Work, Death, and Sickness : Leo Tolstoy Short Stories

THIS is a legend current among the South American Indians.

God, say they, at first made men so that they had no need to work: they needed neither houses, nor clothes, nor food, and they all lived till they were a hundred, and did not know what illness was.

When, after some time, God looked to see how people were living, he saw that instead of being happy in their life, they had quarrelled with one another, and, each caring for himself, had brought matters to such a pass that far from enjoying life, they cursed it.

Then God said to himself: 'This comes of their living separately, each for himself.' And to change this state of things, God so arranged matters that it became impossible for people to live without working. To avoid suffering from cold and hunger, they were now obliged to build dwellings, and to dig the ground, and to grow and gather fruits and grain.

'Work will bring them together,' thought God.

'They cannot make their tools, prepare and transport their timber, build their houses, sow and gather their harvests, spin and weave, and make their clothes, each one alone by himself.'

'It will make them understand that the more heartily they work together, the more they will have and the better they will live; and this will unite them.'

Time passed on, and again God came to see how men were living, and whether they were now happy.

But he found them living worse than before. They worked together (that they could not help doing), but not all together, being broken up into little groups. And each group tried to snatch work from other groups, and they hindered one another, wasting time and strength in their struggles, so that things went ill with them all.

Having seen that this, too, was not well, God decided so as to arrange things that man should not know the time of his death, but might die at any moment; and he announced this to them.

'Knowing that each of them may die at any moment,' thought God, 'they will not, by grasping at gains that may last so short a time, spoil the hours of life allotted to them.'

But it turned out otherwise. When God returned to see how people were living, he saw that their life was as bad as ever.

Those who were strongest, availing themselves of the fact that men might die at any time, subdued those who were weaker, killing some and threatening others with death. And it came about that the strongest and their descendants did no work, and suffered from the weariness of idleness, while those who were weaker had to work beyond their strength, and suffered from lack of rest. Each set of men feared and hated the other. And the life of man became yet more unhappy.

Having seen all this, God, to mend matters, decided to make use of one last means; he sent all kinds of sickness among men. God thought that when all men were exposed to sickness they would understand that those who are well should have pity on those who are sick, and should help them, that when they themselves fall ill those who are well might in turn help them.

And again God went away, but when He came back to see how men lived now that they were subject to sicknesses, he saw that their life was worse even than before. The very sickness that in God's purpose should have united men, had divided them more than ever. Those men who were strong enough to make others work, forced them also to wait on them in times of sickness; but they did not, in their turn, look after others who were ill. And those who were forced to work for others and to look after them when sick, were so worn with work that they had no time to look after their own sick, but left them without attendance. That the sight of sick folk might not disturb the pleasures of the wealthy, houses were arranged in which these poor people suffered and died, far from those whose sympathy might have cheered them, and in the arms of hired people who nursed them without compassion, or even with disgust. Moreover, people considered many of the illnesses infectious, and, fearing to catch them, not only avoided the sick, but even separated themselves from those who attended the sick.

Then God said to Himself: 'If even this means will not bring men to understand wherein their happiness lies, let them be taught by suffering.' And God left men to themselves.

And, left to themselves, men lived long before they understood that they all ought to, and might be, happy. Only in the very latest times have a few of them begun to understand that work ought not to be a bugbear to some and like galley-slavery for others, but should be a common and happy occupation, uniting all men. They have begun to understand that with death constantly threatening each of us, the only reasonable business of every man is to spend the years, months, hours, and minutes, allotted him -- in unity and love. They have begun to understand that sickness, far from dividing men, should, on the contrary, give opportunity for loving union with one another.

Where Love Is, God Is : Leo Tolstoy Short Stories

IN A CERTAIN TOWN there lived a cobbler, Martin Avdéiteh by name. He had a tiny room in a basement, the one window of which looked out on to the street. Through it one could only see the feet of those who passed by, but Martin recognized the people by their boots. He had lived long in the place and had many acquaintances. There was hardly a pair of boots in the neighbourhood that had not been once or twice through his hands, so he often saw his own handiwork through the window. Some he had re-soled, some patched, some stitched up, and to some he had even put fresh uppers. He had plenty to do, for he worked well, used good material, did not charge too much, and could be relied on. If he could do a job by the day required, he undertook it; if not, he told the truth and gave no false promises; so he was well known and never short of work.

Martin had always been a good man; but in his old age he began to think more about his soul and to draw nearer to God. While he still worked for a master, before he set up on his own account, his wife had died, leaving him with a three-year old son. None of his elder children had lived, they had all died in infancy. At first Martin thought of sending his little son to his sister's in the country, but then he felt sorry to part with the boy, thinking: 'It would be hard for my little Kapitón to have to grow up in a strange family; I will keep him with me.'

Martin left his master and went into lodgings with his little son. But he had no luck with his children. No sooner had the boy reached an age when he could help his father and be a support as well as a joy to him, than he fell ill and, after being laid up for a week with a burning fever, died. Martin buried his son, and gave way to despair so great and overwhelming that he murmured against God. In his sorrow he prayed again and again that he too might die, reproaching God for having taken the son he loved, his only son while he, old as he was, remained alive. After that Martin left off going to church.

One day an old man from Martin's native village who had been a pilgrim for the last eight years, called in on his way from Tróitsa Monastery. Martin opened his heart to him, and told him of his sorrow.

'I no longer even wish to live, holy man,' he said. 'All I ask of God is that I soon may die. I am now quite without hope in the world.'

The old man replied: 'You have no right to say such things, Martin. We cannot judge God's ways. Not our reasoning, but God's will, decides. If God willed that your son should die and you should live, it must be best so. As to your despair -- that comes because you wish to live for your own happiness.'

'What else should one live for?' asked Martin.

'For God, Martin,' said the old man. 'He gives you life, and you must live for Him. When you have learnt to live for Him, you will grieve no more, and all will seem easy to you.'

Martin was silent awhile, and then asked: 'But how is one to live for God?'

The old man answered: 'How one may live for God has been shown us by Christ. Can you read? Then buy the Gospels, and read them: there you will see how God would have you live. You have it all there.'

These words sank deep into Martin's heart, and that same day he went and bought himself a Testament in large print, and began to read.

At first he meant only to read on holidays, but having once begun he found it made his heart so light that he read every day. Sometimes he was so absorbed in his reading that the oil in his lamp burnt out before he could tear himself away from the book. He continued to read every night, and the more he read the more clearly he understood what God required of him, and how he might live for God. And his heart grew lighter and lighter. Before, when he went to bed he used to lie with a heavy heart, moaning as he thought of his little Kapitón; but now he only repeated again and again: 'Glory to Thee, glory to Thee, O Lord! Thy will be done!'

From that time Martin's whole life changed. Formerly, on holidays he used to go and have tea at the public house, and did not even refuse a glass or two of vódka. Sometimes, after having had a drop with a friend, he left the public house not drunk, but rather merry, and would say foolish things: shout at a man, or abuse him. Now, all that sort of thing passed away from him. His life became peaceful and joyful. He sat down to his work in the morning, and when he had finished his day's work he took the lamp down from the wall, stood it on the table, fetched his book from the shelf, opened it, and sat down to read. The more he read the better he understood, and the clearer and happier he felt in his mind.

It happened once that Martin sat up late, absorbed in his book. He was reading Luke's Gospel; and in the sixth chapter he came upon the verses:

'To him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and from him that taketh away thy cloke withhold not thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.'

He also read the verses where our Lord says:

'And why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will shew you to whom he is like: He is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: for it was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth and doeth not, is like a man that without a foundation built an house upon the earth, against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great.'

When Martin read these words his soul was glad within him. He took off his spectacles and laid them on the book, and leaning his elbows on the table pondered over what he had read. He tried his own life by the standard of those words, asking himself:

'Is my house built on the rock, or on sand? If it stands on the rock, it is well. It seems easy enough while one sits here alone, and one thinks one has done all that God commands; but as soon as I cease to be on my guard, I sin again. Still I will persevere. It brings such joy. Help me, O Lord!'

He thought all this, and was about to go to bed, but was loth to leave his book. So he went on reading the seventh chapter -- about the centurion, the widow's son, and the answer to John's disciples -- and he came to the part where a rich Pharisee invited the Lord to his house; and he read how the woman who was a sinner, anointed his feet and washed them with her tears, and how he justified her. Coming to the forty-fourth verse, he read:

'And turning to the woman, he said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she hath wetted my feet with her tears, and wiped them with her hair. Thou gavest me no kiss; but she, since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but she hath anointed my feet with ointment.'

He read these verses and thought: 'He gave no water for his feet, gave no kiss, his head with oil he did not anoint. . . .' And Martin took off his spectacles once more, laid them on his book, and pondered.

'He must have been like me, that Pharisee. He too thought only of himself -- how to get a cup of tea, how to keep warm and comfortable; never a thought of his guest. He took care of himself, but for his guest he cared nothing at all. Yet who was the guest? The Lord himself! If he came to me, should I behave like that?'

Then Martin laid his head upon both his arms and, before he was aware of it, he fell asleep.

'Martin!' he suddenly heard a voice, as if some one had breathed the word above his ear.

He started from his sleep. 'Who's there?' he asked.

He turned round and looked at the door; no one was there. He called again. Then he heard quite distinctly: 'Martin, Martin! Look out into the street to-morrow, for I shall come.'

Martin roused himself, rose from his chair and rubbed his eyes, but did not know whether he had heard these words in a dream or awake. He put out the lamp and lay down to sleep.

Next morning he rose before daylight, and after saying his prayers he lit the fire and prepared his cabbage soup and buckwheat porridge. Then he lit the samovár, put on his apron, and sat down by the window to his work. As he sat working Martin thought over what had happened the night before. At times it seemed to him like a dream, and at times he thought that he had really heard the voice. 'Such things have happened before now,' thought he.

So he sat by the window, looking out into the street more than he worked, and whenever any one passed in unfamiliar boots he would stoop and look up, so as to see not the feet only but the face of the passer-by as well. A house-porter passed in new felt boots; then a water-carrier. Presently an old soldier of Nicholas' reign came near the window spade in hand. Martin knew him by his boots, which were shabby old felt ones, goloshed with leather. The old man was called Stepániteh: a neighbouring tradesman kept him in his house for charity, and his duty was to help the house-porter. He began to clear away the snow before Martin's window. Martin glanced at him and then went on with his work.

'I must be growing crazy with age,' said Martin, laughing at his fancy. 'Stepánitch comes to clear away the snow, and I must needs imagine it's Christ coming to visit me. Old dotard that I am!'

Yet after he had made a dozen stitches he felt drawn to look out of the window again. He saw that Stepánitch had leaned his spade against the wall, and was either resting himself or trying to get warm. The man was old and broken down, and had evidently not enough strength even to clear away the snow.

'What if I called him in and gave him some tea?' thought Martin. 'The samovár is just on the boil.'

He stuck his awl in its place, and rose; and putting the samovár on the table, made tea. Then he tapped the window with his fingers. Stepánitch turned and came to the window. Martin beckoned to him to come in, and went himself to open the door.

'Come in,' he said, 'and warm yourself a bit. I'm sure you must be cold.'

'May God bless you!' Stepánitch answered. 'My bones do ache to be sure.' He came in, first shaking off the snow, and lest he should leave marks on the floor he began wiping his feet; but as he did so he tottered and nearly fell.

'Don't trouble to wipe your feet,' said Martin 'I'll wipe up the floor -- it's all in the day's work. Come, friend, sit down and have some tea.'

Filling two tumblers, he passed one to his visitor, and pouring his own out into the saucer, began to blow on it.

Stepániteh emptied his glass, and, turning it upside down, put the remains of his piece of sugar on the top. He began to express his thanks, but it was plain that he would be glad of some more.

'Have another glass,' said Martin, refilling the visitor's tumbler and his own. But while he drank his tea Martin kept looking out into the street.

'Are you expecting any one?' asked the visitor.

