The Dead Man
One evening I was sauntering along a soft, grey, dusty trackbetween two breast-high walls of grain. So narrow was the trackthat here and there tar-besmeared cars were lying--tangled,broken, and crushed--in the ruts of the cartway.Field mice squeaked as a heavy car first swayed--then bentforwards towards the sun-baked earth. A number of martins andswallows were flitting in the sky, and constituting a sign of theimmediate proximity of dwellings and a river; though for themoment, as my eyes roved over the sea of gold, they encounterednaught beyond a belfry rising to heaven like a ship's mast, andsome trees which from afar looked like the dark sails of a ship.Yes, there was nothing else to be seen save the brocaded,undulating steppe where gently it sloped away south-westwards.And as was the earth's outward appearance, so was that of thesky--equally peaceful.Invariably, the steppe makes one feel like a fly on a platter.Invariably, it inclines one to believe, when the centre of theexpanse is reached, that the earth lies within the compass of thesky, with the sun embracing it, and the stars hemming it aboutas, half-blinded, they stare at the sun's beauty.********************************Presently the sun's huge, rosy-red disk impinged upon the blueshadows of the horizon before preparing to sink into a snow-whitecloud-bank; and as it did so it bathed the ears of grain aroundme in radiance and caused the cornflowers to seem the darker bycomparison; and the stillness, the herald of night, to accentuatemore than ever the burden of the earth's song.Fanwise then spread the ruddy beams over the firmament; and, inso doing, they cast upon my breast a shaft of light like Moses'rod, and awoke therein a flood of calm, but ardent, sentimentswhich set me longing to embrace all the evening world, and topour into its ear great, eloquent, and never previously voiced,utterances.Now, too, the firmament began to spangle itself with stars; andsince the earth is equally a star, and is peopled with humankind,I found myself longing to traverse every road throughout theuniverse, and to behold, dispassionately, all the joys andsorrows of life, and to join my fellows in drinking honey mixedwith gall.Yet also there was upon me a feeling of hunger, for not since themorning had my wallet contained a morsel of food. Whichcircumstance hindered the process of thought, and intermittentlyvexed me with the reflection that, rich though is the earth, andmuch thence though humanity has won by labour, a man may yet beforced to walk hungry. . . .Suddenly the track swerved to the right, and as the walls ofgrain opened out before me, there lay revealed a steppe valley,with, flowing at its bottom, a blue rivulet, and spanning therivulet, a newly-constructed bridge which, with its reflection inthe water, looked as yellow as though fashioned of rope. On thefurther side of the rivulet some seven white huts lay pressedagainst a small declivity that was crowned with a cattle-fold,and amid the silver-grey trunks of some tall black poplars whoseshadows, where they fell upon the hamlet, seemed as soft as downa knee-haltered horse, was stumping with swishing tail. And thoughthe air, redolent of smoke and tar and hemp ensilage, was filledwith the sounds of poultry cackling and a baby crying duringthe process of being put to bed, the hubbub in no way served todispel the illusion that everything in the valley was but part ofa sketch executed by an artistic hand, and cast in soft tintswhich the sun had since caused, in some measure, to fade.In the centre of the semi-circle of huts there stood a brick-kiln, and next to it, a high, narrow red chapel which resembled aone-eyed watchman. And as I stood gazing at the scene in general,a crane stooped with a faint and raucous cry, and a woman who hadcome out to draw water looked as though, as she raised bare armsto stretch herself upwards-- cloud-like, and white-robed fromhead to foot-- she were about to float away altogether.Also, near the brick-kiln there lay a patch of black mud in theglistening, crumpled-velvet blue substance of which two urchinsof five and three were, breechless, and naked from the waistupwards, kneading yellow feet amid a silence as absorbed asthough their one desire in life had been to impregnate the mudwith the red radiance of the sun. And so much did this laudabletask interest me, and engage my sympathy and attention, that Istopped to watch the strapping youngsters, seeing that even inmire the sun has a rightful place, for the reason that the deeperthe sunlight's penetration of the soil, the better does that soilbecome, and the greater the benefit to the people dwelling on itssurface.Viewed from above, the scene lay, as it were, in the palm ofone's hand. True, by no manner of means could such lowly farmcots provide me with a job, but at least should I, for thatevening, be