THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 and Other Stories 
 
 BY 
 
 VLADIMIR G. KOROLENKO 
 
 Translated from the Russian by 
 
 CLARENCE AUGUSTUS MANNING, Ph.D. 
 
 Lecturer in Slavonic Languages, 
 Columbia University 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY 
 1919
 
 Copyright, 1919. by 
 DUFFIELD & COMPANY
 
 PG- 
 44 (.1 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN DYNELEY PRINCE, PH.D. 
 
 PROFESSOR OF SLAVONIC LANGUAGES 
 COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 
 
 834971
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 3 
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 73 
 
 "NECESSITY" 157 
 
 ON THE VOLGA 189 
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 207
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Of all of the more modern authors of Russia, 
 perhaps none holds a higher rank than Vladimir 
 Galaktionovich Korolenko. He was born in 1853 
 in Zhitomir, in the southern part of the Govern- 
 ment of Yolhynia. 
 
 His works show an extensive knowledge of Rus- 
 sia, through which he travelled very extensively 
 (partly due to the fact that he was one time ban- 
 ished for political reasons) , and a very keen appre- 
 ciation of the beauties and moods of nature. Even 
 more than this, however, he appreciates very keenly 
 the hardships and pleasures of the life of the peo- 
 ple and while depicting them realistically, he suc- 
 ceeds in casting over even sordid and unpleas- 
 ant scenes, a veil of poetic beauty and of spiritual 
 significance, which elevate his work above much of 
 that produced by his contemporaries. 
 
 The stories in this volume date from the last 
 part of the nineteenth century, for the most part, 
 and give a very good idea of the range and variety
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 of the themes handled by Korolenko and of the 
 almost mystical treatment which he sometimes em- 
 ploys and his works in this respect are, if any- 
 thing, more typically Russian than are those of his 
 contemporaries who strive for a brutal and often 
 repulsive realism.
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 THAT day the monastery was joyously greet- 
 ing the ikon. For two months the "Lady" 
 had been traveling from place to place and now 
 she was returning home. 
 
 First in their three-horse coaches came the priests 
 who had accompanied her and who were now bring- 
 ing back to the monastery the treasure which they 
 had collected on their travels. They looked 
 healthy, well-fed, and satisfied. They were fol- 
 lowed by the motley bands of pilgrims. These 
 came in greater and greater numbers out of the 
 forest, until at last the climax was reached with 
 the gilded covering of the ikon flashing in the sun- 
 light above the heads of the marchers. 
 
 Bells pealed forth ; banners gleamed and waved ; 
 the singing of the choir and the tramping of thou- 
 sands of men, like an onrushing river, filled the 
 
 3
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 quiet neighborhood of the monastery with uproar 
 and confusion. 
 
 The place awoke. In the church hymns of 
 thanksgiving were sung. On the square merchants 
 and market women called out their wares from 
 under their linen curtains; from the "institution" 
 came the sounds of harmonicas and cymbals ; in the 
 huts of the village one set of pilgrims kept replac- 
 ing another at the tables on which steamed enor- 
 mous samovars. 
 
 Towards evening a hard rain suddenly came up 
 and drove the crowds and the merchants from the 
 bazaar. The square and the streets became quiet 
 and no sound was to be heard save the splashing of 
 the huge drops in the puddles and the flapping and 
 blowing of the wet curtains, as they were tossed 
 by the storm wind. Yes, and in the church the har- 
 monious singing still continued and the yellow 
 lights of the candles still flickered on. 
 
 When the clouds suddenly lifted and streamed 
 off to the east, carrying with them the veil of mist 
 which had hung over the fields and woods, the sun 
 reappeared in the west and with its parting rays it 
 tenderly caressed the windows of the village and 
 the crosses of the monastery. But the earlier bus- 
 tle did not return to the square of the bazaar. The 
 pilgrims all had a quiet thirst for rest after their 
 
 4
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 hard journey and the day ended with the last notes 
 of the concluding service in the church. Even the 
 cymbals behind the wall of the "institution" 
 clashed weakly and dully. 
 
 The service was ended. Within the church the 
 candles burned out one after the other. The pil- 
 grims scattered. Little groups of men and 
 women stood at the door of the guest-house of 
 the monastery, until the guest-master should grant 
 admission to those who desired lodging. A fat 
 monk and two lay brothers came out on the porch 
 and began to divide the sheep from the goats. The 
 sheep entered the door; the goats were driven off 
 and, muttering,, made their way to the gates. At 
 the end of this operation, there remained by the 
 entrance a group of Mordvin women and a wan- 
 derer. Apparently, their fate had already been 
 decided by the guest-master who reentered the 
 building. 
 
 In a moment the lay brothers came out, counted 
 the women and admitted them to the women's 
 apartments. The older lay brother walked up to 
 the solitary stranger and said with a bow : 
 
 "Forgive me, for Christ's sake, Brother Var- 
 sonofy. . . . The guest-master will not permit you 
 to stay here. ... Go in peace." 
 
 A sick smile passed over the face of the young 
 5
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 wanderer and I was surprised by its peculiar, dra- 
 matic, and significant character. The man's face 
 was also worthy of notice: hump-nosed, thin, and 
 with large, glowing eyes. A pointed hat and a 
 hardly noticeable, but pointed, beard gave the man 
 an unusual appearance. The whole dry figure 
 dressed in an old cassock, with a thin neck and a 
 strong profile, attracted your attention, even 
 against your will. The impression which it pro- 
 duced was clear, alarming and disturbing. 
 
 When he heard the words of the lay brother, the 
 stranger bowed and said : 
 
 "God will save and for this ..." 
 
 As he turned to go, he suddenly staggered. He 
 was clearly sick and extremely tired. The good- 
 hearted lay brother looked at him and hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 "Wait, Brother Varsonofy. . . . I will try 
 again. ' ' 
 
 The stranger rested on his staff and waited ex- 
 pectantly. But in a moment the brother again came 
 out and, walking up with some embarrassment, 
 said with evident pity : 
 
 "No, he won't allow it. ... Father Nifont told 
 him that a stranger . . . like you . . . speaks 
 badly . . . disturbs the people." 
 
 The stranger's face showed how he felt. His 
 6
 
 eyes flashed, as if he were about to speak, but he 
 bowed and said: 
 
 " Thank you, fathers. ..." 
 
 And he wearily went from the door. 
 
 The lay brother looked at me questioningly. I 
 knew that he was about to shut the gate and so I 
 went to the outer court. This was already empty. 
 The young man who sold kalaches (cakes) for the 
 monastery was behind his stand, but no one came 
 to it. 
 
 The porter closed one gate behind me and then, 
 pressing with his feet, he started to close the sec- 
 ond. Just then a scuffle was heard within the gate, 
 the tramping of several pairs of feet; the opening 
 again widened and in it appeared an ill-favored 
 figure in a pilgrim's costume, reddish and faded. 
 A rough, hairy hand held it by the collar and di- 
 rected its involuntary movements. A vigorous 
 push. . . . The stranger flew off several paces and 
 fell. One wallet and then another sailed after 
 him. ... A small book in a worn leather binding 
 fell out in the mud and its leaves commenced to 
 blow in the wind. 
 
 "Look here, . . ." said a deep, bass voice be- 
 hind the gate. "Don't quarrel. ..." 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked the porter. 
 "Why, this," answered the bass voice. "Be- 
 7
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 cause of him the guest-master sinned . . . turned 
 a man away. . . . And he's a good man. Oh! 
 Oh! ... a real sin. . . ." 
 
 The speaker went away. The porter shut the 
 gate, but not quite completely; curiosity mastered 
 him and his little eyes, his fat nose, and his light 
 mustache could be seen through the crack. He 
 was following with manifest interest the further 
 actions of the rejected wanderer. 
 
 The latter quickly rose, gathered up his wallets, 
 put one on his back, and threw the other over his 
 shoulder. Then, picking up the book, he carefully 
 began to clean the mud off of it. Looking around 
 the court, he caught sight of me and of the kalach- 
 seller. A group of peasants were watching the lit- 
 tle drama from the outer gates of the square. De- 
 liberately the stranger assumed an air of dignity, 
 and, with, the most demonstrative devotion, he 
 kissed the binding of the book and made a sarcas- 
 tic bow toward the inner gates. 
 
 "I thank you, holy fathers. As ye have received 
 the stranger and fed the hungry ..." 
 
 Suddenly noticing in the crack of the gate the 
 mustache and nose of the porter, he said in a dif- 
 ferent tone: 
 
 "What are you looking at? Did you recognize 
 me?" 
 
 8
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 ' ' I thought ... yes ... I thought you were fa- 
 miliar," said the porter. 
 
 "Of course, of course! . . . We're old friends! 
 We ran off together to the Mordvin women of Svi- 
 ridov. . . . Do you remember now?" 
 
 The porter spat loudly and angrily, closed the 
 gate, and threw the bolt. But his feet, with their 
 rough boots, could still be seen beneath the gate. 
 
 " Don't you remember Fenka, father?" 
 
 The feet disappeared as if ashamed. 
 
 The stranger straightened his muddy cloak and 
 again looked around. Attracted by the unusual 
 conversation, some six peasants had strolled to- 
 wards the gate. They were the nearest neighbors 
 to the monastery, Old Believers from the villages 
 in the vicinity, who had come to the bazaar with an 
 air of indifferent and even hostile curiosity. De- 
 spite its influence at a distance, the monastery was 
 surrounded by a ring of the "most venomous" 
 sectarians, as the monks expressed it. The inhabi- 
 tants of the region were positive that in the near 
 future the monastery would be threatened with the 
 fate of Sodom and Gomorrah. But still it con- 
 tinued and attracted thousands of people to 
 its festivals. On such days the figures of the 
 Old Believers furnished a grim contrast to the re- 
 joicing multitudes and their faces reflected their 
 
 9
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 hostility and disgust. Like the Prophet Jonah, 
 they murmured because the Lord delayed in in- 
 flicting the promised doom upon the accursed 
 Nineveh. 
 
 They were now watching with malevolent curi- 
 osity the scene which was being enacted at the door 
 of the dishonorable habitation. 
 
 "What's the matter? They won't let him in, I 
 see, ..." one said jokingly. "It's crowded . . . 
 with Mordvin women. ..." 
 
 The wanderer turned and threw a keen glance at 
 the speaker. Suddenly his face took on a humble 
 expression and he walked back to the gate, and 
 three times he crossed himself reverently and osten- 
 tatiously. 
 
 The peasants looked at one another in surprise; 
 the stranger had made the sign of the cross not 
 with three fingers, but in the old way with only 
 two. 
 
 "The Lord, "Who seest all things, will reward the 
 monks according to their mercy," he said with a 
 sigh. "We, brothers, will shake off the dust from 
 our feet, and listen here, in the temple not made 
 with hands (he pointed gracefully and calmly to 
 the evening sky), to an instructive sermon on re- 
 pentance. ..." 
 
 The peasants crowded together; their faces ex- 
 10
 
 BIEDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 pressed their delighted and also credulous sur- 
 prise. The change was too unexpected. . . . The 
 idea of holding their own meeting on the alien fes- 
 tival and of listening at the very gate of the mon- 
 astery to a wandering preacher, who made the sign 
 of the cross in the old way, clearly pleased the ad- 
 herents of the old faith. The preacher took his 
 stand at the base of the bell-tower. The wind ruf- 
 fled his dusty, light hair. 
 
 It was hard to tell the man's precise age, but he 
 was clearly not old. His face was heavily tanned 
 and his hair and eyes seemed faded from the action 
 of sun and storm. 
 
 At each movement of his head, however slight, 
 the cords of his neck stood out prominently and 
 trembled. The man gave you, involuntarily, the 
 impression of something unfortunate, wonderfully 
 self-controlled and, perchance, evil. 
 
 He began to read aloud. He read well, simply, 
 and convincingly, and, stopping now and then, he 
 commented in his own way on what he had read. 
 Once he glanced at me, but he quickly shifted his 
 eyes. I thought he did not care for my presence. 
 After that he turned more often to one of his audi- 
 tors. 
 
 This was a broad-shouldered, undersized peas- 
 ant, whose shape might have been fashioned by two 
 
 n
 
 or three blows of an axe. In spite of the square- 
 ness of his figure, he seemed very communicative. 
 He paid the utmost attention to every word 
 of the preacher and added some remarks of 
 his own, which expressed his almost childish 
 joy. 
 
 "Oh, brothers . . . my friends," he said, look- 
 ing around. . . . "It's so true, what he told us 
 about repentance. . . . The end might come. . . . 
 You know . . . and we're such sinners . . . just 
 one little sin more and another. Yes, yes ..." 
 
 "And that means another and another, . . ." 
 broke in a second. 
 
 "Yes. ... You see. ... Oh! . . ." 
 
 With delighted eyes, he looked around the gath- 
 ering. . . . 
 
 His noisy interruption and his joy apparently 
 did not please the preacher. The latter suddenly 
 stopped, turned his head quickly, and the cords of 
 his neck tightened like ropes. . . . He wanted to 
 say something, but he checked himself and turned 
 a page. 
 
 The congregation had rejoiced too early. At the 
 very time when they were most highly exalted, 
 pride and excessive hope pressed hard on the lad- 
 der. It trembled ; the listeners seemed frightened ; 
 the ladder crashed down. . . . 
 
 12
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "He's through ! " were the sad words of the deep- 
 voiced peasant. 
 
 "Yes, brother!" chimed in the first. And a 
 strange thing: he turned his sparkling eyes on all 
 and the same joy sounded in his voice. . . . "Now 
 we have no excuse. . . . We mustn't do that first 
 little sin." 
 
 The stranger closed his book and for a few sec- 
 onds he watched the speaker obstinately. But the 
 peasant met his gaze with the same joy and trust- 
 ing good nature. 
 
 "Do you think so?" asked the preacher. 
 
 "Yes," answered the man. "Judge yourself, 
 my friend. . . . How long will He suffer us?" 
 
 "Do you think so?" the preacher asked again 
 with some emphasis, and his voice caused signs of 
 uneasiness to appear on the other's face. 
 
 "You know there are limits to the long suffering 
 of God. You know about the Orthodox Catholic 
 Church." 
 
 He turned a few pages and began to read about 
 the spiritual power of the Orthodox Church. The 
 faces of his hearers darkened. The preacher 
 stopped and said: 
 
 "The Orthodox Catholic Church. ... Is she 
 not the means of salvation? He who seeks refuge 
 in her need not despair. So ... if ..." 
 
 13
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 A tense silence prevailed for a few seconds. The 
 stranger was facing the crowd of peasants and he 
 felt that he held their feelings in his hands. Not 
 long since, they had been following him joyfully 
 and it was not hard to foresee the results of the 
 sermon : the men of the old faith had been ready to 
 invite to their homes the man who had been driven 
 from the monastery. Now they were dumbfounded 
 and did not know what to think. 
 
 "But if," continued the stranger, accenting each 
 word, "any one rejects the one Mother Church . . . 
 expects to be saved in cellars with the rats ... if 
 he trusts in shaved heads ..." 
 
 The peasant with the deep voice suddenly turned 
 and walked away. 
 
 His good-natured companion glanced around 
 with an air of disillusionment and a lack of com- 
 prehension and said half-questioningly : 
 
 "Are you shocked?... Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!..." 
 
 He followed the others. The sectarians grimly 
 went to the gates. The wanderer remained alone. 
 His figure was outlined sharply against the base of 
 the tower and there was a strange expression in his 
 faded blue eyes. Evidently he had intended to 
 gain by his sermon that lodging which the monks 
 had denied him. "Why had he suddenly changed 
 his tone? . . . 
 
 14
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 There were now only three of us in the yard : the 
 wanderer, I and the young fellow under the cur- 
 tain of the booth. The stranger glanced at me but 
 at once turned away and walked up to the dealer. 
 The young man's face beamed with joy. . . . 
 
 ' ' That was clever, ' ' he said. ' ' You shocked them 
 well. They all had their heads shaved. The devils 
 were threshing peas. Ha, ha, ha ! " # 
 
 He broke out into a hearty, youthful laugh and 
 started to put his wares within the shop. 
 
 When he had finished, he closed the swinging 
 doors and locked them. The shop was well made 
 and adapted for moving, it was on wheels and 
 had a low shelf. The fellow evidently intended to 
 sleep by his wares. 
 
 "Well, it's time to go to bed," he said, looking 
 at the sky. 
 
 In the yard and behind the gates all was still 
 and deserted. From the bazaar the wares had all 
 been carried away. The fellow faced the church, 
 crossed himself, opened the door a little way and 
 crawled under his stand. 
 
 His hands soon appeared. He was trying to put 
 a small screen over the opening. 
 
 The stranger also looked up at the sky, thought 
 a few seconds, and walked resolutely up to the 
 shop. 
 
 15
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "Wait, Mikhailo! I'll help you like a good 
 fellow." 
 
 The pale-faced man let go and looked out of his 
 quarters 
 
 "My name's Anton," he said simply. 
 
 "Come, Antosha, let me help you." 
 
 "I'm very glad; thank you. It's hard to do it 
 from here." 
 
 Anton's simple face disappeared. 
 
 "Please . . . move your feet a little." 
 
 Anton obeyed. The wanderer quietly opened the 
 door, stooped quickly, and, to my amazement, I 
 saw him step nimbly into the opening. A scuffle 
 ensued. Anton moved his feet and part of the 
 stranger appeared outside for a moment, but with- 
 out any delay and almost instantaneously he dis- 
 appeared again within. 
 
 Interested by this unexpected turn of events, I 
 almost instinctively walked up to the booth. 
 
 "I'll yell, I'll yell," I heard the nasal but pitiful 
 voice of Anton. "The fathers will beat you up 
 again!" 
 
 "Don't yell, Misha. What's the matter?" 
 argued the wanderer. 
 
 "Why do you keep calling me Misha? I tell 
 you my name's Anton." 
 
 "In the monastic jargon your name will be 
 16
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Mikhailo. Remember that. . . . Hush! Quiet, 
 Anton, keep still." 
 
 The booth became silent. 
 
 "What for?" asked Anton, "What do you 
 hear?" 
 
 "Listen, hear the tapping. ... It's raining." 
 
 "Well, what of it? Tapping. ... If I let 
 out one shout, the fathers will tap harder on 
 you." 
 
 "Why do you keep harping on one thing? Ill 
 yell and yell. You'd better not. If you do, I'll 
 eat you up. I'll tell you a good story about a 
 nun. . . ." 
 
 "I see, you've been stealing something." 
 
 "It's wrong, Antosha, for you to slander a 
 stranger. You gave me this one kalach yourself. 
 I ate nothing you believe God. ..." 
 
 "Go ahead and eat a stale one. ... I haven't 
 eaten them up," and Anton yawned so hard that 
 he gave up all thoughts of further resistance. 
 
 "You shocked those blockheads well," he added 
 at the end of his strenuous yawn. "You've cer- 
 tainly showed them up." 
 
 "And the fathers?" 
 
 "The fathers wanted to spit at you. . . . You 
 promised to tell me a story. Why don't you 
 do it?" 
 
 17
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 1 ' In a certain country, in a certain land, ' ' began 
 the stranger, "in a convent with a stone wall, lived 
 a nun, brother Antoshenka. . . . And such a nun. 
 . . . Oh, oh, oh!" 
 
 "Yes? . . ." 
 
 "Yes, she lived there, and grieved." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "Well? ... Go on." 
 
 Silence again. 
 
 "Well, go on. What did she grieve about?" 
 insisted the interested Anton. 
 
 "Go to the devil, that's what! Why did I start 
 a story ? You know I hoofed it thirty versts to-day. 
 She grieved about you, you fool, that's what she 
 did. Let me sleep ! " 
 
 Anton let out a sound of utter exhaustion. 
 
 "Well, you're a rogue. I see your scheme," he 
 said reproachfully. 
 
 "All right, knave," a minute later but more 
 softly, and even sorrowfully. "Yes, a knave. . . . 
 I never saw such a knave before." 
 
 All was quiet in the booth. The rain beat harder 
 and harder on the slanting roof, the earth grew 
 black, the puddles disappeared in the darkness. 
 The monastery garden whispered something, and 
 the buildings behind the wall stood defenceless 
 against the rain, which pattered on the gutters. 
 
 18
 
 KIRKS OF HEAVEN 
 
 The guard within the enclosure beat upon his wet 
 rattle. 
 
 II 
 
 The next day I started back with Andrey Ivano- 
 vich, who had accompanied me on many of my 
 wanderings. We had been walking not without 
 having interesting experiences, lodged in the vil- 
 lage, and started off again rather late. The pil- 
 grims had already left and it was hard to imagine 
 the crowds which had passed by such a little while 
 before. The villages seemed busy; the workmen 
 could be seen as white spots on the fields. The 
 air was muggy and hot. 
 
 My companion, a tall, thin, nervous man, was 
 this day especially gloomy and irritable. This 
 was a not at all uncommon state towards the end 
 of our joint trips. But this day he was unusually 
 out of humor and expressed his personal disap- 
 proval of me. 
 
 Towards afternoon, in the heat, we became com- 
 pletely disgusted with each other. Andrey Ivano- 
 vich either thought it necessary to rest without 
 any reason in the most inappropriate places, or 
 wished to push on, when I proposed stopping. 
 
 We finally reached a little bridge. A small 
 19
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 stream was flowing quietly between the damp green 
 banks with their nodding heads of grass. The 
 stream wound along and disappeared behind a bend 
 amid the waving grain of the meadows. 
 
 "Let's rest, "I said. 
 
 "We've got to be getting on," answered Andrey 
 Ivanovich. 
 
 I sat down on the railing and began to smoke. 
 The tall figure of Andrey Ivanovich went on, 
 ascended a hill and disappeared. 
 
 I bent over the water and began to meditate. I 
 thought I was absolutely alone, but I suddenly felt 
 that some one was looking at me and then on a hill 
 under some birch trees, I saw two men. One had a 
 small and almost childish face. He at once hid 
 from shame in the grass behind the crest of the 
 hill. The other was the preacher of the preceding 
 evening. As he lay on the grass, he quietly turned 
 his bold, gray eyes upon me. 
 
 "Come, join us, we'll have more fun together," 
 he said simply. 
 
 I got up and to my surprise I saw the feet of 
 Andrey Ivanovich sticking out of the grass by 
 the road; he was sitting nearby in the boundary 
 strip, and his cigar smoke was rising above the 
 tops of the grass. I pretended not to see him and 
 walked up to the strangers. 
 
 20
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 The one whom I had taken for a child proved to 
 be a young, sickly creature in a striped cassock, 
 with thin hair around his narrow, sallow face and 
 a nose like a bird's beak. He kept straightening 
 his cassock, was uneasy, kept moving around and 
 was clearly ashamed of his condition. 
 
 "Sit down and be our guest," the preacher sug- 
 gested with a slight gesture. Just then the tall 
 figure of Andrey Ivanovich rose like the shade of 
 Banquo above the grain. 
 
 "Let's be going!" he said in a not very kind 
 tone of voice, as he threw away the butt of his 
 cigar. 
 
 "Ill stay here," I answered. 
 
 "I see you like those parasites better. ..." And 
 Andrey Ivanovich glanced at me sorrowfully, as 
 if he wished to impress upon me the impropriety 
 of my choice. 
 
 "Yes, there's more fun here," I answered. 
 
 "I'm through with you. I hope you remain in 
 good company." 
 
 He pulled his cap down over his face and started 
 off with long strides, but he soon stopped, came 
 back, and said angrily: 
 
 "Don't ask me again! You rascal, I'll never go 
 with you again. Don't you dare to ask me! I 
 refuse. ' ' 
 
 21
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "It's my business whether I ask you or not. 
 . . . Yours is to go or not." 
 
 "A serious-minded gentleman!" The wanderer 
 nodded after him as he started off. 
 
 "He doesn't approve of us," the little man said 
 in a voice that was between a sigh and a squeak. 
 
 "What do we care whether he does or not?" 
 remarked the preacher indifferently. Then he 
 turned to me: 
 
 "Haven't you a cigarette, sir? ... Please." 
 
 I held out my case to him. He took out two 
 cigarettes, lighted one and placed the other beside 
 him. His small companion interpreted this in a 
 favorable way and rather irresolutely reached for 
 the free cigarette. But the preacher, with perfect 
 composure, took the cigarette out of his hands and 
 placed it on the other side. The little fellow was 
 embarrassed, again squeaked from shame and 
 straightened his robes. 
 
 I gave him a cigarette. This embarrassed him 
 still more, his thin, transparent fingers trembled; 
 he smiled sadly and bashfully. 
 
 "I don't know how to beg," he said in shame. 
 "Avtonomov orders and orders. . . . But I can't." 
 
 "Who's this Avtonomov?" I asked. 
 
 "That's me, Gennady Avtonomov," said the 
 preacher with a stern glance at his small com- 
 
 22
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 panion, who quailed under the glance and dropped 
 his sallow face. His thin hair fell and rose. 
 
 "Are you walking for your health, or why?" 
 Avtonomov asked me. 
 
 " Because I want to. . . . Where are you going?" 
 
 He looked into the distance and answered: 
 
 "To Paris or nearer, to Italy or further. ..." 
 And, noticing that I did not understand, he 
 added: 
 
 "I was joking. ... I am wandering aimlessly 
 wherever it suits me. For eleven years " 
 
 He spoke with a faint touch of sadness. Then 
 he quietly exhaled some tobacco smoke and 
 watched the blue clouds melt away in the air. His 
 face had a new expression, a quality I had never 
 noticed before. 
 
 "A wasted life, signer! A ruined existence, 
 which deserved a better lot." 
 
 The sadness disappeared and he concluded 
 grandiloquently, with a flourish of his cigarette: 
 
 "Yet, good sir, the wanderer will never be will- 
 ing to exchange his liberty for luxurious palaces." 
 
 Just then a bold little bird flew over our heads 
 like a clod of earth thrown up into the air, perched 
 on the lowest branch of the birch, and began to 
 twitter without paying any attention to our pres- 
 ence. The face of the little wanderer brightened 
 
 23
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 and was suffused with a ludicrous kindness. He 
 kept time with his thin lips and, at the successful 
 completion of any tune, he looked at us with trium- 
 phant, smiling, and weeping eyes. 
 
 "0 God!'' he said finally, when the bird flew 
 away at the end of its song. "A creature of God. 
 It sang as much as it needed to, it praised Him, 
 and flew off on its own business. O darling! . . . 
 Yes, by heaven, that's right." 
 
 He looked at us joyfully, and then became em- 
 barrassed, stopped talking, and straightened his 
 cassock, but Avtonomov waved his hand anct added 
 like a teacher: 
 
 "Behold the birds of heaven. We, signor, are 
 the same kind of birds. We sow not, neither do we 
 reap, nor gather into barns. ..." 
 
 "You studied in the seminary?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes. I could tell a lot about that; only there's 
 little worth hearing. But, as you see, the horizon 
 is being covered with clouds. Up, Ivan Ivanovich ; 
 rise, comrade, rise. The portion of the wanderer 
 is journeying, not resting. Let us wish you every 
 sort of blessing." 
 
 He nodded and started rapidly along the road. 
 He took free, even strides, leaning on a long staff 
 and thrusting it back with every step. The wind 
 blew out the skirts of his cassock, he bent forward 
 
 24
 
 Tinder his wallet, and his wedge-shaped beard pro- 
 jected in front. It seemed as if this sun-burned, 
 dried, and faded figure had been created for the 
 poor Russian plain with the dark villages in the 
 distance and the clouds which thoughtfully gath- 
 ered in the sky. 
 
 "A scholar!" Ivan Ivanovich shook his head 
 sadly as he tied up his wallet with trembling hands. 
 "A most learned man! But he falls to nothing 
 just as I. On the same plane ... we wander to- 
 gether. God forgive us, the last. . . ." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why? How? The modern wanderer has a 
 good wallet, a cassock or kaftan, boots, for example, 
 in a word, equipment for every circumstance, 
 so to speak. And we! You see yourself. I'm 
 coming, I'm coming, Gennady Sergeich, I'm com- 
 ing. Right away!" 
 
 The little fellow soon overtook his companion. 
 Thinking that they had reasons for not inviting 
 me to accompany them, I kept sitting on the hill, 
 and watching a heavy, dark cloud rise from behind 
 the woods and spread quietly, sadly, imperceptibly, 
 almost stealthily over the sky, and then I went 
 on alone, regretting the controversy with Andrey 
 Ivanovich. 
 
 It was quiet and sad. The grain waved and 
 25
 
 rustled drily. In the distance, behind the woods, 
 growled the thunder and at times a large drop of 
 rain fell. 
 