'Am I expecting any one? Well, now, I'm ashamed to tell you. It isn't that I really expect any one; but I heard something last night which I can't get out of my mind Whether it was a vision, or only a fancy, I can't tell. You see, friend, last night I was reading the Gospel, about Christ the Lord, how he suffered, and how he walked on earth. You have heard tell of it, I dare say.'

'I have heard tell of it,' answered Stepánitch; 'but I'm an ignorant man and not able to read.'

'Well, you see, I was reading of how he walked on earth. I came to that part, you know, where he went to a Pharisee who did not receive him well. Well, friend, as I read about it, I thought now that man did not receive Christ the Lord with proper honour. Suppose such a thing could happen to such a man as myself, I thought, what would I not do to receive him! But that man gave him no reception at all. Well, friend, as I was thinking of this, I began to doze, and as I dozed I heard some one call me by name. I got up, and thought I heard some one whispering, "Expect me; I will come to-morrow." This happened twice over. And to tell you the truth, it sank so into my mind that, though I am ashamed of it myself, I keep on expecting him, the dear Lord!'

Stepánitch shook his head in silence, finished his tumbler and laid it on its side; but Martin stood it up again and refilled it for him.

'Here drink another glass, bless you! And I was thinking too, how he walked on earth and despised no one, but went mostly among common folk. He went with plain people, and chose his disciples from among the likes of us, from workmen like us, sinners that we are. "He who raises himself," he said, "shall be humbled and he who humbles himself shall be raised." "You call me Lord," he said, "and I will wash your feet." "He who would be first," he said, "let him be the servant of all; because," he said, "blessed are the poor, the humble, the meek, and the merciful."'

Stepánitch forgot his tea. He was an old man easily moved to tears, and as he sat and listened the tears ran down his cheeks.

'Come, drink some more,' said Martin. But Stepánitch crossed himself, thanked him, moved away his tumbler, and rose.

'Thank you, Martin Avdéitch,' he said, 'you have given me food and comfort both for soul and body.'

'You're very welcome. Come again another time. I am glad to have a guest,' said Martin.

Stepánitch went away; and Martin poured out the last of the tea and drank it up. Then he put away the tea things and sat down to his work, stitching the back seam of a boot. And as he stitched he kept looking out of the window, waiting for Christ, and thinking about him and his doings. And his head was full of Christ's sayings.

Two soldiers went by: one in Government boots the other in boots of his own; then the master of a neighbouring house, in shining goloshes; then a baker carrying a basket. All these passed on. Then a woman came up in worsted stockings and peasant-made shoes. She passed the window, but stopped by the wall. Martin glanced up at her through the window, and saw that she was a stranger, poorly dressed, and with a baby in her arms. She stopped by the wall with her back to the wind, trying to wrap the baby up though she had hardly anything to wrap it in. The woman had only summer clothes on, and even they were shabby and worn. Through the window Martin heard the baby crying, and the woman trying to soothe it, but unable to do so. Martin rose and going out of the door and up the steps he called to her.

'My dear, I say, my dear!'

The woman heard, and turned round.

'Why do you stand out there with the baby in the cold? Come inside. You can wrap him up better in a warm place. Come this way!'

The woman was surprised to see an old man in an apron, with spectacles on his nose, calling to her, but she followed him in.

They went down the steps, entered the little room, and the old man led her to the bed.

'There, sit down, my dear, near the stove. Warm yourself, and feed the baby.'

'Haven't any milk. I have eaten nothing myself since early morning,' said the woman, but still she took the baby to her breast.

Martin shook his head. He brought out a basin and some bread. Then he opened the oven door and poured some cabbage soup into the basin. He took out the porridge pot also but the porridge was not yet ready, so he spread a cloth on the table and served only the soup and bread.

'Sit down and eat, my dear, and I'll mind the baby. Why, bless me, I've had children of my own; I know how to manage them.'

The woman crossed herself, and sitting down at the table began to eat, while Martin put the baby on the bed and sat down by it. He chucked and chucked, but having no teeth he could not do it well and the baby continued to cry. Then Martin tried poking at him with his finger; he drove his finger straight at the baby's mouth and then quickly drew it back, and did this again and again. He did not let the baby take his finger in its mouth, because it was all black with cobbler's wax. But the baby first grew quiet watching the finger, and then began to laugh. And Martin felt quite pleased.

The woman sat eating and talking, and told him who she was, and where she had been.

'I'm a soldier's wife,' said she. 'They sent my husband somewhere, far away, eight months ago, and I have heard nothing of him since. I had a place as cook till my baby was born, but then they would not keep me with a child. For three months now I have been struggling, unable to find a place, and I've had to sell all I had for food. I tried to go as a wet-nurse, but no one would have me; they said I was too starved-looking and thin. Now I have just been to see a tradesman's wife (a woman from our village is in service with her) and she has promised to take me. I thought it was all settled at last, but she tells me not to come till next week. It is far to her place, and I am fagged out, and baby is quite starved, poor mite. Fortunately our landlady has pity on us, and lets us lodge free, else I don't know what we should do.'

Martin sighed. 'Haven't you any warmer clothing?' he asked.

'How could I get warm clothing?' said she. 'Why I pawned my last shawl for sixpence yesterday.'

Then the woman came and took the child, and Martin got up. He went and looked among some things that were hanging on the wall, and brought back an old cloak.

'Here,' he said, 'though it's a worn-out old thing, it will do to wrap him up in.'

The woman looked at the cloak, then at the old man, and taking it, burst into tears. Martin turned away, and groping under the bed brought out a small trunk. He fumbled about in it, and again sat down opposite the woman. And the woman said:

'The Lord bless you, friend. Surely Christ must have sent me to your window, else the child would have frozen. It was mild when I started, but now see how cold it has turned. Surely it must have been Christ who made you look out of your window and take pity on me, poor wretch!'

Martin smiled and said; 'It is quite true; it was he made me do it. It was no mere chance made me look out.'

And he told the woman his dream, and how he had heard the Lord's voice promising to visit him that day.

'Who knows? All things are possible,' said the woman. And she got up and threw the cloak over her shoulders, wrapping it round herself and round the baby. Then she bowed, and thanked Martin once more.

'Take this for Christ's sake,' said Martin, and gave her sixpence to get her shawl out of pawn. The woman crossed herself, and Martin did the same, and then he saw her out.

After the woman had gone, Martin ate some cabbage soup, cleared the things away, and sat down to work again. He sat and worked, but did not forget the window, and every time a shadow fell on it he looked up at once to see who was passing. People he knew and strangers passed by, but no one remarkable.

After a while Martin saw an apple-woman stop just in front of his window. She had a large basket, but there did not seem to be many apples left in it; she had evidently sold most of her stock. On her back she had a sack full of chips, which she was taking home. No doubt she had gathered them at some place where building was going on. The sack evidently hurt her, and she wanted to shift it from one shoulder to the other, so she put it down on the footpath and, placing her basket on a post, began to shake down the chips in the sack. While she was doing this a boy in a tattered cap ran up, snatched an apple out of the basket, and tried to slip away; but the old woman noticed it, and turning, caught the boy by his sleeve. He began to struggle, trying to free himself, but the old woman held on with both hands, knocked his cap off his head, and seized hold of his hair. The boy screamed and the old woman scolded. Martin dropped his awl, not waiting to stick it in its place, and rushed out of the door. Stumbling up the steps, and dropping his spectacles in his hurry, he ran out into the street. The old woman was pulling the boy's hair and scolding him, and threatening to take him to the police. The lad was struggling and protesting, saying, 'I did not take it. What are you beating me for? Let me go!'

Martin separated them. He took the boy by the hand and said, 'Let him go, Granny. Forgive him for Christ's sake.'

'I'll pay him out, so that he won't forget it for a year! I'll take the rascal to the police!'

Martin began entreating the old woman.

'Let him go, Granny. He won't do it again. Let him go for Christ's sake!'

The old woman let go, and the boy wished to run away, but Martin stopped him

'Ask the Granny's forgiveness!' said he. 'And don't do it another time. I saw you take the apple.'

The boy began to cry and to beg pardon.

'That's right. And now here's an apple for you, and Martin took an apple from the basket and gave it to the boy, saying, 'I will pay you, Granny.'

'You will spoil them that way, the young rascals,' said the old woman. 'He ought to be whipped so that he should remember it for a week.'

'Oh, Granny, Granny,' said Martin, 'that's our way -- but it's not God's way. If he should be whipped for stealing an apple, what should be done to us for our sins?'

The old woman was silent.

And Martin told her the parable of the lord who forgave his servant a large debt, and how the servant went out and seized his debtor by the throat. The old woman listened to it all, and the boy, too, stood by and listened.

'God bids us forgive,' said Martin, 'or else we shall not be forgiven. Forgive every one; and a thoughtless youngster most of all.'

The old woman wagged her head and sighed.

'It's true enough,' said she, 'but they are getting terribly spoilt.'

'Then we old ones must show them better ways,' Martin replied.

'That's just what I say,' said the old woman. 'I have had seven of them myself, and only one daughter is left.' And the old woman began to tell how and where she was living with her daughter, and how many grandchildren she had. 'There now,' she said, 'I have but little strength left, yet I work hard for the sake of my grandchildren; and nice children they are, too. No one comes out to meet me but the children. Little Annie, now, won't leave me for any one. "It's grandmother, dear grandmother, darling grandmother."' And the old woman completely softened at the thought.

'Of course, it was only his childishness, God help him,' said she, referring to the boy.

As the old woman was about to hoist her sack on her back, the lad sprang forward to her, saying, 'Let me carry it for you, Granny. I'm going that way.'

The old woman nodded her head, and put the sack on the boy's back, and they went down the street together, the old woman quite forgetting to ask Martin to pay for the apple. Martin stood and watched them as they went along talking to each other.

When they were out of sight Martin went back to the house. Having found his spectacles unbroken on the steps, he picked up his awl and sat down again to work. He worked a little, but could soon not see to pass the bristle through the holes in the leather; and presently he noticed the lamplighter passing on his way to light the street lamps.

'Seems it's time to light up,' thought he. So he trimmed his lamp, hung it up, and sat down again to work. He finished off one boot and, turning it about, examined it. It was all right. Then he gathered his tools together, swept up the cuttings, put away the bristles and the thread and the awls, and, taking down the lamp, placed it on the table. Then he took the Gospels from the shelf. He meant to open them at the place he had marked the day before with a bit of morocco, but the book opened at another place. As Martin opened it, his yesterday's dream came back to his mind, and no sooner had he thought of it than he seemed to hear footsteps, as though some one were moving behind him. Martin turned round, and it seemed to him as if people were standing in the dark corner, but he could not make out who they were. And a voice whispered in his ear: 'Martin, Martin, don't you know me?'

'Who is it?' muttered Martin.

'It is I,' said the voice. And out of the dark corner stepped Stepánitch, who smiled and vanishing like a cloud was seen no more.

'It is I,' said the voice again. And out of the darkness stepped the woman with the baby in her arms and the woman smiled and the baby laughed, and they too vanished.

'It is I,' said the voice once more. And the old woman and the boy with the apple stepped out and both smiled, and then they too vanished.

And Martin's soul grew glad. He crossed himself put on his spectacles, and began reading the Gospel just where it had opened; and at the top of the page he read

'I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.'

And at the bottom of the page he read

'Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of these my brethren even these least, ye did it unto me' (Matt. xxv).

And Martin understood that his dream had come true; and that the Saviour had really come to him that day, and he had welcomed him.

What Men Live By : Leo Tolstoy Short Stories

A shoemaker named Simon, who had neither house nor land of his own,
lived with his wife and children in a peasant's hut, and earned his
living by his work. Work was cheap, but bread was dear, and what he
earned he spent for food. The man and his wife had but one
sheepskin coat between them for winter wear, and even that was torn
to tatters, and this was the second year he had been wanting to buy
sheep-skins for a new coat. Before winter Simon saved up a little
money: a three-rouble note lay hidden in his wife's box, and five
roubles and twenty kopeks were owed him by customers in the village.

