WHAT MEN LIVE BY.[1]
"We know that we have passed from death to life, because we love the brethren. . . . . He who says he loves God and loves not his brother is a liar, for whosoever loves not his brother whom he has seen, how can he love God Whom he has not seen?"—1 Epistle St. John iii. 14–iv. 20.
I.
A cobbler, with his wife and children, once lodged at a muzhik's. He had neither house nor land of his own, and he supported himself and his family by his cobbling. Bread was dear, and work cheap; and what he made by work went in food. The cobbler and his wife had one fur pelisse between them, and that was falling into rags, and in the second year the cobbler resolved to buy a sheep-skin by way of a new pelisse.
By the autumn the cobbler had got together a little money; three paper roubles lay in his old woman's coffer, and besides that there were five roubles twenty-five kopecks due from the muzhiks in the village.
And in the morning the cobbler got him ready to go to the village for his sheep-skin. He put on over his shirt his wadding jacket, which his old woman had made for him not long before, and above that his lined kaftan; put his three-rouble note in his pocket, cut himself a stick, and went after breakfast. He thought to himself: "I shall get my five roubles from the muzhiks, I'll add these three to them, and I'll buy a sheep-skin for a fur pelisse."
The cobbler went into the village and stopped at one of the muzhiks; he was not at home. His old woman promised to send her husband to him with the money in a week. He went on to another. This muzhik took God to witness that he had no money. He only gave him twenty kopecks for the patching of his boots. The cobbler thought of getting the sheep-skin on credit, but the sheepskin-dealer would not let him have it on credit.
"Bring the money," said he, "and then take what you like. We know how debts mount up."
So the cobbler did no business that day. He only got twenty kopecks for botching boots, and a pair of old leather soles to patch up again from the muzhik.
The cobbler was sore distressed. He drank away the whole of the twenty kopecks in brandy, and set off home without his pelisse. The cobbler went on his way, with one hand striking at the frozen snow-clods with his little stick, and swinging the boots by the laces with the other hand. And as he went along, he thus communed with himself:
"I'm warm without a pelisse," said he, "I've drunk a thimbleful and it skips about through all my veins. And a sheep-skin is not necessary after all. Here I go along and forget all my care. That's the sort of chap I am. What do I care? I can get along without a sheep-skin. I shall never want one. There's one thing though—my old woman will fret about it. She'll say: ''Tis a shame, you work for him and he leads you by the nose.' Wait a bit, that's all! If you don't bring me my money, I'll take the very cap from your head, by God I will! What sort of pay is this? He palms off a couple of griveniki upon me! What's a man to do with a couple of griveniki? Drink it up, and be done with it. 'I'm hard up,' says he. You're hard up, are you, and don't you suppose that I am hard up too? You have a house and cattle and everything else, and all I have is on my back! You make your own bread, I have to buy mine. Get it from whence I can, but three roubles I must find to spend in bread every week. I go home and all the bread has gone. Again I must lay out a rouble-and-a-half. Then why cannot you give me my due?"
Thus the cobbler went on till, he came to the chapel at the corner. He looked, and close up by the chapel something was glistening white. It was just then beginning to be dusky. The cobbler looked at it more narrowly, but could not make out what it was.
"There's no such stone as that here!" thought he. "Cattle, perhaps? But it's not like cattle either. It has got a head like a man. It's something white or other. But what should a man be doing here?"
He drew nearer. It was now quite visible. What marvel was this? It was indeed a man sitting there quite naked. Who shall say whether he was alive or dead? He was leaning against the chapel, and didn't move. The cobbler felt queer. He said to himself: "They have killed some man, rifled his pockets, and pitched him out here. You go on, and don't mix yourself up with it!"
So the cobbler went on. He got level with the chapel and—the man was no longer to be seen. He passed by the chapel and looked round; there was the man leaning forward from the chapel wall, and he moved a little as if he were looking towards the cobbler. The cobbler grew still more afraid, and he thought to himself: "Shall I go up to him or shall I pass by? Go to him, indeed! Some evil may come of it! Who knows who and what he is? No good errand has brought him hither, I know! Perchance he'll leap at me, and throttle me, and do for me. And even if he doesn't, what can I do with a naked man? I can't give him the very last rags off my own back, I suppose? God be my aid while I pass by him, that's all!"
And the cobbler quickened his pace. He was already passing by the chapel when his conscience began to nip him. And the cobbler stood still in the middle of the road.
"What ails the man?" said he to himself. "What doest thou, Simon? Here's a man dying in misery and thou takest fright and dost pass him by? Hast thou grown rich, forsooth? Dost thou fear they'll steal thy treasures? Come, come, Simon, this won't do!"
II.