 It was an empty threat. Towards evening I 
 came to the village of K. and it had not rained 
 yet, but the cloud was advancing quietly and 
 spreading out; it grew dark and the thunder 
 sounded nearer and nearer. 
 
 Ill 
 
 To my surprise, on the bank of earth around one 
 of the first huts of the village, I saw Andrey 
 Ivanovich, with his long legs reaching almost to 
 the very middle of the street. As I approached, 
 he looked utterly unconcerned. 
 
 "What are you doing, Andrey Ivanovich?" 
 
 "Drinking tea. Did you think I was waiting 
 for you? Don't flatter yourself. When the cloud 
 passes, I'm going on." 
 
 "Fine." 
 
 "And your adored " 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Those wanderers, people of God. . . . Please 
 see what they're doing in that hut! Go, look: 
 it's nothing; don't be ashamed. ..." 
 
 I walked up to the window. The hut was full. 
 26
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 The peasants of the village were all away on busi- 
 ness and so there were only women present. A 
 few young women and girls were still running 
 back and forth past me. The windows were open 
 and illuminated, and I could hear within the even 
 voice of Avtonomov. He was teaching the dis- 
 senters. 
 
 "Come, join us," I suddenly heard the low voice 
 of Ivan Ivanovich. He was standing in a dark 
 corner near the gate. 
 
 "What are you doing?'* 
 
 "Fooling the people. That's what they're 
 doing," interrupted' Andrey Ivanovich. 
 
 The little wanderer coughed, and, squinting at 
 Andrey Ivanovich, he said: 
 
 "What can we do, sir?" 
 
 He bent toward me and whispered: 
 
 "The old dissenters think Gennady Sergeich is 
 a runaway priest. It's dark. What can we do? 
 We may not get anything. And, besides, there's 
 nothing else to do. Won't you come in?" 
 
 "Let's go in, Andrey Ivanovich." 
 
 "What I haven't seen there?" he answered, 
 turning away. "Go, kiss them. I think enough 
 of myself not to do this, for I wear a cross." 
 
 "So do we," Ivan Ivanovich spoke with a mild 
 tone of reproach. 
 
 27
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Andrey Ivanovich whistled suspiciously, and 
 then, with a serious look on his face, he called 
 to me: 
 
 "Do you know this disreputable crowd?" 
 
 With an enigmatic glance at me, he added in a 
 lower tone: 
 
 "Did you understand?" 
 
 "No, I didn't. Good-bye. If you want to, wait 
 for me." 
 
 "We've nothing to wait for. Some people don't 
 understand. ..." 
 
 I didn't hear the rest of the sentence, because I 
 went into the hut with Ivan Ivanovich. 
 
 Our entrance caused some excitement. The 
 preacher noticed me and stopped. 
 
 "Oh! We thank you," he said, pushing the 
 women aside. "Please. Won't you have a little 
 cup of tea? Here's the samovar, even, though it's 
 a dissenting village." 
 
 "Did I disturb you?" 
 
 "What nonsense. Woman, bring the samovar! 
 Quick!" 
 
 "Do you use that weed, too?" asked a young 
 woman with a full bosom and bashful, coal-black 
 eyes, who was standing in the front. 
 
 "If the gentleman will permit, it will give me 
 pleasure, . . . and I'll drink another. ..." 
 
 28
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 ' ' If you please, ' ' I said. 
 
 "Please give me a cigarette." 
 
 I gave it to him. He lighted it and looked 
 laughingly at the surprised women. A murmur of 
 dissatisfaction ran through the hut. 
 
 "Do you suck that?" asked the young woman 
 spitefully. 
 
 "Of course. . . . According to the Scriptures, 
 it is permitted." 
 
 "In what part? teach us, please." 
 
 He smoked on and then he threw the cigarette 
 over the heads of the women into a basin of water. 
 
 "He's thrown it away," said the hostess, fussing 
 around the samovar. 
 
 "Don't throw it away, fool; you'll set the place 
 on fire," interrupted another. 
 
 "Afire? If the well won't stop that, you'd 
 better put out the fire in the kitchen." 
 
 "What are you thinking of? Everything is 
 done nowadays. Even the priests smoke." 
 
 "Of course, of course. You've a voice like a 
 bell. You ought to be in a convent choir. Come 
 with me." 
 
 He reached for her. She cleverly turned aside, 
 bending her beautiful form, while the other women, 
 laughing and spitting, ran out of the hut. 
 
 "W-what a priest," said a thin woman with 
 29
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 childishly open eyes. She was in evident terror. 
 "T-teacher!" 
 
 "Yes, he'll teach us." 
 
 " Teach us," laughed a soldier's wife, coming 
 forward and resting her cheek on her fat hand. 
 "Teach us something easy and sweet." 
 
 "Yes! We'll sigh for you." 
 
 "I'll teach you. What is your name, beauty?" 
 
 "I'm called what I'm called and nicknamed 
 Gray Duck. What do you want ? ' ' 
 
 "You, Gray Duck. Give us some vodka, 
 heavens, they'll pay up." 
 
 "Get what? We'll get it." 
 
 She looked at me questioningly and cunningly. 
 
 "Please, a little," I said. 
 
 The soldier's wife hurried from the hut. Laugh- 
 ing and pushing, two or three women ran out 
 after her. The hostess looked displeased but she 
 put the samovar on the table and without a word 
 she sat down on the bench and commenced to work. 
 The children watched us curiously from their plank 
 beds. 
 
 Laughing and panting, the soldier's wife put on 
 the table a bottle of some sort of greenish liquid. 
 Then she walked away from the table and looked 
 at us laughingly and boldly. Ivan Ivanovich 
 coughed from embarrassment and the temporary 
 
 30
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 widows still in the hut gazed at us in secret ex- 
 pectation. After the first cups, the preacher of 
 the evening lifted the skirts of his cassock and 
 stamped around the Gray Duck, who avoided his 
 caresses. 
 
 1 ' Go away ! ' ' She waved her hand, and, with a 
 provokingly challenging glance at me, she walked 
 up to the table. 
 
 "Why don't you drink? Look at them, they'll 
 finish it, I bet. Go ahead and drink." 
 
 Smiling and shrugging her shoulders, she filled 
 a glass and brought it to me. 
 
 "Don't drink!" These words, in an unexpect- 
 edly venomous tone, came through the window, and 
 out of the darkness appeared the bony face of 
 Andrey Ivanovich. 
 
 "Don't drink the vodka, I tell you!" he re- 
 peated, still more sternly, and again disappeared 
 in the darkness. 
 
 The soldier's wife let the glass tremble and 
 spill. Thoroughly frightened she looked out of the 
 window. 
 
 "May the power of the cross help us, what 
 was that?" 
 
 Everyone felt ill at ease. The vodka was ex- 
 hausted and the question was whether to get more 
 and continue, or to end now. Ivan Ivanovich 
 31
 
 looked at me in timid sorrow, but I had not the 
 slightest desire to continue this feast. Avtonomov 
 suddenly understood this. 
 
 "Beally, it's time to be going," he said, walk- 
 ing towards the window. 
 
 "But it's raining outdoors," said the soldier's 
 wife, glancing to one side. 
 
 "No. The clouds are all right; . . . they look 
 dry. . . . Get ready, Ivan Ivanovich." 
 
 We began to get ready. Ivan Ivanovich went 
 out first. "When I followed him into the dark, 
 closed yard, he took my hand and said in a low 
 tone: 
 
 "There's that long-legged fellow waiting by the 
 gate. 
 
 In very truth I made out Andrey Ivanovich by 
 the entrance. Avtonomov, with his wallet and 
 staff, came out on the porch, holding the soldier's 
 wife by the hand. Both figures could be seen in 
 the lighted doorway. The soldier's wife did not 
 withdraw her hand. 
 
 "Are you going to leave us?" she said in despair. 
 "We thought you'd carouse around here." 
 
 "Wait, I'll be back, I'll get rich." 
 
 She looked at him and shook her head. 
 
 "Where? You'll never get rich. You 11 get 
 along, empty. ..." 
 
 32
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "Don't caw, you crow. . . . Tell me this: does 
 Irina's clerk still live by the cemetery?" 
 
 "Stchurovskaya? Yes. He just went to the 
 bazaar. What do you want?" 
 
 "This. Let's see. . . . He had a daughter, 
 Grunyushka." 
 
 "She's married." 
 
 "Nearby?" 
 
 "To a deacon in the village of Voskresenskoye. 
 The old woman's there alone." 
 
 "You say Irina's husband hasn't come back?" 
 
 "He hasn't been seen." 
 
 "Is he rich?" 
 
 "No, he lives like everyone else." 
 
 "Good-bye! . . . Glasha-a!" 
 
 "Now, now! Don't call. . . . You know Glasha 
 is good and not yours. Go along. There 's nothing 
 to hang around for." 
 
 Kindly pity could be heard in the voice of the 
 village beauty. 
 
 Outside the dark figure of Andrey Ivanovich left 
 the gate and hurried towards us, while at the 
 same time Avtonomov overtook us and silently 
 went ahead of us. 
 
 "You should have stayed till morning," re- 
 marked Andrey Ivanovich grimly. "I could have 
 waited here!"
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "That's foolish," I answered coldly. 
 
 "How so? Why?" 
 
 "Why? you could have gone on if yon didn't 
 like it." 
 
 "No, thanks for your kindness, I'm not willing 
 to leave a companion. . . . I 'd rather suffer myself 
 than leave him. . . . We've been together three 
 years, Ivan Anisimovich. Trifles don't count, I've 
 drunk so often in good company. ..." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "They took off my vest; three rubles twenty. 
 ... A new pocket book. ..." 
 
 "If you're blaming Gennady and me for this," 
 began Ivan Ivanovich, hurriedly and excitedly, 
 "that's so mean. Why? ... If you have any 
 doubts, we can go ahead or stay behind. ..." 
 
 "Please don't pay any attention," I said, wish- 
 ing to quiet the poor fellow. 
 
 "What's the matter?" asked Avtonomov, stop- 
 ping. "What are you talking about?" 
 
 "They're so suspicious. Lord, have mercy upon 
 us! Are we really robbers, the Lord forgive the 
 word?" 
 
 Gennady gazed in the darkness into the face of 
 Andrey Ivanovich. 
 
 "Oh, the lanky gentleman! . . . I see!" he said 
 drily. 'The man who never trusts has pleasure, 
 34
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 if all he judges by his measure.' . . . The road 
 is broad. ..." 
 
 He again walked forward quickly and his timid 
 little companion ran after him. Andrey Ivanovich 
 waited for several seconds. He was surprised that 
 the stranger had answered in rhythm. He almost 
 started after him, but I caught his hand. 
 
 "What's the matter with you?" I said angrily. 
 
 "You're sorry for your good companions?" he 
 said spitefully. "Please, don't be uneasy. They 
 won't go far. ..." 
 
 In very truth we caught sight of a black figure 
 near the last houses. It was Ivan Ivanovich, 
 alone. 
 
 He was standing in the road, panting and 
 coughing and holding on to his breast. 
 
 "What's the matter?" I asked sympatheti- 
 cally. 
 
 "Oh, oh! My death! ... He went off. ... 
 Gennady. . . . He ordered me not to go with him. 
 ... To go with you. I can't catch him." 
 
 "That's all right. Do you know the road?" 
 
 "It's the broad road. He hurried on some 
 place or other." 
 
 "Fine." 
 
 We walked along in the darkness. ... A dog 
 barked behind us ; I looked around and saw in the 
 35
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 darkness two or three lights in the village, but 
 they soon disappeared. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was a quiet, starless night. The horizon could 
 still be traced as an indistinct line beneath the 
 clouds, but still lower hung a thick mist, endless, 
 shapeless, without form or details. 
 
 We walked on quite a while in silence. The 
 wanderer panted timidly and tried to smother his 
 cough. 
 
 "I don't see Avtonomov," he kept saying, and 
 he gazed helplessly in the blackness of the 
 night. 
 
 "We can't see him. . . . But he sees us, by 
 heavens," said Andrey Ivanovich, spitefully and 
 ominously. 
 
 The road seemed to be a confused streak, like a 
 bridge across an abyss. . . . Everything around 
 was black and indistinct. Was there or was 
 there not a light streak on the horizon? There 
 was not a trace of it now. Was it so short a time, 
 since we were in that noisy hut with the laughter 
 and conversation? . . . Will there be any end to 
 this night, to this field? Were we moving ahead 
 or was the road like an endless ribbon slipping 
 
 36
 
 BIEDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 by under our feet while we remained treading in 
 the same spot, in the same enchanted patch of 
 darkness? An involuntary, timid joy sprang up 
 in my soul when an unseen brook began to babble 
 ahead of us, when this murmur increased and then 
 died away behind us, or when a sudden breath of 
 wind stirred the scarcely visible clumps of willows 
 beside the road and then died away, a sign that we 
 had passed them. . . . 
 
 "It's night now all right," said Audrey Ivano- 
 vich quietly, and this was very unusual for him. 
 "A man's a fool to walk the roads a night like 
 this. And what are we after, I'd like to know. 
 We worked during the day, rested, drank our tea, 
 pra'yed for sleep. No, I don't like it and then 
 we started along the roads. It's better for us. 
 Here it's midnight and we haven't crossed our- 
 selves yet. We certainly pray! ..." 
 
 I made no answer. Thoughts of repentance 
 seemed still to be running through the head of 
 Audrey Ivanovich. 
 
 "Women can teach us a little," he said sternly. 
 "We don't stay at home. What do we want ? . . ." 
 
 "Why, I can't see Avtonomov," interrupted 
 the plaintive voice of the young wanderer. 
 
 "Neither can I," grunted Andrey Ivanovich. 
 
 "What a misfortune!" said the young wan- 
 37
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 derer sorrowfully. "I've been abandoned by my 
 protector. ..." 
 
 His voice was so filled with despair that we 
 both looked ahead involuntarily in search of the 
 lost Avtonomov. Suddenly, rather to one side, we 
 heard a dull sound as if some one had stepped upon 
 an old bridge. 
 
 "There he is!" said Andrey Ivanovich. "He 
 went to the left." 
 
 "The road must have turned." 
 
 In truth the road soon forked. "We also turned 
 to the left. Ivan Ivanovich sighed from relief. 
 
 "What are you grieving so over?" asked Andrey 
 Ivanovich. "Is he your brother or who is he? 
 He's a freak, begging your pardon." 
 
 "He's closer than a brother. I'd be lost with- 
 out him; I can't beg myself. And in our condi- 
 tion not to is absolute ruin. ..." 
 
 "Why do you wander around?" 
 
 The stranger was silent as if it were hard for 
 him to answer this question. 
 
 "I'm looking for a shelter. In some monastery. 
 . . . Since my youth I have been destined for the 
 monastic life." 
 
 "You should live in a monastery." 
 
 "I have a weakness," said Ivan Ivanovich, al- 
 most inaudibly and bashfully. 
 
 38
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "You like drink." 
 
 "Yes, that's it. I was spoiled as a child." 
 
 "Too bad! ... The devil's to blame for it." 
 
 "Yes, the devil. ... Of course. . . . Formerly, 
 when the people were serfs, tie had a lot of work: 
 he wrestled with the monotonous life, we'll say. . . . 
 They all saw him. . . . And, just think, they strug- 
 gled just the same. . . . Now it 's our weakness. . . . 
 The people are all inclined to it." 
 
 "Y-yes," assented Andrey Ivanovich. "It's 
 much easier now for the impure. . . . He lives 
 with us, by heavens. Lie, dear, on the stove. . . . 
 We'll come to see you and bring one another. . . . 
 Only entertain us." 
 
 The stranger heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 "That is the truth!" he said sadly. "Ill 
 tell you about myself," he whispered, as if he 
 did not wish his words to be heard by any one in 
 the blackness along the road. "Do you know who 
 ruined me? My own mother and my father 
 superior!" 
 
 "Wh-what?" queried Andrey Ivanovich, also 
 in a low tone. 
 
 "Yes! ... I know it's sinful to blame my dead 
 mother, may she rest in peace ! ' ' He took off his 
 hat and crossed himself. "And yet I keep think- 
 ing: if she had had me taught a trade, I might 
 39
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 have been a man like the others. . . . No, she 
 wanted her child to have an easy life, the Lord 
 forgive her. ..." 
 
 ' ' Go on, go on ! " urged Andrey Ivanovich. 
 
 "You know," continued Ivan Ivanovich sadly, 
 "in old times, as the books say, parents always 
 objected and children went secretly to the monastic 
 cell to devote themselves. . . . But my mother took 
 me herself to the monastery; she wanted me to 
 become a clerk." 
 
 "Yes, yes!" 
 
 "And before that, I must tell you, they used 
 to make them psalmists and so on, ... but they 
 had changed by my time!" 
 
 "That's the rank!" 
 
 "Yes! . . . And mother again! stay there in 
 the monstery. . . . That's an easy life. And the 
 superior loves you. . . . That's the truth: the 
 father superior did love me and took me as a 
 novice under his own charge. But if a man is 
 doomed, fortune will become misfortune. I'll tell 
 you the truth : I fell because of an angel . . . not 
 because of the devil. ..." 
 
 "What are you telling us?" said Andrey Ivano- 
 vich in surprise. 
 
 "Just the truth. . . . Our superior was a won- 
 derfully kind soul, not evil, and strict. . . But 
 
 40
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 he had a secret weakness; at times he'd drink. 
 Quietly, nobly. He'd shut himself up and drink 
 for three or four days. No more than that. Then 
 he'd all at once stop it. ... He was a strong man. 
 . . . But once, in that condition, he got bored. 
 And he called me and said: 'Dear boy, mortify 
 yourself. Vanya, obey me and do something you 
 don't want to. An innocent boy, stay with me, 
 a hardened sinner.' Well, I did it, and sat and 
 listened how he talked with some one and wept 
 over that weakness of his. ... I wasn't strong, 
 and when I got tired I fell asleep. He said: 
 'Vanya, take a drop to brace you up.' And I 
 drank a glass of brandy. . . . 'But swear to me,' 
 he said, 'that you'll never drink a drop alone with- 
 out me.' " 
 
 "So that's it," drawled Andrey Ivanovich 
 meaningly. 
 
 "Of course I swore. And he gave me another 
 glass. . . . And so it went. At first a little, 
 
 then The father superior was a strong man. 
 
 No matter how much he drank, he was still steady. 
 But, you know, after three or four glasses, my 
 feet went. . . . He remembered himself and for- 
 bade me solemnly. It was too late. I didn't 
 drink with him and I had the keys to the chest. 
 ... I began to take a nip secretly. . . . Another 
 
 41
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 and a larger one. ... A second time I couldn't 
 walk. He thought at first that it was from that 
 first drunkenness, because of my weakness. Then 
 he looked at me steadily and said: 'Vanyusha, 
 do you want a glass?' I trembled all over from 
 my longing for it. He guessed the truth. He 
 took his staff, caught it in my hair, and reasoned 
 with me. . . . He was strong and afraid of hurt- 
 ing me. ... It did no good. Again and again. 
 . . . He saw that his weakness was ruining me. He 
 said to me: 'Forgive me, Vanyushka, but you must 
 pass through temptation or you'll be ruined. . . . 
 Go and wander. . . . When you meet sorrow you 
 can be healed. I will pray for you. Come back 
 in a year,' he said, 'on this same date. I will re- 
 ceive you like the prodigal son.' He blessed me. 
 Began to weep. Called the rufalny, that is, the 
 monk who had charge of the habits, and ordered 
 him to get me ready to wander. ... He himself 
 said the prayers for a brother who is going on a 
 journey. . . . And forth I went, the servant of the 
 Lord, on the twenty-ninth of August, the day of 
 the Beheading of St. John Baptist, for a period 
 of wandering. ..." 
 
 The narrator again stopped, drew his breath, 
 and coughed. Andrey Ivanovich sympathetically 
 stopped walking and the three of us stood in the 
 42
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 dark road. Finally Ivan Ivanovich was rested 
 and we started on again. . . . 
 
 "So I traveled summer and winter. It was hard 
 work and I had many sorrows. Yes! I went to 
 various monasteries. Some places I didn't get 
 into the courtyard, others I didn't like. Our 
 monastery was supported by the state and rich and 
 I'd gotten accustomed to an easy life. And I 
 couldn't get into another state monastery, but 
 they took me into one where all the monks lived 
 together, that of St. Cyril of Novoye Ozero, and it 
 was awful: we got little tea and not a bit of to- 
 bacco; the monks were all peasants. ... A hard 
 rule and a lot of work. ..." 
 
 "I bet you didn't like that after your easy 
 life," said Andrey Ivanovich. 
 
 "To tell the truth, I wasn't strong enough," 
 sighed Ivan Ivanovich humbly. "The burden was 
 too great. . . . And sanctity looked unpleasant in 
 that garb. There was no splendor. ... A lot of 
 people and no choir. . . . They did make an awful 
 noise. ..." 
 
 "That's sanctity!" said Andrey Ivanovich with 
 conviction. 
 
 "No, let me tell you," answered Ivan Ivanovich 
 no less emphatically. . . . "You're wrong. . . . 
 That doesn't determine the kind of monastery. A 
 43
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 monk must be trained and have a head like a 
 blade of grass . . . and hold himself up. . . . That 
 makes a fine monk and there's mighty few of them. 
 And the simple monk is smooth and clean with a 
 velvety voice. Benefactors and women go wild 
 over them. But a peasant, let me tell you, is no 
 account even there. . . ." 
 
 "All right. . . . What next? "said Andreylvan- 
 ovich, a little surprised at the decided opinion of 
 the expert. 
 
 "What next?" answered the wanderer sadly. 
 "I wandered for a year. I fasted and wandered. 
 . . . The worst was that my conscience bothered 
 me; I didn't know how to beg. I waited and 
 waited ^or that year to end, to go home, home, 
 to my poor cell. I thought of the father superior 
 as if he were my own father; I loved him so. 
 Finally August twenty-ninth came. I went into 
 the courtyard, you know, and somehow I felt badly. 
 Our attendants came to the gate. . . . They knew 
 me. 'Wanderer Ivan, have you returned?' 'I 
 have,' was my reply. 'Is my benefactor alive?' 
 'Too late,' was the answer. 'He was buried some 
 time ago. He was deemed worthy; he went away 
 with the collect of the Resurrection. He remem- 
 bered you . . . and wept. . . . He wanted to re- 
 ward you. . . . We've got a new superior, ... a 
 
 44
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 barbarian. Don't let him see you?' But," he 
 added, plaintively, "I can't see Avtonomov." 
 His voice betrayed his terror and sorrow. 
 
 Andrey Ivanovich stared into the darkness and 
 suddenly he caught hold of my hand, exclaiming: 
 
 "Stop! We shouldn't have come." 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "I told the truth. Don't chase on after them! 
 Wait for me. ... I'll run and see. ..." 
 
 He quickly disappeared in the darkness. I 
 stayed with Ivan Ivanovich in the road. When 
 the steps of the bootmaker died away, we heard 
 merely the quiet noises of the night. The grass 
 rustled gently; at times a rail whistled as it ran 
 nervously from place to place. In the vague dis- 
 tance the frogs were croaking dreamily and play- 
 ing in the swamp. Hardly visible clouds were 
 rising. 
 
 "That's just like him. . . . My comrade loves 
 to walk at night," complained Ivan Ivanovich. 
 "What's the use of it? Why not by day?" 
 
 "Was he in a monastery too?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Ivan Ivanovich. Then, with 
 a sigh, "He's from a good family. His father 
 
 45
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 was a deacon in the city of N. You may have 
 heard of him. . . . His brother is a secretary in a 
 police office. He was betrothed. ..." 
 
 ''Why didn't he marry?" 
 
 "Don't you see, he'd already gone wrong, s ; . 
 He ran away . . . but he wasn't a wanderer yet. 
 He had the outfit but he didn't wander. . . . He 
 passed as a suitor. He was accepted. The girl 
 loved him, and her father didn't object. . . . Oh! 
 ... Oh ! ... Of course, it was sinful, ... he de- 
 ceived them. Sometimes, when he tells about it, 
 you'll cry, and then again it's really funny." 
 
 Ivan Ivanovich acted strangely. He laughed 
 and then began to choke and put his hand over 
 his mouth. At first you could hardly tell he was 
 laughing. But he really was, an hysterical, bash- 
 ful, rather explosive laugh, which ended like a 
 cough. "When he quieted down, Ivan Ivanovich 
 said, half -pityingly : 
 
 "Only he tells it different every time. . . . You 
 can't tell whether it's the truth or not." 
 
 "He wouldn't lie?" 
 
 "Not exactly, . . . but he's not always accu- 
 rate. You see, the truth " 
 
 "Just what does he say?" 
 
 "You know, the clerk, he says, was clever. He 
 saw the young man wasting his time, really doing 
 
 46
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 nothing. He pretended to go to a bazaar, so he 
 went to the city, left the old woman in the house, 
 and gave her strict orders to keep an eye on him. 
 Avtonomov, you see, didn't live with them, but 
 in the village with the woman who baked the bread 
 for the church. . . . He kept visiting them. . . . 
 Every day. . . . They 'd sit by the river bank. . . . 
 And the old woman was there, too. And, of course, 
 she watched them. . . . One time, my dear little 
 Avtonomov saw two men coming from the city in 
 a cart and both drunk. They came up and 
 turned out to be the clerk and his older brother, 
 the secretary. He hadn't even looked around 
 when they landed on him and licked him. The 
 reason why : his brother, because he ran away from 
 the seminary; the clerk, for deceiving and dis- 
 gracing him. ..." 
 
 Ivan Ivanovich sighed. 
 
 "He hardly got off alive, he says. . . . They 
 were both angry and drunk. . . . He ran to the 
 house where he was living, grabbed his wallet, and 
 off into the woods. . . . Since then, he says, he's 
 been wandering. . . . But, another time, he really 
 . . . tells something else." 
 
 He came nearer to me and wanted to tell me 
 something very confidentially. But suddenly out 
 of the darkness near us came the figure of Andrey 
 47
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Ivanovich. He walked rapidly with a deliberately 
 menacing scowl. 
 
 "Come here, if you please." He took me aside 
 and whispered : 
 
 "You and I are in a nice mess!" 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "This Avtonomov, the monk, seems to have gone 
 off to steal. . . . We'll get into trouble over him 
 yet " 
 
 "That's enough, Andrey Ivanovich." 
 
 "Yes, for you. Did you hear what he asked in 
 the village? Of the soldier's wife? About a cer- 
 tain clerk? Is the clerk actually at home or not?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember." 
 
 "Do you remember where that clerk lived?" 
 
 "Yes, by a cemetery." 
 
 "There it is!" said Andrey Ivanovich mali- 
 ciously, pointing ahead in the darkness. 
 
 "What of it?" 
 
 "Just this. . . . The old woman, you heard, is 
 alone. . . . And he went right there. . . . He 
 walked around the yard and looked. You'll see 
 for yourself. . . . That's the sort of a fellow 
 you wanted to drop an old companion for. ... If 
 he'd crossed the bridge without a board creaking, 
 we'd have gone straight along the road. ... I 
 turned aside. . . . Let's go ahead quietly." 
 48
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Behind us some one coughed plaintively. Andrey 
 Ivanovich looked around and said: 
 
 "Come with us, novice. . . . What can we do 
 with you? You love your comrade." 
 
 We crossed the bridge, followed the road and 
 came to the cemetery. On the hill a little light 
 shone through the trees. I saw the whitish walls 
 of a small house, perched on the edge of a hill, 
 and behind it was the dark outline of a bell-tower. 
 Below on the right it was easier to imagine than 
 to see the little stream. 
 
 "There he is," said Andrey Ivanovich. "Do 
 you see him?" 
 
 Not far from us, between the wall and the 
 slope, near an arbor covered with foliage, was a 
 figure. A man seemed to be crowded against and 
 fastened to the fence and looking through the 
 bushes. By the light of the window, I saw the 
 pointed cap, the long neck, and the familiar pro- 
 file of Avtonomov. The light streamed out 
 through the trees and lilac blossoms. When I 
 went nearer, I saw in the window the head of 
 an old woman in a cap and with horn spectacles. 
 Her head nodded like that of a man who is work- 
 ing when he is terribly sleepy, and the needles 
 moved rapidly in her hands. The old woman was 
 evidently waiting for her husband to return. 
 
 49
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Suddenly she listened. . . . An irresolute call 
 came out of the darkness: 
 
 "Olimpiada Nikolayevna ! " 
 
 The old woman looked out of the window but 
 saw no one. 
 
 A moment of silence, and then the same call was 
 repeated : 
 
 ' ' Olimpiada Nikolayevna ! * ' 
 
 I did not recognize Avtonomov's voice. It 
 seemed soft and timid. 
 