So one morning he prepared to go to the village to buy the sheep-
skins. He put on over his shirt his wife's wadded nankeen jacket,
and over that he put his own cloth coat. He took the three-rouble
note in his pocket, cut himself a stick to serve as a staff, and
started off after breakfast. "I'll collect the five roubles that
are due to me," thought he, "add the three I have got, and that will
be enough to buy sheep-skins for the winter coat."

He came to the village and called at a peasant's hut, but the man
was not at home. The peasant's wife promised that the money should
be paid next week, but she would not pay it herself. Then Simon
called on another peasant, but this one swore he had no money, and
would only pay twenty kopeks which he owed for a pair of boots Simon
had mended. Simon then tried to buy the sheep-skins on credit, but
the dealer would not trust him.

"Bring your money," said he, "then you may have your pick of the
skins. We know what debt-collecting is like." So all the business
the shoemaker did was to get the twenty kopeks for boots he had
mended, and to take a pair of felt boots a peasant gave him to sole
with leather.

Simon felt downhearted. He spent the twenty kopeks on vodka, and
started homewards without having bought any skins. In the morning
he had felt the frost; but now, after drinking the vodka, he felt
warm, even without a sheep-skin coat. He trudged along, striking
his stick on the frozen earth with one hand, swinging the felt boots
with the other, and talking to himself.


I

"I'm quite warm," said he, "though I have no sheep-skin coat. I've
had a drop, and it runs through all my veins. I need no sheep-
skins. I go along and don't worry about anything. That's the sort
of man I am! What do I care? I can live without sheep-skins. I
don't need them. My wife will fret, to be sure. And, true enough,
it is a shame; one works all day long, and then does not get paid.
Stop a bit! If you don't bring that money along, sure enough I'll
skin you, blessed if I don't. How's that? He pays twenty kopeks at
a time! What can I do with twenty kopeks? Drink it-that's all one
can do! Hard up, he says he is! So he may be--but what about me?
You have a house, and cattle, and everything; I've only what I stand
up in! You have corn of your own growing; I have to buy every grain.
Do what I will, I must spend three roubles every week for bread
alone. I come home and find the bread all used up, and I have to
fork out another rouble and a half. So just pay up what you owe,
and no nonsense about it!"

By this time he had nearly reached the shrine at the bend of the
road. Looking up, he saw something whitish behind the shrine. The
daylight was fading, and the shoemaker peered at the thing without
being able to make out what it was. "There was no white stone here
before. Can it be an ox? It's not like an ox. It has a head like a
man, but it's too white; and what could a man be doing there?"

He came closer, so that it was clearly visible. To his surprise it
really was a man, alive or dead, sitting naked, leaning motionless
against the shrine. Terror seized the shoemaker, and he thought,
"Some one has killed him, stripped him, and left him there. If I
meddle I shall surely get into trouble."

So the shoemaker went on. He passed in front of the shrine so that
he could not see the man. When he had gone some way, he looked
back, and saw that the man was no longer leaning against the shrine,
but was moving as if looking towards him. The shoemaker felt more
frightened than before, and thought, "Shall I go back to him, or
shall I go on? If I go near him something dreadful may happen. Who
knows who the fellow is? He has not come here for any good. If I go
near him he may jump up and throttle me, and there will be no
getting away. Or if not, he'd still be a burden on one's hands.
What could I do with a naked man? I couldn't give him my last
clothes. Heaven only help me to get away!"

So the shoemaker hurried on, leaving the shrine behind him-when
suddenly his conscience smote him, and he stopped in the road.

"What are you doing, Simon?" said he to himself. "The man may be
dying of want, and you slip past afraid. Have you grown so rich as
to be afraid of robbers? Ah, Simon, shame on you!"

So he turned back and went up to the man.


II

Simon approached the stranger, looked at him, and saw that he was a
young man, fit, with no bruises on his body, only evidently freezing
and frightened, and he sat there leaning back without looking up at
Simon, as if too faint to lift his eyes. Simon went close to him,
and then the man seemed to wake up. Turning his head, he opened his
eyes and looked into Simon's face. That one look was enough to make
Simon fond of the man. He threw the felt boots on the ground, undid
his sash, laid it on the boots, and took off his cloth coat.

"It's not a time for talking," said he. "Come, put this coat on at
once!" And Simon took the man by the elbows and helped him to rise.
As he stood there, Simon saw that his body was clean and in good
condition, his hands and feet shapely, and his face good and kind.
He threw his coat over the man's shoulders, but the latter could not
find the sleeves. Simon guided his arms into them, and drawing the
coat well on, wrapped it closely about him, tying the sash round the
man's waist.

Simon even took off his torn cap to put it on the man's head, but
then his own head felt cold, and he thought: "I'm quite bald, while
he has long curly hair." So he put his cap on his own head again.
"It will be better to give him something for his feet," thought he;
and he made the man sit down, and helped him to put on the felt
boots, saying, "There, friend, now move about and warm yourself.
Other matters can be settled later on. Can you walk?"

The man stood up and looked kindly at Simon, but could not say a
word.

"Why don't you speak?" said Simon. "It's too cold to stay here, we
must be getting home. There now, take my stick, and if you're
feeling weak, lean on that. Now step out!"

The man started walking, and moved easily, not lagging behind.

As they went along, Simon asked him, "And where do you belong to?"
"I'm not from these parts."

"I thought as much. I know the folks hereabouts. But, how did you
come to be there by the shrine ?"

"I cannot tell."

"Has some one been ill-treating you?"

"No one has ill-treated me. God has punished me."

"Of course God rules all. Still, you'll have to find food and
shelter somewhere. Where do you want to go to?"

"It is all the same to me."


Simon was amazed. The man did not look like a rogue, and he spoke
gently, but yet he gave no account of himself. Still Simon thought,
"Who knows what may have happened?" And he said to the stranger:
"Well then, come home with me, and at least warm yourself awhile."

So Simon walked towards his home, and the stranger kept up with him,
walking at his side. The wind had risen and Simon felt it cold
under his shirt. He was getting over his tipsiness by now, and
began to feel the frost. He went along sniffling and wrapping his
wife's coat round him, and he thought to himself: "There now--talk
about sheep-skins! I went out for sheep-skins and come home without
even a coat to my back, and what is more, I'm bringing a naked man
along with me. Matryona won't be pleased!" And when he thought of
his wife he felt sad; but when he looked at the stranger and
remembered how he had looked up at him at the shrine, his heart was
glad.


III

Simon's wife had everything ready early that day. She had cut wood,
brought water, fed the children, eaten her own meal, and now she sat
thinking. She wondered when she ought to make bread: now or
tomorrow? There was still a large piece left.

"If Simon has had some dinner in town," thought she, "and does not
eat much for supper, the bread will last out another day."

She weighed the piece of bread in her hand again and again, and
thought: "I won't make any more today. We have only enough flour
left to bake one batch; We can manage to make this last out till
Friday."

So Matryona put away the bread, and sat down at the table to patch
her husband's shirt. While she worked she thought how her husband
was buying skins for a winter coat.

"If only the dealer does not cheat him. My good man is much too
simple; he cheats nobody, but any child can take him in. Eight
roubles is a lot of money--he should get a good coat at that price.
Not tanned skins, but still a proper winter coat. How difficult it
was last winter to get on without a warm coat. I could neither get
down to the river, nor go out anywhere. When he went out he put on
all we had, and there was nothing left for me. He did not start
very early today, but still it's time he was back. I only hope he
has not gone on the spree!"

Hardly had Matryona thought this, when steps were heard on the
threshold, and some one entered. Matryona stuck her needle into her
work and went out into the passage. There she saw two men: Simon,
and with him a man without a hat, and wearing felt boots.

Matryona noticed at once that her husband smelt of spirits. "There
now, he has been drinking," thought she. And when she saw that he
was coatless, had only her jacket on, brought no parcel, stood there
silent, and seemed ashamed, her heart was ready to break with
disappointment. "He has drunk the money," thought she, "and has
been on the spree with some good-for-nothing fellow whom he has
brought home with him."

Matryona let them pass into the hut, followed them in, and saw that
the stranger was a young, slight man, wearing her husband's coat.
There was no shirt to be seen under it, and he had no hat. Having
entered, he stood, neither moving, nor raising his eyes, and
Matryona thought: "He must be a bad man--he's afraid."

Matryona frowned, and stood beside the oven looking to see what they
would do.

Simon took off his cap and sat down on the bench as if things were
all right.

"Come, Matryona; if supper is ready, let us have some."

Matryona muttered something to herself and did not move, but stayed
where she was, by the oven. She looked first at the one and then at
the other of them, and only shook her head. Simon saw that his wife
was annoyed, but tried to pass it off. Pretending not to notice
anything, he took the stranger by the arm.

"Sit down, friend," said he, "and let us have some supper."

The stranger sat down on the bench.

"Haven't you cooked anything for us?" said Simon.

Matryona's anger boiled over. "I've cooked, but not for you. It
seems to me you have drunk your wits away. You went to buy a sheep-
skin coat, but come home without so much as the coat you had on, and
bring a naked vagabond home with you. I have no supper for
drunkards like you."

"That's enough, Matryona. Don't wag your tongue without reason.
You had better ask what sort of man--"

"And you tell me what you've done with the money?"

Simon found the pocket of the jacket, drew out the three-rouble
note, and unfolded it.

"Here is the money. Trifonof did not pay, but promises to pay soon."

Matryona got still more angry; he had bought no sheep-skins, but had
put his only coat on some naked fellow and had even brought him to
their house.

She snatched up the note from the table, took it to put away in
safety, and said: "I have no supper for you. We can't feed all the
naked drunkards in the world."

"There now, Matryona, hold your tongue a bit. First hear what a man
has to say-"

"Much wisdom I shall hear from a drunken fool. I was right in not
wanting to marry you-a drunkard. The linen my mother gave me you
drank; and now you've been to buy a coat-and have drunk it, too!"

Simon tried to explain to his wife that he had only spent twenty
kopeks; tried to tell how he had found the man--but Matryona would
not let him get a word in. She talked nineteen to the dozen, and
dragged in things that had happened ten years before.

Matryona talked and talked, and at last she flew at Simon and seized
him by the sleeve.

"Give me my jacket. It is the only one I have, and you must needs
take it from me and wear it yourself. Give it here, you mangy dog,
and may the devil take you."

Simon began to pull off the jacket, and turned a sleeve of it inside
out; Matryona seized the jacket and it burst its seams, She snatched
it up, threw it over her head and went to the door. She meant to go
out, but stopped undecided--she wanted to work off her anger, but
she also wanted to learn what sort of a man the stranger was.


IV

Matryona stopped and said: "If he were a good man he would not be
naked. Why, he hasn't even a shirt on him. If he were all right,
you would say where you came across the fellow."

"That's just what I am trying to tell you," said Simon. "As I came
to the shrine I saw him sitting all naked and frozen. It isn't
quite the weather to sit about naked! God sent me to him, or he
would have perished. What was I to do? How do we know what may have
happened to him? So I took him, clothed him, and brought him along.
Don't be so angry, Matryona. It is a sin. Remember, we all must
die one day."

Angry words rose to Matryona's lips, but she looked at the stranger
and was silent. He sat on the edge of the bench, motionless, his
hands folded on his knees, his head drooping on his breast, his eyes
closed, and his brows knit as if in pain. Matryona was silent: and
Simon said: "Matryona, have you no love of God?"

Matryona heard these words, and as she looked at the stranger,
suddenly her heart softened towards him. She came back from the
door, and going to the oven she got out the supper. Setting a cup
on the table, she poured out some kvas. Then she brought out the
last piece of bread, and set out a knife and spoons.

"Eat, if you want to," said she.

Simon drew the stranger to the table.

"Take your place, young man," said he.

Simon cut the bread, crumbled it into the broth, and they began to
eat. Matryona sat at the corner of the table resting her head on
her hand and looking at the stranger.