able to enjoy the luxury of a chat with the cots'kindly inhabitants. Hence, with, in my mind, a base andmischievous inclination to retail to those inhabitants tales ofthe marvellous kind of which I knew them to stand wellnigh asmuch in need as of bread, I resumed my way, and approached thebridge.As I did so, there arose from the ground-level an animated clod ofearth in the shape of a sturdy individual. Unwashed and unshaven,he had hanging on his frame an open canvas shirt, grey with dust,and baggy blue breeches."Good evening," I said to the fellow."I wish you the same," he replied. "Whither are you bound?""First of all, what is the name of this river?""What is its name? Why, it is the Sagaidak, of course."On the man's large, round head there was a shock of bristling,grizzled curls, while pendent to the moustache below it were endslike those of the moustache of a Chinaman. Also, as his smalleyes scanned me with an air of impudent distrust, I could detectthat they were engaged in counting the holes and dams in myraiment. Only after a long interval did he draw a deep breath asfrom his pocket he produced a clay pipe with a cane mouthpiece,and, knitting his brows attentively, fell to peering into thepipe's black bowl. Then he said:"Have you matches?"I replied in the affirmative."And some tobacco?"For awhile he continued to contemplate the sun where thatluminary hung suspended above a cloud-bank before finallydeclining. Then he remarked:"Give me a pinch of the tobacco. As for matches, I have some."So both of us lit up; after which he rested his elbows upon thebalustrade of the bridge, leant back against the centralstanchions, and for some time continued merely to emit and inhaleblue coils of smoke. Then his nose wrinkled, and he expectorated."Muscovite tobacco is it?" he inquired."No--Roman, Italian.""Oh!" And as the wrinkles of his nose straightened themselvesagain he added: "Then of course it is good tobacco."To enter a dwelling in advance of one's host is a breach ofdecorum; wherefore, I found myself forced to remain standing whereI was until my interlocutor's tale of questions as to my preciseidentity, my exact place of origin, my true destination, and myreal reasons for travelling should tardily win its way to afinish. Greatly the process vexed me, for I was eager, rather, tolearn what the steppe settlement might have in store for mydelectation."Work?" the fellow drawled through his teeth. "Oh no, there isno work to be got here. How could there be at this season of theyear?"Turning aside, he spat into the rivulet.On the further bank of the latter, a goose was struttingimportantly at the head of a string of round, fluffy, yellowgoslings, whilst driving the brood were two little girls--the onea child but little larger than the goose itself, dressed in a redfrock, and armed with a switch; and the other one a youngsterabsolutely of a size with the bird, pale of feature, plump ofbody, bowed of leg, and grave of expression."Ufim!" came at this moment in the strident voice of a womanunseen, but incensed; upon which my companion bestowed upon me asidelong nod, and muttered with an air of appreciation:"THERE'S lungs for you!"Whereafter, he fell to twitching the toes of a chafed andblackened foot, and to gazing at their nails. His next questionwas:"Are you, maybe, a scholar?""Why do you ask?""Because, if you are, you might like to read the Book over acorpse."And so proud, apparently, was he of the proposal that a faintsmile crossed his flaccid countenance."You see, it would be work," he added with his brown eyesveiled, "whilst, in addition, you would be paid ten kopecks foryour trouble, and allowed to keep the shroud.""And should also be given some supper, I suppose?""Yes--and should also be given some supper.""Where is the corpse lying?""In my own hut. Shall we go there?"Off we set. En route we heard once more a strident shout of:"Ufi-i-im!"As we proceeded, shadows of trees glided along the soft road tomeet us, while behind a clump of bushes on the further bank ofthe rivulet some children were shouting at their play. Thus, whatwith the children's voices, and the purling of the water, and thenoise of someone planing a piece of wood, the air seemed full oftremulous, suspended sound. Meanwhile, my host said to me with adrawl:"Once we did have a reader here. An old woman she was, a regularold witch who at last had to be removed to the town foramputation of the feet. They might well have cut off her tonguetoo whilst they were about it, since, though useful enough, shecould rail indeed!"Presently a black puppy, a creature of about the size of a toad,came ambling, three-legged fashion, under our feet. Upon that itstiffened its tail, growled, and snuffed the air with its tinypink nose.Next there popped up from somewhere or another a barefooted youngwoman. Clapping her hands, she bawled:"Here, you Ufim, how I