 "Who's there?" The old woman suddenly 
 started. ' ' Who called me 1* ' 
 
 "It's I. . . . Don't you remember Avtonomov? 
 . . . We used to know each other. ..." 
 
 "Avtonomov, mercy. . . . We never knew any 
 one of that name. ... I don't know you. . . . 
 Wait a moment and 111 call some one. Fedosya, 
 oh, Fedosya! . . . Come here quick. ..." 
 
 "Don't call, mother. ... I won't disturb you. 
 . . . Have you really forgotten Avtonomov? . . . 
 I used to be called Genasha. . . ." 
 
 The old woman got up, took the candle and 
 held it out of the window. There was no breeze. 
 The flame burned steadily and illuminated the 
 bushes, the walls of the house, and the wrinkled 
 face of the old woman with her glasses pressed 
 up on her forehead. 
 
 50
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "That voice sounded familiar. . . . Where are 
 you? ... If you're a good man " 
 
 She held the candle above her head and the 
 light fell on Avtonomov. The old woman stag- 
 gered, but just then another woman entered the 
 room. The old woman grew bolder and again 
 threw the light on Avtonomov. 
 
 "Fine," she said coldly. "The suitor, of course. 
 . . . What are you walking around under the 
 window for? . . ." 
 
 "I happened to be passing, Olimpiada Niko- 
 layevna " 
 
 "Passing, and would pass. . . . See here, when 
 the master returns, he'll set the dogs on you." 
 
 She closed the window and lowered the curtain. 
 The bushes disappeared, and the figure of Avtono- 
 mov was* lost in the darkness. 
 
 We could then think of leaving, and we quickly 
 descended the hillock. ... In a few minutes we 
 heard the bells in the tower. Some one apparently 
 wanted to show that there were people in the 
 cemetery. . . . 
 
 Andrey Ivanovich walked slowly and thought- 
 fully. . Ivan Ivanovich ran panting at a dog trot 
 and constantly stifling his cough. . . . When we 
 had reached a proper distance he stopped and said 
 again with indescribable sorrow: 
 
 51
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "We've lost Avtonomov. ..." 
 
 His voice was so despairing that Andrey Ivano- 
 vich and I involuntarily felt sorry for him. We 
 stopped and began to peer into the darkness. 
 
 "He's coming," said Andrey Ivanovich, strain- 
 ing his lynx-like eyes. 
 
 In very truth we soon saw behind us a strange 
 shape like a moving tree. Avtonomov had large 
 bunches of lilacs in his belt, on his shoulders, and 
 in his hands, and even his cap was decorated with 
 flowers. When he caught up with us he had per- 
 fect control of himself and seemed neither glad 
 nor astonished. He walked on along the road and 
 the branches waved about him in a very peculiar 
 manner. 
 
 "It's great to walk at night, signer," he began 
 grandiloquently, like an actor. "The fields are 
 clothed in darkness. . . . There's a grove on one 
 side. . . . See how peaceful it is! The nightin- 
 gale pours forth its melody. ..." 
 
 He almost declaimed this but yet his voice 
 showed that he was a little exasperated. 
 
 "Wouldn't you like a spray from my garden, 
 signor?" 
 
 With a theatrical gesture, he offered me a branch 
 of lilacs. 
 
 Near the road a nightingale sang timidly and 
 52
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 irresolutely. In the distance, in answer to the 
 bells from the cemetery, came another, and we 
 could hear the noise* of a rattle. Somewhere 
 on the dark plain dogs were barking. . . . 
 The night grew darker and it began to feel like 
 rain. . . . 
 
 "I'm sorry," Avtonomov suddenly began at ran- 
 dom, "I got separated from you by the cemetery. 
 I have an old friend who lives there, a real old 
 friend. If he'd been home, we'd all have gotten 
 lodging and something to eat. . . . The old woman 
 asked me to stop, . . . but without her hus- 
 band " 
 
 Ivan Ivanovich cleared his throat. The boot- 
 maker snorted ironically. 
 
 Avtonomov must have guessed that we had seen 
 more than he thought, for he turned to me and 
 said: 
 
 "Judge not, signor, that ye be not judged. . . . 
 Another's soul, signor, is dark. . . . Some time," 
 he added resolutely, "believe me, I'll come here, 
 . . . and I'll be entertained. . . . And then. ..." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Oh! . . . we'll be entertained. . . . Drink till 
 you can't see. . . . And I'll crow over it. . . ." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why! This place should be like any other. 
 53
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 But yet, signer, it appeals to me. . . . The 
 past. ..." 
 
 He walked on more rapidly. 
 
 "We passed by a little village and reached the 
 last hut. Its small windows looked out sightlessly 
 into the dark field. . . . All were sleeping within. 
 
 Avtonomov suddenly walked up to the window 
 and tapped sharply on the pane. An indistinct 
 face appeared behind it. 
 
 " Who's there?" asked a dull voice, and a fright- 
 ened face was pressed against the glass. "Who's 
 coming around this time of night?" 
 
 "The d-devil," drawled Avtonomov in a pierc- 
 ing, evil tone, and he stuck his head with its floral 
 decorations against the pane. . . . The face within 
 disappeared in terror. . . . Dogs began to bark in 
 the village; the guard struck his rattle; the dark 
 plain went on guard. . . . Again somewhere in the 
 distance the sleeping churches droned forth their 
 prolonged notes, as if to defend the peaceful region 
 from some unknown evil. As if they felt that 
 above them was hanging the menace of certain 
 dark and hopelessly ruined lives. 
 
 VI 
 
 We walked for more than an hour through the 
 dark fields. Weariness claimed its own and we 
 
 54
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 neither wished to speak nor listen. At first I kept 
 on thinking and tried in the darkness to imagine 
 the appearance of my companions. This worked 
 with Andrey Ivanovich, whom I knew well, and 
 also with the little wanderer, but I had forgotten 
 the features of Avtonomov, and as I looked at his 
 dark form I could not recall his face. . . . Avtono- 
 mov at the clerk's house and yesterday's preacher 
 seemed two distinct people. 
 
 My thoughts became still more confused; sev- 
 eral days of tramping, the dull night, the silence, 
 the heavy, muddy road or the absence of one, 
 this was all that I could learn from my great 
 weariness, and I began to lose myself as I walked 
 along. It was a sort of semi-consciousness which 
 permitted fantastic dreams strangely intertwined 
 with reality. But reality for me was merely tho 
 dark road and three misty shapes, now behind me, 
 
 now driving me onward I went with them 
 
 almost unconsciously. 
 
 When I partially awoke, they were standing in 
 the road and arguing. 
 
 "Open your eyes," said the bootmaker, angrily 
 but lazily. 
 
 "Thanks for your explanation, I wouldn't 
 Jiave guessed it," answered the wanderer. "Don't 
 you know, signor, how to get to the road?" 
 
 55
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 I looked out lazily into the darkness. With its 
 arms disappearing among the clouds, a huge black 
 windmill towered above us; behind and beside it 
 were others. I thought the whole field was dotted 
 with windmills, silent but menacing. . . . 
 
 "I've been spitting all night to beat this devil," 
 said Andrey Ivanovich venomously. 
 
 "Well, just keep still a little while, lanky 
 signor," said Avtonomov. "Listen! ..." 
 
 "Grinding?" said Andrey Ivanovich question- 
 ingly. . . . 
 
 "Right," answered Avtonomov cheerfully. 
 "The wheels are working. What a jolly little 
 river!" ^ 
 
 "Is it far?" 
 
 "Yes, by the road. We'll take a short cut." 
 
 "You'll land us in the swamp, you devil. ..." 
 
 My feet carried me through the darkness after 
 the three dark figures. I stumbled over the stub- 
 ble or the hummocks, and they threw me forward or 
 to the side. ... If I had met a ravine or a river, 
 I would probably have waked up at the bottom. . . . 
 At times strange phantoms leaped and flew from 
 my head into the unshapen fog. 
 
 Finally I ceased to stumble over hummocks. I 
 felt a level road beneath my feet and I heard an 
 even, kindly hum. Water was pouring, roaring, 
 
 56
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 running, splashing and foaming, telling of some- 
 thing interesting, but too confused. . . . The noise 
 stopped, but suddenly it became louder, as if the 
 water were pouring through a dam. ... I woke up 
 completely and looked around in surprise. . . . 
 Andrey Ivanovich caught me from behind. He 
 took my arm and pushed me ahead. . . . 
 
 "Wake up ... you'll sleep when you're walk- 
 ing. . . . We're tied up with the devil and may 
 God forgive us! ... If the peasants come out, 
 they'll break our necks. . . . Quick, quick. . . . 
 See Ivan Ivanovich go with his cassock held 
 up. . . ." 
 
 Indeed, the little wanderer was running with a 
 speed that surprised me. 
 
 "Here . . . here. . . ." 
 
 Without understanding what had happened, I 
 found myself hidden in the thick willows on the 
 bank of a little stream. Ivan Ivanovich was pant- 
 ing. . . . Avtonomov was not with us. Near by 
 the mill was roaring. The water raged and poured 
 through the open sluices. One wheel was turning 
 heavily as before, another seemed locked, it 
 trembled and groaned beneath the assaults of the 
 water. A dog was pulling at his chain and howling 
 with anger. 
 
 A window in the mill lighted up as if the building 
 57
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 had waked and opened one eye. A door creaked and 
 the old miller in a white shirt and trousers came 
 out on the platform with a lantern. Behind him 
 came another man, yawning and stretching. 
 
 "Did the dam go out?" he asked. 
 
 "It certainly did, hear it roar in the sluice- 
 ways ; it almost broke the bars. . . . Just look. . . . 
 Oh, ye saints. ..." 
 
 "Just look; they're open." 
 
 * ' What the devil ! Who opened them ? ' ' 
 
 The peasants went to the sluices. The roar soon 
 died away; they pushed both bolts and the mill 
 stopped. The light of the lantern slowly crawled 
 back along the dam and again disappeared. Then 
 a rattle sounded shrilly. One peasant was evi- 
 dently still on guard. . . . 
 
 The unusual commotion at the mill, sounding 
 across the fields, again roused the sleeping villages. 
 It was surprising how many of them were hidden 
 in the darkness. From all sides, in front, behind, 
 almost beneath, they answered the alarm with the 
 beating of boards and rattles. The slow peal of a 
 bell floated up from a distant village or a cemetery. 
 Near by some night bird called. 
 
 "Let's go," said Andrey Ivanovich, when the 
 mill had become quiet. . . . "One rascal can BO 
 disturb people." 
 
 58
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 " What's the matter?" 1 asked. 
 
 "Ask him," said the bootmaker spitefully, and 
 he pointed to Ivan Ivanovich. 
 
 "Y-yes," answered the wanderer sadly. "Of 
 course, it's outrageous. ... I don't approve of 
 it. . . ." 
 
 "What's the matter? Where's Avtonomov?" 
 
 "There he is calling like a bird and making 
 signs to us. ... Come here, my dear compan- 
 ions. . . . How the rascal managed to open the 
 sluices, I didn't happen to notice. You, too! . . . 
 You '11 follow him and sleep. If you 'd kept on ... 
 and the peasants had appeared before, there 'd 
 have been a picnic. You bet ! I '11 catch that devil 
 and don't you interfere. I'll turn him inside out 
 and run his feet out through his throat ! . . . 
 
 He started ahead with his mind made up. 
 
 VII 
 
 Andrey Ivanovich did not carry out his sav- 
 age intentions and in a half hour we were 
 again walking silently along the road. ... It was 
 not yet sunrise, but the white, milky streaks kept 
 breaking through the clouds, and beneath our feet 
 we could see the whitish fog which covered the 
 whole plain. Suddenly the fog opened and showed 
 
 59
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 us a horse's head and a cart loaded with sacks and 
 a peasant sleeping on them and another empty cart 
 behind it. 
 
 "Uncle, hey, uncle," said Andrey Ivanovich to 
 the second peasant, "won't you take us along?" 
 
 The peasant rubbed his sleepy eyes and looked 
 with amazement at the crowd which had sur- 
 rounded him. 
 
 "Where did God bring you from?" 
 
 "A pilgrimage." 
 
 "So, so! Sit down, but I can't take you far; 
 we're from around here." 
 
 ' ' You 're not from the mill ? ' ' 
 
 "They were at the mill, but I'm empty. Sit 
 down; that's right." 
 
 We got into the cart and sat down, letting our 
 feet hang. 
 
 "Let me ask you a question," said our guide, 
 clucking to his horse ; "have you been walking all 
 night?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You didn't hear anything, did you?" 
 
 "Some dogs barking in the distance. Why?" 
 
 ' ' Why ? Some one opened the sluices in the mill 
 and almost smashed the wheels." 
 
 "Who was it?" 
 
 "I don't know! Some one got fooling around at 
 60
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 night. In our little village near by, they say, the 
 fellow asked to be taken in. A peasant looked out, 
 but he said: 'I'm the devil, let me in.' ' 
 
 "He was," said Avtonomov, who had discarded 
 his decorations some time before. 
 
 "He wasn't. ... I'll never believe it. ... And 
 I won't let you either." Andrey Ivanovich spoke 
 ardenfly and decidedly to the peasant. "Some 
 rascals have been deceiving you country peo- 
 ple. . . . Your simplicity ..." 
 
 "There are people who do not believe in God and 
 the Saints," said Avtonomov, with the greatest 
 humility and composure. 
 
 Andrey Ivanovich gritted his teeth and showed 
 Avtonomov his fist, when the peasant was not look- 
 ing. 
 
 VIII 
 
 About noon we reached my home in the same 
 kind of a cart. This we had happened to meet at 
 the edge of the city. The cart stopped at the gate. 
 Our picturesque company attracted the attention 
 of several passers-by, a thing that clearly annoyed 
 Andrey Ivanovich. ... I asked my companion to 
 come in and rest and have some tea. 
 
 "Thanks, I haven't far to go," answered the 
 61
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 bootmaker coldly. He threw his wallet on his back 
 and, then, without ceremony, he pointed at Avto- 
 nomov. 
 
 "Are you inviting him in?" 
 
 "Yes, I'm inviting Gennady Sergeyevich," I 
 answered. 
 
 Andrey Ivanovich turned sharply and, without 
 saying good-bye, he started down the street. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovich looked desperately frightened, 
 as if my invitation had caught him in a trap. He 
 looked appealingly at Avtonomov, and shame at 
 being present tortured his whole figure. Avtono- 
 mov asked simply: 
 
 "Where are we going?" 
 
 While the samovar was being heated, I asked the 
 servants to gather up some superfluous clothes and 
 linen and offered my companions a change of 
 attire. Avtonomov at once consented, tied them 
 all in one bundle and said": 
 
 "We've got to have a bath. ..." 
 
 Of course, I did not object. Both wanderers 
 came back from the bath transformed. Ivan Ivano- 
 vich, in a coat which was too broad and trousers 
 which were too long and with his thin hair, looked 
 astonishingly like a woman in man 's clothes. As far 
 as Avtonomov was concerned, he was not satisfied 
 with the conventional amount of clothing, but he 
 
 62
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 had put on everything which had been given him 
 to choose from. He was wearing, consequently, a 
 blue shirt, a blouse, two vests, and a coat. The 
 shirt stuck up above the collar of the blouse and 
 reached below it, it was so much longer. The 
 edge of the blouse was visible and the coat seemed 
 to form a third layer. ... At the tea table Ivan 
 Ivanovich was so miserable that we let him take 
 his cup into the kitchen, where he sat down in one 
 corner and immediately won the sympathy of our 
 cook. 
 
 Avtonomov acted recklessly, called my mother 
 signora and jumped up every minute in order to 
 serve something. 
 
 After tea he looked himself over from head to 
 foot and said, with an air of satisfaction : 
 
 "In this costume my brother-in-law won't be 
 ashamed of me. . . . I '11 go see my sister. . . . She 
 lives near here. May I leave my wallet in your 
 hall, signora?" 
 
 When he went to the gate, Ivan Ivanovich ran 
 after him in terror. After a short conversation 
 Avtonomov permitted the poor fellow to follow him 
 at some distance. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovich soon returned alone. His bird- 
 like face beamed with surprise and delight. 
 
 "They received him," he said, clearing his throat 
 63
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 joyfully. "That's the solemn truth. He really 
 has a sister. And a brother-in-law. . . . Please go 
 past, accidentally. . . . You'll see it, too. . . As 
 God is true, they're sitting in a garden entertain- 
 ing him . . . like a brother. His sister ; s weeping 
 from joy. ..." 
 
 From the breast of the little wanderer came 
 strange sounds like hysterical laughing and weep- 
 ing. 
 
 In an hour Avtonomov appeared, transfigured 
 and triumphant. He came up to me, fervently 
 grasped my hand, and pressed it till it hurt. 
 
 "Through you I've found my relatives. . . . 
 Yes. . . . That's it! Till death. ..." 
 
 He pressed my hand still harder, then convul- 
 sively released it and turned away. Apparently 
 the brother-in-law, who was not without influence 
 in the consistory, believed in Avtonomov 's refor- 
 mation and decided to help him. It was also neces- 
 sary to get certain papers from Uglich and . . . 
 
 "Back here again! My wanderings are ended, 
 signor. ... I won't forsake you, Vanya. . . .Ill 
 give you a corner and food. . . . Live. ... I '11 be 
 responsible. . . . You'll get quarters . . . also ..." 
 
 As I listened to this conversation, involuntary 
 doubts crept into my mind, the more so as Avto- 
 nomov had resumed his grandiloquent manner and 
 
 64
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 kept using more and more frequently the word 
 signer. . . . 
 
 Towards evening the two set out "for Uglich to 
 get the papers." Avtonomov gave me a solemn 
 promise to return in a week "to begin his new 
 life." 
 
 "Is this all that was necessary for this 'mir- 
 acle?' " I thought doubtfully. . . . 
 
 IX 
 
 The weather suddenly changed. ... A won- 
 derful early spring seemed to be replaced by 
 late, cold autumn. ... It rained hard for days 
 and the wind howled amid the rain and the fog. 
 
 One cold morning of this kind I awoke late and 
 was trying to guess the time, when I heard a light 
 noise and a strange whistle in the hall by the door. 
 I opened and saw some living creature in a dark 
 corner. Yes ! it was Ivan Ivanovich. He trembled 
 all over, was blue, and looked at me with his ap- 
 pealing, timid eyes. It was the look of a frightened 
 animal near its end. 
 
 "Your weakness again?" I asked kindly. 
 
 "Yes," he answered humbly and briefly, and he 
 started to straighten his clothing. He was again 
 wearing an impossible cassock, he had no hat, and 
 on his bare feet were rough shoes. 
 
 65
 
 Avtonomov soon made his appearance. He was 
 drunk and unpleasantly bold. He spoke in af- 
 fectedly grandiloquent phrases, acted like an old 
 friend, and from time to time in his reminiscences 
 of our wanderings he made spicy allusions to a 
 certain soldier's wife. ... In his eyes gleamed an 
 evil passion and in him I recognized again the 
 preacher in the monastery courtyard, and readi- 
 ness for any evil deed. He never said a word about 
 his visit to his sister. . . . 
 
 "Listen . . . Dearie, . . ." he turned to the 
 maid. . . . "The other time I left a cassock with 
 you. . . . It's still fit to be worn. . . . Your pres- 
 ent was unlucky," he added, looking impudently 
 at me. . . . "We were robbed near Uglich . . . 
 and they took absolutely everything we had. A 
 merchant cheated you on those felt shoes, that's 
 easy to see. . . . Cheap goods, cheap. . . . They 
 fell all to pieces. ..." 
 
 He condescendingly patted my shoulder. 
 
 Ivan Ivanovich looked at his protector reproach- 
 fully. We parted quite coldly, but everyone in my 
 house felt sincere sympathy and pity for Ivan Ivan- 
 ovich. 
 
 After that, from time to time, I heard from my 
 accidental comrades. These messages were usually 
 brought by people in cloaks and cassocks and with 
 
 66
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 more or less clear indications of "weakness" they 
 gave me greetings or notes and they showed how 
 disillusioned they felt, when they saw the meagre- 
 ness of the reward which they received. Once dur- 
 ing the fair a fellow appeared totally drunk and 
 very evil looking, but he handed me a note with as 
 much mysterious familiarity as if it had been from 
 a mutual friend and confidant. 
 
 In the note a very shaky and uneven hand had 
 scribbled : 
 
 "Dear friend. Eeceive the bearer as you would 
 me. He is our friend and can tell you everything; 
 incidentally give him money and clothing. . . . 
 His trousers are pretty bad. . . . Gennady Avto- 
 nomov. ' ' 
 
 One glance was enough to show that the agent 
 was really in dire need of trousers. . . . But in 
 spite of his intoxication, his eyes quickly and curi- 
 ously ran over the contents of my rooms, and they 
 showed well the results of professional train- 
 ing. . . . 
 
 When he left, I heard an unpleasant noise and 
 I had to run to the assistance of my good neighbors. 
 
 About two years passed, before I again met my 
 former companions. 
 
 67
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 One hot summer's day, I had crossed the Volga 
 on a ferry and a pair of horses was dragging us 
 over the sands of the bank to the foot of a hill. 
 The sun had set, but it was intolerably hot. It 
 seemed as if whole waves of heat were being wafted 
 from the gleaming river. Flies hung in clouds over 
 the horses, the bells rang unevenly, and the wheels 
 dragged in the deep sand. . . . Half way up the 
 hill a monastery nestled among the trees and 
 as it looked down on the river out of the rising mist, 
 it seemed to be suspended in midair. 
 
 Suddenly the coachman stopped his weary team 
 at the very foot of the hill and ran along the bank. 
 A quarter of a verst away on the rocky and pebbly 
 edge of the river was a black group of people di- 
 rectly between us and the sun. 
 
 "Something's happened," said my companion. 
 
 I got out and also walked up to the place. 
 
 A dead body was lying on the bare bank, against 
 which the water was splashing lazily. When I 
 came nearer, I recognized in it my old acquaint- 
 ance : the little wanderer was lying in his cassock, 
 on his stomach, with outstretched hands and with 
 his head turned at an unnatural angle. He was 
 pale as death; his black hair had fallen over his 
 forehead and temples, and his mouth was half 
 open. I involuntarily recalled that face, as it was 
 
 68
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 when it was filled with childish delight over the 
 singing of the little bird on the hilltop. With his 
 long, sharp nose and his open mouth, he reminded 
 me greatly of a tortured and stifled bird. 
 
 Avtonomov sat swaying back and forth beside 
 him and seemed frightened. There was a percep- 
 tible odor of wine in the air. . . . 
 
 Glancing at the pepole who were coming up and 
 not recognizing me, he suddenly pulled the dead 
 body. 
 
 "Get up, comrade, it's time to be going. ... A 
 wanderer's fate is to wander always." 
 
 He spoke in a very bombastic manner, but he 
 rose uncertainly. . . . 
 
 "Don't you want to? Look, Vanya, I'll leave 
 you! I'll go off alone. ..." 
 
 A village chief, with a medal on his chest, hur- 
 ried up to the group and laid one hand on Avtono- 
 mov 's shoulder. 
 
 "Stop, don't go away. . . . You've got to make 
 a statement. . . . What sort of people are you?" 
 
 Avtonomov, with ironical humility, took off his 
 cap and bowed. 
 
 "Please be so kind, your village excellency. ..." 
 
 Above our heads sounded a peal of the bell. The 
 monks were being summoned to vespers. The peal 
 echoed, disturbed the heated air, and rolled above 
 
 69
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 the leafy tops of the oaks and black poplars beside 
 the monastery and as it died away, it fell to the 
 sleepy river. The sound increased again, as it 
 struck the water, and a keen eye could almost follow 
 its flight to the other bank, to the bluish, mist- 
 wrapped meadows. 
 
 All removed their hats. Avtonomov turned to- 
 ward the sound and shook his fist in the air. 
 
 "Listen, Vanya," he said, "your father superior 
 is calling you. . . . Your benefactor. . . . Now 
 he'll receive you, I know. ..." 
 
 Peal after peal, rapid and repeated, ringing and 
 quavering, fell down upon the river solemnly and 
 quietly. . . . 
 
 70
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 (FROM THE DIARY OF A REPORTER)
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 (FROM THE DIARY OF A REPORTER) 
 
 I 
 
 r E IN N-sk on the twentieth. Session of dis- 
 r trict court. Details in letter. Editor." 
 
 I looked at my watch and then went to inquire 
 about the trains. I hoped that I could not catch 
 the night train at the station, which was some ten 
 versts from the city where I had just finished an- 
 other piece of reporting. I saw already the laconic 
 and business-like answer: " Telegram delayed, 
 cannot arrive on twentieth." Unfortunately the 
 time-table and my watch decided differently. I 
 had three hours to pack and get to the station. 
 That was time enough. 
 
 About 11 o'clock on a warm summer evening a 
 coachman landed me at the station ; the lights could 
 be seen for a great distance. I got there just in 
 time ; the train was waiting. 
 
 Directly opposite the entrance there was a car 
 with the windows open. It was not filled and some 
 intelligent-appearing men were playing cards. I 
 
 73
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 imagined that they were members of the court going 
 to the session, and I decided to look for a place 
 elsewhere. This was no easy task but I finally 
 succeeded. The train was just starting when, with 
 my bag in my hand, I entered a second-class com- 
 partment in which there were three passengers. 
 
 I sat down by the window, through which entered 
 the freshness of the summer night, and soon there 
 were flying past me ends of sleepers, hills, roaring 
 bridges, buildings, fields bathed in the moonlight, 
 all as if carried bya high wind. I was tired 
 and sad. I thought how my life was flying in the 
 same way, from bridge to bridge, from station to 
 station, from city to city, from fire to law court. 
 . . . And that I could never write for any paper 
 what the editor wanted. And all that I would 
 write the next day would be dry and uninteresting. 
 
 These were not cheerful thoughts. I tore myself 
 away from them and began to listen to the con- 
 versation of my fellow travelers. 
 
 II 
 
 My nearest neighbor was sleeping contentedly, 
 letting me stretch out as I. could. Opposite me one 
 passenger was lying down and another was sitting 
 by the window. They kept on with the conversa- 
 tion they had already commenced. 
 
 74
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "Let's imagine," said the one who was lying 
 down, "that I am a man who is not superstitious. 
 . . . But yet" (he yawned pleasantly and slowly) 
 "it cannot be denied that there is much, so to 
 speak, unknown, isn't that so? ... Let's sup- 
 pose, the peasants . . . country naivete and super- 
 stition. But take a paper. ..." 
 
 *"Well, a paper. Superstition is for peasants, 
 but this is for the papers. A peasant, simple fellow, 
 sees a primitive devil with horns and breathing 
 fire. He's frightened. ... A reporter sees a 
 figure from the ballet. ..." 
 
 The gentleman who admitted that there was 
 "much unknown" yawned again. 
 
 "Yes," he said with a somewhat scientific air, 
 "that is true; fears disappear with the develop- 
 ment of culture and education. ..." 
 
 His companion did not reply, but later said 
 thoughtfully: 
 
 "Disappear? ... Do you remember in Tolstoy: 
 Anna Karenina and Vronsky have the identical 
 dream: a peasant, an ordinary laborer 'works in 
 steel' and speaks French. . . . Both wake up in 
 terror. . . . What's so terrible there? Of course, 
 it's a little strange for a peasant to speak French. 
 But, granted. . . . Nevertheless, in a given com- 
 bination of circumstances, a picture which is not 
 75
 
 frightful will terrify you. . . . Take the Brothers 
 Karamazov of Dostoyevsky. . . . We've got there 
 an urban devil. . . . You remember, of course. . . ." 
 
 "No, I don't. . . . You know, Pavel Semenovich, 
 I'm an instructor of mathematics. ..." 
 
 "Oh, excuse me. ... I thought. . . . Yes, I re- 
 member: he was a certain man, or, better yet, a 
 certain type of Russian gentleman, quite well along 
 in years, with his hair and pointed beard rather 
 gray. . . . His .linen and necktie, you know, were 
 like those of any other stylish gentleman, but his 
 linen was rather dirty and his necktie frayed. 
 To sum up, 'He looked like a man of taste with 
 slender financial resources. . . .' " 
 
 "That's a fine devil! A mere sharper, and 
 they're common enough," remarked the mathe- 
 matician. 
 
 "Yes, I know there's a lot of them. . . . But 
 it's frightful and it's that, just because it's so 
 common; that same poor necktie, linen, and coat. 
 ... If it were only frayed, it would be like yours 
 or mine. ..." 
 