And Matryona was touched with pity for the stranger, and began to
feel fond of him. And at once the stranger's face lit up; his brows
were no longer bent, he raised his eyes and smiled at Matryona.

When they had finished supper, the woman cleared away the things and
began questioning the stranger. "Where are you from?" said she.

"I am not from these parts."

"But how did you come to be on the road?"

"I may not tell."

"Did some one rob you?"

"God punished me."

"And you were lying there naked?"

"Yes, naked and freezing. Simon saw me and had pity on me. He took
off his coat, put it on me and brought me here. And you have fed
me, given me drink, and shown pity on me. God will reward you!"

Matryona rose, took from the window Simon's old shirt she had been
patching, and gave it to the stranger. She also brought out a pair
of trousers for him.

"There," said she, "I see you have no shirt. Put this on, and lie
down where you please, in the loft or on the oven ."

The stranger took off the coat, put on the shirt, and lay down in

the loft. Matryona put out the candle, took the coat, and climbed
to where her husband lay.

Matryona drew the skirts of the coat over her and lay down, but
could not sleep; she could not get the stranger out of her mind.

When she remembered that he had eaten their last piece of bread and
that there was none for tomorrow, and thought of the shirt and
trousers she had given away, she felt grieved; but when she
remembered how he had smiled, her heart was glad.

Long did Matryona lie awake, and she noticed that Simon also was
awake--he drew the coat towards him.

"Simon!"

"Well?"

"You have had the last of the bread, and I have not put any to rise.
I don't know what we shall do tomorrow. Perhaps I can borrow some
of neighbor Martha."

"If we're alive we shall find something to eat."

The woman lay still awhile, and then said, "He seems a good man, but
why does he not tell us who he is?"

"I suppose he has his reasons."

"Simon!"

"Well?"

"We give; but why does nobody give us anything?"

Simon did not know what to say; so he only said, "Let us stop
talking," and turned over and went to sleep.


V

In the morning Simon awoke. The children were still asleep; his
wife had gone to the neighbor's to borrow some bread. The stranger
alone was sitting on the bench, dressed in the old shirt and
trousers, and looking upwards. His face was brighter than it had
been the day before.

Simon said to him, "Well, friend; the belly wants bread, and the naked
body clothes. One has to work for a living What work do you know?"

"I do not know any."

This surprised Simon, but he said, "Men who want to learn can
learn anything."

"Men work, and I will work also."

"What is your name?"

"Michael."

"Well, Michael, if you don't wish to talk about yourself, that is
your own affair; but you'll have to earn a living for yourself. If
you will work as I tell you, I will give you food and shelter."

"May God reward you! I will learn. Show me what to do."

Simon took yarn, put it round his thumb and began to twist it.

"It is easy enough--see!"

Michael watched him, put some yarn round his own thumb in the same
way, caught the knack, and twisted the yarn also.

Then Simon showed him how to wax the thread. This also Michael
mastered. Next Simon showed him how to twist the bristle in, and
how to sew, and this, too, Michael learned at once.

Whatever Simon showed him he understood at once, and after three
days he worked as if he had sewn boots all his life. He worked
without stopping, and ate little. When work was over he sat
silently, looking upwards. He hardly went into the street, spoke
only when necessary, and neither joked nor laughed. They never saw
him smile, except that first evening when Matryona gave them supper.


VI

Day by day and week by week the year went round. Michael lived and
worked with Simon. His fame spread till people said that no one
sewed boots so neatly and strongly as Simon's workman, Michael; and
from all the district round people came to Simon for their boots,
and he began to be well off.

One winter day, as Simon and Michael sat working, a carriage on
sledge-runners, with three horses and with bells, drove up to the
hut. They looked out of the window; the carriage stopped at their
door, a fine servant jumped down from the box and opened the door.
A gentleman in a fur coat got out and walked up to Simon's hut. Up
jumped Matryona and opened the door wide. The gentleman stooped to
enter the hut, and when he drew himself up again his head nearly
reached the ceiling, and he seemed quite to fill his end of the room.

Simon rose, bowed, and looked at the gentleman with astonishment.
He had never seen any one like him. Simon himself was lean, Michael
was thin, and Matryona was dry as a bone, but this man was like some
one from another world: red-faced, burly, with a neck like a bull's,
and looking altogether as if he were cast in iron.

The gentleman puffed, threw off his fur coat, sat down on the bench,
and said, "Which of you is the master bootmaker?"

"I am, your Excellency," said Simon, coming forward.

Then the gentleman shouted to his lad, "Hey, Fedka, bring the leather!"

The servant ran in, bringing a parcel. The gentleman took the
parcel and put it on the table.

"Untie it," said he. The lad untied it.

The gentleman pointed to the leather.

"Look here, shoemaker," said he, "do you see this leather?"

"Yes, your honor."

"But do you know what sort of leather it is?"

Simon felt the leather and said, "It is good leather."

"Good, indeed! Why, you fool, you never saw such leather before in
your life. It's German, and cost twenty roubles."

Simon was frightened, and said, "Where should I ever see leather
like that?"

"Just so! Now, can you make it into boots for me?"

"Yes, your Excellency, I can."

Then the gentleman shouted at him: "You can, can you? Well, remember
whom you are to make them for, and what the leather is. You must
make me boots that will wear for a year, neither losing shape nor
coming unsown. If you can do it, take the leather and cut it up;
but if you can't, say so. I warn you now if your boots become
unsewn or lose shape within a year, I will have you put in prison.
If they don't burst or lose shape for a year I will pay you ten
roubles for your work."

Simon was frightened, and did not know what to say. He glanced at
Michael and nudging him with his elbow, whispered: "Shall I take
the work?"

Michael nodded his head as if to say, "Yes, take it."

Simon did as Michael advised, and undertook to make boots that would
not lose shape or split for a whole year.

Calling his servant, the gentleman told him to pull the boot off his
left leg, which he stretched out.

"Take my measure!" said he.

Simon stitched a paper measure seventeen inches long, smoothed it
out, knelt down, wiped his hand well on his apron so as not to soil
the gentleman's sock, and began to measure. He measured the sole,
and round the instep, and began to measure the calf of the leg, but
the paper was too short. The calf of the leg was as thick as a beam.

"Mind you don't make it too tight in the leg."

Simon stitched on another strip of paper. The gentleman twitched
his toes about in his sock, looking round at those in the hut, and
as he did so he noticed Michael.

"Whom have you there?" asked he.

"That is my workman. He will sew the boots."

"Mind," said the gentleman to Michael, "remember to make them so
that they will last me a year."

Simon also looked at Michael, and saw that Michael was not looking
at the gentleman, but was gazing into the corner behind the
gentleman, as if he saw some one there. Michael looked and looked,
and suddenly he smiled, and his face became brighter.

"What are you grinning at, you fool?" thundered the gentleman.
"You had better look to it that the boots are ready in time."

"They shall be ready in good time," said Michael.

"Mind it is so," said the gentleman, and he put on his boots and his
fur coat, wrapped the latter round him, and went to the door. But
he forgot to stoop, and struck his head against the lintel.

He swore and rubbed his head. Then he took his seat in the carriage
and drove away.

When he had gone, Simon said: "There's a figure of a man for you!
You could not kill him with a mallet. He almost knocked out the
lintel, but little harm it did him."

And Matryona said: "Living as he does, how should he not grow
strong? Death itself can't touch such a rock as that."


VII

Then Simon said to Michael: "Well, we have taken the work, but we
must see we don't get into trouble over it. The leather is dear,
and the gentleman hot-tempered. We must make no mistakes. Come,
your eye is truer and your hands have become nimbler than mine, so
you take this measure and cut out the boots. I will finish off the
sewing of the vamps."

Michael did as he was told. He took the leather, spread it out on
the table, folded it in two, took a knife and began to cut out.

Matryona came and watched him cutting, and was surprised to see how
he was doing it. Matryona was accustomed to seeing boots made, and
she looked and saw that Michael was not cutting the leather for
boots, but was cutting it round.

She wished to say something, but she thought to herself: "Perhaps I
do not understand how gentleman's boots should be made. I suppose
Michael knows more about it--and I won't interfere."

When Michael had cut up the leather, he took a thread and began to
sew not with two ends, as boots are sewn, but with a single end, as
for soft slippers.

Again Matryona wondered, but again she did not interfere. Michael
sewed on steadily till noon. Then Simon rose for dinner, looked
around, and saw that Michael had made slippers out of the
gentleman's leather.

"Ah," groaned Simon, and he thought, "How is it that Michael, who
has been with me a whole year and never made a mistake before,
should do such a dreadful thing? The gentleman ordered high boots,
welted, with whole fronts, and Michael has made soft slippers with
single soles, and has wasted the leather. What am I to say to the
gentleman? I can never replace leather such as this."

And he said to Michael, "What are you doing, friend? You have ruined me!
You know the gentleman ordered high boots, but see what you have made!"

Hardly had he begun to rebuke Michael, when "rat-tat" went the iron
ring that hung at the door. Some one was knocking. They looked out
of the window; a man had come on horseback, and was fastening his
horse. They opened the door, and the servant who had been with the
gentleman came in.

"Good day," said he.

Good day," replied Simon. "What can we do for you?"

"My mistress has sent me about the boots."

"What about the boots?"

"Why, my master no longer needs them. He is dead."

"Is it possible?"

"He did not live to get home after leaving you, but died in the
carriage. When we reached home and the servants came to help him
alight, he rolled over like a sack. He was dead already, and so
stiff that he could hardly be got out of the carriage. My mistress
sent me here, saying: 'Tell the bootmaker that the gentleman who
ordered boots of him and left the leather for them no longer needs
the boots, but that he must quickly make soft slippers for the
corpse. Wait till they are ready, and bring them back with you.'
That is why I have come."

Michael gathered up the remnants of the leather; rolled them up,
took the soft slippers he had made, slapped them together, wiped
them down with his apron, and handed them and the roll of leather to
the servant, who took them and said: "Good-bye, masters, and good
day to you!"


VIII

Another year passed, and another, and Michael was now living his
sixth year with Simon. He lived as before. He went nowhere, only
spoke when necessary, and had only smiled twice in all those years--
once when Matryona gave him food, and a second time when the
gentleman was in their hut. Simon was more than pleased with his
workman. He never now asked him where he came from, and only feared
lest Michael should go away.

They were all at home one day. Matryona was putting iron pots in
the oven; the children were running along the benches and looking
out of the window; Simon was sewing at one window, and Michael was
fastening on a heel at the other.

One of the boys ran along the bench to Michael, leant on his
shoulder, and looked out of the window.

"Look, Uncle Michael! There is a lady with little girls! She seems
to be coming here. And one of the girls is lame."

When the boy said that, Michael dropped his work, turned to the
window, and looked out into the street.

Simon was surprised. Michael never used to look out into the
street, but now he pressed against the window, staring at something.
Simon also looked out, and saw that a well-dressed woman was really
coming to his hut, leading by the hand two little girls in fur coats
and woolen shawls. The girls could hardly be told one from the
other, except that one of them was crippled in her left leg and
walked with a limp.

The woman stepped into the porch and entered the passage. Feeling
about for the entrance she found the latch, which she lifted, and
opened the door. She let the two girls go in first, and followed
them into the hut.

"Good day, good folk!"

"Pray come in," said Simon. "What can we do for you?"

The woman sat down by the table. The two little girls pressed close
to her knees, afraid of the people in the hut.

"I want leather shoes made for these two little girls for spring."

"We can do that. We never have made such small shoes, but we can
make them; either welted or turnover shoes, linen lined. My man,
Michael, is a master at the work."

Simon glanced at Michael and saw that he had left his work and was
sitting with his eyes fixed on the little girls. Simon was
surprised. It was true the girls were pretty, with black eyes,
plump, and rosy-cheeked, and they wore nice kerchiefs and fur coats,
but still Simon could not understand why Michael should look at them
like that--just as if he had known them before. He was puzzled,
but went on talking with the woman, and arranging the price. Having
fixed it, he prepared the measure. The woman lifted the lame girl
on to her lap and said: "Take two measures from this little girl.
Make one shoe for the lame foot and three for the sound one. They
both have the same size feet. They are twins."