Simon goes up to the man, looks carefully at him and perceives that the man is young and robust, with no bruises on his body; but it was plain that the man was half frozen and full of fear—there he sat, leaning against the wall, and did not even look at Simon, as if he were too weak to raise his eyes. Simon went close up to him, and, suddenly, as if the man had only just awoke, he turned his head, opened his eyes, and looked at Simon. This look quite endeared the man to Simon. He threw the boot-soles to the ground, ungirded himself, placed his girdle on the boots, and drew off his kaftan.
"Can you talk a bit?" said he. "Never mind! Come, put this on!"
Simon took the man by the elbow and helped to lift him up. The man got up, and Simon saw that his body was slender and clean, that his hands and feet had no bruises upon them, and his face was pleasant to look upon. Simon threw his kaftan over the man's shoulders, but the man could not manage the sleeves. So Simon put his hands right for him, stroked down and buttoned up the kaftan, and girded it with the girdle.
Simon also tore his tattered cap from his head to put it on the bare head of the man, but his own head went quite cold, and he thought to himself: "I am bald all over my head, but he has long locks all down his temples," and he put on his hat again. "'Twere better if I bound on him my boots."
So he made him sit down, and tied his own boots on to the man's feet.
Thus the cobbler dressed him, and said: "There thou art, brother! Come now, try and move, about a bit and warm thyself. Thou wilt feel all right presently. Dost think thou canst walk by thyself?"
The man stood up, looked kindly at Simon, but could not speak a word.
"Why dost thou not speak? We cannot pass all the winter here. We must seek some dwelling-place. Look here now! Here's my oaken staff! Lean upon it if thou dost feel weak. Off we go!"
So the man set off. He walked easily, and was never behind.
They went along the road, and Simon said, "Whence art thou, pray?"
"I am not of this place."
"So I see, for I know all those that dwell here. But how then didst thou come to be by the chapel?"
"I may not tell thee."
"I suppose the people here ill-treated thee?"
"Nobody hath ill-treated, but God hath punished me."
"Yes, indeed—God is over all, and everywhere His hand is upon us. But whither wouldst thou go?"
"'Tis all one to me."
Simon was amazed. The man was soft of speech, and not like a rogue, and yet he would give no account of himself; and Simon thought: "One little knows what sort of things go on in this world."
And he said to the man: "Look now, come to my house and warm thyself up a bit."
So Simon went on, and the stranger never left him, but kept alongside of him. The wind arose and found its way beneath Simon's shirt; the drink he had taken was now pretty well out of him, and he began to feel freezing cold. On he went, snuffling loudly and wrapping his old woman's jacket more closely around him, and he thought to himself: "That's what thy sheep-skin has brought thee to. Thou didst go for a pelisse, and dost return even without a kaftan, and dost bring a naked man home with thee to boot. Thy Matrena will not bless thee for it!"
And the moment he fell to thinking of Matrena, he grew uncomfortable. But when he looked at the stranger he bethought him of how the man had looked at him at the chapel, and his heart leaped up within him.
III.
Simon's wife was up early. She chopped, up the firewood, brought the water, fed the children, took a bit herself, and began to think: "When shall I make the bread, now or to-morrow?" A big slice still remained.
"If Simon has had something to eat down yonder," she thought, "and doesn't eat much for supper, there will be enough bread to go on with till to-morrow."
Matrena kept turning the piece of bread round and round, and she thought: "I won't make the bread now. There's only enough meal left for one loaf. We can manage to get along till Friday."
Matrena put away the bread, and sat down at the table to sew a patch on to her husband's shirt. She sewed and sewed, and all the time she thought of her husband, and how he had gone to buy a sheep-skin for a pelisse.
"I hope the sheepskin-seller won't cheat him, for my old man really is very simple. He cheats nobody himself, and a little child might lead him by the nose. Eight roubles. That is no small amount of money. One should get a good pelisse for that. If not of the very best quality, at least a pelisse of some sort. I went through last winter as best I could without a pelisse. I could go nowhither, not even to the brook. And lo now! he has left the house, and has put on every stitch we have. I have nothing to put on at all. He's a long time coming. 'Tis time he was here now. I hope my little falcon has not gone astray somewhere."
While Matrena was still thinking these thoughts, there was a scraping on the staircase steps; somebody was coming in. Matrena stuck her needle into her work, and went out into the passage. She looked. Two were coming—Simon, and with him some sort of a man without a cap, and in felt boots.
All at once Matrena noticed the breath of her husband. "Yes, that's it," she thought, "he's been on the drink." And when she perceived that he was without his kaftan, in his jacket alone, and carried nothing in his hand, and was silent, but pulled a wry face, Matrena's heart was hot within her. "He has drunk away the money," she thought; "he has been wandering about with some vagabond or other, and has gone the length of bringing him home with him."