 "All right, Pavel Semenovich. . . . Excuse me, 
 but you have a strange philosophy." 
 
 The mathematician seemed rather insulted. 
 Pavel Semenovich turned towards the light, and I 
 bad a good view of his broad face, straight brows 
 
 76
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 and gray, thoughtful eyes hidden under his stern 
 forehead. 
 
 Both paused. For a little while you could 
 hear only the hurried roar of the train. Then 
 Pavel Semenovich began again in his even 
 voice. 
 
 "At the station of N-sk I happened, you know, 
 to walk up toward the engine. I'm a little ac- 
 quainted with the engineer. ... A chronically 
 sleepy individual with swollen eyes." 
 
 "Yes?" asked his companion indifferently, and 
 not trying to conceal his feelings. 
 
 "Certainly. . . . A natural condition. He hadn't 
 slept for thirty-six hours." 
 
 "M-n, yes. . . . That is a long while." 
 
 "I thought so too: we fall asleep. . . . The train 
 is flying at full speed. . . . And it's run by a man 
 who is almost stupefied. ..." 
 
 His companion fidgeted a little. 
 
 "What an idea! . . *. Really, damnation. . . . 
 You should have told the chief of the station. ..." 
 
 "What for? . . . He'd laugh! A common thing. 
 You might almost call it the system. In Peters- 
 burg there's a gentleman sitting in some office. . . . 
 He's got a board in front of him with numbers 
 on it. Arrival. . . . Departure. . . . And the 
 engineers are listed .too. . . . Pay so much. 
 
 77
 
 Versts so many. Versts that's the length of 
 the run, a.useful number, profitable, steady, that 
 can be increased. The pay for the men is minus. 
 . . . And this fellow just cracks his head, thinking 
 how to run the largest number of miles on the 
 smallest number of engineers. Or even make the 
 distance larger than ever. . . . It's a sort of silent 
 game with numbers, so to speak. . . . And a most 
 ordinary chap bothers with it. ... He wears a 
 poor coat and necktie, and he looks respectable. 
 ... A good friend and a fine husband. . . . He 
 loves his child and gives presents to his wife on 
 holidays. . . . His job is harmless, and he merely 
 decides simple questions. The result is that sleep 
 kills people. . . . And across the fields and through 
 the ravines of our beloved country on such moon- 
 light nights as this trains tear along like this, and 
 the watch is kept by the sleepy, swollen eyes of 
 the man who is responsible for hundreds of lives. 
 ... A moment's slumber. . . ." 
 
 The legs of the mathematician in their check- 
 ered trousers stirred: he got up from his seat in 
 the shadow and sat down on a bench. . . . His fat, 
 expressionless face, with its thick, clipped mus- 
 tache, made you uneasy. 
 
 "Stop your croaking, for heaven's sake," he 
 said angrily. "However you argue, the result is 
 
 78
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 the same, devil take it. ... I wanted to fall 
 asleep. ..." 
 
 Pavel Semenovich looked at him in surprise. 
 
 ' ' What 's the matter ? " he said. ' ' Are you crazy ? 
 We'll get there all right, if God wills. I merely 
 want to point out how the terrible and the usual 
 are combined. . . . Economy is the most ordinary 
 idea of life. . . . But sometimes it involves death. 
 ... It is even measurable by the law of proba- 
 bility. ..." 
 
 The mathematician, still more angry, took out 
 his cigar case and said, as he began to smoke : 
 
 "No, you!re right: the devil knows: the rascal'll 
 fall asleep, and all at once. . . . These beasts of 
 railroad men. ... 0, let's talk of something else. 
 The devil take these fears. . . . Are you still vege- 
 tating in Tikhodol? . . . You've stuck there a 
 long time. ..." 
 
 "Yes." answered Pavel Semenovich, a little em- 
 barrassed. "It's such a wretched place. It's just 
 like living in a yoke. ... A teacher, prosecutor, 
 excise official. . . . When you once land there, 
 you're forgotten, and removed from the lists of 
 the living. ..." 
 
 "Yes. ... It is an awful place. ... It's dead- 
 ening. . . . Why, there's not even a club there. 
 And the mud is unendurable." 
 
 79
 
 SIEDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 " There's a club now, at least that's what we 
 call it. ... And there are a few stretches of pave- 
 ment. . . . Lighting, especially in the centre of the 
 town. . . . But, I'll confess, I live on the edge, 
 and don't make much use of these conveniences." 
 
 "Where do you live?" 
 
 "With Budnikov, in the suburbs." 
 
 "Budnikov? Semen Nikolayevich? Just think, 
 I lived in that section myself: with Father Poli- 
 dorov. ... Of course, I met Budnikov! A fine 
 man, well educated, but rather filled with ideas?" 
 
 "Yes, with a few notions. ..." 
 
 "No, not that. ... I said ideas. But notions. 
 What? None special, I think." 
 
 "No, nothing special, but just the same: he used 
 to keep valuable papers in a mattress. ..." 
 
 "Why, I never knew that. But when I met 
 him he made a queer impression on me. He was 
 so fresh and original. ... A house owner, and all 
 of a sudden he went to living in two rooms without 
 servants. . . . No, I remember, he had a kind of 
 porter. ..." 
 
 "Yes, Gavrilo. . . ." 
 
 "That's right, that's right. Gavrilo, a little 
 fellow with white eyebrows? Yes? That's right. 
 ... I remember I liked to look at his face: such 
 a good-natured snout. I almost thought the master 
 
 80
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 was part workman. . . . Who is he? Is he always 
 that way?" 
 
 Pavel Semenovich said nothing for a few min- 
 utes. He then looked at his companion with some 
 embarrassment and replied: 
 
 "Y-yes, you're right. . . . That actually hap- 
 pened. . . . Semen Nikolayevich . . . and Gavrilo. 
 . . . Both together. ..." 
 
 "Yes, I remember. ..." 
 
 "He was a fine man for our city. . . . Educated, 
 independent, with ideas. ... He went to the uni- 
 versity but never finished because of some escapade. 
 . . . He once spoke of it as if he had made an 
 unfortunate venture into love. 'My heart was 
 broken,' he said. On the other hand I know that 
 he corresponded with a friend in some outlandish 
 place. That shows there was something behind it. 
 . . . His father, he said, was a usurer, but not a 
 malicious one. This caused a row between father 
 and son. The young student didn't approve of 
 it and wouldn't touch the money, but lived by 
 teaching. . . . When the father died, Semen 
 Nikolayevich came and inherited the property. He 
 said to some one: 'I don't want it. ... This is 
 owed to society.' Then I don't know what hap- 
 pened. . . . The house, land, long-term leases, a 
 lawsuit. ... He carried it on one, two, three years, 
 
 81
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 and then got to like it. Many still remember how 
 he said : * I '11 finish the lawsuit with these curs and 
 settle up. ... I won't stay a day longer in this 
 confounded hole.' . . . But it's the usual story. 
 . . . We had a teacher once, a zoologist, who came 
 to our gymnasium and said bluntly: 'As soon as 
 I write my dissertation, I'll get out of the 
 swamp!' " 
 
 ''That's Kallistov, isn't it?" asked the mathe- 
 matician, with great interest. The narrator waved 
 assent. 
 
 "He's still writing it. He married; had three 
 children. . . . That's just the way with Semen 
 Nikolayevich Budnikov. He's been making a dis- 
 sertation of his life, so to speak. He began to 
 enjoy this lawsuit. Challenges, protests, cassation, 
 
 the whole game And he kept writing himself 
 
 without consulting lawers. . . . Then, after a while, 
 he commenced to build a new house. When I got to 
 know him, he was already a lucky, middle-aged 
 bachelor, with a reddish face, and such a pleasant, 
 quiet, substantial and sleepy voice. Then he had 
 a few peculiarities. He sometimes used to come 
 to see me, especially when it was time to pay my 
 rent. . . . This was due on the twentieth. That 
 meant that on the twentieth he used to come at 
 eight o'clock in the evening and drink two cups 
 
 82
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 of tea with rum in it. No more, no less ! In each 
 cup two spoonfuls of rum and one of sugar. I got 
 to look at this as an addition to my rent. He 
 did the same with all his lodgers, only some with 
 and some without rum. The rents were all differ- 
 ent, about twenty in his four houses (one in the city 
 was quite large). . . . That made forty cups of 
 tea. . . . He seemed as if he had included that in 
 his budget and marked it down. . . . Sometimes, 
 'I didn't find so and so at home, but he brought 
 the money the next day. Still owing, two cups 
 of tea.'" 
 
 " Really?" laughed Petr Petrovich. "He never 
 reasoned that way! Why do you think so?" 
 
 "For this reason. At first this was an unex- 
 pected characteristic, but it got to be believed, 
 although in your time maybe it didn't exist. The 
 tenants began to say: you know M. Budnikov is 
 an economical man. That was meant well and 
 even as a sign of approval. But it suddenly 
 reacted on Budnikov. . . . You understand? The 
 unintelligible man began to develop a special in- 
 telligible trait. ... It became clearer and clearer. 
 All believed, for example, that M. Budnikov kept 
 no servants. Gavrilo was the porter of the house 
 where I lived; he used to clean the clothes of the 
 different people, fix the samovars, and run errands. 
 
 83
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEtf 
 
 Sometimes the master and servant used to sit side 
 by side and clean shoes, the porter for the tenants, 
 Budnikov for himself. Then M. Budnikov got a 
 horse. No special need for him to do it. As a 
 luxury, he'd ride twice a week to a farm near the 
 city. The rest of the time the horse was free. 
 Gavrilo wasn't busy all the time either. . . . The 
 result was the horse was put at Gavrilo 's disposal, 
 and he used to ride down town. Gavrilo had noth- 
 ing against this arrangement, because he considered 
 incessant work his special duty. You know there's 
 a sort of talent for everything, and I thought once 
 that Gavrilo was a kind of genius in the field of 
 muscular labor. . . . Easy motioned, unwearied 
 freshness. Sometimes at night he wouldn't sleep. 
 Look out of the window and you'd see Gavrilo 
 sweeping the street or cleaning the ditches. It 
 meant he'd gone to bed and then remembered he 
 hadn't swept all the pavement the last thing. So 
 he'd go and clean it. And this was really beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 "Yes," said the mathematician, "that's a good 
 description of the man. I remember I liked to 
 look at him, he seemed rather attractive." 
 
 "Spiritual poise is always beautiful, and he did 
 his duty without speculating about his relation to 
 his master. . . . And that was a fine thing, you 
 84
 
 ISN'T IT TEKPIBLEf 
 
 know, their mutual relations. One used his 
 muscles admirably. The other gave reason and 
 rational meaning to it. ... He saw that the time 
 was not all filled . . . and he found a new occu- 
 pation. . . . There was a sort of balancing of 
 interests, almost an idyl. . . . Almost before 
 dawn Gavrilo was at work. M. Budnikov also got 
 up early. They said good morning with a mani- 
 festly pleasant feeling. Then M. Budnikov either 
 went to work in his garden or went around his 
 'estate' scattered through the city. Poverty gets 
 up early, and he went mornings to poverty's quar- 
 ters. . . . Then he'd come back and say: 
 
 " 'Now harness up, Gavrilo, and 111 finish clean- 
 ing up. . . . The officials are just going to their 
 offices. You may meet some one. ..." 
 
 "At this time he considered himself neither a 
 Tolstoyan nor a deliberate simplifier. . . . He often 
 spoke of the abnormality of our lives, of the neces- 
 sity of paying our debt to the laboring man, of the 
 advantages of physical labor. 'See, I'm working,' 
 he'd say to any one who caught him busied with 
 axe or spade. 'I'm helping my neighbor, my 
 porter, with his work. ' It was hard to tell whether 
 he was talking ironically or seriously. ... At 
 noon Gavrilo 'd come back and put his horse in 
 the stable, and M. Budnikov would go off on busi- 
 
 85
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 ness and make polite remarks to his tenants about 
 a broken fence or a piece of plaster knocked down 
 by children's balls. . . . He often came back with 
 one or two beggars. They had asked him for alms 
 on the street and he'd offered 'assistance through 
 toil.' ... Of course, the rogues ran off shame- 
 fully, but M. Budnikov took especial pleasure in 
 working, either alone or with Gavrilo. All the 
 beggars in the city soon got to know him and 
 bowed with a friendly smile, but did not ask for 
 money. 'Why can't you see what's good for you, 
 my friends?' he'd say meaningly. I must say 
 that a 'life of toil' did bring him manifest personal 
 benefits; his ruddy color was absolutely evident, 
 even, and healthy. His face was always quiet and 
 placid, and almost like Gavrilo 's. . . . It had 
 nothing malicious or strange in it." 
 
 "I see, you're back on your old theme!" said 
 the mathematician, standing up and striking his 
 companion's shoulder. "Of course, nothing ter- 
 rible. ... I'm going out here. . . . Eight min- 
 utes' wait." 
 
 The train slowed down and stopped. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Pavel Semenovich, thus left without an audience, 
 looked around in despair. Soon his gray eyes met 
 
 86
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 mine. In his gaze I noticed an obstinate idea like 
 that of a maniac. . . . 
 
 "You . . . understand?" he said frankly, 
 wholly undisturbed by the fact that he was talking 
 to a stranger. 
 
 "I think so," I answered. 
 
 "Good," he said, with evident satisfaction, and 
 then he went on, as if he were talking to the same 
 person. 
 
 "I had, you know, a school friend named 
 Kalugin, Petr Petrovich. As a young man he was 
 infected with the tendencies of his age, but he 
 was a rare type. He said little. He preferred 
 to listen, and he watched how others failed, and he 
 tried, as is said, to turn the wheel of history. 
 . . . But you could feel his rapture and his devo- 
 tion in his silence. . . . He finally came to the 
 conclusion: 'Everything is good and extraordi- 
 narily fine, but there is no lever. Money is the 
 lever. And you can 't do a thing without a hundred 
 thousand.' You know, he succeeded in convincing 
 several of his friends of this and they formed a 
 small savings association. Of course, nothing 
 came of it: one simply got tired; fate placed an- 
 other too far from the source of gain. But Petr 
 Petrovich held on and won. He wasn't brilliant, 
 but he was of a good character, and that kind of 
 
 87
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 men get along well in business. He first went into 
 some sort of an institution along the Volga. It 
 wasn't a bank nor a loan association. To get 
 ahead, he didn't despise even this, and all of a 
 sudden he put new life into it, as they say. In 
 three years' time, he was making about six thou- 
 sand a year. . . . He put the question this way: 
 'Five twenties make a hundred! I'll keep one 
 thousand a year and put five thousand away for 
 the cause. In twenty years my lever '11 be ready.' 
 More than that, he did it. Of course he had to 
 have a self-sacrificing character. And system! 
 First, to avoid all foolish accidents, he left his old 
 friends 'for a time,' those who tried to catch the 
 wheel of history in their bare hands. 'I've got 
 my problem. . . . Ingratitude . . . accidental notes 
 ... do me the favor, it 's not necessary. ' . . And 
 he held out. He mastered his life and counted 
 every detail. Nothing except making money! 
 He got up every day, not like Budnikov at seven 
 o'clock, but at thirteen minutes to seven. Second 
 by second! He gave up his personal life. . . . Up 
 to that time he had had only one pleasure : he got 
 intimate with a girl, but on a free basis. They gave 
 each other their word 'not to bind each other.' 
 What a stupid phrase! A child gave its word to 
 no one. ... It just appeared and demanded its 
 
 88
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 rights. . . . She was glad. ... He was angry. 
 This unpleasant event might be repeated, he 
 thought, and, with an eye on his great cause, he 
 determined to enjoy his freedom. 'I'll give the 
 child a certain sum,' he said, 'even though it inter- 
 feres with my great cause.' . . . The woman also 
 had character. She never touched a cent of the 
 money, but snatched up the child, and away for- 
 ever. . . . How he felt afterwards, no one knows, 
 but he worked harder than ever to save money. 
 . . . After various successes and failures, after 
 twenty years, during which he regularly got up at 
 thirteen minutes to seven, he congratulated him- 
 self on his success. He had a hundred thousand. 
 He went to his work at the usual time, walked into 
 the office of his superior and said: '111 leave in 
 two months. ' They opened their mouths in amaze- 
 ment. 'Are you crazy? Why? Can we raise 
 your salary ? Give you a share of the profits ? ' No ! 
 He told why, and in two months he went to Moscow 
 to take up his old life. And he had a hundred 
 thousand in his pocket." 
 
 "Oh, ho!" said Petr Petrovich, who just then 
 came back from the restaurant. . . . "Still talk- 
 ing about Budnikov?" 
 
 "No," answered Pavel Semenovich. "I was 
 talking about some one else." 
 89
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "Some one else! Go on, I don't care. ... Go 
 on with the hundred thousand. I hope that's not 
 terrible. ..." 
 
 His voice sounded as if it were mocking. Pavel 
 Semenovich looked at him in mild surprise and 
 turned to me. 
 
 "Yes, it's like this. . . . He went to Moscow, 
 to his past, you see. . . . He thought life would 
 wait, till he got rich. . . . He'd go to the same 
 newspaper corner, find the same arguments and 
 the same people, and they'd be grabbing at the 
 wheel of history with their hands as ever. . . . 
 He'd show his lever. . . . 'Permit me! You have 
 fine ideas. . . . Here's my money to carry them 
 out.' But there wasn't a soul to offer it to; there 
 were other people in the corner, and they talked 
 differently. The others had perished under the 
 wheel of history, or had given up. . . . Life is like 
 a train. ... If you leave the station for a time, 
 when you come back the train's gone. Sometimes 
 you can't even find the station. You understand 
 this tragedy, my friend 1 ?" 
 
 "But, excuse me," said Petr Petrovich. "A 
 hundred thousand! Free! Many a man will be 
 willing to have this tragedy. ..." 
 
 "Yes? But this man, I tell you, was sincere." 
 
 "What of it?" 
 
 90
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "Just this. . . . He wandered around among 
 his old and new friends and kept looking for the 
 train. . . . He disgusted every one. . . . The 
 thing for which he had given his own life and 
 another's was unintelligible; it's just like losing 
 a finger when you don't know what for. You 
 understand, various, respectable affairs like a 
 'people's home' or a paper or an 'ideal book store' 
 don't satisfy a seventy-year-old man. . . . He's 
 ready then to give up interest and capital. ..." 
 
 "But at six per cent you can live modestly. . . . 
 You can live!" 
 
 "Of course. . . . But if you want to do some- 
 thing. . . . This was an act of heroism. . . . He 
 gave his life as others do theirs. . . . And not only 
 his. . . . Would you do that for a little miserly 
 interest? . . . And there was no reason for his 
 heroism. ... To sum up, one fine day they found 
 him in a lonely room in a hotel with a bullet in 
 his head. . . . And he had gotten rid of his money 
 somehow, quickly and quietly. ... I saw him the 
 day before at a meeting of some society. No one 
 noticed him especially. They greeted him and 
 passed on; he was but a respectable man. Of a 
 strong character and the best of intentions. But 
 unusually dull!" 
 
 "H-m, yes!" said the mathematician, "There 
 91
 
 ElEVS OF HEAVEN 
 
 are such cranks." And he lay down to sleep. 
 His face, with its fat, clipped mustache, again 
 disappeared in the shadow, and you could see only 
 his feet and his checkered trousers. "I think," he 
 growled from his corner, "that Budnikov is more 
 interesting. You're not through with him. ..." 
 "Yes. ... I ... excuse me, it was all due to 
 chance. ... I sat up all night recently. ... I 
 was reading Budnikov 's correspondence with his 
 'distant' friend. Believe me, I could not tear my- 
 self away, and you never would think that it was 
 written by that same Semen Nikolayevich Bud- 
 nikov, who drank tea and rum in my rooms, sent 
 Gavrilo downtown, and whose soul imperceptibly, 
 but almost before my eyes, dried up and grew 
 barren in our little house. . . . And it remained, 
 so to speak, without reverence for anything." 
 
 IV 
 
 He stopped and looked at me bashfully and 
 questioningly, as if he felt that he had said some- 
 thing which was not proper for a railroad con- 
 versation. He was somewhat startled when the 
 mathematician exhaled a thick cloud of smoke from 
 his dark corner and said: 
 
 "Pavel Semenovich, I see you really are a 
 92
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 crank. Isn't that so? ... Wonderful! ... A 
 man has a hundred thousand and shoots himself! 
 Another lives as he likes, so to speak, healthy and 
 ruddy. ... A quiet soul. . . . Safe. ... Is that 
 strange? . . . By heavens, it's impossible. . . . 
 Good night. ... It's time to go to sleep. Nothing, 
 nothing! . . . You won't disturb me by talking. 
 ... I won't listen. . . ." 
 
 He turned to the wall. 
 
 Pavel Semenovich modestly and questioningly 
 looked at me with his naive gray eyes, and began 
 in a lower tone: 
 
 "There's a street in Tikhodol called Bolotnaya 
 (Swamp Street). They built a house on it near 
 me. . . . New and of fresh wood. . . . The first 
 year it shone so, and then it lost its freshness. 
 It got covered with that especial dirt and weath- 
 ering and rubbish. Then it got the same color as 
 the old stables and sheds and you couldn't tell it 
 from them. Now they say it's haunted. . . . The 
 people suddenly said that Budnikov had robbed a 
 woman." 
 
 "That's absolute nonsense," called the mathe- 
 matician. "I'll never believe that Budnikov was 
 a robber. That's some stupid rumor." 
 
 Pavel Semenovich smiled sadly and rather dis- 
 tractedly : 
 
 93
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "That's what he was. A robber! ... A robber 
 is the word, . . . precisely! But it was just a 
 little personal . . . tangle with rather vague out- 
 lines. . . . You see. ... I must tell you that since 
 your time a mother and daughter moved in. ... 
 The women were simple and very poor and M.* 
 Budnikov was their protector and friend. They 
 ran in debt for a long time, and he always so 
 strict in affairs of this kind stood it, and even 
 gave them money. For the doctor or for better 
 food, when one was sick. Finally the old woman 
 died and Yelena became an orphan. M. Budnikov 
 became very sympathetic, gave her a pleasant 
 little home, and got her work; she sewed, got 
 along somehow. . . . Then she became a sort of 
 housekeeper for M. Budnikov, and then, people 
 began to say that their relations became more 
 intimate. ..." 
 
 "Oh, oh!" yawned the mathematician. "They 
 didn't need me for that. . . . Was she pretty?" 
 
 "Yes, rather pretty; fat, with flowing graceful 
 movements and mild eyes. They said she was 
 stupid. But, if she was, a woman's stupidity is 
 often very peculiar. ... A nai've and sleeping 
 innocence of soul. She felt her situation very 
 keenly. As is said in Uspensky, she was all shame. 
 . . . M. Budnikov tried to teach her and lift her 
 
 94
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 up, so to speak, to his level. She seemed incapable 
 of it. She sat usually with a book, spelled it out 
 with her fingers, and her face was interested like 
 a child's. She seemed to become dull and stupid 
 when Budnikov was around. He got sick of her 
 actions and then of Yelena, especially as other 
 things took up his attention. But there was a 
 time when he almost loved her. At least there 
 were indications of it. In a word, the breach was 
 not easy for him, his conscience troubled him 
 and he wanted to silence it. He finally decided 
 to give her a ticket of the domestic lottery. . . . 
 He called her, took out three tickets, put 
 them on the table, placed his hand on them, and 
 said: 
 
 " 'Look here, Yelena. One of these tickets may 
 win you two hundred thousand. Do you under- 
 stand!' 
 
 "Of course she didn't understand well. She 
 couldn't imagine so large a sum, but he went on: 
 
 " 'Now, I'll give you one. This paper is worth 
 365 rubles, but don't sell it. ... Take it and 
 may you be lucky. . . .' 
 
 "She didn't take it, but huddled up, as if she 
 were afraid. 'All right/ said M. Budnikov. 'Give 
 me your hand and take this paper.' He took 
 one of the tickets and guided her hand in making 
 
 95
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 two pencil strokes sharply and heavily. His mind 
 was clearly made up. ... He gave it outright 
 with all the results, we may say. 'You see,' he 
 said, 'this is yours, and if you win two hundred 
 thousand, they'll be yours too.' He placed it back 
 on the table. She reached out her hand and put 
 in her bosom a paper with the number of the 
 ticket." 
 
 "Really?" asked the mathematician. 
 
 "Yes. ... It had to happen so. ... That 
 machine was working in Petersburg, throwing out 
 one number after another. . . . Children's hands 
 pick them up. . . . And one of these tickets 
 won." 
 
 "Two hundred thousand?" asked the mathe- 
 matician, with great interest; apparently he had 
 forgotten about sleeping. 
 
 "Not two hundred, but seventy-five. . . . Dur- 
 ing March, M. Budnikov looked at the list of 
 drawings and saw that his number had won a 
 large prize. Zero, again zero . . . 318 and 32. 
 Suddenly he remembered that he had given one 
 ticket to Yelena. . . . He also remembered that 
 there were two lines on the first. He had three 
 in a row: 317, 318 and 319. That means 317. . . . 
 He got out the tickets and looked: there were 
 two lines on 317. Yelena had won. ..." 
 
 96
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "The devil," exclaimed the mathematician, rais- 
 ing himself a little. ' ' That 's luck ! ' ' 
 
 "Yes, it was. And she was so stupid. The 
 lines were on that number, when he thought that 
 he would give her another. ... A mistake, a 
 mechanical wave of the hand, mere chance. . . . 
 And, because of this chance, Yelena, a stupid 
 woman who understood nothing and did not know 
 what to do with money, would take from him . . . 
 him, M. Budnikov, take away, so to speak, a large 
 sum of money. That was foolish, wasn't it? He 
 was educated, had an aim in his life, or had had. 
 . . . He might again. He would perhaps have 
 used the money for some good cause. He would 
 write again to his friend and ask his advice. . . . 
 But she . . . she ? A beast with a round form and 
 beautiful eyes, which didn't even show clearly 
 what was in them: the stupidity of a calf or the 
 innocence of a youth who had not yet grown to 
 conscious life. ... Do you understand? ... It 
 was so natural. . . . Any one in Budnikov 's place, 
 you ... I ... even Petr Petrovich, would have 
 felt the same way. ..." 
 
 Petr Petrovich made some sort of an indistinct 
 sound, which was susceptible of different inter- 
 pretations. 
 
 "No?'* said Pavel Semenovich. "Excuse me. 
 97
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 . . . I 'm speaking about myself . . . . My thoughts 
 or rather my inclinations would have been the 
 same, perhaps in the subconscious realm. . . . Be- 
 cause . . . knowledge and all restraining influ- 
 ences are a sort of bark, a thin cover under which 
 purely egoistic, primal and animal desires live 
 and move. ... If they find a weak spot. . . .*' 
 
 "Fine, fine," laughed Petr Petrovich conde- 
 scendingly, and I thought that he winked at me 
 from his dark corner. "Let's get back to Bud- 
 nikov. . . . What did he do? Pay it ... and 
 that's all." 
 
 "Apparently, yes; because he wanted to settle 
 the question and was a little afraid, he called 
 Yelena and congratulated her on winning. Then, 
 apparently wishing to make use of a favorable 
 opportunity, he hinted: 'When we separate, you'll 
 be all right.' Then he got angry. ..." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "I think, because she was such a fool. If she'd 
 chosen then, she probably wouldn't have taken 
 that number. But now it happened because of 
 her folly. An orderly and wise man lost that 
 Imoney. That's what I imagine from Yelena r s 
 story. ... 'He ran from one corner to another 
 and found fault with me.' ..." 
 
 "What of her? Glad, of course?" 
 98
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "N-no. . . . She was frightened and began to 
 weep. He got angry and she cried and he be- 
 came still more angry." 
 
 "Really? What a fool!" 
 
 "Y-yes. ... I've already explained: I don't 
 call her wise, but weeping. . . . No, it wasn't 
 foolishness. . . . When she told it to me after- 
 wards . . . she got to this point, looked at me 
 with her clear, bird-like eyes, and burst into tears. 
 Even now I can't forget those eyes. . . . Foolish- 
 ness, perhaps, but there's foolishness and foolish- 
 ness. It wasn't clear knowledge and calculation 
 about the situation. But in those blue eyes there 
 was something very deep, just as if a true in- 
 stinct shone in them. . . . Those foolish tears, 
 perhaps, were the only correct thing at that time. 
 ... I dare to say, the wisest thing in the whole 
 confused story. . . . Somewhere, not far off, was 
 hidden the solution, like a secret door. ..." 
 
 "Fine, fine. ... Go on!" 
 