have been calling for you, and callingfor you!""Eh? Well, I never heard you.""Where were you, then?"By way of reply, my conductor silently pointed in my directionwith the stem of his pipe. Then he led me into the forecourt ofthe hut next to the one whence the young woman had issued, whilstshe proceeded to project fresh volleys of abuse, and freshexpressions of accentuated non-amiability.In the little doorway of the dwelling next to hers, we foundseated two old women. One of them was as rotund and dishevelledas a battered, leathern ball, and the other one was a woman bonyand crooked of back, swarthy of skin, and irritable of feature.At the women's feet lay, lolling out a rag-like tongue, a shaggydog which, red and pathetic of eye, could boast of a frame nearlyas large as a sheep's.First of all, Ufim related in detail how he had fallen in withmyself. Then he stated the purpose for which he conceived itwas possible that I might prove useful. And all the time that hewas speaking, two pairs of eyes contemplated him in silence;until, on the completion of his recital, one of the old womengave a jerk to a thin, dark neck, and the other old dame invitedme to take a seat whilst she prepared some supper.Amid the tangled herbage of the forecourt, a spot overgrown withmallow and bramble shoots, there was standing a cart which,lacking wheels, had its axle-points dark with mildew. Presently aherd of cattle was driven past the hut, and over the hamlet thereseemed to arise, drift, and float, a perfect wave of sound.Also, as evening descended, I could see an ever-increasing numberof grey shadows come creeping forth from the forecourt'srecesses, and overlaying and darkening the turf."One day all of us must die," remarked Ufim, with empressementas he tapped the bowl of his pipe against a wall.The next moment the barefooted, red-cheeked young woman showedherself at the gate, and asked in tones rather less vehement thanrecently:"Are you coming, or are you not?""Presently," replied Ufim. "One thing at a time."For supper I was given a hunch of bread and a bowl of milk;whereupon the dog rose, laid its aged, slobbering muzzle upon myknee, and gazed into my face with its dim eyes as though it weresaying, "May I too have a bite?"Next, like an eventide breeze among withered herbage, therefloated across the forecourt the hoarse voice of the crook-backedold woman."Let us pray," she said. "Oh God, take away from us all sorrow,and receive therefore requitement in twofold measure!"As she recited the prayer with a mien as dark as fate, thesupplicant rolled her long neck from side to side, and nodded herophidian-shaped head in accordance with a sort of regular,lethargic rhythm. Next I heard sink to earth, at my feet, somesenile words uttered in a sort of singsong."Some folk need work just as much as they wish, and others needdo no work at all. Yet OUR folk have to work beyond theirstrength, and to work without any recompense for the toil whichthey undergo."Upon this the smaller of the old crones whispered:"But the Mother of God will recompense them. She recompenseseveryone."Then a dead silence fell--a weighty silence, a silence seeminglyfraught with matters of import, and inspiring in one an assurancethat presently there would be brought forth impressivereflections-- there would reach the ear words of mark."I may tell you," at length the crook-backed old woman remarkedas she attempted to straighten herself, "that though my husbandwas not without enemies, he also had a particular friend namedAndrei, and that when failing strength was beginning to make lifedifficult for us in our old home on the Don, and folk took toreviling and girding at my husband, Andrei came to us one day,and said: 'Yakov, let not your hands fail you, for the earth islarge, and in all parts has been given to men for their use. Iffolk be cruel, they are so through stupidity and prejudice, andmust not be judged for being so. Live your own life. Let theirsbe theirs, and yours yours, so that, dwelling in peace, whileyielding to none, you shall in time overcome them all.'""That is what Vasil too used to say. He used to say: 'Let theirsbe theirs, and ours ours.'""Aye, never a good word dies, but, wheresoever it be uttered,flies thence through the world like a swallow."Ufim corroborated this with a nod."True indeed!" he remarked. "Though also it has been said thata good word is Christ's, and a bad word the priest's."One of the old women shook her head vigorously at this, andcroaked:"The badness lies not in any word of a priest, but in what youyourself have just said. You are greyheaded, Ufim, yet often youspeak without thought."Presently Ufim's wife reappeared, and, waving her hands as thoughshe were brandishing a sieve, began to vent renewed volleys ofvirulent abuse."My God," she cried, "what sort of a man is that? Why, a manwho neither speaks nor listens, but for