Matrena let them go into the room, and came in herself also. She perceived that the man was a stranger—young, haggard, the kaftan he had on was theirs, hat he had none. He stood on the spot where he had first come in, neither moving nor raising his eyes. And Matrena thought: "He is not a good man, for he is afraid."
Matrena wrinkled her brows, went up to the stove, and looked on to see what they would do next.
Simon took off his hat and sat down on the bench as if all were well.
"Well, Matrena!" said he, "give us some supper, come!"
Matrena grumbled to herself, but kept standing by the stove as if she never meant to move from it. First she looked at the one, and then she looked at the other, but she only shook her head. Simon saw that his old woman was not herself, but what was to be done? He pretended to notice nothing, and took the stranger by the arm.
"Sit down, brother!" said he, "and we'll have some supper."
The stranger sat down on the bench.
"Come now, have you cooked anything?"
Matrena grew wrath.
"Cooked I have, but not for you. I see you have drunk your senses away. You went for a pelisse and have come back without a kaftan, and have brought back some naked ragamuffin with you into the bargain. I have no supper to give a pair of drunkards."
"Let be, Matrena! Your tongue wags apace. First you should ask what manner of man it is."
"'Tis you who should say what you have done with your money."
Simon fumbled in his kaftan, drew out the notes and unrolled them.
"The money—there it is, but Trofimov has given me nothing, he said he would do so to-morrow."
Still angrier grew Matrena. He had not bought a pelisse, and he had given his last kaftan to some naked rascal, and even brought him home with him.
She took the paper money from the table, stowed it away about her person, and said:
"You'll get no supper from me. You can't afford to feed all the naked drunkards who run against you."
"Ah! Matrena, put a gag upon your tongue. Listen first of all to what people say to you."
"What! listen to reason from a drunken fool! Not in vain did I refuse to be your wife at first, you sot, you! My mother gave me lots of linen, you drank it away. You went to buy a pelisse—you drank that away too."
Simon wanted to explain to his wife that he had only drunk twenty kopecks' worth; he wanted to say how he had fallen in with the man; but Matrena didn't give him the chance of speaking a word or finding an answer, she spoke two words to his one. She even brought up against him again what had happened ten years before.
Matrena talked and talked, and then she made a dab at Simon and caught him by the sleeve.
"Give hither my jacket! That is all I have left, and you've taken it from me and put it on your own back. Give it hither, you tow-stuffed cur! May the apoplexy seize you!"
Simon drew off the jacket and turned one of the sleeves the wrong side out. His old woman tugged at it, and almost tore it asunder at the seams. Matrena snatched up the jacket, threw it over her head, and made for the door. She would have gone out, but stopped short, and her heart was sore within her. She was bubbling over with evil unspoken, and she wanted to know besides who this strange man was.
IV.
Matrena stood still, and said, "If he were a good man he would not be naked like that. Why, he hasn't even got a shirt to his back. And if you had been about any honest business, you would have said where you picked up such a fine fellow!"
"I'll tell you then. I was going along. I passed by the chapel, and there sat this man, all naked and frozen. 'Tis not summer-time now, that a man should go about naked. Would he not have perished if God had not brought me to him? What was to be done now? Was it such a small matter to leave him? I took him, clothed him, and brought him hither. Let your heart be at ease then. 'Tis a sin, Matrena. We shall die one day."
Matrena would have liked to have scolded, but she looked at the stranger and was silent. The stranger was sitting down, but he didn't move. He was sitting on the very edge of the bench. His arms were clasped together on his knees, his head had sunk down upon his breast; he did not open his eyes, and his face was all in folds and wrinkles, as if something was suffocating him, and then Simon spoke:
"Matrena! is there nothing of God within you?"
Matrena heard this sentence, looked again at the stranger, and suddenly her heart was moved. She left the door, went to the corner where the stove was and got some supper. She put a cup on the table, poured out some kvas,[2] brought forth their last morsel of bread. Then she put down a knife and two spoons.
"Will you taste of our bread?" said she.
Simon nudged the stranger.
"Come nearer, good youth!" said he.
Simon cut the bread, crumbled it, and fell to supping. But Matrena sat at the corner of the table, rested her head on her elbows, and regarded the stranger.
And Matrena felt sorry for the stranger, and began to like him. And suddenly the stranger grew more cheerful. He ceased to wrinkle his face, he raised his eyes towards Matrena, and smiled.
They finished supping; the old woman cleared away, and began to question the stranger:
"Whence do you come?"
"I am not of this place."
"Then how came you along this road?"
"I cannot say."
"Has any man robbed you?"
"God has punished me."
"And you were lying naked like that?"
"I was lying naked like that, and freezing. Simon saw and had compassion upon me, he took off his kaftan, clothed me with it, and bade me come hither. And here you have had pity upon me, and given me to eat and drink. The Lord requite you!"