 "Next, . . . M. Budnikov looked a long time 
 intently at the foolish woman. Then he sat down 
 beside her, put his arms around her, and, for 
 the first time after the perceptible cooling of their 
 relations, he asked her not to go to her rooms, but 
 to spend the night with him. . . . 
 
 "So things went on for some time. Yelena 
 99
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 bloomed. . . . Her love was 'foolish.'; it was 
 very direct. At first, she told me herself, M. 
 Budnikov was repugnant to her. Later, after he 
 had taken her, he dried her up, as she said. Such 
 direct feminine natures do not separate feelings 
 and facts, so to speak. Wherever you touch it, 
 the whole complex reacts together. . . . He came 
 back to her; therefore, he loved her. . . . For two 
 weeks she was so joyful and beautiful that every 
 one looked at her, glad of her limitless joy. . . . 
 But in two weeks M. Budnikov again cooled off. 
 ... A cold storm was raging in our yard. . . . 
 Yelena's eyes showed that she had been weep- 
 ing. . . . The neighbors grumbled and pitied. 
 M. Budnikov was sullen. . . . Those two lines had 
 sunk deep into the hearts of both and a third felt 
 them. . . . The porter Gavrilo. ..." 
 
 "H-m! The whole story!" said Petr Petrovich, 
 again getting up and sitting down beside Pavel 
 Semenovich. "Was he there? Did he learn she'd 
 won?" 
 
 "He knew nothing about it. I've spoken of him. 
 A less clever person you could hardly imagine, 
 absolutely heavenly directness. . . . Sometimes he 
 didn't seem to be a man, but . . . what shall I 
 say? ... a simple collection of muscles, partially 
 conscious of their existence. He was constructed 
 100
 
 ISN'T IT TEEEIELE? 
 
 properly, harmoniously, rightly, and always in 
 motion. And, in addition, two good human eyes 
 looked at the whole world from the point of view 
 of physical and moral indifference, so to speak. . . . 
 Sometimes these eyes really gleamed with curiosity 
 and such unconscious excellence that you actually 
 felt jealous. Sometimes it seemed to me that if it 
 wasn 't Gavrilo himself, there was something in him 
 which understood M. Budinov, Yelena, and me. 
 . . . He understood and smiled at us, just because 
 he did understand. . . . Suddenly the man be- 
 came confused. ... It began when Budnikov 
 made up with Yelena and dropped her again. . . . 
 To him she was an abandoned 'master's lady,' a 
 creature which inspired in him no special respect, 
 and very probably his first advances seemed rather 
 simple and rustic. She met these advances with 
 deep hostility and anger. Then Gavrilo 'began to 
 think,' that is, began to eat little, become slack 
 in his work, grow thin, and generally to 
 dry up. 
 
 "This lasted during the fall and winter. Bud- 
 nikov finally grew cold to Yelena ; she felt insulted 
 and believed that he was 'laughing' at her. . . . 
 Gavrilo 's character was rather spoiled and the old 
 harmony between him and Budnikov disappeared. 
 . . . And the ticket with the two lines on it lay 
 101
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 in the table drawer and seemed forgotten by 
 every one. . . . 
 
 " Spring came with everything in this condition. 
 . . . For a while I lost sight of the little drama 
 which was being enacted before my eyes. . . . My 
 examinations were coming on; I was very tired 
 and could not sleep. If you do fall asleep, you 
 awake with a start and can't get to sleep again. 
 You light a candle, your books are on the table, 
 you begin to study. . . . And it 's sunrise. . . . You 
 go out on the steps, look at the sleeping street, the 
 trees in the garden. ... A sleepy coachman is 
 going along the street; the trees are rustling 
 faintly, as if they were shivering in fhe morning 
 chill. . . . You envy the coachman, and even the 
 trees. . . . You want rest and this concentrated 
 unconscious life. . . . Then you go out in the gar- 
 den. . . . Sit down on a bench and just get to 
 sleep, when the sun shines in your eyes. There 
 was just such a bench in a quiet corner by the 
 stable wall. When the sunlight fell on it at seven 
 o'clock you'd wake up, drink your tea, and go to 
 your classes. 
 
 "I went out one day at dawn and fell asleep 
 
 on this bench. Suddenly I woke up as if some 
 
 one had called me. The sun had scarcely risen 
 
 very high and the bench was still in the shadow, 
 
 102
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "What's the matter, I wondered. . . . "What woke 
 me up? Suddenly I heard Yelena's voice in 
 Gavrilo's stable. I wanted to get up and leave. 
 ... I don't like to be an eavesdropper and it was 
 rather unpleasant to hear the simple solution of 
 Yelena *s drama. But, while I was getting ready to 
 leave, the conversation continued and finally I 
 didn't go. ... I just listened. 
 
 " 'You see I've come,' said Yelena. . . . 'What 
 do you want?' 
 
 "Suddenly, with such a deep and simple grief, 
 she added: 
 
 " 'You've been torturing me. . . .' 
 
 "She said this . . . with such a sincere and 
 heartfelt groan. Before, yes, and after, she always 
 spoke formally to him, but that time ... a 
 woman's heart, sick with shame and love, used 
 the form of affection, frankly, unconditionally, 
 freely. . . . 
 
 " 'You've tortured me, too, Yelena Petrovna,' 
 answered Gavrilo. 'I've lost my strength. I've 
 dried up. I can't work and I can't eat. . . .' 
 
 " 'What are you going to do now?' asked Yelena. 
 
 " 'What?' he said. 'Marry you, of course.' 
 
 "For a few minutes neither spoke. Yelena 
 seemed to be weeping softly. And yet that silence 
 was wonderfully clear, simple, frank. 'You see 
 103
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 the situation: you're no match for me; I would 
 have worked for Budnikov as well as I could, gone 
 to the village, gotten a place, married and taken 
 some good girl. . . . But that's past; willy nilly 
 I want you as you are. . . .' 
 
 " 'I'm lost,' said Yelena softly. 
 
 " 'Why, Yelena Petrovna,' answered Gavrilo, 
 with a grim tenderness. ... 'I don't see that 
 you're lost. ... It's just the same. ... I can't 
 live. . . . Like a corpse. ... I can't eat. . . . 
 I've got no strength. . . .' 
 
 ' ' Yelena wept more loudly. . . . She was having 
 a good cry. It seemed painful but healing. Gav- 
 rilo said sternly: 
 
 " 'Come, what are you going to do? ... Are 
 you coming?' 
 
 "Yelena apparently exerted herself, stopped 
 weeping, and answered the repeated question : 
 
 " 'Do you fear God, Gavrilo Stepanich?' 
 
 " 'Why?' asked Gavrilo. 
 
 " 'You won't find fault with me?* 
 
 " 'No,' he said, 'I won't find fault with you. 
 And I won't let any one else. If you're serious 
 in throwing this overboard forever. . . . Forever. 
 ... I'll trust you. . . .' 
 
 "Silence. I didn't hear Yelena 's answer. I 
 only imagined that she must have turned to the 
 104
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 east, and perhaps there was an ikon in the room. 
 . . . She crossed herself. . . . Then she suddenly 
 took his head in her arms and I heard them kiss. 
 That same instant Yelena ran out, rushed almost 
 to the house, but she suddenly stopped, opened 
 the gate, and came into the garden. 
 
 " Then she caught sight of me. . . . But it didn't 
 embarrass her. She walked up, stopped, and looked 
 at me out of her happy eyes, and said : 
 
 " 'Do you always take a walk mornings? . . . 
 Friend . . .' 
 
 "Suddenly, overcome by her emotions, she came 
 nearer, took hold of my shoulders, shook me un- 
 ceremoniously, looked into my eyes, and laughed. 
 ... It was so nai've. She felt that I had been 
 listening and saw nothing bad in it. ... When 
 Gavrilo came out with his broom and also entered 
 the garden, she blushed and ran past him. Gavrilo 
 looked after her with quiet joy, and then his gaze 
 fell on me. He bowed with his habitual quiet 
 politeness and commenced to sweep the path. He 
 again showed that same beautiful and effortless 
 play of healthy, free muscles. . . . And I remem- 
 ber how the monastery bell sounded for early 
 matins, it was Sunday. Gavrilo stopped in a 
 broad bay of the alley, took off his cap, held the 
 broom in his left hand, and crossed himself with 
 105
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 his right. The whole seemed to me so extraordi- 
 narily bright and beautiful. The man stood in the 
 centre of a world of light, where everything was 
 very good, that is, all his relations to earth and 
 heaven. ... In a word, it was so soothing a sight 
 that I went to my room and fell fast asleep after 
 so many sleepless nights. There's something heal- 
 ing and calming in honest human happiness. You 
 know it sometimes occurs to me that we are all 
 bound to be well and happy, because . . . you see 
 . . . happiness is the highest possible condition of 
 spiritual health. And health is contagious like 
 disease. . . . We are so to speak open on all sides: 
 to the sun, wind, and other things. Others enter 
 us, and we them, without noticing it. ... And 
 that's why " 
 
 Pavel Semenovich suddenly stopped as he 
 felt the fixed and cynical gaze of Petr Petro- 
 vich. 
 
 ''Yes, yes! . . . Excuse me," he said, "this is 
 really a little unclear. ..." 
 
 "It is a little. You'd better go on. Without 
 philosophy. ..." 
 
 ". . . M. Budnikov woke me up. It happened 
 
 to be the twentieth. He came as usual, and as 
 
 usual he drank two cups of tea with rum, but I 
 
 saw that M. Budnikov was out of humor, and even 
 
 106
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 nervous. . . . And I involuntarily connected it 
 with the incident of the morning. 
 
 "For some time he kept out of sorts ancl every 
 one around noticed that something secret and 
 hidden had gone wrong between master and 
 servant. Gavrilo wanted to leave. . . . Budnikov 
 would not let him go, although he often told me 
 that he was disappointed in Gavrilo. As I was 
 walking one day through the garden, I saw them 
 both standing by the gate and talking. Budnikov 
 was excited; Gavrilo, calm. He was standing in 
 an easy position and kept looking at his spade, 
 which was stuck in the ground. He was evi- 
 dently insisting on something which enraged Bud- 
 nikov. . . . But I thought that the subject of con- 
 versation created between them a strange equal- 
 ity 
 
 " 'Yes, friend, of course, it's your business,' 
 said M. Budnikov. He caught sight of me but 
 did not think it necessary to change the subject. 
 He spoke spitefully and angrily. . . . 'Yes. . . . 
 You're a free man. . . . But just remember, Gav- 
 rilo Stepanich, if you have any utilitarian object, 
 ... I, of course, can give only a very small 
 sum. . . .' 
 
 "M. Budnikov was unable to speak simply, and 
 used foreign words, even when talking to Gavrilo, 
 107
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 . . . Gavrilo looked at him calmly and answered: 
 
 " 'We don't want anything. . . . We have 
 enough. , . .* 
 
 "M. Budnikov glanced cautiously at him and 
 answered : 
 
 " 'line! Bemember! Afterwards. . . . I'll go 
 to Petersburg on business. ... Do what you 
 want to.' 
 
 "Gavrilo bowed and said: 
 
 " 'I thank you. . . .' 
 
 " 'Excuse me,' replied M. Budnikov, with a 
 shadow of ironical melancholy, 'I don't expect 
 gratitude. ' 
 
 "He slammed the gate and left the garden. 
 
 "He stopped and waited for me in the yard, 
 took my arm, and came up to my rooms. On the 
 way, and in my apartments, he kept talking con- 
 fusedly and incoherently. He did not conceal the 
 fact that he had had some affection for a certain 
 woman. This might be still ' alive under the ashes. ' 
 . . . On the other hand he was dreaming of union 
 and the possibility of friendship with his humblest 
 brother. Although both of these feelings had led 
 to his disillusionment, he could show something, so 
 that every one would feel it. . . . But, in general, 
 magnanimity and the finer feelings belong only to 
 highly cultured people. . . . 
 108
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "He was nervous and under his rather artificial 
 pathos, I could see his real exasperation and 
 anger. 
 
 "I later had a chance to see his diary. These 
 were separate pages, written like letters to his 
 distant friend. . . . Apparently he hadn't sent 
 any letters for a long time, but these pages were 
 like lights in the darkness. Under the approxi- 
 mate day of the conversation with Gavrilo was a 
 passionate note. He told the whole story of 
 Yelena, and wrote that he had made a mistake, 
 and that he now loved her. . . . And that he would 
 try once more. . . . This ended with a sudden burst 
 of poetry: 'My distant friend, you, of course, do 
 not doubt that I will do what I consider the duty 
 of magnanimity. . . .' 
 
 "Then, sending Gavrilo one day with the horse 
 somewhere outside the city, M. Budnikov went to 
 the wing where Yelena still lived. 
 
 " * Yelena! You should come to me. You must 
 fix up something. . . .' 
 
 "A few days before this he had been thoughtful 
 and solemn, but now he dressed in style, went to 
 the wing, and entered Yelena 's room, without heed- 
 ing the inquisitive looks of his tenants. 
 
 "No one knew what happened in that room, but 
 a half -hour later M. Budnikov came out, stubborn, 
 109
 
 affected, but apparently dazed. Every one began 
 to say that he had formally proposed to Yelena 
 and she had rejected him. 
 
 " After this he left for Petersburg, where he 
 had a lawsuit before the Senate. He lost it, and 
 when he returned, Gavrilo and Yelena were already 
 married. 
 
 "This made a great impression upon him, like 
 some great spiritual conversion. One apparently 
 insignificant circumstance especially surprised him. 
 Every spring flowers grew by the wall under 
 M. Budnikov 's windows. This Yelena did regu- 
 larly, and it was put down as an annual source of 
 expense: seed, a watering pot, to a blacksmith for 
 mending the spade. ... In the early spring Yelena 
 used to set to work at it, gladly and merrily, and 
 M. Budnikov took a delighted interest in it. Now 
 that wing was neglected, the flower bed languished, 
 M. Budnikov 's windows seemed blind. . . . But 
 the other wing, where Gavrilo and his wife lived, 
 bloomed and flourished. A symbol. When M. 
 Budnikov came back from the station and took one 
 look at this unexpected contrast his face changed, 
 and for a short time he lost his usual aristocratic 
 110
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 air. I suddenly felt sorry for him. I went out 
 and invited him into my room. He sat with me 
 a long time and gave me his impressions of the 
 capital, verbose, rambling, insincere. I kept feel- 
 ing that M. Budnikov's soul was thinking of some- 
 thing very far removed from his impressions of 
 the capital. 
 
 "Gradually everything drifted back into the old 
 channels. M. Budnikov still went twice a week 
 to his farm, still visited his tenants on certain 
 days, still prepared his dinner on an oil stove. 
 But there were more trifles in his diary ; for exam- 
 ple, he began to note down how many steps he 
 took each day, and apparently counted thereby the 
 use and value of various things. 
 
 "In a short time another change took place: 
 M. Budnikov felt attracted to religion. 
 
 "I remember one fall evening. ... It was one 
 of those evenings when nature touches your soul 
 especially. The stars seem to be waving and whis- 
 pering in the heavens, and the earth is covered 
 with light and shade. . . . Our little city, as you 
 know, is quiet and filled with foliage. You go out 
 in the evening and sit down on your steps. And 
 so with the other houses along the street; here's 
 one person on a bench by the gate, another on the 
 dirt bank, another on the grass. . . . People are 
 
 in
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 whispering about themselves, the trees about them- 
 selves, and there's a hardly perceptible hum. 
 Yes, and something's whispering in your soul. You 
 unconsciously review your whole life. What was 
 and what is left, where you came from, what's 
 going to happen? Then, everything . . . the 
 meaning of your life in the general economy of 
 nature, so to speak, . . . nature, where all the 
 stars sink, unnumbered, unlimited, . . . they 
 gleam and shine. . . . And speak to your soul. 
 Sometimes it's sad and deep and quiet. . . . You 
 feel you're going to the wrong place. You begin 
 to think what 's there above. . . . You want to run 
 away from this reproving beauty, this exalted 
 calm, with your load of confusion, and you want 
 to melt away in it. ... You've no place to go. 
 . . . You enter your office, look at all your things 
 in the lamp-light . . . text-books, copy-books with 
 answers written by your pupils. . . . And you ask : 
 where's there anything alive? ..." 
 
 Petr Petrovich muttered something and the nar- 
 rator stopped again. 
 
 "Well . . . that was the way I felt and I was 
 sitting on my steps and thinking: here's the people 
 coming from vespers. . . . What of it ? That 's the 
 way they find their relations to the infinite. . . . 
 Or else it's nothing but habit, mere automatic mo- 
 112
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 tion. I prefer it to be real. Suddenly I saw one 
 man leave the crowd and come towards me. It 
 turned out to be M. Budnikov. He had been to 
 vespers. He sat down beside me. . 
 
 ' ' I felt that M. Budnikov was waiting, you know, 
 for me to ask him why he went to church. He 
 never had gone and was always sarcastic about re- 
 ligion, but now he had suddenly commenced to go. 
 I was really interested and the evening led me to 
 be frank. . . . "Why not say, I thought, that there's 
 a cloud on my soul. . . . 
 
 "Yes, Semen Nikolayevich, . . ."I said . . . "I 
 look at the sky and think. . . . 
 
 "He nodded and commenced: 
 
 " 'That tortured me, too . . . and I suffered. . . . 
 And like you, I saw no solution. But the solution 
 is so plain. . . .' 
 
 "He pointed toward the church, a white spot 
 showing through the trees. 
 
 " 'We, intelligent people,' ' he said, " 'are 
 frightened, so to speak, by the beaten path, banal- 
 ity. But, we must drop our pride and fuse . . . 
 or as Tolstoy once said, partake of the common 
 cup, search with the humble faith of humanity . . . 
 cease examining the foundations of life. . . . Like 
 Antaeus, so to speak, we must touch our common 
 mother. . . .' 
 
 113
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "He spoke rather nicely. His voice was so 
 sleepy and murmured like the bass in the episcopal 
 choir. I'll tell you the truth: I felt envious. . . . 
 Keally you could feel the quiet and blessing. . . . 
 As M. Budnikov said, it was worth while to fuse, 
 and all these searchings of the heart are healed as 
 by the holy oil. Suddenly I found the lost mean- 
 ing. I asked myself : what 's the use of these books ? 
 Why all these notes, all this quiet life? . . . "Why 
 is this bootmaker solemn and satisfied? Mikhailo 
 looks for no special meaning, but he floats along 
 with the general current of life, that is, he agrees 
 with its general significance and meaning. People 
 go maybe once a week into this little white build- 
 ing which looks out so attractive through the trees ; 
 they spend a little time in communion with some 
 mystery and see, for a week they are supplied 
 with the idea of meaning. . . . And many live a 
 harder life than I do. . . . 
 
 "There's M. Budnikov. . . . Had he really 
 found this for himself and solved his troubles? 
 I almost asked, but our priest went by just then. 
 M. Budnikov bowed and he returned it pleasantly. 
 And he looked at me with questioning kindness. . . . 
 Budnikov has been converted and may bring back 
 another wanderer. I answered the bow rather 
 warmly and gratefully, and again felt like asking 
 114
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 M. Budnikov, but another person of an entirely 
 different character put in an appearance. ..." 
 
 VI 
 
 Pavel Semenovich thought for a moment and 
 then asked Petr Petrovich : 
 
 "Did Rogov ever study with you?" 
 
 "Rogov. ... I don't remember. ... I've had 
 BO many. . . ." 
 
 "He was remarkable and our council often dis- 
 cussed him. . . . His fate was peculiar. . . . You 
 see, the boy's father was a rascal of the old school, 
 a slanderer, drunkard and a quarrelsome fellow, 
 and as much bothered by modern times as a wolf is 
 by hunters. He came too late. Rough manners un- 
 fitted for the present times. He spent his last days 
 in trouble, poverty, and drunkenness. He always 
 thought that fate did not treat him fairly; people 
 got along well, but he, as he thought, a model of 
 activity, was dirty, hungry and oppressed. . . . 
 And imagine, this man had a family. ... a wife 
 and son. . . . 
 
 "The wife was irresponsible; her whole being 
 had been crushed in the full sense of the word, ex- 
 cept one corner of her soul. When anything con- 
 cerned her son, a door seemed to open into her coni- 
 115
 
 pletely stupefied soul, which was like a citadel un- 
 captured in the midst of a fallen city, and so much 
 wifely heroism came out through this gate that at 
 times the old ruffian and drunkard put his tail be- 
 tween his legs. God knows what this cost her, but 
 she succeeded just the same in giving her son an 
 education. When I went to teach in Tikhodol, I 
 found this fellow in the last class. He was a bash- 
 ful, apparently modest boy and behaved quietly; 
 but his eyes had such an expression, strange, re- 
 strained; I confess it made you uneasy: a curious 
 fire, like the flame of a restless, internal conflagra- 
 tion. His thin, drawn face was always pale and a 
 crop of brown hair fell over his rough forehead. 
 He learned easily, made few friends among his 
 schoolmates, seemed to hate his father and loved 
 his mother almost abnormally. 
 
 "Now . . . excuse me. ... I must say a few 
 words about myself. Otherwise you won't under- 
 stand a lot of what's coming. ... I'd only been 
 teaching a very few years and had the usual 
 idea. ... I looked at my calling as noble, so to 
 speak, from the ideal point of view. My compan- 
 ions seemed a holy regiment, yes . . . the gym- 
 nasium almost a temple. . . . You know, young 
 people feel that way and value it highly. . . . You 
 run to this light with every trouble and every ques- 
 116
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 tion. ... It's the living soul of our business. . . . 
 What shall I say, when he comes to you, a fellow 
 with his young soul under his uniform with all its 
 buttons sewed on. ... I, the teacher, need him. 
 with his questions and errors. . . . And he needs 
 me to search and study. . . . Honestly you want 
 to guide them. ..." 
 
 The narrator paused and continued in a low 
 voice : 
 
 "That's the way it was with me. ... I got inti- 
 mate with several boys from my classes, among them. 
 Rogov. . . . Gave them books, and they visited me. 
 You understand, over a samovar, simply, heart to 
 heart. I remember this as the finest time of my 
 life. . . . Every time you open a new journal, you 
 find conversation, discussion, argument. I listened, 
 without interfering at first, to the way they wan- 
 dered and argued, and then I explained, carefully 
 but pleasantly. You see, you get one thought and 
 then another, and again it comes so sharp that it 
 scratches you. . . . And you feel how you need to 
 restrain yourself and think and study. And you 
 grow with them. . . . And live. . . . 
 
 "It didn't last long. One day my director called 
 me in for a confidential conversation. . . . Well, 
 you know the rest. . . . This * extracurricular' in- 
 fluence of the leaders of youth does not enjoy pro- 
 117
 
 BIKDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 tection. Journals already! . . . The director, you 
 know him, Nikolay Platonovich Popov, is a fas- 
 tidious man. . . . He merely hinted and afterwards 
 acted as if he really knew nothing. ... I almost got 
 angry ; at first I even refused to obey, and appealed 
 to the highest understanding of my obligations. 
 Then ... I saw that it was no use. The main 
 point was that I wasn't the only one getting talked 
 about : the boys were getting a bad reputation. . . . 
 That was hard and difficult enough but what could 
 I say to my young disputants? How could I ex- 
 plain it? I obeyed the evidently senseless and 
 humiliating order ! This was the first'blow that life 
 had dealt me and I did not notice at the time that 
 I had received a mortal wound. 
 
 "I obeyed and stopped my evening discussions. 
 I can conscientiously say that I thought even more 
 about them. But youths, you know, don't obey 
 so easily and can't understand the whole meaning. 
 One evening this Rogov came to me with a com- 
 panion. Secretly. Flushed faces, blazing eyes, and 
 a peculiar look. ... I stopped this kind of fellow- 
 ship. 'No,' I said, 'gentlemen, we'd better stop 
 it. ' I saw that both boys were getting worked up. 
 Rogov began to say something, but he had a con- 
 vulsion of the throat and his eyes suddenly took 
 on an evil expression. ... I found a way to justify 
 118
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 myself : I was afraid for them, especially for Rogov 
 and his mother. . . . You see, if our conspiracies 
 were discovered, his whole career and his mother's 
 heroism would have gone for nothing. So I 
 yielded . . . for the first time. . . . 
 
 "In place of this I tried to make my lessons as 
 interesting as possible. My evenings were free. 
 ... It was boring. I'd begun to get accustomed 
 to my young circle. And now nothing. I went 
 for my books. Worked like a dog and kept think- 
 ing : this must be interesting to them ; it will be new 
 and it answers such and such questions. ... I read 
 and dug in my books, collected everything interest- 
 ing, attractive, that pushed apart the official walls 
 and the official lessons. ... I kept thinking of 
 those conversations. . . . And I thought I was get- 
 ting results. ... I remember the whole class almost 
 died from zeal. ... Suddenly the director began 
 to attend the lessons. He 'd come in, sit down, and 
 listen without saying a word. .... You know what 
 happened next. You act as if it were nothing, but 
 both you and the class feel it's not a lesson but a 
 sort of investigation. . . . Again delicate questions 
 on the side: 'Really, excuse me, but where did you 
 get this? Out of what official text book? How do 
 you think this agrees with the courses of study?' 
 "I'll be brief. ... In a word, the enthusiasm 
 119
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 finally died out of me. . . . The class became 
 merely a class: the living people began to retire 
 further and further ; they disappeared in a sort of 
 fog. ... I lost intellectual contact. Remarks . . . 
 plan . . . the enumeration of the stylistic beauties 
 of a live work. In this there are twelve beauties. 
 First . . . second . . . and so on. ... It fitted the 
 program. . . . That is, you understand, I didn't 
 notice how I dried up just like Budnikov. 
 
 "Anyway this young fellow finished his course 
 and went to the capital. . . . He didn't get into 
 the university right away. It was the time of secret 
 denunciations. . . . Perhaps my lectures were sus- 
 picious. To sum up, he lost a year. He wrote 
 his mother that he had entered and had a fellow- 
 ship, but he really beat his way along, was poor 
 and probably got disgusted. Then he began to 
 tramp. Suddenly he had a great sorrow: his 
 mother died before he could get home. As soon as 
 her son left home, she began to waste away. . . . 
 The guiding star of her life, so to speak, disap- 
 peared from the horizon and she lost the power 
 of resistance. Died of consumption, you know, 
 quickly, almost gladly. 'Vanya doesn't need me 
 any more, ' she 'd say. ' I got him on the right track, 
 thank God. He'll get along now.' She said the 
 Nunc Dimittis and died. Soon after they found 
 120
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 the honored father in a ditch. And my Rogov was 
 an orphan. . . . 
 
 "The old woman was really in too much of a 
 hurry; her son really needed her more than ever. 
 He learned well and eagerly, so to speak, without 
 wasting his time, as if he were hurrying somewhere. 
 When he heard of his mother's death, something 
 broke in his soul. ... In turn she seemed to have 
 been the only ideal in his life. 'I'll finish, get on 
 my feet, revive my shattered truth: even though 
 she's ready to die, mother '11 know that there is 
 divine blessing, love, and gratitude. . . . For a 
 year, a month, even a week. . . . An instant even, 
 for her heart to be filled and melted with joy.' 
 Suddenly, in place of everything, the grave. ... A 
 crash . . . and it's all over! There's no need of 
 gratitude, nothing to go back to, to correct. . . . 
 You've got to have strength to stand such a tempta- 
 tion without being shattered. . . . You need faith 
 in the general meaning of life. ... It mustn't 
 seem to you but blind chance. . . . 
 
 "He didn't hold on. He had no support. . . , 
 He changed, got rough, and began to drink in with 
 his wine a poisonous feeling of insult and of the 
 injustice of fate. ... So it went. He threw up 
 his examinations what was the use of getting a 
 diploma? He drifted along like an empty boat 
 121
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 on a river. . . . He came back to our city. . . . 
 Perhaps he wanted to tie up by his mother's grave. 
 . . . But how could that help him? ... If he'd 
 tried to find some meaning, that would have been 
 another thing. . . . And so ... he got in court a 
 certificate, ' to travel ' on business, and followed his 
 father's footsteps. He lived a dissolute life, spent 
 his time in saloons, with worthless people, and en- 
 gaged in business of the most shady character. One 
 year of this life, and he'd become a drunken, 
 impudent bum, the enfant terrible of our peaceful 
 city, a menace to the citizens. The devil knows 
 how, but the bashful boy became insolent and dia- 
 bolically clever: every one in the city was afraid 
 of him. ... It's strange, but there isn't a city in 
 Russia without its Rogov. A sort of a state char- 
 acter. It was quiet everywhere, peaceful slumber, 
 idyllic calm, M. Budnikov walking along the 
 streets, obstinate, conceited, counting his steps. . . . 
 Evenings, especially on holidays, these poetic mur- 
 murs, and there's a lot of noise from some saloon 
 like our 'On the Crags,' and some misshapen, sick 
 and desperate soul carousing. . . . Satellites 
 around, of course. This is a natural and necessary 
 detail to fill up the provincial corners, so to 
 speak. . . . 
 