Simon took the measure and, speaking of the lame girl, said: "How
did it happen to her? She is such a pretty girl. Was she born so?"

"No, her mother crushed her leg."

Then Matryona joined in. She wondered who this woman was, and whose
the children were, so she said: "Are not you their mother then?"

"No, my good woman; I am neither their mother nor any relation to
them. They were quite strangers to me, but I adopted them."

"They are not your children and yet you are so fond of them?"

"How can I help being fond of them? I fed them both at my own
breasts. I had a child of my own, but God took him. I was not so
fond of him as I now am of them."

"Then whose children are they?"


IX

The woman, having begun talking, told them the whole story.

"It is about six years since their parents died, both in one week:
their father was buried on the Tuesday, and their mother died on the
Friday. These orphans were born three days after their father's
death, and their mother did not live another day. My husband and I
were then living as peasants in the village. We were neighbors of
theirs, our yard being next to theirs. Their father was a lonely
man; a wood-cutter in the forest. When felling trees one day, they
let one fall on him. It fell across his body and crushed his bowels
out. They hardly got him home before his soul went to God; and that
same week his wife gave birth to twins--these little girls. She
was poor and alone; she had no one, young or old, with her. Alone
she gave them birth, and alone she met her death."

"The next morning I went to see her, but when I entered the hut,
she, poor thing, was already stark and cold. In dying she had
rolled on to this child and crushed her leg. The village folk came
to the hut, washed the body, laid her out, made a coffin, and buried
her. They were good folk. The babies were left alone. What was to
be done with them? I was the only woman there who had a baby at the
time. I was nursing my first-born--eight weeks old. So I took
them for a time. The peasants came together, and thought and
thought what to do with them; and at last they said to me: "For the
present, Mary, you had better keep the girls, and later on we will
arrange what to do for them." So I nursed the sound one at my
breast, but at first I did not feed this crippled one. I did not
suppose she would live. But then I thought to myself, why should
the poor innocent suffer? I pitied her, and began to feed her. And
so I fed my own boy and these two--the three of them--at my own
breast. I was young and strong, and had good food, and God gave me
so much milk that at times it even overflowed. I used sometimes to
feed two at a time, while the third was waiting. When one had
enough I nursed the third. And God so ordered it that these grew
up, while my own was buried before he was two years old. And I had
no more children, though we prospered. Now my husband is working
for the corn merchant at the mill. The pay is good, and we are well
off. But I have no children of my own, and how lonely I should be
without these little girls! How can I help loving them! They are the
joy of my life!"

She pressed the lame little girl to her with one hand, while with
the other she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

And Matryona sighed, and said: "The proverb is true that says, 'One
may live without father or mother, but one cannot live without God.'"

So they talked together, when suddenly the whole hut was lighted up
as though by summer lightning from the corner where Michael sat.
They all looked towards him and saw him sitting, his hands folded on
his knees, gazing upwards and smiling.


X

The woman went away with the girls. Michael rose from the bench,
put down his work, and took off his apron. Then, bowing low to
Simon and his wife, he said: "Farewell, masters. God has forgiven
me. I ask your forgiveness, too, for anything done amiss."

And they saw that a light shone from Michael. And Simon rose, bowed
down to Michael, and said: "I see, Michael, that you are no common
man, and I can neither keep you nor question you. Only tell me
this: how is it that when I found you and brought you home, you were
gloomy, and when my wife gave you food you smiled at her and became
brighter? Then when the gentleman came to order the boots, you
smiled again and became brighter still? And now, when this woman
brought the little girls, you smiled a third time, and have become
as bright as day? Tell me, Michael, why does your face shine so, and
why did you smile those three times?"

And Michael answered: "Light shines from me because I have been
punished, but now God has pardoned me. And I smiled three times,
because God sent me to learn three truths, and I have learnt them.
One I learnt when your wife pitied me, and that is why I smiled the
first time. The second I learnt when the rich man ordered the boots,
and then I smiled again. And now, when I saw those little girls,
I learn the third and last truth, and I smiled the third time."

And Simon said, "Tell me, Michael, what did God punish you for? and
what were the three truths? that I, too, may know them."

And Michael answered: "God punished me for disobeying Him. I was an
angel in heaven and disobeyed God. God sent me to fetch a woman's
soul. I flew to earth, and saw a sick woman lying alone, who had
just given birth to twin girls. They moved feebly at their mother's
side, but she could not lift them to her breast. When she saw me,
she understood that God had sent me for her soul, and she wept and
said: 'Angel of God! My husband has just been buried, killed by a
falling tree. I have neither sister, nor aunt, nor mother: no one
to care for my orphans. Do not take my soul! Let me nurse my babes,
feed them, and set them on their feet before I die. Children cannot
live without father or mother.' And I hearkened to her. I placed
one child at her breast and gave the other into her arms, and
returned to the Lord in heaven. I flew to the Lord, and said: 'I
could not take the soul of the mother. Her husband was killed by a
tree; the woman has twins, and prays that her soul may not be taken.
She says: "Let me nurse and feed my children, and set them on their
feet. Children cannot live without father or mother." I have not
taken her soul.' And God said: 'Go-take the mother's soul, and learn
three truths: Learn What dwells in man, What is not given to man,
and What men live by. When thou has learnt these things, thou shalt
return to heaven.' So I flew again to earth and took the mother's
soul. The babes dropped from her breasts. Her body rolled over on
the bed and crushed one babe, twisting its leg. I rose above the
village, wishing to take her soul to God; but a wind seized me, and
my wings drooped and dropped off. Her soul rose alone to God, while
I fell to earth by the roadside."


XI

And Simon and Matryona understood who it was that had lived with
them, and whom they had clothed and fed. And they wept with awe and
with joy. And the angel said: "I was alone in the field, naked. I
had never known human needs, cold and hunger, till I became a man.
I was famished, frozen, and did not know what to do. I saw, near
the field I was in, a shrine built for God, and I went to it hoping
to find shelter. But the shrine was locked, and I could not enter.
So I sat down behind the shrine to shelter myself at least from the
wind. Evening drew on. I was hungry, frozen, and in pain.
Suddenly I heard a man coming along the road. He carried a pair of
boots, and was talking to himself. For the first time since I
became a man I saw the mortal face of a man, and his face seemed
terrible to me and I turned from it. And I heard the man talking to
himself of how to cover his body from the cold in winter, and how to
feed wife and children. And I thought: "I am perishing of cold and
hunger, and here is a man thinking only of how to clothe himself and
his wife, and how to get bread for themselves. He cannot help me.
When the man saw me he frowned and became still more terrible, and
passed me by on the other side. I despaired; but suddenly I heard
him coming back. I looked up, and did not recognize the same man;
before, I had seen death in his face; but now he was alive, and I
recognized in him the presence of God. He came up to me, clothed
me, took me with him, and brought me to his home. I entered the
house; a woman came to meet us and began to speak. The woman was
still more terrible than the man had been; the spirit of death came
from her mouth; I could not breathe for the stench of death that
spread around her. She wished to drive me out into the cold, and I
knew that if she did so she would die. Suddenly her husband spoke
to her of God, and the woman changed at once. And when she brought
me food and looked at me, I glanced at her and saw that death no
longer dwelt in her; she had become alive, and in her, too, I saw God.

"Then I remembered the first lesson God had set me: 'Learn what
dwells in man.' And I understood that in man dwells Love! I was glad
that God had already begun to show me what He had promised, and I
smiled for the first time. But I had not yet learnt all. I did not
yet know What is not given to man, and What men live by.

"I lived with you, and a year passed. A man came to order boots
that should wear for a year without losing shape or cracking. I
looked at him, and suddenly, behind his shoulder, I saw my comrade--
the angel of death. None but me saw that angel; but I knew him, and
knew that before the sun set he would take that rich man's soul.
And I thought to myself, 'The man is making preparations for a year,
and does not know that he will die before evening.' And I remembered
God's second saying, 'Learn what is not given to man.'

"What dwells in man I already knew. Now I learnt what is not given
him. It is not given to man to know his own needs. And I smiled
for the second time. I was glad to have seen my comrade angel--
glad also that God had revealed to me the second saying.

"But I still did not know all. I did not know What men live by.
And I lived on, waiting till God should reveal to me the last
lesson. In the sixth year came the girl-twins with the woman; and I
recognized the girls, and heard how they had been kept alive.
Having heard the story, I thought, 'Their mother besought me for the
children's sake, and I believed her when she said that children
cannot live without father or mother; but a stranger has nursed
them, and has brought them up.' And when the woman showed her love
for the children that were not her own, and wept over them, I saw in
her the living God and understood What men live by. And I knew that
God had revealed to me the last lesson, and had forgiven my sin.
And then I smiled for the third time."


XII

And the angel's body was bared, and he was clothed in light so that
eye could not look on him; and his voice grew louder, as though it
came not from him but from heaven above. And the angel said:

"I have learnt that all men live not by care for themselves but by love.

"It was not given to the mother to know what her children needed for
their life. Nor was it given to the rich man to know what he himself
needed. Nor is it given to any man to know whether, when evening
comes, he will need boots for his body or slippers for his corpse.

"I remained alive when I was a man, not by care of myself, but
because love was present in a passer-by, and because he and his wife
pitied and loved me. The orphans remained alive not because of
their mother's care, but because there was love in the heart of a
woman, a stranger to them, who pitied and loved them. And all men
live not by the thought they spend on their own welfare, but because
love exists in man.

"I knew before that God gave life to men and desires that they
should live; now I understood more than that.

"I understood that God does not wish men to live apart, and
therefore he does not reveal to them what each one needs for
himself; but he wishes them to live united, and therefore reveals to
each of them what is necessary for all.

"I have now understood that though it seems to men that they live by
care for themselves, in truth it is love alone by which they live.
He who has love, is in God, and God is in him, for God is love."

And the angel sang praise to God, so that the hut trembled at his
voice. The roof opened, and a column of fire rose from earth to
heaven. Simon and his wife and children fell to the ground. Wings
appeared upon the angel's shoulders, and he rose into the heavens.

And when Simon came to himself the hut stood as before, and there
was no one in it but his own family.

Two Old Men : Leo Tolstoy Short Stories

THERE were once two old men who decided to go on a pilgrimage to worship God at Jerusalem. One of them was a well-to-do peasant named Efím Tarásitch Shevélef. The other, Elisha Bódrof, was not so well off.

Efím was a staid man, serious and firm. He neither drank nor smoked nor took snuff, and had never used bad language in his life. He had twice served as village Elder, and when he left office his accounts were in good order. He had a large family: two sons and a married grandson, all living with him. He was hale, long-bearded and erect, and it was only when he was past sixty that a little grey began to show itself in his beard.

Elisha was neither rich nor poor. He had formerly gone out carpentering, but now that he was growing old he stayed at home and kept bees. One of his sons had gone away to find work, the other was living at home. Elisha was a kindly and cheerful old man. It is true he drank sometimes, and he took snuff, and was fond of singing, but he was a peaceable man, and lived on good terms with his family and with his neighbours. He was short and dark, with a curly beard, and, like his patron saint Elisha, he was quite bald-headed.

The two old men had taken a vow long since and had arranged to go on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem together: but Efím could never spare the time; he always had so much business on hand; as soon as one thing was finished he started another. First he had to arrange his grandson's marriage; then to wait for his youngest son's return from the army, and after that he began building a new hut.

One holiday the two old men met outside the hut and, sitting down on some timber, began to talk.

'Well,' asked Elisha, 'when are we to fulfil our vow?'

Efím made a wry face.

'We must wait,' he said. 'This year has turned out a hard one for me. I started building this hut thinking it would cost me something over a hundred roubles, but now it's getting on for three hundred and it's still not finished. We shall have to wait tin the summer. In summer, God willing, we will go without fail.'