Matrena rose up, took from the window Simon's old shirt, the selfsame shirt she had mended, and gave it to the stranger. She also hunted up some hose, and these she gave him likewise.
"There you are, take them! I see you have no shirt. Put them on, and lie down where you like; on the bench or on the stove."
The stranger took the kaftan, put on the shirt and hose, and lay down on the bench. Matrena put out the light, took the kaftan and went to her husband.
Matrena covered herself with the ends of the kaftan, lay down, but could not sleep; she could not get the stranger out of her thoughts at all. When she reflected that he had eaten up their last bit of bread, and there was no bread for the morrow, and that she had given away the shirt and the hose, she was very vexed; then she recollected how he had smiled, and her heart went forth to him.
For a long time Matrena could not sleep, but lay listening. Simon also could not sleep, and drew his kaftan over him.
"Simon!"
"Eh?"
"We have eaten our last bit of bread. I have made no more. I know not how it will be to-morrow. I'll beg a little from our neighbour, Malania."
"We shall live and be satisfied."
The old woman lay back and was silent.
"The man is a good man, that's clear, only why is he so close about himself?"
"Perhaps he has to be?"
"Why?"
"Ah!"
"We give him what we have, but why does nobody give to us?"
Simon knew not what to say. "Leave off talking!" he said. Then he turned him round and went to sleep.
V.
In the morning Simon awoke. The children were asleep, his wife had gone to the neighbours to seek for bread. Only the stranger of the evening before, in the old hose and the shirt, was sitting on the bench and looking upwards. And his face was even brighter than the evening before, and Simon said:
"Look now, dear heart, the belly begs for bread and the naked body for raiment. One must feed and live. What trade do you know?"
"I know nothing."
Simon was amazed, and he said,
"Where there's a will folks can learn anything."
"People work, and I will work too."
"What do they call you?"
"Michael."
"Well, Michael, you won't tell us anything about yourself, and that's your business, but one must eat. Work as I tell you and I'll feed you."
"The Lord preserve you. I will learn. Show me what to do."
Simon took a piece of tarred thread, put it round his fingers, and began to twist the ends of it.
Michael looked on, took it in his fingers and began to twist the ends of it in the same way. Then Simon showed him how to weld leather, and Michael understood it at once. Then his host showed him how to sew pieces of leather together, and how to clip them straight, and this also Michael understood at once.
And whatever work Simon showed him he understood it immediately, and after three days he worked as if he had been at it all his life. He worked without blundering and ate but little. He worked without a break, kept silence and always looked upwards. He never went out in the street, never spoke a word too much, and neither laughed or jested.
They had only seen him smile once, and that was on the first evening when the old woman had made ready some supper for him.
VI.
Day by day, week by week, the year went round. Michael lived as before at Simon's and worked. And the fame of Simon's workman went forth, and they said that nobody could sew boots together so cleanly and so strongly as Simon's workman Michael. They began to come to Simon for boots from the whole country side, and Simon began to increase and do well.
One day, in the winter-time, Simon and Michael were sitting working together, when a troika,[3] with all its bells ringing, dashed up to the hut. They looked out of the window; the sledge stopped in front of the hut; a young man leaped down from the seat, and opened the door of the sledge. Out of the sledge stepped a gentleman wrapped up in a pelisse. He got out of the sledge and went up to Simon's house, and mounted the staircase. Matrena darted out and threw the door wide open. The gentleman bowed and entered the hut. When he stood upright his head very nearly touched the ceiling, and his body took up a whole corner of the hut.
Simon stood up and bowed deeply. He was much surprised to see the gentleman there. He was not in the habit of seeing such people. Now Simon was quite gaunt and Michael was thin and haggard, and Matrena was like a dried chip; but this person was like a man from quite another world; his snout[4] was sappy and rosy, his neck like a bull's, his whole frame as if of cast iron.
The gentleman breathed hard, took off his furs, sat down on the bench, and said: "Who's the master here?"
Simon stepped forward and said: "I, your honour."
The gentleman shouted to his lad: "Fed'ka, bring the traps hither!"
The lad came running in with a bundle. The gentleman took the bundle and placed it on the table. "Undo it!" said he. The lad undid it.
The gentleman tapped the goods with the tips of his fingers, and said to Simon: "Hark ye, cobbler! do you see these good's?"
"I see them, your excellency!" said Simon.
"Can you tell what sort of wares these are?"
Simon felt the wares a bit and said, "Good stuff!"
"Good! I should rather think so! Why, you fool, you've never seen such wares in your life before. German goods at twenty roubles."
Simon was a little taken aback at this, so he said: "We are not in the way of seeing such things."
"Of course you're not. Now, can you make me a pair of boots out of this leather?"
"I can, your honour!"