ever keeps baying at themoon like a dog!""NOW she's started!" Ufim drawled.Westward there were arising, and soaring skyward, clouds of sucha similarity to blue smoke and blood-red flame that the steppeseemed almost to be in danger of catching fire thence. Meanwhilea soft evening breeze was caressing the expanse as a whole, andcausing the grain to bend drowsily earthward as golden-redripples skimmed its surface. Only in the eastern quarter whencenight's black, sultry shadow was stealthily creeping in ourdirection had darkness yet descended.At intervals there came vented from the window above my head thehot odour of a dead body; and, whenever that happened, the dog'sgrey nostrils and muzzle would quiver, and its eyes would blinkpitifully as it gazed aloft. Glancing at the heavens, Ufimremarked with conviction:"There will be no rain tonight.""Do you keep such a thing as a Psalter here?" I inquired."Such a thing as a what?""As a Psalter-- a book?"No answer followed.Faster and faster the southern night went on descending, andwiping the land clean of heat, as though that heat had been dust.Upon me there came a feeling that I should like to go and burymyself in some sweet-smelling hay, and sleep there until sunrise."Maybe Panek has one of those things?" hazarded Ufim after along pause. "At any rate he has dealings with the Molokans."After that, the company held further converse in whispers. Thenall save the more rotund of the old women left the forecourt,while its remaining occupant said to me with a sigh:"You may come and look at him if you wish."Small and gentle looked the woman's meekly lowered head as,folding her hands across her breast, she added in a whisper:"Oh purest Mother of God! Oh Thou of spotless chastity!"In contrast to her expression, that on the face of the dead manwas stem and, as it were, fraught with importance where thickgrey eyebrows lay parted over a large nose, and the latter curveddownwards towards a moustache which divided introspective,partially closed eyes from a mouth that was set half-open.Indeed, it was as though the man were pondering something ofannoyance, so that presently he would make shift to deliverhimself of a final and urgent injunction. The blue smoke of ameagre candle quivered meanwhile, over his head, though the wickdiffused so feeble a light that the death blurs under the eyesand in the cheek furrows lay uneffaced, and the dark hands andwrists, disposed, lumplike, on the front of the greyish-blueshroud, seemed to have had their fingers twisted in a mannerwhich even death had failed to rectify. And ever and anon,streaming from door to window, came a draught variously fraughtwith the odours of wormwood, mint, and corruption.Presently the old woman's whispering grew more animated andintelligible, while constantly, amid the wheezed mutterings,sheet lightning cut the black square of the window space withmenacing flashes, and seemed, with their blue glare, as it shotthrough the tomblike hut, to cause the candle's flickering flameto undergo a temporary extinction, a temporary withdrawal, andthe grey bristles on the dead man's face to gleam like the scalesof a fish, and his features to gather themselves into a grimfrown. Meanwhile, like a stream of cold, bitter water drippingupon my breast, the old woman's whispered soliloquy maintainedits uninterrupted flow.At length there recurred, somehow, to my mind the words which,impressive though they be, never can assuage sorrow--the words:"Weep not for me, Martha, nor gaze into the tomb, for, lo, I amrisen!"Nay, and never would THIS man rise again. . . .Presently the bony old woman returned with a report that nowhereamong the huts could a Psalter be found, but only a book ofanother kind. Would it do?The other book turned out to be a grammar of the Church Slavonicdialect, with the first pages torn out, and beginning with thewords, "Drug, drugi, druzhe." ["A friend, of a friend, Ofriend."]"What, then, are we to do? " vexedly asked the smaller of thedames when I had explained to her that a grammar could work nobenefit to a corpse. As she put the query, her small, childlikeface quivered with disappointment, and her eyes swelled andoverflowed with tears."My man has lived his life," she said with a sob, "and now hecannot even be given proper burial! "And, similarly, when next I offered to recite over her husbandeach and every prayer and psalm that I could contrive to recallto my recollection, on condition that all present shouldmeanwhile leave the hut (for I felt that, since the task would beone novel to me, the attendance of auditors might hinder me frommustering my entire stock of petitions), she so disbelieved me,or failed to understand me, that for long enough she could onlystand tottering in the doorway as, with twitching nose, she drewher sleeve across her worn, diminutive features.Nevertheless she did, at last, take her departure.