'It seems to me we ought not to put it off, but should go at once,' said Elisha. 'Spring is the best time.'

'The time's right enough, but what about my building? How can I leave that?'

'As if you had no one to leave in charge! Your son can look after it.'

'But how? My eldest son is not trustworthy -- he sometimes takes a glass too much.'

'Ah, neighbour, when we die they'll get on without us. Let your son begin now to get some experience.'

'That's true enough, but somehow when one begins a thing one likes to see it done.'

'Eh, friend, we can never get through all we have to do. The other day the women-folk at home were washing and house cleaning for Easter. Here something needed doing, there something else, and they could not get everything done. So my eldest daughter-in-law, who's a sensible woman, says: 'We may be thankful the holiday comes without waiting for us, or however hard we worked we should never be ready for it.'

Efím became thoughtful.

'I've spent a lot of money on this building,' he said 'and one can't start on the journey with empty pockets. We shall want a hundred roubles apiece -- and it's no small sum.'

Elisha laughed.

'Now, come, come, old friend!' he said, 'you have ten times as much as I, and yet you talk about money. Only say when we are to start, and though I have nothing now I shall have enough by then.'

Efím also smiled.

'Dear me, I did not know you were so rich!' said he. 'Why, where will you get it from?'

'I can scrape some together at home, and if that's not enough, I'll sell half a score of hives to my neighbour. He's long been wanting to buy them.'

'If they swarm well this year, you'll regret it.'

'Regret it! Not I, neighbour! I never regretted anything in my life, except my sins. There's nothing more precious than the soul.'

'That's so; still it's not right to neglect things at home.'

'But what if our souls are neglected? That's worse. We took the vow, so let us go! Now, seriously, let us go!'


II


Elisha succeeded in persuading his comrade. In the morning, after thinking it well over, Efím came to Elisha.

'You are right,' said he, 'let us go. Life and death are in God's hands. We must go now, while we are still alive and have the strength.'

A week later the old men were ready to start. Efím had money enough at hand. He took a hundred roubles himself, and left two hundred with his wife.

Elisha, too, got ready. He sold ten hives to his neighbour, with any new swarms that might come from them before the summer. He took seventy roubles for the lot. The rest of the hundred roubles he scraped together from the other members of his household, fairly clearing them all out. His wife gave him all she had been saving up for her funeral; and his daughter-in-law also gave him what she had.

Efím gave his eldest son definite orders about every thing: when and how much grass to mow, where to cart the manure, and how to finish off and roof the cottage. He thought out everything, and gave his orders accordingly. Elisha, on the other hand, only explained to his wife that she was to keep separate the swarms from the hives he had sold, and to be sure to let the neighbour have them all, without any tricks. As to household affairs, he did not even mention them.

'You will see what to do and how to do it, as the needs arise,' he said. 'You are the masters, and will know how to do what's best for yourselves.'

So the old men got ready. Their people baked them cakes, and made bags for them, and cut them linen for leg-bands (Worn by Russian peasants instead of stockings) They put on new leather shoes, and took with them spare shoes of platted bark. Their families went with them to the end of the village and there took leave of them, and the old men started on their pilgrimage.

Elisha left home in a cheerful mood, and as soon as he was out of the village forgot all his home affairs. His only care was how to please his comrade, how to avoid saying a rude word to any one, how to get to his destination and home again in peace and love. Walking along the road, Elisha would either whisper some prayer to himself or go over in his mind such of the lives of the saints as he was able to remember. When he came across any one on the road, or turned in anywhere for the night, he tried to behave as gently as possible and to say a godly word. So he journeyed on, rejoicing. One thing only he could not do, he could not give up taking snuff. Though he had left his snuff-box behind, he hankered after it. Then a man he met on the road gave him some snuff; and every now and then he would lag behind (not to lead his comrade into temptation) and would take a pinch of snuff.

Efím too walked well and firmly; doing no wrong and speaking no vain words, but his heart was not so light. Household cares weighed on his mind. He kept worrying about what was going on at home. Had he not forgotten to give his son this or that order? Would his son do things properly? If he happened to see potatoes being planted or manure carted, as he went along, he wondered if his son was doing as he had been told. And he almost wanted to turn back and show him how to do things, or even do them himself.


III


The old men had been walking for five weeks, they had worn out their home-made bark shoes, and had to begin buying new ones when they reached Little Russia (Little Russia is situated in the south-western part of Russia, and consists of the Governments of Kief, Poltava, Tchernigof, and part of Kharkof and Kherson) From the time they left home they had had to pay for their food and for their night's lodging, but when they reached Little Russia the people vied with one another in asking them into their huts. They took them in and fed them, and would accept no payment; and more than that, they put bread or even cakes into their bags for them to eat on the road.

The old men travelled some five hundred miles in this manner free of expense, but after they had crossed the next province, they came to a district where the harvest had failed. The peasants still gave them free lodging at night, but no longer fed them for nothing. Sometimes, even, they could get no bread: they offered to pay for it, but there was none to be had. The people said the harvest had completely failed the year before. Those who had been rich were ruined and had had to sell all they possessed; those of moderate means were left destitute, and those of the poor who had not left those parts, wandered about begging, or starved at home in utter want. In the winter they had had to eat husks and goosefoot.

One night the old men stopped in a small village; they bought fifteen pounds of bread, slept there, and started before sunrise, to get well on their way before the heat of the day. When they had gone some eight miles, on coming to a stream they sat down, and, filling a bowl with water, they steeped some bread in it, and ate it. Then they changed their leg-bands, and rested for a while. Elisha took out his snuff-box. Efím shook his head at him.

'How is it you don't give up that nasty habit?' said he.

Elisha waved his hand. 'The evil habit is stronger than I,' he said.

Presently they got up and went on. After walking for nearly another eight miles, they came to a large village and passed right through it. It had now grown hot. Elisha was tired out and wanted to rest and have a drink, but Efím did not stop. Efím was the better walker of the two, and Elisha found it hard to keep up with him.

'If I could only have a drink,' said he.

'Well, have a drink,' said Efím. 'I don't want any.'

Elisha stopped.

'You go on,' he said, 'but I'll just run in to the little hut there. I will catch you up in a moment.'

'All right,' said Efím, and he went on along the high road alone, while Elisha turned back to the hut.

It was a small hut plastered with clay, the bottom a dark colour, the top whitewashed; but the clay had crumbled away. Evidently it was long since it had been re-plastered, and the thatch was off the roof on one side. The entrance to the hut was through the yard. Elisha entered the yard, and saw, lying close to a bank of earth that ran round the hut, a gaunt, beardless man with his shirt tucked into his trousers, as is the custom in Little Russia (In Great Russia the peasants let their shirt hang outside their trousers). The man must have lain down in the shade, but the sun had come round and now shone full on him. Though not asleep, he still lay there. Elisha called to him, and asked for a drink, but the man gave no answer.

'He is either ill or unfriendly,' thought Elisha; and going to the door he heard a child crying in the hut. He took hold of the ring that served as a door-handle, and knocked with it.

'Hey, masters!' he called. No answer. He knocked again with his staff.

'Hey, Christians!' Nothing stirred.

'Hey, servants of God!' Still no reply.

Elisha was about to turn away, when he thought ho heard a groan the other side of the door.

'Dear me, some misfortune must have happened to the people? I had better have a look.'

And Elisha entered the hut.


IV


Elisha turned the ring; the door was not fastened. He opened it and went along up the narrow passage. The door into the dwelling-room was open. To the left was a brick oven; in front against the wall was an icon-stand (An icon (properly ikón) is a representation of God, Christ, an angel, or a saint, usually painted, enamelled, or embossed) and a table before it, by the table was a bench on which sat an old woman, bareheaded and wearing only a single garment. There she sat with her head resting on the table, and near her was a thin, wax-coloured boy, with a protruding stomach. He was asking for something, pulling at her sleeve, and crying bitterly. Elisha entered. The air in the hut was very foul. He looked round, and saw a woman lying on the floor behind the oven: she lay flat on the ground with her eyes closed and her throat rattling, now stretching out a leg, now dragging it in, tossing from side to side; and the foul smell came from her. Evidently she could do nothing for herself and no one had been attending to her needs. The old woman lifted her head, and saw the stranger.

'What do you want?' said she.' What do you want man? We have nothing.'

Elisha understood her, though she spoke in the Little-Russian dialect.

'I came in for a drink of water, servant of God,' he said.

'There's no one -- no one -- we have nothing to fetch it in. Go your way.'

Then Elisha asked:

'Is there no one among you, then, well enough to attend to that woman?'

'No, we have no one. My son is dying outside, and we are dying in here.'

The little boy had ceased crying when he saw the stranger, but when the old woman began to speak, he began again, and clutching hold of her sleeve cried:

'Bread, Granny, bread.'

Elisha was about to question the old woman, when the man staggered into the hut. He came along the passage, clinging to the wall, but as he was entering the dwelling-room he fell in the corner near the threshold, and without trying to get up again to reach the bench, he began to speak in broken words. He brought out a word at a time, stopping to draw breath, and gasping.

'Illness has seized us . . . ,' said he, 'and famine. He is dying . . . of hunger.'

And he motioned towards the boy, and began to sob.

Elisha jerked up the sack behind his shoulder and pulling the straps off his arms, put it on the floor. Then he lifted it on to the bench, and untied the strings. Having opened the sack, he took out a loaf of bread, and, cutting off a piece with his knife, handed it to the man. The man would not take it, but pointed to the little boy and to a little girl crouching behind the oven, as if to say:

'Give it to them.'

Elisha held it out to the boy. When the boy smelt bread, he stretched out his arms, and seizing the slice with both his little hands, bit into it so that his nose disappeared in the chunk. The little girl came out from behind the oven and fixed her eyes on the bread. Elisha gave her also a slice. Then he cut off another piece and gave it to the old woman, and she too began munching it.

'If only some water could be brought,' she said, 'their mouths are parched. I tried to fetch some water yesterday -- or was it to-day -- I can't remember, but I fell down and could go no further, and the pail has remained there, unless some one has taken it.'

Elisha asked where the well was. The old woman told him. Elisha went out, found the pail, brought some water, and gave the people a drink. The children and the old woman ate some more bread with the water, but the man would not eat.

'I cannot eat,' he said.

All this time the younger woman did not show any consciousness, but continued to toss from side to side. Presently Elisha went to the village shop and bought some millet, salt, flour, and oil. He found an axe, chopped some wood, and made a fire. The little girl came and helped him. Then he boiled some soup, and gave the starving people a meal.


The man ate a little, the old woman had some too, and the little girl and boy licked the bowl clean, and then curled up and fell fast asleep in one another's arms.

The man and the old woman then began telling Elisha how they had sunk to their present state.

'We were poor enough before?' said they, 'but when the crops failed, what we gathered hardly lasted us through the autumn. We had nothing left by the time winter came, and had to beg from the neighbours and from any one we could. At first they gave, then they began to refuse. Some would have been glad enough to help us, but had nothing to give. And we were ashamed of asking: we were in debt all round, and owed money, and flour, and bread.'

'I went to look for work,' the man said, 'but could find none. Everywhere people were offering to work merely for their own keep. One day you'd get a short job, and then you might spend two days looking for work. Then the old woman and the girl went begging, further away. But they got very little; bread was so scarce. Still we scraped food together somehow, and hoped to struggle through till next harvest, but towards spring people ceased to give anything. And then this illness seized us. Things became worse and worse. One day we might have something to eat, and then nothing for two days. We began eating grass. Whether it was the grass, or what, made my wife ill, I don't know. She could not keep on her legs, and I had no strength left, and there was nothing to help us to recovery.'

'I struggled on alone for a while,' said the old woman, 'but at last I broke down too for want of food, and grew quite weak. The girl also grew weak and timid. I told her to go to the neighbours -- she would not leave the hut, but crept into a corner and sat there. The day before yesterday a neighbour looked in, but seeing that we were ill and hungry she turned away and left us. Her husband has had to go away, and she has nothing for her own little ones to eat. And so we lay, waiting for death.'