The gentleman raised his voice at him. "You can, can you? Understand clearly what you are going to stitch, and what sort of leather you are working on. You must stitch me a pair of boots which will last me the whole year round, and will neither shrivel nor rot. If you can do this, take the leather and cut it up; if you can't, don't take the leather, and don't cut it up. I tell you beforehand, if the boots wear out or shrink up before the year is out, I'll clap you in gaol; but if they don't shrink up and don't wear out within the year, I'll give you ten roubles for your work."
Simon was a bit afraid and didn't know what to say. He glanced at Michael, nudged him with his elbow, and whispered to him: "What think you, brother?"
Michael nodded his head: "Take the work by all means."
Simon listened to Michael. He undertook to make boots that would neither rot nor shrink. The gentleman called to his lad, and ordered him to take his boot off his left leg; then he held out his foot and said: "Take my measure!"
Simon sewed together a piece of paper about ten vershoks[5] long, had a good look at the gentleman's foot, went down on his knees, wiped his hands neatly on his apron so as not to soil the gentlemanly stockings, and began to take measures. He took the measure of the sole, he took the measure of the instep, he began to measure the calf, but the piece of measuring paper would not do. The leg was very big in the calf, just like a thick beam.
"Take care you don't pinch me in the shins!" said the gentleman.
Simon took yet another piece of paper to measure with. The gentleman sat down, twiddled his toes about in his stockings, looked round at the people in the hut and perceived Michael.
"Who's that you've got there?"
"That is my apprentice. It is he who will stitch the boots."
"Look now!" said the gentleman to Michael, "be careful how you stitch! The boots must last the whole year round." Simon also looked at Michael and saw that Michael was not looking at the gentleman, but was staring "at the corner behind the gentleman as if he saw someone there. Michael kept on looking and looking, and all at once he smiled, and his face grew quite bright.
"What are you showing your teeth for, you fool? You had much better see that the things are ready in time!" said the gentleman.
And Michael said: "They'll be quite ready when they're wanted."
"Very well."
The gentleman put on his boot and his pelisse, sniffed a bit and went towards the door. But he forgot to bow, so he hit his head against the ceiling. The gentleman cursed, rubbed his forehead, sat him down in his sledge, and drove off.
So the gentleman went away.
Then Simon said: "He is a veritable flint-stone. He nearly knocked the beam out with his head and it hardly hurt him a bit."
But Matrena said: "How can he help getting hard and smooth with the life he leads. Even death itself has no hold upon a clod like that."
VII.
And Simon said to Michael: "We have taken the work, but whether it will do us a mischief after all who can say? The wares are dear, and the gentleman is stern. What if we blunder over it? Look now! your eyes are sharper than mine, and your hands are defter at measuring. Cut out the leather now, and I'll sew on the buttons."
Michael obeyed at once. He took the gentleman's wares, spread them out on the table, folded them in two, took his knife, and began to cut out.
Matrena came forward and watched Michael cutting out, and she was amazed at the way in which Michael did it. Matrena was already used to the sight of cobbler's work, and she looked and saw that Michael did not cut out as cobblers are wont to do, but cut it out in a circle. Matrena would have liked to have spoken, but she thought: "Maybe I don't understand how gentlemen's boots ought to be cut out. No doubt Michael knows better than I. I won't interfere."
Michael had now cut out the leather for a pair of boots, and he took up the ends and began to stitch, not as cobblers do so as to have two ends, but with one end as is the way of those who make shoes for the dead.
Matrena was amazed at this also, but even now she didn't interfere. Michael went on sewing. It began to get dark, Simon got up and looked. Out of the gentleman's leather Michael had stitched together bosoviki.[6]
Simon sighed: "How is it," thought he, "that Michael who has been working with us for a whole year without making a mistake, has now done us this mischief? The gentleman bespoke heavily soled boots, and he has stitched bosoviki, which are sole-less. He has spoiled the leather. What shall I now say to the gentleman? One can't get stuff like that here."
And he said to Michael: "What is this that you have done, dear heart? You have done for me now. The gentleman bespoke boots, and what have you stitched together?"
Scarcely had Simon begun to take Michael to task about the boots when there was a fumbling at the door-latch, and someone knocked. They looked out of the window; someone on horseback was there who had just tied up his horse. They opened the door, and in came the selfsame lad who had been with the gentleman.
"Good health to you!"
"Good health! What's amiss?"
"My mistress has sent me about the boots."
"About the boots?"
"Yes, about the boots. Master needs no more boots. My master will command no more. He's dead!"
"Go along with you!"
"He didn't even get home alive. He died in the sledge. When the sledge got to the house and we went to help him out, there he was like a lump, all of a heap and stiff frozen, lying there dead. It was as much as we could do to tear him from the sledge. Our mistress too has sent to say: 'Pray tell the cobbler what has happened, and say that as boots are not now requisite for master, would he make a pair of bosoviki for the dead body out of the stuff that was left.' I am to wait till they are stitched together, and I am to take the bosoviki back with me—so I have come."