 "Rogov met me soon after he turned up. ... He 
 122
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 bowed shyly and went to one side, especially when 
 he was drunk. One time I met him, spoke to him, 
 and asked him in. ... He came . . . sober, seri- 
 ous, even bashful . . . from old habit, of course. 
 . . . But we didn't stick together. Memories 
 parted us: I was a young teacher with a lively 
 faith in my calling, with lively feelings and words : 
 He was a young man, still pure and respecting my 
 moral authority. . . . Now he was Vanka Rogov, a 
 Tikhodol bum, engaged in shady business. . . . 
 And I. ... In a word, we seemed to be parted by 
 a solid wall : the main reason of all I won't mention. 
 I felt that I had to shatter the barrier, tell him 
 something that would reach his soul and control 
 it as I used to. ... He seemed to be waiting for 
 this in terror: waiting for the cruel blow. . . . 
 His eyes showed his pain and expectation. ... I 
 didn't have the strength. It was gone, . . . lost 
 probably when for the first time we parted in 
 shame. . . . 
 
 "I had to watch like a sympathetic witness, so 
 to speak, how this young fellow degraded himself, 
 grew fast, drank, and defiled himself. . . . He got 
 insolent, lost all sense of shame. Then I heard 
 that Rogov was an extortioner and begging. Busi- 
 ness was poor; he was on the border between the 
 merely offensive and the criminal. He was as clever 
 123
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 as an acrobat and laughed at everything. In two 
 or three years he was absolutely transformed. He 
 had become a menacing, dirty, and very unpleasant 
 figure. 
 
 "Sometimes he'd come when he was drunk. . . . 
 It's strange: but I seemed to feel more at home 
 when he was that way. ... It simplified matters, 
 his fault was evident, and it was easier to draw 
 a moral. I remember after one of his descents into 
 the loathesome, I said to him : 
 
 " 'This and that's not right, Rogov.' 
 
 "He shrugged his shoulders, turned away his 
 eyes, as if he was afraid of a moral beating; then 
 he shook his hair, looked me straight in the eye, ob- 
 viously relying on his impudence: 
 
 " 'What's wrong, Pavel Semenovich?* 
 
 " 'It's disgraceful,' I said. 
 
 " 'You know,' he said, 'I've changed one quarrel- 
 some goal for another not less quarrelsome. That 
 was wrong and now it's disgraceful. My theory 
 works out all right for me/ he said. 'Honor and 
 everything like that is nothing but dessert. You 
 know it comes after dinner. If there's no dinner, 
 what's the use of dessert? . . .' 
 
 " 'But, remember, Rogov,' I said, 'why you have 
 no dinner. . . . You studied well, had a good start, 
 and then suddenly went wrong. . . .' 
 124
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "That moment I thought my statement was not 
 only convincing but incontrovertible. . . . And he 
 looked at me, laughed, and said : 
 
 " 'You've sometimes played billiards a little, 
 haven't you?' 
 
 " 'Yes,' I said, 'I play for relaxation. . . .' 
 
 ' ' ' You know the downward stroke ? ' 
 
 " 'Yes.' You know that's a peculiar and para- 
 doxical shot. The ball first goes forward and then 
 it suddenly and apparently of its own accord rolls 
 back. ... At first sight it seems incomprehensible 
 and a violation of the laws of motion, but it's really 
 simple. 
 
 ' ' ' Well, what do you think 1 ' he asked. ' Has the 
 ball a will of its own? No. ... It's merely a 
 contest between two different motions. . . . One 
 rules in the beginning, the other later. . . . Now 
 you see,' he said, 'all her life my mother went 
 straight but father, as you know, spun around like 
 a top. That's why I went straight at first, as long 
 as my mother's impulse lasted. . . . I hadn 't gotten 
 my bearings, when I swung round to father's pat- 
 tern. . . . There's my whole story. . . .' 
 
 "He spoke frankly and hopelessly. He dropped 
 
 his head, shook his hair down over his face, and 
 
 then, when he looked at me again, I felt uneasy. 
 
 His eyes showed his pain. Did you ever see a sick 
 
 125
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 animal? . . . A dog, usually an affectionate brute, 
 is willing then to bite its master. 
 
 " 'Now,' he said, 'whom do you think 's to 
 blame?' 
 
 " 'I don't know, Rogov. I'm not your judge. 
 . . . It's not a question of blame. . . .' 
 
 " 'Not of blame, what then? I think he's to 
 blame who started me off with that shot. . . . That 
 means to condemn no one. I 'm a case of downward 
 stroke in life. ... I do the will of Him that sent 
 me. ... So there you are, my dear Pavel Semeno- 
 vich. . . . Have you got two grivens of silver? I 
 want to drown my sorrow. . . .' 
 
 "This was the first time that he had asked 
 me for two grivens and I instantly felt that 
 the old barrier between us had been broken. 
 Now he could insult me as he would any one 
 else. 
 
 ' ' I wanted to defend myself. 
 " 'No, Rogov. I won't give you two grivens. 
 Come any time you feel like. ... I'm glad to see 
 you. . . . But this is impossible. . . . ' 
 
 "He dropped his shaggy head, sat down, and 
 said dully: 
 
 " 'Yes, Pavel Semenovich. Excuse me. I'll 
 come without begging. Yet to sit down with you, 
 I feel easier and free from my usual load. ' 
 126
 
 ISN'T IT TERPIBLE? 
 
 "He sat still. A long, strained silence ensued. 
 Then he said: 
 
 " 'There was a time . . . when I hoped to receive 
 something from you. . . . You don't know what 
 you meant to me. Even now I sometimes feel I 
 must see you. You're waiting for something. . . . 
 No. ... It's hopeless. ... A downward stroke 
 and it's all over. . . .* 
 
 " 'Excuse me, Rogov,' I said. 'You're really 
 misusing that example from billiards. You're not 
 an ivory ball but a living man. ' 
 
 " 'And for that reason, I feel. ... As for a 
 ball, wherever you send it, into a pocket or a 
 hole, that ivory ball doesn't care. . . . But a man, 
 most esteemed Pavel Semenovich, finds it hard to be 
 pocketed. . . . Do you think that any one willingly 
 and voluntarily refuses dessert? ... I wouldn't. 
 ... I'm a man with reflexes, as they say. I see 
 and examine my trajectory clear to the end. . . . 
 I'll become a pig of pigs and I can't reform. At 
 times I think . . . perhaps . . . somehow . . . some- 
 where . . . there may be some . . . point of sup- 
 port. . . . Sometimes you get irritated . . . really. 
 . . . Where is truth . . . reality? ... Is there 
 such a thing, Pavel Semenovich?' 
 
 " ' Of course there is, ' I answered. 
 
 " 'How sincerely you spoke. There must be, of 
 127
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 course . . . there is. ... But where ? Excuse me, 
 I don't want to catch you. . . . You don't know 
 yourself. You looked once and stopped. That's 
 why I '11 only ask you for two grivens. Sometimes 
 I may be sitting by a fire. . . . You're a man with 
 a soul. . . . Another time, perhaps, I'll be able to 
 get more out of you. . . . ' 
 
 " 'Listen here,' I said to him. 'Think now, can 
 I really help you in any way?' I felt that there 
 was something to him. . . . He was rather touched, 
 was not insolent. . . . He became thoughtful and 
 dropped his head. 
 
 " 'No,' he replied, 'it can't be done. You're 
 not to blame, friend. Because ... I, and every 
 one like me, is very greedy. Like swine we wallow 
 in the mire, and we want any one who helps us 
 to be whiter than snow. . . . You need a lot of 
 strength, friend. You haven't enough. ... A 
 storm is necessary. ... To breathe fire. . . . 
 There are miracles. . . . But you. . . . You're not 
 angry at me ? . . . ' 
 
 '"Angry? Why?' 
 
 "We both stopped talking. I had nothing to 
 say to him, he began again to walk around, but 
 he gradually recovered his former manner. He 
 came and sat down and he showed his brandy. The 
 next Saturday he came in the same condition and 
 128
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 sat down beside me on the steps. Just then the 
 bell rang for vespers. In a short time M. Budnikov 
 came out of the gate. Dandy, you know how he is, 
 stubborn as ever, perfectly self-satisfied. . . . He 
 breathes forth the consciousness of duty well done. 
 
 "I remember what an unpleasant effect he pro- 
 duced upon me. Rogov's face suddenly changed. 
 He jumped up, adopted a theatrical pose, took off 
 his cap, and said : 
 
 " 'To M. Budnikov, Semen Nikolayevich, on his 
 way to vespers is extended the most respectful 
 greeting of Vanka Rogov. 
 
 "Then with a sweeping wave of his cap, he began 
 to sing from a well-known romance: 
 
 " 'I can n-no l-longer pay at all. . . . 
 
 Remem-mber me, m-my friend beloved. . . .' 
 
 * ' This buffoonery was too much. ... I felt that I 
 disliked Budnikov, but yet. . . . He was insulting 
 a man on a point which from every angle and in 
 any case should have won his respect. Yelena 
 soon came out of the gate and also started for 
 church. He sang to me : 
 
 " 'Ophelia! Nymph! Remember me 
 In those most sacred prayers of thine. 9 
 129
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "This made me really angry. Yelena quailed 
 before the impudent stare and insolent, even if 
 unintelligible words. She dropped her head and 
 quickly walked to church. 
 
 " 'Listen, Rogov,' I said. 'You ought to be 
 ashamed of yourself! I must tell you ... if you 
 want to come here, I humbly beg you to act more 
 decently. . . .' 
 
 "He turned and I saw in his eyes a peculiar 
 expression of evil pain. He felt like biting me. . . . 
 
 "I tried to soften the bitterness of my words and 
 said: 
 
 " 'Rogov, you don't know these people, nor their 
 relations, and yet you venture to insult them. . . . ' 
 
 ' ' He smiled at me and replied : 
 
 " 'You're thinking of the idyl? The kindly 
 M. Budnikov made two hearts happy. Why, here's 
 Gavryushenka. ' 
 
 ' ' In truth, Gavrilo had just come out of the gate. 
 Rogov beckoned to him rather hostilely. . . . 
 
 " 'I congratulate you, Gavryushenka, ... on 
 your master's leavings. . . . Wise fellow! You 
 knew where the crabs winter. ... In case of neces- 
 sity, you may depend upon my legal knowledge. . . . ' 
 
 "Surprising how these cynics find things out. 
 Evidently Rogov knew the whole story and sus- 
 pected Gavrilo of having mercenary motives. . . . 
 130
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "He walked up and patted him on the shoulder. 
 . . . Gavrilo got angry and pushed Rogov away 
 violently. Rogov almost fell down, laughed, and, 
 with pretended indifference, started along the path, 
 He came up to me, stopped and said: 
 
 " 'Most esteemed Pavel Semenovich. ... I want 
 to ask you a question: haven't you read ... it's 
 in Xenophon . . . the conversation between Alci- 
 biades and Pericles? ... If you haven't, I recom- 
 mend it most highly. Although it's in a dead 
 language, it 's instructive. ' 
 
 "He went off singing an indecent song. A little 
 while after I hunted up this dialogue. I wondered 
 what he meant. . . . 
 
 "You know it's a hard but a powerful piece. 
 The subject's about like this: Young Alcibiades 
 went one day to Pericles. . . . Remember, Pericles 
 was already a famous man and enjoyed the con- 
 fidence of every one . . . because of past services 
 and a certain air of benevolence. . . . Anyway his 
 position was secure. Alcibiades was a rascal, 
 worthless, drunkard, in all sorts of scandals with 
 Athenian girls, cut off dogs 'tails, as you know. . . . 
 A man of no reputation for well-doing. Well, one 
 day, this rogue of a young fellow went up to 
 Pericles and said: 'Listen, Pericles, you're a man 
 chock full of benefactions clear to the top of your 
 131
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 head, you may say. I'm wandering off the road 
 and twisting up everything, for I have nothing to 
 do. Every one's angry at me. I want you to 
 explain everything to me. ' Pericles, of course, was 
 willing and thought it was a good idea to talk to 
 the young man. He might bring him to his senses. 
 So he said: 'Go ahead and ask what you want.' 
 Then came the question: 'What is doing well? 
 How do you learn it ? ' Pericles, of course, laughed : 
 'Honor the gods, obey the laws, and do your duty. 
 To obey the laws is the first duty of a citizen and 
 a man.' 'Fine,' answered the young fellow. 'Tell 
 me, please, which laws am I to obey: the bad or 
 the good ones?' Pericles was almost insulted. 'If 
 a law's a law, it's good. "What are you talking 
 about?' 'No,' said Alcibiades, 'wait and don't get 
 angry.' . . . You know at this time in Athens all 
 these principles were mixed up ... parties, strug- 
 gle, some robbing others, ostracism, a sort of banish- 
 ment by administrative order . . . usurpers . . . 
 favorites . . . there really was confusion, a man 
 jumped forward and drew up his own laws for his 
 own advantage or for his relatives and friends. 
 Then old gods were all mixed up, the oracles an- 
 swered anything, provided it didn't apply to the 
 subject. In a word, everything that was clear in 
 life had become unclear : there was no equilibrium, 
 132
 
 ISN'T IT TERKIBLE? 
 
 no generally acknowledged truth. ... A new 
 system was necessary. Clouds covered the sky 
 and there were no stars to steer by. . . . That was 
 why Alcibiades asked what laws should be obeyed ; 
 those which prescribe good or bad. Of course, 
 Pericles answered the good. ' How can I tell which 
 are good ? What is the mark, so to speak ? ' ' Obey 
 all! That's what laws are for! . . .' 'That means 
 laws passed by the power of tyrants?' 'No, you 
 don't need to obey those. . . .' 'I see, only lawful 
 laws, so to speak. Fine! But suppose the 
 minority coerces the majority to its own advantage, 
 don't I need to obey those laws?' 'Of course not.' 
 'But if the majority coerce the minority, is that 
 contrary to right? . . .' You see what the young 
 fellow was driving at: he didn't need external 
 signs, but he showed that he needed to feel in his 
 soul universal truth, the highest truth, so to speak, 
 the truth of life, sanctity. . . . Pericles, you see, 
 hadn't understood this. . . . Not merely Pericles, 
 the whole country rested on slavery, on past wrong. 
 . . . Religion had dried up, the old sanctity which 
 had consecrated every step, every motion, the whole 
 order, all human relationships, people had ceased 
 to feel it. ... But Pericles argued around. . . . 
 He didn't want to confess that their laws had died. 
 ... He patted the dissolute young fellow on the 
 133
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 shoulder with a great deal of condescension and 
 said: 'Yes, yes. ... I see you've got a head on 
 your shoulders. Years ago we used to settle such 
 hard questions.* . . . Well, Alcibiades saw that 
 Pericles was, so to speak, a recognized authority, 
 was quibbling over trifles, didn't treat these con- 
 flicts as anything alive, and waved his hand. 'I 'm 
 sorry, my dear sir, that I didn't know you then. 
 . . . Now I 'm bored ; I 'm going to fool along. ' 
 
 "And that's what he recommended to me, his 
 former teacher. . ." 
 
 VII 
 
 The narrator stopped. The train, which was 
 approaching another station, began to slow down. 
 Petr Petrovich reached out his hand and said, as 
 he took his blue cap with a cockade from the 
 hook: 
 
 "I'm going again to get something to eat. . . . 
 I confess, my dear Pavel Semenovich, I don't see 
 what you're driving at. ... Excuse me, it's not 
 philosophy, and God only knows what you are after. 
 We began with Budnikov. All right, we know him. 
 . . . Now the devil knows who this Rogov is, a 
 worn-out rogue, and now I don't know whether 
 you're talking of Xenophon or Alcibiades. . . . 
 134
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 Cutting off dogs' tails. . . . The devil knows what 
 you mean. . . . Kindly allow me to ask how all 
 this concerns me. . . . Just as you wish. ... I'd 
 better go and get some more vodka. ..." 
 
 He put on his cap, and, holding on to the wall 
 because of the jolting of the train, he went out 
 of the compartment. Just at that moment the 
 fourth passenger on the other upper bench stirred. 
 He had been lying in the shadow, smoking now and 
 then, and he seemed to be interested in the story. 
 He got down, took a seat beside us and said: 
 
 " Excuse me, I haven't the honor of being ac- 
 quainted, but I couldn't help hearing your story 
 and it interested me. So, if you have no objec- 
 tions." 
 
 Pavel Semenovich looked at him. He was a 
 cultured man, carefully dressed, with intelligent 
 eyes which looked steadily through a pair of gold 
 glasses which he was constantly adjusting. 
 
 "Yes?" said Pavel Semenovich. "I see, you 
 heard this. ..." 
 
 "Yes. It interested me. . . . Your point of 
 view, I confess, I don't understand fully. ..." 
 
 "Really, it wasn't any too clear. ... I meant 
 . . . that in reality everything is so related. . . . 
 And this mutual relationship. ..." 
 
 "Presupposes mutual responsibility !" 
 135
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Pavel Semenovich's face suddenly beamed with 
 joy. 
 
 ' ' There ! You understand it ? ... Yes, general. 
 . . . Not before Ivan or Petr. . . . Everything is 
 connected, so to speak. . . . One man carelessly 
 throws away a brandy cork and another slips on it 
 and breaks his leg." 
 
 The new acquaintance listened attentively. Just 
 then Petr Petrovich came back. He had been mis- 
 taken as to the place and with an ironical glance 
 at both, he said, as he hung up his cap : 
 
 "Well, now, what do you want with a cork?" 
 
 "No, Petr Petrovich," said Pavel Semenovich 
 seriously, "you're wrong. . . . The question is, so 
 to speak " 
 
 "You find questions everywhere in the simplest 
 things, ' ' said Petr Petrovich. ' ' Don 't bother about 
 me. You've got a large enough audience." 
 
 "Go on, please," said the gentleman with the 
 gold glasses. 
 
 "If you wish. ... Ill be more than glad, for 
 I've got to get it off my mind. I stopped " 
 
 "You stopped," said Petr Petrovich laughingly, 
 "with Alcibiades. ... A story, so to speak, from 
 the Ancient Times. Now for the Middle Ages " 
 
 Pavel Semenovich paid no attention to this sally 
 and turned to the new member of the group : 
 136
 
 "You see how it was. The thing was this way: 
 Gavrilo was married and living by himself. ... In 
 M. Budnikov's table still lay the ticket with the 
 two lines. . . . There were ugly rumors about it 
 and, of course, they were exaggerated. Gavrilo was 
 the only one who didn't know of them. He kept 
 on working as before, did all he could, and tried. 
 ... He was a muscular symphony in performance, 
 with his eyes full of general satisfaction and good 
 humor. . . . 
 
 "And then Rogov suddenly turned up. He was 
 walking along the path by the yard; he stopped, 
 thought a moment, and called Gavrilo. 
 
 "He was a good-hearted Russian. ... He had 
 pushed Rogov away a little while before, but after- 
 wards he thought no more of it. 'What do you 
 want?' he asked. 'Come here, it's something that 
 concerns you. You 11 thank me for it.' 
 
 "I'll confess, something warned me. I felt like 
 calling to Rogov and stopping him, for I was sure 
 he was up to some mischief. But it was after 
 the Alcibiades episode . . . and I had no hope in 
 my influence. I stayed at the window. I saw 
 Gavrilo leave his shovel, go up and listen. At first 
 his face showed that he did not comprehend and 
 almost did not care. Then, with the same air of 
 uncertainty, he took off his apron, went into the 
 137
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 house, put on his cap and rejoined Rogov. Both 
 walked down the street and turned down the hill 
 toward the river. A moment later Yelena came 
 out to the gate, stood and looked after the two men. 
 . . . Her eyes looked sad and frightened. . . . 
 
 "From that day on Gavrilo's character changed 
 sharply. He came back apparently rather drunk. 
 . . . Perhaps from vodka, perhaps from the weight 
 of an unbearable burden which Rogov had suddenly 
 put on his shoulders. ... In the first place, the 
 amount was absolutely staggering: a mountain of 
 money more than he could count. Then the source 
 of the wealth reminded him of Yelena 's past. 
 Finally he couldn 't understand why she had never 
 mentioned it and this may have given rise to evil 
 suspicions. . . . You see it was like an explosion in 
 his mind. . . . Those two lines which M. Budnikov 
 had made on the ticket kept sinking deeper and 
 deeper into Gavrilo's soul. . . . The simple-hearted 
 man was absolutely upset. The whole symphony 
 of directness and labor was suddenly interrupted. 
 . . . Gavrilo wandered around in confusion, as if 
 he had been poisoned. . . . 
 
 "It began to break him down. ... At first he 
 
 walked about grimly with- his face clouded. His 
 
 work began to fall from his hands : he threw down 
 
 his axe and broke his spade. . . . Just like a well- 
 
 138
 
 ISN'T IT TERPIBLE? 
 
 built machine into which some one has hurled a 
 bolt. . . . When Budnikov in surprise began to 
 administer mild rebukes, that shovels cost money 
 and he would have to take it out of Gavrilo 's wages, 
 that easy-going man answered with unintelligible 
 and unreasonable rudeness. . . . And Yelena wept 
 more and more. . . . 
 
 "Then Gavrilo began to drink and carouse and 
 his usual abode became the dirty den, the 'Crags' 
 on the bank, on the sand near the wharf. . . . This 
 was a small wooden house with a second floor, dark, 
 tilting to one side and propped up with beams. 
 You could see it from the bank; evenings there 
 were usually two lighted windows and the open 
 door, cymbals clashed, and there was a lot of 
 fiddling to amuse the guests. . . . Prom time to 
 time, you could hear confused shouts both songs 
 and quarrels and calls for the police. It was an 
 eternally restless place and rather threatening. 
 The very antithesis of the drowsy country life. . . . 
 Bargemen from our modest and usually idle wharf, 
 workmen from the brickyards like moles which had 
 burrowed in the damp clay, professional beggars 
 ... in a word, the homeless, unfortunate, dissi- 
 pated, and evil. Even the decent members of the 
 proletariat shunned this place. And that's where 
 Bogov took Gavrilo. And Yelena was the next to 
 139
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 learn the road to the 'Crags' so as to bring her 
 husband home. . . . 
 
 "She did this surprisingly modestly, quietly, yes, 
 even beautifully. Once I was coming home from 
 my lessons and as I entered the gate I saw Yelena 
 running toward me and fastening a kerchief on 
 her head. 
 
 " 'Where are you going, Yelena?' 
 
 "A moment's hesitation. 
 
 " 'You haven't seen Gavrilo Stepanich go this 
 way, have you?' she asked. 
 
 " 'He must have. . . . But you shouldn't go 
 there, Yelena. ' 
 
 I wanted to stop her. . . . But she swept past 
 me angrily and with some apparent pride went 
 to look for Gavrilo Stepanich, her husband, and 
 she was his lawful wife. ... In a half-hour I saw 
 her bringing Gavrilo Stepanich by the arm. He 
 was leaning on her but walking and looking straight 
 ahead with dull, faded and perplexed eyes. But 
 he was walking. By the gate he suddenly straight- 
 ened up, pushed away her hand and stared at her. 
 . . . His face was dark, but his faded eye had a 
 decided look. . . . 
 
 " 'Who are you? Tell me who you are? . . . 
 Oh?' 
 
 "She stopped and dropped her hand in despair. 
 140
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 I thought of that spring morning and their mutual 
 oaths: 'Remember God, Gavrilo Stepanich!' I 
 was terrified: he'll forget right now, this very 
 minute, I thought. . . . Suddenly a spark of 
 knowledge flickered up in his foolish face and 
 he swallowed hard. He didn't say a word but 
 went to his rooms silently. . . . She followed him 
 in terror, respectfully and humbly. . . . 
 
 "So it went on : Rogov would beckon to Gavrilo, 
 and he'd go off and begin to carouse. This man 
 got enormous power over Gavrilo, and Yelena ob- 
 jected, humbly, respectfully, timidly, but con- 
 stantly. She probably looked upon all this as a 
 punishment sent to her as an atonement for her 
 'sin.' She grew thin, her nice plumpness disap- 
 peared, her eyes sank deeper in her head. . . . But 
 when I looked at them I never could decide to 
 call them stupid. Her suffering was always won- 
 derfully intelligent like that of a bird. . . . She'd 
 go to the saloons after her drunken husband, every 
 one would laugh at her on the street, and make 
 rough jokes about her. . . . She felt no shame for 
 herself. . . . Only once she whispered : 'That 'snot 
 right, Gavrilo Stepanich, people are looking at 
 you. . . .' 
 
 "One time when she was taking him back from 
 the 'Crags,' he broke away from her, ran up to 
 141
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Budnikov's door and began to kick it wildly. 
 Yelena almost dropped, and, as if she did not have 
 the strength to go after him, she watched him like 
 a man with the nightmare, who sees coming at 
 him something terrible which he has been expect- 
 ing but he can't struggle against it. ... The door 
 suddenly opened and M. Budnikov appeared. . . . 
 Calm and haughty with an air of absolute superi- 
 ority. To tell you the truth, I was somewhat sur- 
 prised. . . . Anyway, it was a delicate situation. 
 I didn't know the details at the time, but I felt 
 there was something wrong and mistaken. . . . 
 Suddenly clearness of vision, quiet, calm. And it 
 wasn't put on. No, that was easy to see. . . . 
 It was merely absolute imperturbability. 
 
 " 'What do you want, Gavrilo?' he said. 'What 
 are you kicking for? Don't you know how to 
 ring? . . . You see, here's the bell. . . .' 
 
 "He pointed to the bell handle. Gavrilo looked 
 at it and became confused. Yes, there was a knob 
 and there was really no reason to kick. . . . M. 
 Budnikov continued from the top step : 
 
 " 'Anyway, what are you thinking about and 
 what do you want of me, you r-rascal? Have I 
 insulted you, dealt unjustly with you, held up your 
 pay for even one day? Yet you kicked. . . . All 
 right, here I am. . . . What do you want?' 
 142
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 "Gavrilo didn't say a word. . . . 
 
 " 'Well, then, I'll tell you a thing or two myself: 
 the shovel's broken again, the walk isn't swept, the 
 horse hasn't been watered. . . . The horse is a 
 dumb animal and can't talk . . . but just the same 
 it 's alive and feels. . . . Hear it whinney? . . .' 
 
 "This argument so overwhelmed Gavrilo that 
 he turned, thoroughly and definitely crushed, and 
 went straight to the stable. In a minute, just as 
 if he were sober, he took the horse to the trough. 
 . . . M. Budnikov quietly locked his door and came 
 out. As he came past my wall he guessed that I 
 had seen the whole affair, stopped, and with a sad 
 shake of his head, remarked : 
 
 " 'Yes, every one's talking of the people, the 
 people. . . . How do they fall in love with 
 them? 
 
 VIII 
 
 "The scandal began to attract attention. It was 
 talked about in the city. Various opinions were 
 held. Some defended Budnikov. "Was it worth 
 while to believe mere rumors ? Really no one knew 
 anything. Some were stupid stories ; others, evident 
 scandals and an unseemly breaking of the general 
 quiet. . . . But there was another side. People of 
 143
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 the lower classes sympathized with Gavrilo. They 
 thought that the wise and strong M. Budnikov 
 must have filched from Gavrilo some sort of a 
 talisman and was now committing sorcery so that 
 the talisman would lose its power. ... So dozens 
 of eyes were turned to the windows of M. Budnikov 
 and looked at him as he passed, stubbornly and 
 calmly, apparently unaware of the cloud of mis- 
 understanding, suspicion, condemnation, question, 
 . . . yes, sin, which trailed after him. Every look 
 expressed an evil thought and every heart was 
 beating with an evil feeling. ... It was a peculiar 
 sort of dark cloud. . . . Hundreds of individual 
 spiritual movements, confused, unclear, but evil. 
 . . . And all aimed at one centre. . . . 
 
 "I must say Budnikov had been rather popular 
 and enjoyed the respect of all. . . . Even Rogov, 
 when he happened to pass our yard and saw M. 
 Budnikov with a shovel or rake, always stopped 
 and said : 
 
 ' ' * M. Budnikov, Semen Nikolayevich, is working. 
 . . . He who works shall eat. ' 
 
 "Or: 
 
 " 'M. Budnikov is helping his neighbor, the 
 porter, with the work of his hands. Most laud- 
 able!' 
 