*******************************Low over the steppe, stray flashes of summer lightning stillgleamed against the jet black sky as they flooded the hut withtheir lurid shimmer; and each time that the darkness of thesultry night swept back into the room, the candle flickered, andthe corpse's prone figure seemed to open its half-closed eyesand glance at the shadows which palpitated on its breast, anddanced over the white walls and ceiling.Similarly did I glance from time to time at HIM, yet glance witha guarded eye, and with a feeling in me that when a corpse ispresent anything may happen; until finally I rallied conscienceto my aid, and recited under my breath:"Pardon Thou all who have sinned, whether they be men, orwhether they, being not men, do yet stand higher than the beastsof the field."However, the only result of the recitation was to bring to mymind a thought directly at variance with the import of the words,the thought that "it is not sin that is hard and bitter toensue, but righteousness.""Sins wilful and of ignorance," I continued. "Sins known andunknown. Sins committed through imprudence and evil example. Sinscommitted through forwardness and sloth.""Though to YOU, brother," mentally I added to the corpse, "noneof this, of course, applies."Again, glancing at the blue stars, where they hung glittering inthe fathomless obscurity of the sky, I reflected:"Who in this house is looking at them save myself?"Presently, with a pattering of claws over the beaten clay of thefloor, there entered the dog. Once or twice it paced the lengthof the room. Then, with a sniff at my legs, and a grumble toitself, it departed as it had come. Perhaps the creature felt tooold to bay a dirge to its master after the manner of its kind. Inany case, as it vanished through the doorway, the shadows- -so Ifancied--sought to slip out after it, and, floating in thatdirection, fanned my face with a breath as of ice, while theflame of the candle flickered the more-- as though it too wereseeking to wrest itself from the candlestick, and go floatingupwards to join the band of stars-- a band of luminaries which itmight well have deemed to be of a brilliance as small and aspitiful as its own. And I, for my part, since I had no wish tosee what light there was disappear, followed the struggles of thetiny flame with a tense anxiety which made my eyes ache.Oppressed and uneasy all over as I stood by the dead man'sshoulder, I strained my ears and listened, listened ever, to thesilence encompassing the hut.Eventually, drowsiness began to steal over me, and proved afeeling hard to resist. Yet still with an effort did I contriveto recall the beautiful prayers of Saints Makari Veliki,Chrysostom, and Damarkin, while at the same time somethingresembling a swarm of mosquitos started to hum in my head, thewords wherein the Sixth Precept issues its injunction to: " allpersons about to withdraw to a couch of rest."And next, to escape falling asleep, I fell to reciting the kondak[Hymn for the end of the day] which begins:"Oh Lord, refresh my soul thus grievously made feeble with wrongdoing."Still engaged in this manner, suddenly I heard something rustleoutside the door. Then a dry whisper articulated:"Oh God of Mercy, receive unto Thyself also my soul!"Upon that, the fancy occurred to me that probably the old woman'ssoul was as grey and timid as a linnet, and that when it shouldfly up to the throne of the Mother of God, and the Mother shouldextend to that little soul her tender, white, and gracious hand,the newcomer would tremble all over, and flutter her gentle wingsuntil well nigh death should supervene.And then the Mother of God would say to Her Son:"Son, pray see the fearfulness of Thy people on earth, and theirestrangement from joy! Oh Son, is that well?"And He would make answer to Her--He would make answer to Her, and say I know not what.*********************************And suddenly, so I fancied, a voice answered mine out of thebrooding hush, as though it too were reciting a prayer. Yet socomplete, so profound, was the stillness, that the voice seemedfar away, submerged, unreal--a mere phantom of an echo, of theecho of my own voice. Until, on my desisting from my recital, andstraining my cars yet more, the sound seemed to approach and growclearer as shuffling footsteps also advanced in my direction, andthere came a mutter of:"Nay, it CANNOT be so!""Why is it that the dogs have failed to bark?" I reflected,rubbing my eyes, and fancying as I did so that the dead man'seyebrows twitched, and his moustache stirred in a grim smile.Presently a deep, hoarse, rasping voice vociferated in theforecourt:"What do you say, old woman? Yes, that he must die-- I knew allalong,--so you can cease your chattering? Men like him keep up tothe last, then lay them down to rise to more... WHO is with him? Astranger? A-ah!"And, the next moment, a