Michael took from the table the clippings of the leather and rolled them up into a ball. He also brought out the bosoviki, which were quite ready, cracked them one against the other, brushed them with his apron, and gave them to the lad. The lad took away the bosoviki.
"Farewell, masters! Good day."
VIII.
Another year passed by—two years passed by. It was now the sixth year of Michael's abiding with Simon. He lived just in the same way as before. He went nowhither, spoke to no strange person, and the whole of that time he had only smiled twice: once when the old woman had prepared supper for him, and the second time when he had looked at the gentleman. Simon could not rejoice enough in his workman. And he asked him no more from whence he came; the only fear he now had was lest Michael should leave him.
One day they were sitting at home. The old woman was putting an iron pot on the stove, and the children were running along the benches and looking out of the windows. Simon was stitching at one window, and Michael was hammering at the heel of a boot at the other window. One of the little boys sidled along the bench up to Michael, leaned against his shoulder, and looked out of the window.
"Look, Uncle Michael! A merchant's wife is coming with her children to our house, and one of the little girls is lame."
The little lad had scarcely said this when Michael threw down his work, turned to the window and looked out into the street.
And Simon was amazed. Michael had never looked into the street before, and now he rushed to the window and was looking at something or other. Simon also looked out of the window, and he saw a woman coming straight towards his door; her dress was neat and clean, and she led by the arm two little girls in furs, with kerchiefs round their heads. The children were as like as two peas, it was impossible to tell one from the other, only one of them was lame of a foot, and limped as she walked.
The woman went upstairs to the antechamber, fumbled at the door, groped for the latch, and opened the door. She pushed her two little children on before her, and entered the hut.
"Good health, my masters!"
"We cry your pardon—what do you want?"
The woman sat down on a chair, the children pressed close to her knees, the good people looked on and wondered.
"Look, now," said the woman, "will you stitch me leather bashmachki[7] for the children against the spring?"
"Maybe. We don't as a rule make shoes for such little children, but we can do so, of course. You can have them with good, strong uppers, or you can have them lined with linen. My Michael here is a master at his trade."
Simon glanced towards Michael, and perceived that he had thrown down his work and was gazing steadily at the children. He couldn't take his eyes from them.
And Simon was amazed at Michael It is true they were nice children—black-eyed, plump-cheeked, rosy-faced—and their little furs and frocks were also very nice; but still, for all that, Simon could not understand why Michael should look at them as if they were his acquaintances.
Simon was amazed, and began to talk to the woman, and settle about the work to be done. They arranged it, and he took the measure. Then the woman took the lame little girl on her lap, and said:
"Take the two measures from this little one, and make one little shoe for the left little foot, and three for the right little foot. They've both the same shape of foot—as like as two peas. They are twins."
Simon took the tiny measure, and said to the lame little girl:
"How did this befall you? Such a nice little girl as you are too! Were you born with it?"
"Nay, her mother did it."
Matrena then drew near. She wanted to know who the woman was, and all about the children.
"Then you are not their mother, eh?"
"I am not their mother, nor indeed any relation, my mistress. They were quite strangers to me, but I adopted them."
"They are not your children, eh? Yet you seem very fond of them?"
"Why should I not be fond of them? I have nourished them both on my bosom. I had a child of my own, but God took him; yet I couldn't love my own child more than I love these?"
"Whose then are they?"
IX.
The woman began to speak, and this is what she said:
"It is now six years ago," said she, "since the parents of these orphans died in one week. They buried the father on the Wednesday, and the mother died on the Friday. These poor little things were without a father for three days, and their mother did not live more than a day after their father died. I lived at that time with my husband in serfdom. We were neighbours; we dwelt side by side. The father of these children was all alone; he worked in the wood. One day they were felling a tree, and it fell right across him; all his inside came out. Scarcely had they brought him home than he gave up his soul to God, but his wife the same week bore these two little children. There was nothing there but poverty and loneliness. The woman was quite alone there; there was neither nurse nor serving wench. Alone she bore them, alone she died.