Having heard their story, Elisha gave up the thought of overtaking his comrade that day, and remained with them all night. In the morning he got up and began doing the housework, just as if it were his own home. He kneaded the bread with the old woman's help, and lit the fire. Then he went with the little girl to the neighbours to get the most necessary things, for there was nothing in the hut: everything had been sold for bread -- cooking utensils, clothing, and all. So Elisha began replacing what was necessary, making some things himself, and buying some. He remained there one day, then another, and then a third. The little boy picked up strength and, whenever Elisha sat down, crept along the bench and nestled up to him. The little girl brightened up and helped in all the work, running after Elisha and calling,

'Daddy, daddy.'

The old woman grew stronger, and managed to go out to see a neighbour. The man too improved, and was able to get about, holding on to the wall. Only the wife could not get up, but even she regained consciousness on the third day, and asked for food.

'Well,' thought Elisha, 'I never expected to waste so much time on the way. Now I must be getting on.'


VI


The fourth day was the feast day after the summer fast, and Elisha thought:

'I will stay and break the fast with these people. I'll go and buy them something, and keep the feast with them, and to-morrow evening I will start.'

So Elisha went into the village, bought milk, wheat-flour and dripping, and helped the old woman to boil and bake for the morrow. On the feast day Elisha went to church, and then broke the fast with his friends at the hut. That day the wife got up, and managed to move about a bit. The husband had shaved and put on a clean shirt, which the old woman had washed for him; and he went to beg for mercy of a rich peasant in the village to whom his ploughland and meadow were mortgaged. He went to beg the rich peasant to grant him the use of the meadow and field till after the harvest; but in the evening he came back very sad, and began to weep. The rich peasant had shown no mercy, but had said: 'Bring me the money.'

Elisha again grew thoughtful. 'How are they to live now?' thought he to himself. 'Other people will go haymaking, but there will be nothing for these to mow, their grass land is mortgaged. The rye will ripen. Others will reap (and what a fine crop mother-earth is giving this year), but they have nothing to look forward to. Their three acres are pledged to the rich peasant. When I am gone, they'll drift back into the state I found them in.'

Elisha was in two minds, but finally decided not to leave that evening, but to wait until the morrow. He went out into the yard to sleep. He said his prayers, and lay down; but he could not sleep. On the one hand he felt he ought to be going, for he had spent too much time and money as it was; on the other hand he felt sorry for the people.

'There seems to be no end to it, he said. 'First I only meant to bring them a little water and give them each a slice of bread: and just see where it has landed me. It's a case of redeeming the meadow and the cornfield. And when I have done that, I shall have to buy a cow for them, and a horse for the man to cart his sheaves. A nice coil you've got yourself into, brother Elisha! You've slipped your cables and lost your reckoning!'

Elisha got up, lifted his coat which he had been using for a pillow, unfolded it, got out his snuff-box and took a pinch, thinking that it might perhaps clear his thoughts.

But no! He thought and thought, and came to no conclusion. He ought to be going; and yet pity held him back. He did not know what to do. He refolded his coat and put it under his head again. He lay thus for a long time, till the cocks had already crowed once: then he was quite drowsy. And suddenly it seemed as if some one had roused him. He saw that he was dressed for the journey, with the sack on his back and the staff in his hand, and the gate stood ajar so that he could just squeeze through. He was about to pass out, when his sack caught against the fence on one side: he tried to free it, but then his leg-band caught on the other side and came undone. He pulled at the sack, and saw that it had not caught on the fence, but that the little girl was holding it and crying,

'Bread, daddy, bread!'

He looked at his foot, and there was the tiny boy holding him by the leg-band, while the master of the hut and the old woman were looking at him through the window.

Elisha awoke, and said to himself in an audible voice:

'To-morrow I will redeem their cornfield, and will buy them a horse, and flour to last till the harvest, and a cow for the little ones; or else while I go to seek the Lord beyond the sea, I may lose Him in myself.'

Then Elisha fell asleep, and slept till morning. He awoke early, and going to the rich peasant, redeemed both the cornfield and the meadow land. He bought a scythe (for that also had been sold) and brought it back with him. Then he sent the man to mow, and himself went into the village. He heard that there was a horse and cart for sale at the public-house, and he struck a bargain with the owner, and bought them. Then he bought a sack of flour, put it in the cart, and went to see about a cow. As he was going along he overtook two women talking as they went. Though they spake the Little-Russian dialect, he understood what they were saying.

'At first, it seems, they did not know him; they thought he was just an ordinary man. He came in to ask for a drink of water, and then he remained. Just think of the things he has bought for them! Why they say he bought a horse and cart for them at the publican's, only this morning! There are not many such men in the world. It's worth while going to have a look at him.'

Elisha heard and understood that he was being praised, and he did not go to buy the cow, but returned to the inn, paid for the horse, harnessed it, drove up to the hut, and got out. The people in the hut were astonished when they saw the horse. They thought it might be for them, but dared not ask. The man came out to open the gate.

'Where did you get a horse from, grandfather,' he asked.

'Why, I bought it,' said Elisha. 'It was going cheap. Go and cut some grass and put it in the manger for it to eat during the night. And take in the sack.'

The man unharnessed the horse, and carried the sack into the barn. Then he mowed some grass and put it in the manger. Everybody lay down to sleep. Elisha went outside and lay by the roadside. That evening he took his bag out with him. When every one was asleep, he got up, packed and fastened his bag, wrapped the linen bands round his legs, put on his shoes and coat, and set off to follow Efím.


VII


When Elisha had walked rather more than three miles it began to grow light. He sat down under a tree, opened his bag, counted his money, and found he had only seventeen roubles and twenty kopeks left.

'Well,' thought he, 'it is no use trying to cross the sea with this. If I beg my way it may be worse than not going at all. Friend Efím will get to Jerusalem without me, and will place a candle at the shrines in my name. As for me, I'm afraid I shall never fulfil my vow in this life. I must be thankful it was made to a merciful Master, and to one who pardons sinners.'

Elisha rose, jerked his bag well up on his shoulders, and turned back. Not wishing to be recognized by any one, he made a circuit to avoid the village, and walked briskly homeward. Coming from home the way had seemed difficult to him, and he had found it hard to keep up with Efím, but now on his return journey, God helped him to get over the ground so that he hardly felt fatigue. Walking seemed like child's play. He went along swinging his staff, and did his forty to fifty miles a day.

When Elisha reached home the harvest was over. His family were delighted to see him again, and all wanted to know what had happened: Why and how he had been left behind? And why he had returned without reaching Jerusalem? But Elisha did not tell them.

'It was not God's will that I should get there,' said he. 'I lost my money on the way, and lagged behind my companion. Forgive me, for the Lord's sake!'

Elisha gave his old wife what money he had left. Then he questioned them about home affairs. Everything was going on well; all the work had been done, nothing neglected, and all were living in peace and concord.

Efím's family heard of his return the same day, and came for news of their old man; and to them Elisha gave the same answers.

'Efím is a fast walker. We parted three days before St. Peter's day, and I meant to catch him up again, but all sorts of things happened. I lost my money, and had no means to get any further, so I turned back.'

The folks were astonished that so sensible a man should have acted so foolishly: should have started and not got to his destination, and should have squandered all his money. They wondered at it for a while, and then forgot all about it, and Elisha forgot it too. He set to work again on his homestead. With his son's help he cut wood for fuel for the winter. He and the women threshed the corn. Then he mended the thatch on the outhouses, put the bees under cover, and handed over to his neighbour the ten hives he had sold him in spring, and all the swarms that had come from them. His wife tried not to tell how many swarms there had been from these hives, but Elisha knew well enough from which there had been swarms and from which not. And instead of ten, he handed over seventeen swarms to his neighbour. Having got everything ready for the winter, Elisha sent his son away to find work, while he himself took to platting shoes of bark, and hollowing out logs for hives.


VIII


All that day while Elisha stopped behind in the hut with the sick people, Efím waited for him. He only went on a little way before he sat down. He waited and waited, had a nap, woke up again, and again sat waiting; but his comrade did not come. He gazed till his eyes ached. The sun was already sinking behind a tree, and still no Elisha was to be seen.

'Perhaps he has passed me,' thought Efím, 'or perhaps some one gave him a lift and he drove by while I slept, and did not see me. But how could he help seeing me? One can see so far here in the steppe. Shall I go back? Suppose he is on in front, we shall then miss each other completely and it will be still worse. I had better go on, and we shall be sure to meet where we put up for the night.'

He came to a village, and told the watchman, if an old man of a certain description came along, to bring him to the hut where Efím stopped. But Elisha did not turn up that night. Efím went on, asking all he met whether they had not seen a little, bald-headed, old man? No one had seen such a traveller. Efím wondered, but went on alone, saying:

'We shall be sure to meet in Odessa, or on board the ship,' and he did not trouble more about it.

On the way, he came across a pilgrim wearing a priest's coat, with long hair and a skull-cap such as priests wear. This pilgrim had been to Mount Athos, and was now going to Jerusalem for the second time. They both stopped at the same place one night, and, having met, they travelled on together.

They got safely to Odessa, and there had to wait three days for a ship. Many pilgrims from many different parts were in the same case. Again Efím asked about Elisha, but no one had seen him.

Efím got himself a foreign passport, which cost him five roubles. He paid forty roubles for a return ticket to Jerusalem, and bought a supply of bread and herrings for the voyage.

The pilgrim began explaining to Efím how he might get on to the ship without paying his fare; but Efím would not listen. 'No, I came prepared to pay, and I shall pay,' said he.

The ship was freighted, and the pilgrims went on board, Efím and his new comrade among them. The anchors were weighed, and the ship put out to sea.

All day they sailed smoothly, but towards night a wind arose, rain came on, and the vessel tossed about and shipped water. The people were frightened: the women wailed and screamed, and some of the weaker men ran about the ship looking for shelter. Efím too was frightened, but he would not show it, and remained at the place on deck where he had settled down when first he came on board, beside some old men from Tambóf. There they sat silent, all night and all next day, holding on to their sacks. On the third day it grew calm, and on the fifth day they anchored at Constantinople. Some of the pilgrims went on shore to visit the Church of St. Sophia, now held by the Turks. Efím remained on the ship, and only bought some white bread. They lay there for twenty-four hours, and then put to sea again. At Smyrna they stopped again; and at Alexandria; but at last they arrived safely at Jaffa, where all the pilgrims had to disembark. From there still it was more than forty miles by road to Jerusalem. When disembarking the people were again much frightened. The ship was high, and the people were dropped into boats, which rocked so much that it was easy to miss them and fall into the water. A couple of men did get a wetting, but at last all were safely landed.

They went on on foot, and at noon on the third day reached Jerusalem. They stopped outside the town, at the Russian inn, where their passports were indorsed. Then, after dinner, Efím visited the Holy Places with his companion, the pilgrim. It was not the time when they could be admitted to the Holy Sepulchre, but they went to the Patriarchate. All the pilgrims assembled there. The women were separated from the men, who were all told to sit in a circle, barefoot. Then a monk came in with a towel to wash their feet. He washed, wiped, and then kissed their feet, and did this to every one in the circle. Efím's feet were washed and kissed, with the rest. He stood through vespers and matins, prayed, placed candles at the shrines, handed in booklets inscribed with his parents, names, that they might be mentioned in the church prayers. Here at the Patriarchate food and wine were given them. Next morning they went to the cell of Mary of Egypt, where she had lived doing penance. Here too they placed candles and had prayers read. From there they went to Abraham's Monastery, and saw the place where Abraham intended to slay his son as an offering to God. Then they visited the spot where Christ appeared to Mary Magdalene, and the Church of James, the Lord's brother. The pilgrim showed Efím all these places, and told him how much money to give at each place. At mid-day they returned to the inn and had dinner. As they were preparing to lie down and rest, the pilgrim cried out, and began to search his clothes, feeling them all over.