bulk so large and shapeless that it mightwell have been the darkness of the night embodied, stumbledagainst the outer side of the door, grunted, hiccuped, andlurching head foremost into the hut, grew wellnigh to theceiling. Then it waved a gigantic hand, crossed itself in thedirection of the candle, and, bending forward until its foreheadalmost touched the feet of the corpse, queried under its breath:"How now, Vasil?"Thereafter, the figure vented a sob whilst a strong smell ofvodka arose in the room, and from the doorway the old woman saidin an appealing voice:"Pray give HIM the book, Father Demid.""No indeed! Why should I? I intend to do the reading myself."And a heavy hand laid itself upon my shoulder, while a greathairy face bent over mine, and inquired:"A young man, are you not? A member of the clergy, too, Isuppose?"So covered with tufts of auburn hair was the enormous head aboveme--tufts the sheen of which even the semi-obscurity of the palecandlelight failed to render inconspicuous--that the mass, as awhole, resembled a mop. And as its owner lurched to and fro, hemade me lurch responsively by now drawing me towards himself, nowthrusting me away. Meanwhile he continued to suffuse my face withthe hot, thick odour of spirituous liquor."Father Demid!" again essayed the old woman with an imploringwail, but he cut her short with the menacing admonition:"How often have I told you that you must not address a deacon as'Father'? Go to bed! Yes, be off with you, and let me mind myaffairs myself! GO, I say! But first light me another candle, forI cannot see a single thing in front of me."With which, throwing himself upon a bench, the deacon slapped hisknee with a book which he had in his hands, and put to me thequery:"Should you care to have a dram of gorielka? [Another name forvodka.]"No," I replied. "At all events, not here.""Indeed?" the deacon cried, unabashed. "But come, a bottle ofthe stuff is here, in my very pocket.""This is no place in which to be drinking."For a moment the deacon said nothing. Then he muttered:"True, true. So let us adjourn to the forecourt. . . . Yes, whatyou say is no more than the truth.""Had you not better remain seated where you are, and begin thereading? ""No, I am going to do no such thing. YOU shall do the reading.Tonight I, I--well I am not very well, for I have been drinking alittle."And, thrusting the book into my stomach, he sank his head uponhis breast, and fell to swaying it ponderously up and down."Folk die," was his next utterance, "and the world remains asfull of grief as ever. Yes, folk die even before they have seen alittle good accrue to themselves.""I see that your book is not a Psalter," here I interposed afteran inspection of the volume."You are wrong.""Then look for yourself."He grabbed the book by its cover, and, by dint of holding thecandle close to its pages, discovered, eventually, that matterswere as I had stated.This took him aback completely."What can the fact mean?" he exclaimed. "Oh, I know what hashappened. The mistake has come of my being in such a hurry. Theother book, the true Psalter, is a fat, heavy volume, whereasthis one is--"For a moment he seemed sobered by the shock. At all events, herose and, approaching the corpse, said, as he bent over the bedwith his beard held back:"Pardon me, Vasil, but what is to be done?"Then he straightened himself again, threw back his curls, and,drawing a bottle from his pocket, and thrusting the neck of thebottle into his mouth, took a long draught, with a whistling ofhis nostrils as he did so."Well?" I said."Well, I intend to go to bed--my idea is to drink and enjoymyself awhile.""Go, then.""And what of the reading?""Who would wish you to mumble words which you would not becomprehending as you uttered them?"The deacon reseated himself upon the bench, leaned forward,buried his face in his hands and remained silent.Fast the July night was waning. Fast its shadows were dissolvinginto corners, and allowing a whiff of fresh dewy morningtide toenter at the window. Already was the combined light of the twocandles growing paler, with their flames looking like the eyes ofa frightened child."You have lived your life, Vasi," at length the deaconmuttered, "and though once I had a place to which to resort, nowI shall have none. Yes, my last friend is dead. Oh Lord-- where isThy justice?"For myself, I went and took a seat by the window, and, thrustingmy head into the open air, lit a pipe, and continued to listenwith a shiver to the deacon's wailings."Folk used to gird at my wife," he went on, "and now they aregnawing at me as pigs might gnaw at a cabbage. That is so, Vasil.Yes that is so."Again the bottle made its appearance. Again the deacon took adraught. Again he wiped his beard. Then he bent over the dead manonce more, and kissed the corpse's forehead."Good-bye, friend of mine!" he said. Then to myself