"I went in the morning to look after my neighbour. I drew near to the hut, and she, poor wretch, was already cold. In her agony she had trampled upon this little girl—she had trampled on this little girl, I say, and broken her leg. The people came together. They washed and tidied her; they made a grave and buried her. They were all good people. The children remained all alone. What was to be done with them? I was the only woman of them all just then who had a suckling. My first dear little boy I had been nourishing for eight weeks. I took them to my own house in the meantime. The muzhiks came together; they thought and thought what to do with the children, and they said to me: 'You, Maria, keep the children for a time at your house, and give us time to think the matter over.' For a little time I nourished at my breast the hale and whole child only, but the one that had been trampled upon I did not nourish at all. I didn't expect her to live. But soon I thought to myself, 'How can you bear to see this little angel face pine away?' So I began to give it suck also. I fed my own and these two as well—three at my breast I fed. I was young and strong, and of good food I had no lack. God gave me abundance of milk. I used to feed two at a time, while the third waited—then I would remove one and feed the third. But God helped me to nourish all three, and in the second year I buried my own child. And God gave me no more children, but I began to increase in wealth. We live now at the mill with the merchant; our wage is high, our life is pleasant. But we have no children. And how could I bear to live alone, if it were not for these children? And how dear are they not to me! They are to me what wax is to a candle."
The woman pressed close to her side with one hand the lame little girl, and with the other hand she wiped the tears from her cheeks.
"'Tis plain," said Matrena, "that the proverb is not in vain which says, 'Without father and mother we may still get on, but without God we cannot get on.'"
So they went on talking, and then the woman rose to go; the host conducted her out, and as they did so they glanced at Michael. But he was sitting with his hands folded on his knees, and he looked upwards and smiled.
X.
Simon went up to him. "What ails you, Michael?" said he.
Michael stood up and put down his work. Then he took off his apron, bowed to his host and hostess, and said:
"Farewell, my host and hostess. God has forgiven me; you must forgive me too."
And his host and hostess perceived that a radiance went forth from Michael. And Simon stood up and bowed low to Michael, and said to him:
"I see, Michael, that thou art no mere man, and I am not able to keep thee, nor am I able to ask thee any questions. Tell me, nevertheless, this one thing; why, when I found thee and brought thee to my home, wert thou so sad; and why, when my old woman gave thee to sup withal, didst thou smile, and thenceforth brighten up? Then again, when the gentleman ordered the boots, thou didst smile a second time; and from that time forth thou didst become still brighter—and now, when the woman brought these children hither, thou didst smile a third time, and grow exceedingly bright. Tell me now, Michael, whence is this light of thine, and wherefore didst thou smile these three times?"
And Michael said: "For this cause light came forth from me, because I was punished; but God has forgiven me. And I smiled thrice because it was necessary that thrice I should hear divine words. And thrice also did I hear them. I heard the first divine word when your wife had compassion on me, and then I smiled the first time. I heard the second divine word when the rich man ordered the boots, and so I smiled the second time; and now, when I saw the children, I heard the third divine word, and I smiled for the third time."
And Simon said: "Tell me now, Michael, wherefore did God punish you, and what are those words of God that you had to learn from me?"
And Michael said: "God punished me because I was not obedient. I was an Angel in Heaven, and God sent me to take away the soul of a woman. I flew down to the earth, and saw there a woman who lay sick, she had just given birth to little twin-girls. They were writhing about beside their mother, and she was unable to put them to her breasts. The woman saw me, and understood that God had sent me for her soul, and she burst into tears, and said: 'Angel of God! They have only just buried my husband; he was struck dead by a tree of the forest. I have neither sister, nor aunt, nor grandmother. I have none at all to bring up my poor orphans. Take not away my poor, wretched soul, let me but feed and nourish my little children till they can stand upon their feet. How can the children live to grow up with neither father nor mother?' And I listened to the mother. I laid one child on her breast, I put the other child in her arms, and I ascended to the Lord in Heaven. I flew up to the Lord, and I said to Him: 'I cannot take the soul away from that poor, childing mother. The father was killed by a tree, the mother has borne twins, and she prayed me not to take the soul out of her, and said: "Let me but feed and nourish my little children till they can stand upon their feet. How can the children live to grow up with neither father nor mother?" And so I did not take away the soul of the poor childing mother.' 'Go and fetch hither the soul of the childing mother, and thou shalt learn and know three words: thou shalt learn what is in the children of men, and what is not given to them, and that whereby they live. When thou hast learnt these things, thou shalt return to Heaven.' And I flew back again upon the earth, and took away the soul of the childing woman. The little ones fell from her breast. The dead body fell back upon the bed, pressed upon one of the little children, and broke her leg. I rose above the village; I would have borne the soul to God. Then a blast caught me, my wings dropped down and fell off, and the soul went alone to God; but I fell to the earth by the wayside."
XI.
