is not what one might expect—frail, artic­u­late, and gen­tle in demeanor, he answers ques­tions with a kind of weary polite­ness. There is some­thing bro­ken in his voice, some­thing qui­et­ly trag­ic. Though he avoids stat­ing his name, he shares glimpses of a life once filled with learn­ing, warmth, and gen­teel man­ners, nur­tured by a moth­er who once served in a mas­ter’s home.

While trudg­ing along the road, Pta­ha nudges the man into open­ing up more. Slow­ly, the tramp reveals that he was con­demned as an accom­plice in an unin­tend­ed murder—a case that turned on a moment of con­fu­sion and a mother’s des­per­ate act. His voice does­n’t car­ry bit­ter­ness, only a deep sor­row for what could have been. His past seems to have blurred into the misty present, and though judg­ment has long since been passed, he still car­ries its shad­ow. The details come slow­ly, not as a defense but as a con­fes­sion shaped by regret and time. Lis­ten­ing, Pta­ha offers some sym­pa­thet­ic nods, but Sapozh­nikov remains unmoved, gripped by the cold facts and the weight of the law. The con­trast between hope and duty lingers in the air. Despite the pain, the tramp speaks of the place he’s headed—Siberia—not as pun­ish­ment, but as sal­va­tion.

Siberia, in his words, becomes some­thing more than a dis­tant land—it becomes a dream­scape. He envi­sions a peace­ful life there, far removed from stig­ma and shame. A cot­tage, a fam­i­ly, and a plot of earth to tend—his dream is sim­ple, yet filled with long­ing. He speaks of free­dom, of wak­ing with­out fear and eat­ing with­out judg­ment. The con­sta­bles, espe­cial­ly Pta­ha, seem briefly pulled into his vision, warmed by the hope in his voice. But as always, real­i­ty finds its way back into the con­ver­sa­tion. Sapozh­nikov, less enchant­ed, reminds the man of the improb­a­bil­i­ty of such a life. His tone is blunt, not cru­el, but firm—a push against illu­sion, ground­ed in expe­ri­ence.

The silence after that exchange feels heav­ier. The tramp does not argue. Instead, he low­ers his head and smiles sad­ly, still hold­ing tight to the image he cre­at­ed. There’s a strange dig­ni­ty in his qui­et accep­tance, a kind of inner defi­ance that keeps him walk­ing, step after step, through the mud. The group stops to rest briefly near a thick­et, the pipe smoke curl­ing upward like ques­tions with­out answers. The land­scape around them offers no change—just more fog, more road, more wait­ing. Yet the dream lingers. It isn’t entire­ly extin­guished. For the tramp, Siberia remains a can­vas where new begin­nings might be paint­ed, how­ev­er faint the col­ors.

The beau­ty of this chap­ter lies in its del­i­cate bal­ance between despair and hope. Though set in a bleak land­scape with char­ac­ters whose fates are seem­ing­ly sealed, the tramp’s qui­et yearn­ing gives the sto­ry an emo­tion­al core that’s dif­fi­cult to shake. His sto­ry is not uncom­mon, but the way he tells it, with humil­i­ty and imag­i­na­tion, makes it feel inti­mate and uni­ver­sal. Read­ers may not share his past, but they rec­og­nize his longing—for for­give­ness, for free­dom, and for the abil­i­ty to begin again. These are not the dreams of the ambi­tious, but of the bro­ken­heart­ed who still believe that heal­ing is pos­si­ble.

What res­onates most is the tramp’s resilience. Life has giv­en him very lit­tle, and even that has been tak­en away. Still, he dreams. Not because he believes the world is kind, but because to stop dream­ing would be to sur­ren­der to despair. His com­pan­ions rep­re­sent the world’s divid­ed view: one sees the law, the oth­er sees the man. The jour­ney con­tin­ues. The road may be long, but for the man with no name, each step is pow­ered by some­thing frag­ile but fierce—hope.