he addedwith unlooked-for clarity and vigour:"My friend here was but a plain man--a man as inconspicuous amonghis fellows as a rook among a flock of rooks. Yet no rook was he.Rather, he was a snow-white dove, though none but I realised thefact. And now he has been withdrawn from the 'grievous bondage ofPharaoh.' Only I am left. Verily, after my passing, shall my soultorment and vomit spittle upon his adversaries!""Have you known much sorrow?"The deacon did not reply at once. When he did so he said dully:"All of us have known much sorrow. In some cases we have knownmore than was rightfully our due. I certainly, have known much.But go to sleep, for only in sleep do we recover what is ours."And he added as he tripped over his own feet, and lurched heavilyagainst me:"I have a longing to sing something. Yet I feel that I had bestnot, for song at such an hour awakens folk, and starts thembawling . . . But beyond all things would I gladly sing."With which he buzzed into my ear:"To whom shall I sing of my grief?To whom resort for relief?To the One in whose ha-a-and--"At this point the sharp bristles of his beard so tickled my neckas to cause me to edge further away."You do not like me?" he queried. "Then go to sleep, and tothe devil too!""It was your beard that was tickling me.""Indeed? Ought I to have shaved for your benefit before I came?"He reflected awhile--then subsided on to the floor with a sniffand an angry exclamation of:"Read, you, whilst I sleep. And see to it that you do not makeoff with the book, for it belongs to the church, and is veryvaluable. Yes. I know you hard-ups! Why do you go roaming aboutas you do--what is it you hope to gain by your tramping? . . .However, tramp as much as you like. Yes, be off, and tell peoplethat a deacon has come by misfortune, and is in need of some goodperson to take pity upon his plight. . . . Diomid Kubasov my nameis--that of a man lost beyond recall."With which he fell asleep. Opening the book at random, I read thewords:"A land unapportioned that shall produce a nourisher ofhumanity, a being that shall put forth the bounty of his hand tofeed every creature.""A nourisher of humanity." Before my eyes that "nourisher" layoutspread, a nourisher overlaid with dry and fragrant herbage.And as I gazed, in the haze of a vision, upon that nourisher'sdark and enigmatical face, I saw also the thousands of men whohave seamed this earth with furrows, to the end that dead thingsshould become things of life. And in particular, there uprosebefore me a picture strange indeed. In that picture I sawmarching over the steppe, where the expanse lay bare and void--yes,marching in circles that increasingly embraced a widening area--agigantic, thousand-handed being in whose train the dead steppegathered unto itself vitality, and became swathed in juicy,waving verdure, and studded with towns and villages. And ever, asthe being receded further and further into the distance, could Isee him sowing with tireless hands that which had in it life, andwas part of himself, and human as, with thoughts intent upon thebenefiting of humanity, he summoned all men to put forth themysterious force that is in them, and thus to conquer death, andeternally and invincibly to convert, dead things into things oflife, while traversing in company the road of death towards thatwhich has no knowledge of death, and ensuring that, in swallowingup mankind, the jaws of death should not close upon death'svictims.And this caused my heart to beat with emotions the pulsing wingsof which at once gladdened me, and cooled my fervour... And howgreatly, at that moment, did I feel the need of someone able torespond to my questions without passion, yet with truth, and inthe language of simplicity! For beside me there lay but a mandead and a man drunken, while without the threshold there wasstationed one who had far outlived her span of years. No matter,however. If not today, then tomorrow, should I find a fellow-creature with whom my soul might commune.Mentally I left the hut, and passed on to the steppe, that Imight contemplate thence the little dwelling in which alone,though lost amid the earth's immensity, the windows were notblind and black as in its fellow huts, but showed, burning overthe head of a dead human being, the fire which humanity hadconquered for humanity's benefit.And that heart which had ceased to beat in the dead man--hadeverything conceived in life by that heart found due expressionin a world poverty, stricken of heart-conceived ideas? I knew thatthe man just passed away had been but a plain and insignificantmortal, yet as I reflected upon even the little that he had done,his labour loomed before me as greater than prowess of largermagnitude. Yes, to my mind there recurred the immature, batteredears of corn lying in the ruts of the steppe track, the swallowstraversing the blue sky above the