And Simon and Matrena understood whom it was they had clothed and fed, and who had lived with them, and they wept for fear and joy; and the Angel said:
"I was alone in the open field and naked. Never had I known before the needs of man; never had I known before hunger and cold, and what it is to be a man. I grew more and more hungry; I was freezing, and I knew not what to do. I looked about me; I saw in the field a church made for God; I went to this Church of God; I wanted to shelter myself therein. The church was fastened with bar and bolt; there was no getting into it. I sat me down by the church to be sheltered from the wind. Evening drew nigh. I grew hungry; I was cold also, and racked with pain. All at once I heard a man coming alone. He was carrying boots, and talking to himself And for the first time I saw a deathly human face, besides feeling what it was to be a man; and I had a horror of this face, and turned me away from it. And I heard how this man was talking to himself, and how he asked himself how he was to protect his body against the cold of winter and provide for his wife and children. And I thought to myself, 'Here am I perishing from cold and hunger, and here's a man who only thinks how he is to clothe himself against the winter and provide him and his with bread. He can never help me. The man saw me and was troubled. Then a still greater fear seized him, and he hurried by. I was in despair. Suddenly I heard the man coming back. I looked and could not recognise the man I had seen before. Then there had been death in his face, but now he had suddenly become a living soul, and in his face I recognised God. He came to me, clothed me, took me with him, and led me to his house. I entered his house. His wife came out to meet us and began to speak. The woman was even more dreadful than her husband. The breath of the charnel-house came forth from her mouth, and I could not breathe for that mortal stench. She wished to drive me forth into the cold, and I knew that she would die if she drove me forth. And all at once her husband reminded her of God, and a great change suddenly came over the woman. And when she gave me some supper she looked at me, and I looked at her, and Death was no longer upon her—she was a living soul, and I recognised God in her.
"And I remembered the first word of God: 'Thou shalt know what is in mankind.' And I knew that in the hearts of mankind was love. And I rejoiced that God had begun to reveal to me what He had promised, and I smiled for the first time; but I was unable as yet to understand everything. I did not understand what is not given to men, nor whereby they live.
"I began to dwell with you, and a year went by. And the man came and ordered boots—boots that would last a year and neither rot nor shrink. And I looked at him, and immediately I saw behind him his companion the Angel of Death. None but I saw this Angel, but I knew him, and I knew also that before the going down of the sun he would take the soul of the rich man; and I thought to myself, 'The man makes provision for a year, and he knows not that he will not be alive by the evening;' and I remembered the second word of God: 'Thou shalt know what is not given to men.'
"What was in mankind I knew already, now I knew what is not given to mankind. It is not given to mankind to know what is necessary for their bodies. And I smiled the second time. And I rejoiced that I had seen my companion Angel, and that God had revealed to me the second word.
"But I was not yet able to understand everything. I was not able to understand yet whereby people live; and I lived on and waited if haply God might reveal to me the last word. And in the sixth year came the twin children and the woman, and I knew the children, and I knew that they had been kept alive. I knew it, and I thought, 'The mother begged me to spare her for her children, and I believed the mother; I thought that without father or mother it was impossible to bring up children, and lo! a strange woman has nourished and brought them up.' And when the woman wept with joy over the strange children, I saw in her the living God, and knew whereby mankind live, and I knew that God had revealed to me the last word, and had forgiven me, and I smiled for the third time."
XII.
And the body of the Angel was revealed, and it was clothed with light so that no eye could bear to look upon him, and he began to speak more terribly, just as if his voice did not come from him, but from Heaven. And the Angel said:
"I learnt that man does not live by anxious care of himself, but by love. It was not given the mother to know what was necessary for the life of her children; it was not given to the rich man to know what was necessary for himself; and it is given to no single man to know whether by the evening he will want boots to wear or bosoviki to be put upon the feet of his corpse. While I lived the life of man I lived not by care for mine own self, but by the love that was in the hearts of a wayfaring man and his wife, and they were kind and merciful to me. The orphans lived not by any care they had for themselves, but they lived through the love that was in the heart of a strange woman who was kind and merciful to them. And all these people lived not by reason of any care they had for themselves, but by the love for them that was in other people. I knew before that God gave life unto men, and desires them to live; but now I know other things also. I know that God does not desire men to live away from each other, and therefore has not revealed to them that it is necessary for them to live to themselves, but that He wishes them to live together, and therefore has revealed to them that they are needful to each other's happiness. I know now that people only seem to live when they are caring for themselves, and that it is only by love that they really live. He who is in Love is in God and God in him, because God is Love."
And the Angel sang the glory of God; and the hut trembled at his voice, and the roof parted asunder, and a pillar of fire shot up from earth to Heaven. And Simon and his wife fell down with their faces to the ground; and wings burst forth from the Angel's shoulders, and he ascended up into Heaven.
And when Simon looked up, the hut stood there as before, and in the hut was none but those of his own household.
- ↑ Translated from the Moscow popular edition of 1886.
- ↑ A drink made of rye-meal and malt.
- ↑ A carriage or sledge drawn by three horses.
- ↑ Morda, an animal's snout, not nos' a nose.
- ↑ A vershok is the sixteenth part of a Russian ell.
- ↑ Lit. shoes worn on naked feet, such as are put on the feet of a corpse.
- ↑ Women's shoes.