 "Then he passed on as by an object to which ho 
 144
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE* 
 
 was indifferent or at which he was pleasantly 
 amused. 
 
 "Now, that was all changed. ... It gave me a 
 physical sensation ... like a nightmare. As if 
 those two lines ... or something in the character 
 of M. Budnikov had polluted the atmosphere. . . . 
 It was almost an hallucination. . . . You're going 
 to or from the gymnasium . . . thinking out your 
 remarks. . . . You suddenly feel that M. Budnikov 
 is following you with his measured tread and his 
 self-satisfaction that comes from a consciousness 
 of duty performed. ... Or you're giving a lesson 
 or reading necessary notices and you absolutely 
 hear Budnikov 's accents in your own voice . . . 
 when he lays down to a beggar rules for work or 
 preaches a moral to Gavrilo over the broken shovel 
 or advises me: 'Lay aside pride and be 
 humble.' . . . 
 
 "In this ordinary thing, this humble and ap- 
 parently quiet life of peaceful corners, there's 
 something terrible, . . . specific, so to speak, not 
 easily noticeable, gray. . . . Really where are the 
 rascals, sacrifices, the right, the wrong? . . . You 
 so want the fog to be pierced by even one ray of 
 living, absolute truth, which will not be founded on 
 pencil lines, but will be actually able to solve the 
 riddle absolutely and completely . . . the real 
 145
 
 truth, which even Rogov will acknowledge. . . . 
 Do you understand? 
 
 " 'I think I do,' said the gentleman in the glasses 
 seriously. 
 
 "Apparently M. Budnikov began to feel that, 
 something was wrong. He cleaned up but, as often 
 happens, he didn't find the real question. . . . He 
 came to me once on the usual day, the twentieth. 
 You understand I gave him tea as usual. . . . He 
 drank it as usual, but his expression was different. 
 Sad and solemn. He finished his business, care- 
 fully put away the money in his pocketbook, 
 marked it down, but didn 't leave. . . . He began to 
 talk round the bush . . . about the abnormality of 
 his life, ... in particular about his loneliness, 
 some mistake caused by prejudice and pride. . . . 
 Then he got talking of Yelena and Gavrilo. Gav- 
 rilo had turned out to be utterly worthless and Ye- 
 lena had made a mistake and was very unhappy. . . . 
 He felt responsible for letting her marry, but it was 
 hard to correct it. ... It was harder still to fix 
 it up with money. . . . What good is money in 
 the hands of a drunkard? And so on. All these 
 subterfuges showed me that M. Budnikov wanted 
 to solve the whole riddle by recreating the original 
 situation, so to speak, that is, to divorce Yelena 
 from Gavrilo and marry her himself. . . . That 
 146
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 meant those two lines would be wiped out and 
 disappear. . . . Apparently ... lie had already 
 talked of this with several people, among them 
 Father Nikolay. . . . Now he wanted my advice. . . . 
 
 " 'Have you spoken to Yelena about this!' I 
 asked. 
 
 " 'No, not yet. ... I, perhaps, you may notice, 
 don't even go to see her, so as not to make trouble. 
 . . . But I know what she needs. ... I have no 
 reason to doubt. . . .' 
 
 "I tried to advance certain points, but M. Bud- 
 nikov wouldn't listen. ... He soon said good-by 
 and left. ... As if he feared for the integrity of 
 his whole plan of action. . . . 
 
 "A little while after, when Gavrilo was away, 
 some women of the parish began to bob up at 
 Yelena 's and Budnikov received members of the 
 consistory. Twice, toward evening, I saw Rogov 
 leave Budnikov 's. . . . Then I thought: so that's 
 what my young fellow is after; I see now why 
 he's ruining Gavrilo ; he's fixing it so M. Budnikov 
 can arrange the divorce. . . . 
 
 "The whole situation seemed to me so disgraceful 
 and hopeless that I began to think of moving and 
 simply getting away from the whole thing. ... I 
 couldn't sleep. . . . Again I began to walk around 
 the garden. Once I found Yelena in it. ... She 
 147
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 was lying on that same bench where I sat that 
 spring morning. ... It was fall now. . . . Every- 
 thing was dying and growing bare. . . . Autumn, 
 you know, is a terrible cynic. The wind breaks off 
 the leaves and laughs. They were lying on the 
 muddy, damp earth. And a woman was lying on 
 the damp bench with her face down and crying. 
 Yes, she was crying bitterly. . . . Later I found 
 out why : the arrangement of M. Budnikov was ab- 
 solutely impersonal. When she heard this propo- 
 sition she merely clasped her hands: 'Let the earth 
 swallow me up, let me dry up like a chip.' . . . And 
 so on. ... 'You'd better bury me alive with Gav- 
 rilo Stepanich. ' . . . And Gavrilo Stepanich didn 't 
 spend the night at home. That former pure hap- 
 piness had perished and she didn't know what to 
 do. A ticket . . . two lines . . . friends from the 
 church, Budnikov, Rogov. She was stupid and 
 obedient and afraid that something would be done 
 against her will. . . . 
 
 "I walked up to her . . . wanted to comfort 
 her. When I touched her and felt her body tremble 
 beneath my touch ... it seemed to me such a 
 stupid performance that I trembled, as if from 
 impotent pity. . . . 
 
 "I went away. ... I forgot the whole thing and 
 wanted to drop it and leave. If M. Budnikov 
 148
 
 passed ... let him pass. ... If Rogov was en- 
 gaged in dirty business, let him ! If stupid Yelena 
 wanted a drunken husband, let her have one. . . . 
 What did I care ? What difference did it make who 
 got the ticket with the two lines, to whom those 
 stupid lines gave rights? . . . Everything was in- 
 complete, accidental, disconnected, senseless and 
 disgusting. ..." 
 
 IX 
 
 Pavel Semenovich stopped and looked out of the 
 window as if he had forgotten the story. . . . 
 
 "Well, how did it end?" asked our new com- 
 panion cautiously. 
 
 "End?" The narrator woke up. "Of course, 
 everything on the earth ends some way. This ended 
 stupidly and simply. One night . . . my bell rang. 
 Sharply, anxiously, nervously. ... I jumped up 
 in fright, put on my slippers . . . went out on the 
 steps . . . there was no one there. But it occurred 
 to me that Rogov was around the corner. I thought 
 he must have been passing drunk and ugly and 
 wanted to annoy me by coming at this time. . . . 
 He remembered that I was asleep and he, Vanichka 
 Rogov, my favorite pupil, was drunk on the street 
 and wanted to inform me of it. I closed the door, 
 149
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 went back to bed, and fell asleep. The bell rang 
 again. I didn't get up. Let him ring. ... It 
 rang again and again. . . . No, this must be some- 
 thing else. I put on my overcoat. . . . Opened the 
 door. There stood the night watchman. His beard 
 was covered with frost. 'Please,' he said. 
 
 " 'Where do you want me to go, brother?' I 
 asked. 
 
 " 'To Semen Nikolayevich, M. Budnikov. . . . 
 They've had . . . trouble. . . .' 
 
 "Without understanding anything, I dressed 
 mechanically and went. A clear cold night, and 
 late. . . . There were lights in the windows of M. 
 Budnikov, whistles along the street. . . . What a 
 stir for night. ... I went up the steps and entered. 
 The first thing that caught my eye was the face 
 of Semen Nikolayevich, M. Budnikov. . . . Abso- 
 lutely different, not at all like what he was before. 
 He was lying on his pillow and looking somewhere 
 into space. . . . That was so strange. . . . I stopped 
 at the door and thought: 'What's this? I used 
 to know him but he's suddenly changed. . . . This 
 isn't the man who came once a month and drank 
 two glasses of tea. Who worried over Yelena's 
 divorce, but it 's some one with other thoughts. He 
 lay immovable, important, but he didn't look at us 
 or any one, and he seemed so different, , , , He, 
 J50
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 was afraid of no one and judged every one ; himself, 
 that is, the old Semen Nikolayevich, and Gavrilo, 
 Yelena, Rogov, and . . . yes, me too. ... I sud- 
 denly understood. . . . 
 
 "Then I saw Gavrilo. By the window, in a 
 corner, grieved but quiet. ... As I suddenly 
 understood, I walked up to him and said: 
 
 " 'Did you do this?' 
 
 " 'Of course, Pavel Semenovich, I did.' 
 
 "'Why?' 
 
 " 'I don't know, Pavel Semenovich. . . .' 
 
 "Then the doctor attracted my attention. He 
 told me that there was no help. . . . People kept 
 walking and driving up, coming in, sitting down, 
 and writing statements. ... It seemed so strange 
 that the young prosecutor, such a careful and reli- 
 able man, should give orders not to let Gavrilo and 
 Yelena go and to hold some sort of an investigation. 
 ... I remember his smile when I asked him the 
 reason for it. ... 1 11 admit it was a strange ques- 
 tion but I thought that this procedure was un- 
 necessary. . . . When they started to take Gavrilo 
 and Yelena away I involuntarily got up and asked 
 if they were going to take me. ... I later heard 
 rumors that something was wrong with me. That 
 was false. My head was never so clear. . . . The 
 prosecutor was surprised. 'If I may give you ad- 
 151
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 vice, you need to drink some water and go to bed. ' 
 ' But Yelena ? ' I asked ; ' why her ? ' ' We will hope, ' 
 he answered, 'that everything will turn out in a 
 way that's best for her, but now ... at the first 
 inquiry ... it is my painful duty.' ... I still 
 thought he was acting wrongly. . . . 
 
 "The two were taken away. I went back to my 
 rooms and sat down on the steps. It was cold. . . . 
 A clear, autumn, quiet night with a clear, white 
 frost. . . . The stars were sparkling and whisper- 
 ing in the sky. They had such a special expres- 
 sion and meaning. . . . You could hear their mys- 
 terious whisper, though you couldn't make out 
 what they said. ... It was both a distant tremor 
 of alarm and also quiet and neighborly sympathy. 
 "I really wasn't surprised when Kogov came up 
 quietly and timidly sat down beside me on the 
 steps. He sat a long time without saying a word. 
 ... I don't remember whether he did say any- 
 thing, but I knew the whole story. . . . He had no 
 thoughts of murder. He wanted 'to win Yelena 's 
 case with M. Budnikov' for himself. He had to 
 get hold of the ticket, on which, as he supposed, 
 was an endorsement. . . . This clever scheme 
 pleased him: to get hold by illegal means of the 
 proof of a legal right. He saw something humorous 
 in it. The illegal procuring of legal proof in the 
 152
 
 form of a hypothetical endorsement. . . . That's 
 why he worked his way into Budnikov's confidence 
 through the business of the divorce. . . . He found 
 out everything about the place and sent one of 
 his obedient clients from the 'Crags' to take the 
 proper box. Gavrilo was to open the door of 
 M. Budnikov 's apartment with a second key, which 
 Budnikov, through strange oversight, had failed to 
 take back from him. Instead of waiting at the 
 door, Gavrilo had gone upstairs. I could have 
 sworn I had seen him walk along with his heavy 
 tread, his dark head, and the deep hatred in his 
 soul. . . . And how he reached the door and how 
 M. Budnikov awoke and apparently was not even 
 frightened but suddenly understood the whole 
 situation. 
 
 "I still saw that moment in the past, when two 
 students ran into my rooms on just such a bright 
 night, and I faced them in my shame and weak- 
 ness. . . . What a fire . . . evil and sarcastic . . . 
 was blazing in the eyes of one. . . . 
 
 "It seemed to me that I had discovered that 
 which was the bond of union among all things: 
 these lofty, flashing stars, the living murmur of the 
 wind among the branches, my memories, and this 
 deed. . . . When I was young I had often had this 
 sensation. . . . When my fresh mind was trying to 
 153
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 solve all questions and gain a larger truth. An- 
 other time you will seem to be right at the threshold 
 and everything is about to be cleared up, when it 
 all vanishes 
 
 " We sat a long time. Finally Eogov got up. 
 
 " 'Where are you going now?' I asked. 
 
 " *I don't know,' was the answer, 'what I must 
 do. ... I think I'll have to join Gavrilo and 
 Yelena ' 
 
 "There he stood. I understood so much more 
 clearly than usual, and I suddenly realized that he 
 was waiting for me to shake hands. I held out 
 my hand and he suddenly seized it, and it was a 
 long time before he let it go. ... 
 
 "He broke away and left . . . straight down the 
 street. I looked after him. as long as I could make 
 
 out the slender figure of my former pupil. . . ." 
 
 ****** 
 
 For some time the silence in the compartment 
 was interrupted only by the rattling of the train 
 and a long whistle. The door slammed, and a 
 conductor walked along the corridor and called 
 out: 
 
 "Station of N-sk. Ten minutes' wait." 
 Pavel Semenovich hurriedly got up, picked up 
 a small valise, and, with a sad smile at his audience, 
 he got out of the train. I began to make prepara- 
 154
 
 ISN'T IT TERRIBLE? 
 
 tions to leave and so did the gentleman in the gold 
 glasses. Petr Petrovich remained alone. He looked 
 after Pavel Semenovich and, when the door was 
 shut behind him, he smiled at the gentleman in tho 
 gold glasses, shook his head, and, running his finger 
 around his forehead, he said: 
 
 "He always was a crank. . . . Now I think he's 
 not all there. I've heard that he threw up his 
 position and now goes around and gives private 
 lessons.'* 
 
 The gentleman in the gold glasses looked steadily 
 at him but said nothing. 
 
 "We got out of the train. 
 
 ****** 
 
 From the point of view of a reporter the case 
 was uninteresting. The jurors acquitted Gavrilo 
 (Yelena was not tried) ; Rogov was convicted of 
 being the instigator, but mercy was recommended. 
 The judge several times had to stop the witness 
 Pavel Semenovich Padorin, former teacher, who 
 constantly wandered away from facts, in order to 
 express opinions which were irrelevant and had 
 nothing to do with the case. . . . 
 
 155
 
 "NECESSITY' 
 
 (AN EASTERN TALE)
 
 "NECESSITY" 
 (AN EASTERN TALE) 
 
 I 
 
 ONE day, when the three good sages, Ulaya, 
 Darnu, and Purana, were sitting at the door 
 of their common home, young Kassapa, the son of 
 the Rajah Lichava, came up to them and sat down 
 on the earth which was piled around the house 
 but he did not speak. The young man 's cheeks were 
 pale and his eyes, which had lost the glow of youth, 
 seemed weary. 
 
 The old men looked one at another, and good 
 Ulaya said: 
 
 "Listen, Kassapa, tell to us, the three sages, 
 who wish you nothing but good, what is oppressing 
 your soul. Ever since you lay in the cradle, fate 
 has showered its gifts upon you and you look as 
 downcast as the meanest slave of your father, poor 
 Jebaka, who yesterday felt the heavy hand of your 
 steward. ..." 
 
 "Yes, poor Jebaka showed us the welts on his 
 back, ' ' said stern Darnu and kindly Purana added : 
 159
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 ' We wished to call them to your attention, good 
 
 The young man did not allow him to finish. He 
 jumped up from his seat and exclaimed with an 
 impatience which he had never before displayed: 
 
 "Stop, kindly sages, with your sly reproaches! 
 You seem to think that I must give you account 
 for every welt inflicted by the steward on the back 
 of the slave Jebaka. I greatly doubt whether I 
 am bound to give account even of my own acts. ' ' 
 
 The sages glanced again one at another and 
 Ulaya said : 
 
 "Continue, my son, if you so desire." 
 
 "Desire?" interrupted the young man with a 
 bitter laugh. "The fact is, I don't know whether 
 I desire anything or not. And whether I like what 
 I wish or what another wishes for me." 
 
 He stopped. It was almost perfectly quiet but 
 a breeze stirred the tops of the trees, and a leaf 
 fell at the feet of Purana. While the sad gaze of 
 Kassapa was directed upon this, a stone broke off 
 from the heated cliff and rolled down to the bank of 
 a brook, where a large lizard was resting at this 
 moment. . . . Every day at the same hour it 
 crawled to this spot. Straightening its front legs 
 and closing its protruding eyes, it apparently 
 listened to the discourse of the sages. It was easy 
 160
 
 'NECESSITY" 
 
 to imagine that its green body contained the soul 
 of some wise Brahmin. But this day that stone 
 released this soul from its green envelope, so that 
 it might enter upon new transformations. . . -. 
 
 A bitter smile spread over Kassapa's face. 
 
 "Come now, ye kindly sages," he said, "ask this 
 leaf, if it wished to fall from the tree, or the stone, 
 if it wished to break off from the cliff, or the lizard, 
 if it wished to be crushed by the stone. The hour 
 came, the leaf fell, the lizard heard the last of 
 your conversations. For all that we know could not 
 be otherwise. Or do ye say that it should and could 
 have been otherwise than it was?" 
 
 "It could not," answered the sages. "What has 
 been had to be in the great chain of events." 
 
 "Ye have spoken. Therefore, the welts on the 
 back of Jebaka had to be in the great chain of 
 events, and every one of them has been written 
 since eternity in the book of necessity. And you 
 wish me, the same kind of a stone, the same kind 
 of a lizard, the same kind of a leaf on the great tree 
 of life, the same kind of an insignificant stream as 
 this brook which is driven by an unknown power 
 from source to mouth. . . . You wish me to strug- 
 gle against the current which is carrying me on- 
 ward. ..." 
 
 He kicked the bloody stone which fell into the 
 161
 
 BIPDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 water and he again sank back on the earth beside 
 the good sages. The eyes of Kassapa again became 
 dull and sad. 
 
 Old Darnu said nothing; old Purana shook his 
 head; but the cheerful Ulaya merely laughed and 
 said: 
 
 "In the book of necessity, it is also manifestly 
 written, Kassapa, that I should tell to you what 
 happened once to the two sages, Darnu and Purana, 
 whom you see before you. . . . And in the same 
 book it is written that you shall listen to the tale." 
 
 Then he told the following strange story about 
 his companions and they listened smilingly, but 
 neither confirmed or denied a word. 
 
 II 
 
 "In the land," he said, "where blooms the lotus 
 and the sacred stream flows upon its course, there 
 were no Brahmins more wise than Darnu and Pu- 
 rana. No one had learned the Shastras better and 
 no one had dipped more deeply into the ancient 
 wisdom of the Vedas. But when both approached 
 the end of the mortal span of life and the storms of 
 approaching winter had touched their hair with 
 fsnow, both were still dissatisfied. The years were 
 passing, the grave was coming nearer and nearer, 
 162
 
 "NECESSITY" 
 
 and truth seemed to recede further and fur- 
 ther. . . ." 
 
 Both then, well aware that it was impossible to 
 escape the grave, decided to draw truth nearer to 
 themselves. Darnu was the first to put on a wan- 
 derer's robe, to hang a gourd of water on his belt, 
 to take a staff in his hand and to set out. After 
 two years of difficult traveling, he came to the foot 
 of a lofty mountain and on one of its peaks, at an 
 altitude where the clouds love to pass the night, 
 he saw the ruins of a temple. In a meadow near 
 the road shepherds were watching their flocks, and 
 Darnu asked them what sort of a temple it was, 
 what people had built it, and to what god they had 
 offered sacrifices. 
 
 The shepherds merely looked at the mountain 
 and then at Darnu, their questioner, for they did 
 not know what answer to make. Finally they said : 
 
 "We inhabitants of the valleys, do not know 
 how to answe* you. There is among our number 
 an old shepherd Anuruja, who ages ago used to 
 pasture his flocks on these heights. He may know. " 
 
 They called this old man. 
 
 "I cannot tell you," he said, "what people built 
 
 it, when they did it, and to what god they here 
 
 sacrificed. But my father heard from his father 
 
 and told me that my great grandfather had said 
 
 163
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 that there once lived a tribe of sages on the slopes 
 of these mountains and that they have all perished, 
 since they have erected this temple. The name of 
 the deity was 'Necessity.' ' 
 
 "Necessity?" exclaimed Darnu, greatly inter- 
 ested. "Don't you know, good father, what form 
 this deity had and whether or not it still resides in 
 this temple?" 
 
 "We are simple people," answered the old man, 
 "and it is hard for us to answer your wise ques- 
 tions. When I was young, and that was years 
 and years ago, I used to pasture my flock on these 
 mountain sides. At that time there stood in the 
 temple an idol wrought out of a gleaming black 
 stone. At rare intervals, when a storm overtook 
 me in the vicinity, and storms are very terrible 
 among these crags, I used to drive my flock into 
 the old temple for shelter. Rarely, too, Angapali, 
 a shepherdess from a neighboring hillside, would 
 run in, trembling and frightened. I warmed her 
 in my arms and the old god looked down at us 
 with a strange smile. But he never did us any 
 evil, perchance because Angapali always adorned 
 him with flowers. But they say ..." 
 
 The shepherd stopped with a doubtful look at 
 Darnu and was apparently ashamed to tell him 
 more. 
 
 164
 
 "NECESSITY" 
 
 "Say what? My good man, tell me the whole 
 story," requested the sage. 
 
 "They say, all the worshippers of the old god 
 have not perished. . . . Some are wandering 
 around the world. . . . And, sometimes, of course 
 rarely, they come here and ask like you the road to 
 the temple and they go there to question the old 
 god. These he turns to stone. Old men have often 
 seen in the temple columns or statues in the form of 
 seated men, richly covered with morning-glories 
 and other vines. Birds have built their nests on 
 some. Later on they gradually turn to dust. ' ' 
 
 Darnu pondered deeply over the story. "Am I 
 now near the goal?" he thought. For it is well 
 known that ' ' he, who like a blind man sees naught, 
 like a deaf man, hears naught, like a tree is immov- 
 able and insensible, has attained unto rest and 
 knowledge." 
 
 He turned to the shepherd. 
 
 "My friend, where is the road to the temple?" 
 
 The shepherd pointed it out, and when Darnu 
 commenced to ascend the overgrown path, he 
 watched the sage a long time and then said to his 
 young companions: 
 
 "Call me not the oldest of shepherds, but the 
 youngest of suckling lambs if the old god is not 
 soon going to have a new sacrifice. Yoke me like 
 165
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 an ox or burden me like an ass with various loads, 
 if another stone column is not to take its place in 
 the old temple! ..." 
 
 The shepherds respectfully hearkened to the old 
 man and scattered over the pasture. And once 
 more the herds grazed peacefully in the valley, the 
 ploughman followed his plough, the sun shone, 
 night fell, and men were occupied with their own 
 cares and thought no more of wise Darnu. Soon, 
 in a few days or so, another wanderer came to 
 the foot of the mountain and he, too, asked about 
 the temple. When he followed the directions of 
 the shepherd and began to ascend the mountain 
 cheerfully, the old man shook his head and said: 
 
 " There goes another." 
 
 This was Purana, following in the steps of wise 
 Darnu and thinking: 
 
 "It will never be said that Darnu found truth 
 which Purana could not seek. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Darnu ascended the mountain. 
 
 It was a hard climb. It was very evident that a 
 
 human foot rarely passed over the neglected path, 
 
 but Darnu cheerfully defied all obstacles and finally 
 
 reached the half-ruined gates, above which was the 
 
 166
 
 'NECESSITY" 
 
 ancient inscription: "I am Necessity, the mistress 
 of every movement." The walls had no other 
 sculptures or decorations save fragments of some 
 numbers and mysterious calculations. 
 
 Darnu entered the sanctuary. The old walls 
 spread aboaa the peace of destruction and death. 
 But this destruction apparently had grown weary 
 and left undisturbed the ruins of walls which had 
 witnessed the march of centuries. In one wall there 
 was a broad recess ; several steps led up to an altar, 
 on which was an idol of a gleaming black stone; 
 the deity smiled strangely as it gazed upon this 
 picture of ruin. From beneath it bubbled a brook 
 which filled the wondrous silence with the murmur 
 of its water. Several palms stretched their roots 
 into its course and towered up to the blue sky, 
 which freely looked down through the ruined 
 roof. . . . 
 
 Darnu involuntarily submitted to the wondrous 
 spell of this place and decided to question the mys- 
 terious deity, whose spirit still seemed to fill the 
 ruined temple. The sage scooped up some water 
 out of the cold brook and gathered some fruit which 
 an old fig-tree had shed and then he began his 
 preparations according to all the rules in the books 
 on contemplation. First of all he sat down facing 
 the idol, drew up his legs, and looked at the image 
 167
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 a long time, for he wanted to impress it upon his 
 mind. Then he bared his abdomen and gazed upon 
 that spot where he was bound to his mother before 
 his earthly birth. For it is well known that all 
 knowledge lies between being and not being and 
 hence must come the revelations of contempla- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 In such a posture he saw the end of the first day 
 and the beginning of the second. The heat of noon 
 several times replaced the cool of evening and the 
 shadows of night gave place to the light of the 
 sun, but Darnu remained in the same position, 
 rarely plunging his gourd into the water or ab- 
 sent-mindedly picking up some fruit. The eyes of 
 the sage grew dull and fixed; his limbs dried up. 
 At first he felt the inconvenience and pain of im- 
 mobility. Later on these sensations passed into 
 complete unconsciousness, and before the stony 
 gaze of the sage another world, the world of con- 
 templation, began to unroll its strange apparitions 
 and shapes. They no longer bore any relationship 
 to the experiences of the meditating sage. They 
 were disinterested, disconnected, and concerned 
 only themselves, and that meant that they were the 
 preludes to a revelation of the truth. 
 
 It was hard to say how long this state continued. 
 The water in the gourd dried up, the palms quietly 
 168
 
 'NECESSITY" 
 
 rustled, the ripening fruits broke off and fell at 
 the sage's feet, but he let them lie on the ground. 
 He was almost freed from thirst and hunger. He 
 was not warmed by the noontide sun nor chilled 
 by the cool freshness of the night. Finally he 
 ceased to distinguish the light of day and the dark- 
 ness of night. 
 
 Then the inner eye of Darnu saw the long ex- 
 pected vision. Out of his abdomen grew a green 
 trunk of bamboo tipped with a knot like an ordi- 
 nary stem. From the knot grew another section 
 and thus, rising ever higher, the trunk grew to 
 consist of fifty joints, a number corresponding to 
 the years of the sage. At the top, instead of leaves 
 and blossoms, grew a something resembling the 
 idol in the temple. This something looked down on 
 Darnu with an evil smile. 
 
 "Poor Darnu," it said finally. "Why did you 
 come here and take so much trouble ? What do you 
 want, poor Darnu?" 
 
 "I seek the truth," answered the sage. 
 
 "Then look on me, for I am what you sought. 
 But I see that I am unpleasant and disagreeable to 
 your sight." 
 
 "You are incomprehensible," answered Darnu. 
 
 "Listen, Darnu. Do you see the fifty joints of 
 the reed?" 
 
 169
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "The fifty joints of the reed are my years," said 
 the sage. 
 
 "And I sit above them, for I am 'Necessity,' the 
 mistress of every movement. Every act, every 
 breath, everything existing, everything living is 
 impotent, powerless, helpless; under the control 
 of necessity it attains the aim of its existence, which 
 is death. I am that which has guided the fifty 
 joints of your life from the cradle to the present 
 moment. You have never done a single thing in 
 your whole life: not a single thing of good or 
 evil. . . . You have never given a coin to a beggar 
 in a moment of pity nor dealt a single blow with 
 hatred in your heart . . . you have never cared 
 for a single rose in your monastery gardens nor 
 felled a single tree in the forest . . . you have 
 never fed a single animal nor killed a single gnat 
 which was sucking your blood. . . . You have 
 never made a single movement in your whole life 
 without it being marked down in advance by 
 me. . . . Because I am Necessity. . . . You have 
 been proud of your actions or lamented bitterly for 
 your sins. Your heart trembled from love or hate, 
 but I I was laughing at you, for I am Necessity 
 and write down everything in advance. When you 
 entered a square to teach fools what to do or what 
 to avoid, I was laughing and saying to myself: 
 170
 
 'NECESSITY" 
 
 just see wise Darnu reveal his wisdom to those 
 naive fools and share his sanctity with sinners. 
 Not because Darnu is wise and holy, but because I, 
 'Necessity,' am like a stream and Darnu is like a 
 leaf carried away by the current. Poor Darnu, 
 you thought that you had been led hither by your 
 search for truth. . . . But on these walls among 
 my calculations was marked the day and the hour 
 when you had to cross this threshold. Because I 
 am Necessity. . . . Poor sage!" 
 
 "I loathe you," said the seer with aversion. 
 
 "I know it. Because you considered yourself 
 free and I am Necessity, the mistress of every 
 movement." 
 
 Then Darnu became angry; he seized the fifty 
 joints of the reed, broke them off, and flung them 
 away. "So," he said, "so will I deal with the fifty 
 joints of my life, because during these fifty years 
 I was merely the tool of Necessity. Now I will 
 free myself, because I have seen and I want to 
 break my yoke." 
 