golden, brocaded grain, thekite hovering in the void over the landscape's vast periphery.. .. .And along with these thoughts, there struck upon my ears awhistling of pinions as the shadow of a bird flitted across thebrilliant, dew-bespangled green of the forecourt, and five cockscrowed in succession, and a flock of geese announced the fact oftheir awakening, and a cow lowed, and the gate of the cattle-pencreaked.And with that I fell to thinking how I should like really to goout on to the steppe, and there to fall asleep under a warm, drybank.As for the deacon, he was still slumbering at my feet--slumberingwith his breast, the breast of a prize-fighter, turned uppermost,and his fine, golden shock of hair falling like a nimbus aroundhis head, and hot, fat, flushed red features and gaping mouth andceaselessly twitching moustache. In passing, I had noticed thathis hands were long, and that they were set upon shovel-shapedwrists.Next I found myself imagining the scene as the powerful figure ofthis man embraced a woman. Probably her face would become lost tosight in his beard, until nothing of her features remainedvisible. Then, when the beard began to tickle her, she wouldthrow back her head, and laugh. And the children that such a manmight have begotten!All this only made it the more painful and disagreeable to me toreflect that the breast of a human being of such a type should bebearing a burden of sorrow. Surely naught but joy should havebeen present therein!Meanwhile, the old woman's gentle face was still peering at methrough the doorway, and presently the first beam of sunlightcame glancing through the window-space. Above the rivulet's silkyglimmer, a transparent mist lay steaming, while trees and herbagealike were passing through that curiously inert stage when at anymoment (so one fancied) they might give themselves a shake, andburst into song, and in keys intelligible to the soul alone, setforth the wondrous mystery of their existence."What a good man he is!" the old woman whispered plaintively asshe gazed at the deacon's gigantic frame. Whereafter, as thoughreading aloud from a book invisible to my sight, she proceededquietly and simply to relate the story of his wife."You see," she went on "his lady committed a certain sin with acertain man; and folk remarked this, and, after setting thehusband on to the couple, derided him--yes, him, our Demid!--forthe reason that he persisted in forgiving the woman her fault. Atlength the jeers made her take to her room and him to liquor,and for two years past he has been drinking, and soon is going tobe deprived of his office. One who scarcely drank at all, my poorhusband, used to say: 'Ah, Demid, yield not to these folk, butlive your own life, and let theirs be theirs, and yours, yours.'"With the words, tears welled from the old woman's dim, small eyes,and became merged with the folds and wrinkles on her grief-stained cheeks. And in the presence of that little head, a headshaking like a dead leaf in the autumn time, and of those kindlyfeatures so worn with age and sorrow, my eyesfell, and I felt smitten with shame to find that, on searching mysoul for at least a word of consolation to offer to the poorfellow-mortal before me, I could discover none that seemedsuitable.But at length there recurred to my mind some strange words whichI had encountered in I know not what antique volume --words whichran:"Let not the servants of the Gods lament but, rather, rejoice,in that weeping and lamentation grieve both the Gods andmankind."Thereafter, I muttered confusedly:"It is time that I was going.""What?" was her hasty exclamation, an exclamation uttered asthough the words had affrighted her. Whereafter, with quiveringlips, she began hesitantly and uncertainly to fumble in herbodice."No, I have no need of money," I interposed. "Only, if youshould be so willing, give me a piece of bread.""You have no need of money? " she re-echoed dubiously."No, none. For that matter, of what use could it be to me?""Well, well!" she said after a thoughtful pause. "Then be itas you wish, and--and I thank you."*********************************The sun, as he rose and ascended towards the blue of thefirmament, was spreading over the earth a braggart, peacock-liketail of beams. And as he did so, I winked at him, for byexperience I knew that some two hours later his smiles would bescorching me with fire. Yet for the time being he and I had nofault to find with one another. Wherefore, I set myself to searchfor a bank whence I might sing to him, as to the Lord of Life:0h Thou of intangible substance,Reveal now that substance to me!Enwrap me within the great vestmentOf light which encompasseth Thee!That with Thy uprising, my substanceMay Come all-prevailing to be!**"Let us live our lives unto ourselves. Let theirs be theirs, andours, ours."
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