'My purse has been stolen, there were twenty-three roubles in it,' said he, 'two ten-rouble notes and the rest in change.'

He sighed and lamented a great deal, but as there was no help for it, they lay down to sleep.


IX


As Efím lay there, he was assailed by temptation.

'No one has stolen any money from this pilgrim,' thought he, 'I do not believe he had any. He gave none away anywhere, though he made me give, and even borrowed a rouble of me.'

This thought had no sooner crossed his mind, than Efím rebuked himself, saying: 'What right have I to judge a man? It is a sin. I will think no more about it.' But as soon as his thoughts began to wander, they turned again to the pilgrim: how interested he seemed to be in money, and how unlikely it sounded when he declared that his purse had been stolen.

'He never had any money,' thought Efím. 'It's all an invention.'

Towards evening they got up, and went to midnight Mass at the great Church of the Resurrection, where the Lord's Sepulchre is. The pilgrim kept close to Efím and went with him everywhere. They came to the Church; a great many pilgrims were there; some Russians and some of other nationalities: Greeks, Armenians, Turks, and Syrians. Efím entered the Holy Gates with the crowd. A monk led them past the Turkish sentinels, to the place where the Saviour was taken down from the cross and anointed, and where candles were burning in nine great candlesticks. The monk showed and explained everything. Efím offered a candle there. Then the monk led Efím to the right, up the steps to Golgotha, to the place where the cross had stood. Efím prayed there. Then they showed him the cleft where the ground had been rent asunder to its nethermost depths; then the place where Christ's hands and feet were nailed to the cross; then Adam's tomb, where the blood of Christ had dripped on to Adam's bones. Then they showed him the stone on which Christ sat when the crown of thorns was placed on His head; then the post to which Christ was bound when He was scourged. Then Efím saw the stone with two holes for Christ's feet. They were going to show him something else, but there was a stir in the crowd, and the people all hurried to the church of the Lord's Sepulchre itself. The Latin Mass had just finished there, and the Russian Mass was beginning. And Efím went with the crowd to the tomb cut in the rock.

He tried to get rid of the pilgrim, against whom he was still sinning in his mind, but the pilgrim would not leave him, but went with him to the Mass at the Holy Sepulchre. They tried to get to the front, but were too late. There was such a crowd that it was impossible to move either backwards or forwards. Efím stood looking in front of him, praying, and every now and then feeling for his purse. He was in two minds: sometimes he thought that the pilgrim was deceiving him, and then again he thought that if the pilgrim spoke the truth and his purse had really been stolen, the same thing might happen to himself.


Efím stood there gazing into the little chapel in which was the Holy Sepulchre itself with thirty-six lamps burning above it. As he stood looking over the people's heads, he saw something that surprised him. Just beneath the lamps in which the sacred fire burns and in front of every one, Efím saw an old man in a grey coat, whose bald, shining head was just like Elisha Bódrof.

'It is like him,' thought Efím, 'but it cannot be Elisha. He could not have got ahead of me. The ship before ours started a week sooner. He could not have caught that; and he was not on ours, for I saw every pilgrim on board.'

Hardly had Efím thought this, when the little old man began to pray, and bowed three times: once forwards to God, then once on each side -- to the brethren. And as he turned his head to the right, Efím recognized him. It was Elisha Bódrof himself with his dark, curly beard turning grey at the cheeks, with his brows, his eyes and nose, and his expression of face. Yes, it was he!

Efím was very pleased to have found his comrade again, and wondered how Elisha had got ahead of him.

'Well done, Elisha!' thought he. 'See how he has pushed ahead. He must have come across some one who showed him the way. When we get out, I will find him, get rid of this fellow in the skull-cap, and keep to Elisha. Perhaps he will show me how to get to the front also.'

Efím kept looking out, so as not to lose sight of Elisha. But when the Mass was over, the crowd began to sway, pushing forward to kiss the tomb, and pushed Efím aside. He was again seized with fear lest his purse should be stolen. Pressing it with his hand, he began elbowing through the crowd, anxious only to get out. When he reached the open, he went about for a long time searching for Elisha both outside and in the Church itself. In the cells of the Church he saw many people of all kinds, eating, and drinking wine, and reading and sleeping there. But Elisha was nowhere to be seen. So Efím returned to the inn without having found his comrade. That evening the pilgrim in the skull-cap did not turn up. He had gone off without repaying the rouble, and Efím was left alone.

The next day Efím went to the Holy Sepulchre again, with an old man from Tambóf, whom he had met on the ship. He tried to get to the front, but was again pressed back; so he stood by a pillar and prayed. He looked before him, and there in the foremost place under the lamps, close to the very Sepulchre of the Lord, stood Elisha, with his arms spread out like a priest at the altar, and with his bald head all shining.

'Well, now,' thought Efím, 'I won't lose him!'

He pushed forward to the front, but when he got there, there was no Elisha: he had evidently gone away.

Again on the third day Efím looked, and saw at the Sepulchre, in the holiest place, Elisha standing in the sight of all men, his arms outspread, and his eyes gazing upwards as if he saw something above. And his bald head was all shining.

'Well, this time,' thought Efím, 'he shall not escape me! I will go and stand at the door, then we can't miss one another!'

Efím went out and stood by the door till past noon. Every one had passed out, but still Elisha did not appear.

Efím remained six weeks in Jerusalem, and went everywhere: to Bethlehem, and to Bethany, and to the Jordan. He had a new shirt sealed at the Holy Sepulchre for his burial, and he took a bottle of water from the Jordan, and some holy earth, and bought candles that had been lit at the sacred flame. In eight places he inscribed names to be prayed for, and he spent all his money, except just enough to get home with. Then he started homeward. He walked to Jaffa, sailed thence to Odessa, and walked home from there on foot.


XI


Efím travelled the same road he had come by; and as he drew nearer home his former anxiety returned as to how affairs were getting on in his absence. 'Much water flows away in a year,' the proverb says. It takes a lifetime to build up a homestead, but not long to ruin it, thought he. And he wondered how his son had managed without him, what sort of spring they were having, how the cattle had wintered, and whether the cottage was well finished. When Efím came to the district where he had parted from Elisha the summer before, he could hardly believe that the people living there were the same. The year before they had been starving, but now they were living in comfort. The harvest had been good, and the people had recovered and had forgotten their former misery.

One evening Efím reached the very place where Elisha had remained behind; and as he entered the village, a little girl in a white smock ran out of a hut.

Daddy, daddy, come to our house!'

Efím meant to pass on, but the little girl would not let him. She took hold of his coat, laughing, and pulled him towards the hut, where a woman with a small boy came out into the porch and beckoned to him.

'Come in, grandfather,' she said. 'Have supper and spend the night with us.'

So Efím went in.

'I may as well ask about Elisha,' he thought. 'I fancy this is the very hut he went to for a drink of water.'

The woman helped him off with the bag he carried, and gave him water to wash his face. Then she made him sit down to table, and set milk, curd-cakes and porridge before him. Efím thanked her, and praised her for her kindness to a pilgrim. The woman shook her head.

'We have good reason to welcome pilgrims,' she said. 'It was a pilgrim who showed us what life is. We were living forgetful of God, and God punished us almost to death. We reached such a pass last summer, that we all lay ill and helpless with nothing to eat. And we should have died, but that God sent an old man to help us -- just such a one as you. He came in one day to ask for a drink of water, saw the state we were in, took pity on us, and remained with us. He gave us food and drink, and set us on our feet again; and he redeemed our land, and bought a cart and horse and gave them to us.'

Here the old woman entering the hut, interrupted the younger one and said:

'We don't know whether it was a man, or an angel from God. He loved us all, pitied us all, and went away without telling us his name, so that we don't even know whom to pray for. I can see it all before me now! There I lay waiting for death, when in comes a bald-headed old man. He was not anything much to look at, and he asked for a drink of water. I, sinner that I am, thought to myself: "What does he come prowling about here for?" And just think what he did! As soon as he saw us, he let down his bag, on this very spot, and untied it.'

Here the little girl joined in.

'No, Granny,' said she, 'first he put it down here in the middle of the hut, and then he lifted it on to the bench.'

And they began discussing and recalling all he had said and done, where he sat and slept, and what he had said to each of them.

At night the peasant himself came home on his horse, and he too began to tell about Elisha and how he had lived with them.

'Had he not come we should all have died in our sins. We were dying in despair, murmuring against God and man. But he set us on our feet again; and through him we learned to know God, and to believe that there is good in man. May the Lord bless him! We used to live like animals; he made human beings of us.

After giving Efím food and drink, they showed him where he was to sleep; and lay down to sleep themselves.

But though Efím lay down, he could not sleep. He could not get Elisha out of his mind, but remembered how he had seen him three times at Jerusalem, standing in the foremost place.

'So that is how he got ahead of me,' thought Efím. 'God may or may not have accepted my pilgrimage but He has certainly accepted his!'

Next morning Efím bade farewell to the people, who put some patties in his sack before they went to their work, and he continued his journey.


XII


Efím had been away just a year, and it was spring again when he reached home one evening. His son was not at home, but had gone to the public-house and when he came back, he had had a drop too much. Efím began questioning him. Everything showed that the young fellow had been unsteady during his father's absence. The money had all been wrongly spent, and the work had been neglected. The father began to upbraid the son; and the son answered rudely.

'Why didn't you stay and look after it yourself?' he said. 'You go off, taking the money with you and now you demand it of me!'

The old man grew angry, and struck his son.

In the morning Efím went to the village Elder to complain of his son's conduct. As he was passing Elisha's house, his friend's wife greeted him from the porch.

'How do you do, neighbour,' she said. 'How do you do, dear friend? Did you get to Jerusalem safely?'

Efím stopped.

'Yes, thank God,' he said. 'I have been there. I lost sight of your old man, but I hear he got home safely.'

The old woman was fond of talking:

'Yes, neighbour, he has come back,' said she. 'He's been back a long time. Soon after Assumption, I think it was, he returned. And we were glad the Lord had sent him back to us! We were dull without him. We can't expect much work from him any more, his years for work are past; but still he is the head of the household and it's more cheerful when he's at home. And how glad our lad was! He said, "It's like being without sunlight, when father's away!" It was dull without him, dear friend. We're fond of him, and take good care of him.'

'Is he at home now?'

'He is, dear friend. He is with his bees. He is hiving the swarms. He says they are swarming well this year. The Lord has given such strength to the bees that my husband doesn't remember the like. "The Lord is not rewarding us according to our sins," he says. Come in, dear neighbour, he will be so glad to see you again.'

Efím passed through the passage into the yard and to the apiary, to see Elisha. There was Elisha in his grey coat, without any face-net or gloves, standing, under the birch trees, looking upwards, his arms stretched out and his bald head shining, as Efím had seen him at the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem: and above him the sunlight shone through the birches as the flames of fire had done in the holy place, and the golden bees flew round his head like a halo, and did not sting him.

Efím stopped. The old woman called to her husband.

'Here's your friend come,' she cried.

Elisha looked round with a pleased face, and came towards Efím, gently picking bees out of his own beard.

'Good day, neighbour, good-day, dear friend. Did you get there safely?'

'My feet walked there, and I have brought you some water from the river Jordan. You must come to my house for it. But whether the Lord accepted my efforts. . . .'

'Well the Lord be thanked! May Christ bless you!' said Elisha.

Efím was silent for a while, and then added:

'My feet have been there, but whether my soul, or another's, has been there more truly . . .'

'That's God's business, neighbour, God's business,' interrupted Elisha.

'On my return journey I stopped at the hut where you remained behind. . . .'

Elisha was alarmed, and said hurriedly:

'God's business, neighbour, God's business! Come into the cottage, I'll give you some of our honey.' And Elisha changed the conversation, and talked of home affairs.

Efím sighed, and did not speak to Elisha of the people in the hut, nor of how he had seen him in Jerusalem. But he now understood that the best way to keep one's vows to God and to do His will, is for each man while he lives to show love and do good to others.