 But Necessity, invisible in the darkness which 
 surrounded the dull gaze of the sage, laughed and 
 repeated : 
 
 "No, poor Darnu, you are still mine, because I 
 am Necessity." 
 
 Darnu opened his eyes with difficulty and sud- 
 171
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 denly he felt that his feet were swollen and pain- 
 ful. He started to rise, but at once he sank back 
 again. Because he now saw clearly the signifi- 
 cance of all the inscriptions and calculations in 
 the temple. As soon as he began to move his 
 limbs, he saw that his desire to do so had already 
 been written on the wall. 
 
 As from another world, the voice of Necessity 
 came to his ears: 
 
 "Rise now, poor Darnu; your limbs are swol- 
 len. You see 999,998 of your brothers in darkness 
 do it. ... It is necessary.'' 
 
 In disgust Darnu remained in his former po- 
 sition, which now became still more painful. But 
 he said to himself: "I will be one of those in the 
 darkness who will not submit to Necessity, because 
 I am free." 
 
 Meanwhile the sun had reached the zenith, and 
 as it looked through the holes in the roof, it began 
 to parch the ill-protected body of the sage. . . . 
 Darnu stretched out his hand toward his gourd. 
 
 But he at once saw what was written on the wall 
 under the number 999,998 and Necessity again 
 said: 
 
 "Poor sage, it is necessary that you drink." 
 
 Darnu left the gourd untouched and said: 
 
 "I will not drink, because I am free," 
 172
 
 'NECESSITY" 
 
 There came a laugh from a distant corner of the 
 temple and at the same time one of the fruits of 
 the fig-tree grew too heavy to hang any longer and 
 fell at the feet of the sage. At the same time a 
 number on the wall changed. Darnu realized at 
 once that this was a new attempt of Necessity to 
 destroy his inner liberty. 
 
 "I will not eat," he said, "because I am free." 
 
 Again there came a laugh from the depths of 
 the temple and he heard the murmuring of the 
 brook : 
 
 "Poor Darnu!" 
 
 The sage became more angry. He remained mo- 
 tionless without looking at the fruit which from 
 time to time fell from the boughs, without heark- 
 ening to the seductive murmur of the waters, and 
 he kept repeating one phrase to himself: "I am 
 free, free, free!" And that no fruit might thwart 
 his freedom by falling directly into his mouth, he 
 closed it tightly and clenched his teeth. 
 
 Thus he sat for a long time, freeing himself from 
 hunger and thirst and trying to spread abroad to 
 all the corners of the earth confidence in his inner 
 liberty. He grew thin, dried up, became wooden, 
 lost track of time and space. He could no longer 
 distinguish day and night, but he kept repeating 
 and asserting to himself that he was free. After 
 173
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 a certain space of time, the birds became accus- 
 tomed to his immobility, flew up and perched 
 upon him, and still later a pair of wild doves built 
 their nest on the head of the free sage and heed- 
 lessly brought forth their young in the folds of 
 his turban. 
 
 "O foolish birds!" thought wise Darnu, when 
 first the calling of the parents and the peeping of 
 the young penetrated his consciousness. ' ' They do 
 all this because they are not free and obey the laws 
 of Necessity." And even when his shoulders were 
 covered with the droppings of the birds, he again 
 said to himself : 
 
 "Fools! They do this too, because they are not 
 free." 
 
 He counted himself perfectly free and close to 
 the gods. 
 
 Below, out of the soil, the thin tendrils of 
 climbing vines began to rise and to wind them- 
 selves around his immovable limbs. . 
 
 IV 
 
 Only once was the wise Darnu partially recalled 
 from complete unconsciousness and at that time he 
 felt in some remote corner of his mind a sensation 
 of mild astonishment. 
 
 174
 
 "NECESSITY' 
 
 This was caused by the appearance of the sage 
 Purana. Exactly like Darnu he walked up 
 to the temple, read the inscription above the en- 
 trance, and then going in, began to read the figures 
 on the walls. The wise Purana was very unlike 
 his stern companion. He was kindly and had a 
 round face. A cross-section of his trunk would 
 have formed a circle, his pleasant eyes sparkled, 
 and his lips wore a smile. In his wisdom he was 
 never obstinate like Darnu, and he sought blessed 
 peace far more zealously than he did freedom. 
 
 Walking around the temple, he came to the re- 
 cess, reverenced the deity, and then, with a glance 
 at the brook and the fig tree, he said : 
 
 ' ' Here is a deity with a pleasant smile, and there 
 is a stream of fresh water and a fig-tree. What 
 more does a man need for pleasant contemplation ? 
 Yes, and there's Darnu. He is so blessed that the 
 birds are building their nests upon him. ..." 
 
 The appearance of his wise friend was not espe- 
 cially joyous, but Purana, gazing at him rever- 
 ently, said to himself: 
 
 "There's no doubt he's blessed; but he always 
 loved too stern methods of contemplation. I do 
 not aspire to the higher stages of blessedness, but 
 I hope to tell the dwellers upon earth what I see 
 on the lower planes." 
 
 175
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Then after enjoying the water and the juicy 
 fruit, he sat down comfortably not far from Darnu, 
 and he too prepared for contemplation in the 
 proper way: that is, by baring his abdomen and 
 gazing at it as the other sage had done. 
 
 So passed a time, more slowly than with Darnu, 
 for the kindly Purana often interrupted his con- 
 templation to enjoy the water and the juicy fruit. 
 Finally out of the navel of the second wise man 
 sprang a bamboo trunk and this attained a height 
 of fifty joints, the number of the years of his life. 
 On the top again sat "Necessity," but in his semi- 
 conscious state she seemed to him to smile pleas- 
 antly and he replied in the same way. 
 
 "Who are you, kind deity?" he asked. 
 
 "I am Necessity, who has governed the fifty 
 years of your life. All that you have done, you 
 did not do, but I did them, for you are but a leaf 
 swept along by the stream and I am the mistress 
 of every movement." 
 
 "Blessed art thou," said Purana. "I see that I 
 have not come to you in vain. Continue in the 
 future to execute your tasks for yourself and me 
 and I will watch for you in pleasant contempla- 
 tion." 
 
 He lost himself in sleep with a happy smile on 
 his lips. So he continued his pleasant contempla- 
 176
 
 'NECESSITY' 
 
 tion, from time to time filling his gourd with water 
 or picking up fruit which had fallen to the ground 
 at his feet. Each time he stirred with less and 
 less pleasure, since the drowsiness of contempla- 
 tion was more and more strongly mastering him, 
 and since he had already eaten the fruit which was 
 nearest to him, he had to exert himself to obtain 
 them from the tree. 
 
 Finally he said to himself: 
 
 ''I'm a foolish man far removed from truth, and 
 that's why I have such foolish cares. Isn't it be- 
 cause this good deity is so slow with her revela- 
 tions? Here before me on the tree is ripe fruit 
 and my stomach is empty. . . . But doesn't the 
 law of necessity say: 'where there is an hungry 
 stomach and fruit, the latter must of necessity en- 
 ter the former'? ... So, kind necessity, I submit 
 to your power. . . . Isn't that the greatest bles- 
 sedness?" 
 
 Thereupon he buried himself in complete con- 
 templation like Darnu, and he waited for neces- 
 sity to manifest herself. In order to facilitate her 
 task, he held his mouth open facing the fig tree. . . . 
 
 He waited one day, two, three. . . . Gradually 
 
 the smile congealed upon his face, his body dried 
 
 up, the pleasant rotundity of his form disappeared, 
 
 the fat under his skin wasted away and the sinews 
 
 177
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 stood out distinctly through it. When at last the 
 fruit ripened and fell, striking Purana on the 
 nose, the sage did not hear it fall nor did he feel 
 the blow. . . . Another pair of doves built a nest 
 in the folds of his turban, fledglings peeped soon 
 in the nest, and the shoulders of Purana were cov- 
 ered thickly with the droppings of the birds. 
 When the luxurious vines had enveloped Purana, 
 it was impossible to distinguish him from his com- 
 panion the obstinate sage struggling against Ne- 
 cessity from the good-natured sage willingly sub- 
 mitting to it. 
 
 Absolute silence reigned in the temple, and the 
 gleaming idol looked down on the two sages with 
 its enigmatic and strange smile. 
 
 Fruit ripened and fell from the trees, the brook 
 bubbled on, white clouds sailed across the blue sky 
 and looked down into the interior of the temple 
 and the sages sat on without manifesting any signs 
 of life one in the blessedness of denial, the other 
 in the blessedness of submission to Necessity. 
 
 Eternal night had spread its black wings over 
 both and no living being would ever have known 
 the truth which the two sages had perceived at the 
 178
 
 "NECESSITY" 
 
 summit of the fifty joints of the reed. But before 
 the last spark which illumined in the darkness the 
 consciousness of wise Darnu had been finally ex- 
 tinguished, he heard again the same voice as be- 
 fore: Necessity was laughing in the gathering 
 darkness, and this laughter, taciturn and sound- 
 less, seemed to Darnu a presentiment of 
 death. . . . 
 
 ''Poor Darnu," said the implacable deity, "piti- 
 able sage! You thought you could leave me, you 
 hoped that you could lay aside my yoke and by 
 turning into an immobile column purchase thereby 
 the consciousness of spiritual liberty. ..." 
 
 "Yes, I am free," answered the thought of the 
 obstinate sage. I alone in the darkness of your 
 servants do not obey the commands of Neces- 
 sity. ..." 
 
 " Look here, poor Darnu. ..." 
 
 Suddenly with his inner eye he saw again the 
 meaning of all the inscriptions and calculations on 
 the walls of the temple. The numbers quietly 
 changed, they grew or diminished automatically 
 and one of them especially attracted his attention. 
 It was the number 999,998. . . . And as he looked 
 at it, two units more fell on the wall and the long 
 number quietly began to change. Darnu trembled 
 and Necessity smiled again. 
 179
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 "You understood, poor sage? In every hundred 
 thousand of my blind servants there is always one 
 obstinate man like you, and one lazy man like Pur- 
 ana. . . . You have both come here. . . . Greet- 
 ings, ye sages, who have completed my calcula- 
 tions. . . ." 
 
 Two tears rolled down from the dull eyes of the 
 sage; they quietly rolled down over his dried up 
 cheeks and fell upon the ground like two ripe 
 fruits from the tree of his aged wisdom. 
 
 Beyond the walls of the temple everything went 
 as usual. The sun shone, the winds blew, the people 
 in the valley busied themselves with their cares, 
 the clouds gathered in the heavens. ... As they 
 crossed the mountains, they became heavy and 
 weak. A storm broke in the mountains. . . . 
 
 Again as in times of yore, a foolish shepherd 
 from a neighboring hillside drove hither his flock 
 and from another direction a young and foolish 
 shepherdess drove hither her flock. They met by 
 the brook and the recess out of which the deity 
 looked at them with its strange smile, and while the 
 thunder roared, they embraced and cooed, just as 
 999,999 pairs had done in the same situation. If 
 wise Darnu could have seen and heard them, he 
 would certainly have said in the greatness of his 
 wisdom : 
 
 180
 
 'NECESSITY' 
 
 "Fools, they are doing this not for themselves 
 but for the pleasure of Necessity." 
 
 The storm passed, the sun again played upon the 
 grass, which was still covered with the sparkling 
 drops of rain and lighted up the darkened interior 
 of the temple. 
 
 "Look," said the shepherdess, "see those two 
 new statues. They never were here before." 
 
 "Hush," answered the shepherd. "Old men 
 say that these are worshippers of the ancient deity. 
 But they can't do any harm. . . . Stay with them 
 and I'll go and find your stray sheep." 
 
 He went out and left her alone with the idol 
 and the two sages. Because she was a little afraid 
 and because she was filled with youthful love and 
 delight, she could not remain in one place but kept 
 walking around the temple and singing loud songs 
 of love and joy. When the storm was entirely 
 passed and the edge of the dark cloud had hidden 
 itself behind the distant summits of the range of 
 mountains, she pulled some damp flowers and 
 decked the idol with them. To conceal its unpleas- 
 ant smile, she stuck in its mouth a fruit of the 
 mountain nut with its leaves and stem. 
 Then she looked at it and laughed aloud. 
 That did not seem enough. She wanted to 
 adorn the old men with flowers. But since good 
 181
 
 BIPDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Parana still carried the nest with the young birds, 
 she turned her attention to stern Darnu, whose 
 nest had been abandoned. She removed the empty 
 nest, cleaned of bird droppings the turban, hair 
 and shoulders of the sage and washed his face with 
 spring water. She thought that in this way she 
 was recompensing the gods for their protection of 
 her happiness. Because even this seemed little and 
 she was overflowing with joy, she bent over and 
 suddenly the blessed Darnu, standing on the very 
 threshold of Nirvana, felt on his dry lips the vigor- 
 ous kiss of the foolish girl. . . . 
 
 Soon after the shepherd returned with a lamb 
 which he had found, and the two went off, singing a 
 cheerful song. 
 
 VI 
 
 In the meantime, that spark which had not been 
 quite extinguished in the consciousness of wise 
 Darnu, flickered up and commenced to burn 
 brighter and brighter. First of all, in him as in a 
 house where everyone is sleeping, thought awoke 
 and began to wander restlessly in the darkness. 
 Wise Darnu thought a whole hour and formed only 
 one phrase: 
 
 "They were subject to Necessity. ..." 
 182
 
 "NECESSITY" 
 
 Another hour: 
 
 "But in the last instance, I too was subject to 
 it. . . ." 
 
 A third hour brought a new premise : 
 
 "In picking the fruit, I obeyed the law of Ne- 
 cessity." 
 
 A fourth: 
 
 "But in refusing, I fulfilled her calculations." 
 
 A fifth: 
 
 ' ' Those fools live and love, but wise Purana and 
 I die." 
 
 A sixth: 
 
 "This perhaps is a work of Necessity, but it has 
 very little sense." 
 
 Then awakened thought finally stirred itself and 
 began to rouse other sleeping faculties: 
 
 "If Purana and I die," said wise Darnu to him- 
 self, "it will be inevitable but foolish. If I suc- 
 ceed in saving myself and my companion, it will 
 be likewise necessary but sensible. Therefore we 
 will save ourselves. For this I need will and 
 strength." 
 
 He rallied the little spark of will which had not 
 been extinguished. He compelled it to raise his 
 heavy eyelids. 
 
 The daylight broke in upon his consciousness, as 
 it floods a room on the opening of the shutters. 
 183
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 First he noticed the lifeless figure of his friend, 
 with his set face and the tear that precedes death 
 already on his cheeks. Darnu 's heart felt such 
 pity for his ill-fated fellow seeker after truth that 
 his will became stronger and stronger. It entered 
 his hands and they began to move ; his hands helped 
 his feet. . . . This all took much longer to execute 
 than to decide upon. But the following morning 
 found Darnu 's gourd full of fresh water at Pura- 
 na 's lips, and a piece of juicy fruit fell finally into 
 the open mouth of the good-natured sage. 
 
 Then Purana 's jaws moved and he thought : "0 
 benevolent Necessity. I see that you are now begin- 
 ning to fulfill your promise." But when he real- 
 ized that it was not the goddess but his companion 
 Darnu who was stirring around him, he felt him- 
 self rather insulted and said: 
 
 * ' Eight mountain ranges and seven seas, the sun 
 and the holy gods, you, I, the universe, all are 
 moved by Necessity. . . . Why did you awaken 
 me, Darnu? I was on the threshold of blessed 
 peace." 
 
 "You were like a corpse, friend Purana." 
 
 "He who like a blind man sees nought, like a 
 deaf man hears nought, like a tree is insensible 
 and immovable, has attained rest. . . . Give me 
 some more water to drink, friend Darnu. ..." 
 184
 
 "NECESSITY" 
 
 ' Drink, Purana. I still see a tear on your cheek. 
 Did not the blessedness of peace press it from your 
 eyes?" 
 
 The wise sages spent the next three weeks in 
 accustoming their mouths to eating and drinking 
 and their limbs to moving, and during these three 
 weeks they slept in the temple and warmed each 
 other with the heat of their bodies till their strength 
 returned. 
 
 At the beginning of the fourth week, they stood 
 at the threshold of the ruined temple. Below at 
 their feet lay the green slopes of the mountain 
 descending into the valley. . . . Far in the dis- 
 tance were the winding rivers, the white houses of 
 the villages and cities where people lived their nor- 
 mal lives, busied with cares, passions, love, anger 
 and hate, where joy was changed for sorrow, and 
 sorrow was healed by new joy, and where amid 
 the roaring torrent of life men raised their eyes 
 to heaven, seeking a star to guide them. . . . The 
 sages stood and looked at the picture of life spread 
 out at the entrance to the old temple. 
 
 "Where shall we go, friend Darnu?" asked the 
 blinded Purana. "Are there no directions on the 
 walls of the temple?" 
 
 "Leave the temple and its deity in peace," an- 
 swered Darnu. "If we go to the right, that will 
 185
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 be in accordance with Necessity. If we go to the 
 left, that too is in accordance with her. Don't 
 you understand, friend Purana, that this deity 
 acknowledges as its laws everything that our choice 
 decides upon. Necessity is not the master but 
 merely the soulless accountant of our movements. 
 The accountant marks only what has been. What 
 must be will be only by our will. ..." 
 
 "It means . . ." 
 
 "It means, let us permit Necessity to worry 
 over her calculations, as she will. Let us choose 
 that path which leads us to the homes of our 
 brothers." 
 
 With cheerful steps both sages went down from 
 the mountain heights into the valley, where human 
 life flows on amid cares, love, and sorrow, where 
 laughter echoes and tears flow. . . . 
 
 "And where our steward, Kassapa, covers the 
 back of the slave Jebaka with welts," added wise 
 Darnu with a smile of reproach. 
 
 This is the story which the cheerful sage Ulaya 
 told to the young son of the Rajah Lichava, when 
 he had fallen into the idleness of despair. . . . 
 Darnu and Purana smiled, denying nothing and 
 affirming nothing, and Kassapa heard the story. 
 Buried in thought he went away toward the home 
 of his father, the powerful Rajah Lichava. 
 186
 
 ON THE VOLGA
 
 A S HE went out on the deck of the steamer 
 * * which was running upstream, Dmitry Parfen- 
 tyevich drew a deep breath. 
 
 The day was ending and the sun was hanging 
 low above the forest-covered mountain. The river 
 furnished a majestic and peaceful picture. Some- 
 where in the distance a steamboat whistled ; a sail- 
 boat heavily laden lay on the river and seemed as 
 immobile as the sleepy wife of a merchant. The 
 rafts all carried fires, the men were cooking their 
 dinners. Two small barks, fastened together and 
 heading obliquely across stream, floated by, hardly 
 touching the glassy surface of the river, and be- 
 neath them, swinging and swaying, hung their re- 
 flection in the blue depths. When the wake of the 
 steamer, spreading ever wider and wider, touched 
 this image, it suddenly broke and scattered. It 
 was a sudden shattering of a mirror and the frag- 
 ments floated and sparkled for a long time. 
 189
 
 "Are you all right, Grunya?" asked Dmitry 
 Parfentyevich, sitting down beside his daughter. 
 
 "Yes," she answered briefly. 
 
 The girl wore a dark dress. A Scythian kerchief 
 on her forehead threw a shadow over her pale 
 young face; her large eyes were dreamy and 
 thoughtful. 
 
 "The main thing is heavenly blessing and quiet," 
 moralized Dmitry Parfentyevich. 
 
 His life was moving toward its close and he 
 thought that nothing could be better than the quiet 
 of a dying day. . . . 
 
 Only quiet and prayer after sinful vanity and 
 weakness. . . . May God grant no new wishes, 
 but save from every new temptation. 
 
 ' ' Grunya ? ' ' Dmitry Parfentyevich looked at his 
 daughter and he wished to ask about her own 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Yes," answered the girl, but her gaze, dream- 
 ily running far ahead over the golden river and 
 the mountains with their quiet veil of bluish mist, 
 seemed to be seeking something else. 
 
 The passengers on the deck were just as quiet. 
 Some were carrying on private conversations; 
 others were getting ready for tea at the little 
 tables. 
 
 In the stern sat a group of Tatars, returning 
 190
 
 O.V THE VOLGA 
 
 home from Astrakhan. There was an old patri- 
 arch with three sons. A fourth, the favorite, had 
 been buried in a strange city. Akhmetzyan had 
 been taken ill with an unknown disease, lay a week 
 and died. 
 
 "All is as Allah wills," said the stern face of 
 the old man, but he had still to tell the mother of 
 the death of her beloved son. 
 
 Everything breathed of silence and peace and 
 the mountains on the right bank swam up one after 
 the other and then, receding into the distance, they 
 seemed to wrap themselves in a blue haze. 
 
 n 
 
 Near Dmitry Parfentyevich were the knots of 
 passengers, some on benches by the table, others 
 on the deck and sitting on bundles. 
 
 There were several raftsmen from Unzha, a fat 
 and good-natured country woman, and an old man, 
 probably also a small farmer. The centre of the 
 group at this moment was a steward for the third 
 class passengers. He was still young and was 
 dressed in a worn and dirty frock coat, with the 
 number "2" on the left side. A napkin hung over 
 his shoulder and with this he attained remarkable 
 success in rubbing the wet tables and the glasses. 
 191
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 He had just brought to the deck a tray of dishes 
 with his arms wide open and with his eyes looking 
 ahead and at his feet at the same instant. He had 
 put the tray on the table, wiped off the dust around 
 it with his napkin, and then joining this group 
 of his countrymen sat down on the end of the 
 bench and at once assumed a leading role in the 
 conversation which they had already commenced. 
 
 "I'll tell you," he said in a wholly confident 
 tone, ' ' if I cross myself with my fist, it works. This 
 way: in the Name of the Father and of the Son 
 and of the Holy Ghost, Amen. It really works just 
 the same. What do you think?" 
 
 He looked at the others with the air of a man 
 who had just propounded a very clever riddle. 
 
 "The fist, you say?" asked one of the peasants 
 from Unzha in surprise. 
 
 "Yes, the fist." 
 
 The listeners shook their heads as a mark of doubt 
 and reproof. The farmer turned sternly to the 
 young fellow: 
 
 "N-now, stop that! You claim to be above 
 God. . . ." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Why, you are a foo-fool to make the sign of 
 the cross with your fist. Impossible. It never 
 works. " 
 
 192
 
 ON THE VOLGA 
 
 "It does!" 
 
 The young fellow looked round upon his auditors 
 with a joyously radiant face and was about to give 
 the answer to the riddle when he heard at one of 
 the tables the impatient tapping of a spoon on a 
 glass. 
 
 The fellow jumped up as if he had been shot. In 
 an instant he was at the other end of the deck, 
 grabbed the tea-pots, ran to the machinery and 
 back, set the table, shook himself, ran below again, 
 put up the orders and passed them around the 
 tables, and all the while the conversation continued 
 before an enchanted audience. 
 
 "He's beside himself!" said the farmer. 
 
 "Due to a stupid mind," added the old woman 
 pityingly. 
 
 "The little fellow was a liar, that's all!" 
 
 "How can you do it with your fist? ... That 
 never works. ..." 
 
 The general opinion was evidently very def- 
 inite. 
 
 "Impossible," said several voices suddenly. 
 "It's impudence and nothing else. ..." 
 
 "What ?" 
 
 "Where did you get that notion?" 
 
 "It's impudence. ..." 
 
 "Just you listen," interrupted the young waiter, 
 193
 
 suddenly coming up the hatch, "and you may not 
 think it impudent. ... In the linen factory in 
 the place where I lived there was a fellow and a 
 machine caught all his fingers and slash bang! 
 That's all! He didn't have a finger left! And 
 his right hand too. . . . Just imagine: being a 
 man with nothing but his palm left. ..." 
 
 The audience was charmed. 
 
 "What are you driving at?" 
 
 "You see the question. . . . What would you do, 
 brothers ? . . . Could he cross himself with his left 
 hand? . . ." 
 
 "What, what?" The farmer waved his hand. 
 "You can't use the left hand. . . . That's for 
 Satan. ..." 
 
 "But he'd lost the fingers on the right, so he 
 couldn't join them. . . . Had only the palm 
 left! . . ." 
 
 "That's so. . . ." 
 
 The riddle became more popular. The passen- 
 gers nearby listened; those further off got up and 
 walked nearer to the speaker. Even the young 
 merchant who was talking very authoritatively 
 about politics at the tea table with a fat gentleman, 
 deigned to turn his benevolent attention to the all- 
 ingrossing riddle. He tapped with his spoon and 
 beckoned to the waiter. 
 
 194
 
 ON THE VOLGA 
 
 "Waiter, how much? . . . 0-oh! What did you 
 say: with the fist?" 
 
 "Yes, your excellency, among ourselves. ... It 
 doesn't interest you. ..." 
 
 "No, but it's really clever, isn't it?" remarked 
 the merchant to his fat friend. 
 
 The latter 's answer was unintelligible, for the 
 man was struggling with a slice of bread and 
 butter. 
 
 But the Tatars sat in the stern without taking 
 any part in the general conversation. They were 
 silent, but once in a while they made brief remarks 
 to one another in their own language. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Dmitry Parfentyevich started like a war horse 
 at the sound of a trumpet. Grunya did not take 
 her eyes from the distant mountains and the river, 
 but it was easy to see that she was not looking at 
 them. Without turning her head she was listen- 
 ing intently to the conversation of her neighbors. 
 
 Dmitry Parfentyevich looked at her askance. 
 Hitherto she would have turned to him immedi- 
 ately with a trusting question: "Papa, how's 
 that?" Now she seemed to pay no attention to her 
 father's opinion. 
 
 195
 
 He waited for her to ask but her large eyes fell 
 with evident sympathy upon that knot of dark, 
 ignorant people, who were shocked by such a mean- 
 ingless change in their faith. . . . 
 
 He rose and walked up to the disputants. His 
 thick-set, dry figure, savagely pure, in an old-fash- 
 ioned costume, won for him the immediate atten- 
 tion of all. 
 
 "What's the trouble?" he asked. 
 
 "It's this way, you see, merchant. . . . This 
 little fellow says you can cross yourself with your 
 fist." 
 
 "I heard him but don't repeat it! That man's 
 a fool!" 
 
 "Yes, yes," whispered one timidly, "we're all 
 dark people. ..." 
 
 "That's true, . . . you are. If you follow the 
 teachings of your true masters, you'll find nothing 
 surprising here." 
 
 The audience grew rapidly larger. All were now 
 interested in the tall old man with quiet and 
 majestically austere manners. Dmitry Parfentye- 
 vich was not embarrassed by the attention he was 
 receiving. It was not the first time. There was 
 only one person in that crowd that interested him 
 and that was his scholar, his disobedient and devout 
 Grunya. In his own way he loved his daughter and 
 196
 
 ON THE VOLGA 
 
 his rough heart was torn by her unwearied doubts 
 and her sad look. He passionately wished her to 
 feel that peace from heaven which his own heart 
 had so fully obtained. But her disobedience always 
 aroused in his stern soul a storm of suppressed 
 rage and this struggled with his love and usually 
 conquered it. 
 
 Grunya still kept her seat. She did not stir but 
 she listened intently. 
 
 "Now listen," came to her ears the confident and 
 harsh voice of her father. "This is the true cross 
 and it is to this cross that we hold in order to be 
 saved." 
 
 He raised his hand with two fingers raised, so 
 that all could see. 
 
 "A dissenter," was the murmur in the crowd. 
 Two or three merchants who were apparently fond 
 of religious discussions, pressed nearer, when they 
 heard this unexpected confession. 
 
 "We are not dissenters," continued Dmitry 
 Parfentyevich. "We confess the true faith. This 
 was the form of the cross which the holy fathers 
 and the patriarchs believed in. This was taught by 
 St. Theodoret." 
 
 He raised his hand with the two fingers joined 
 still higher. 
 
 "Press the thumb against the little finger and 
 197
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 the ring finger. That is to signify the Holy Trinity. 
 Three Persons united. Raise two fingers : that's for 
 deity and humanity two natures. Theodoret 
 teaches again that the middle finger is to be bent a 
 little. That symbolizes humanity reverencing 
 deity. See!" 
 
 "Wait!" interrupted one of the merchants who 
 had forced his way to the front. "St. Cyril says 
 something else. ' ' 
 
 "St. Cyril says the same thing. Only he bids 
 you keep both fingers straight." 
 
 "That must make a difference." 
 
 "Wait, my good man, that's wrong. . . . Don't 
 interrupt. ..." The speakers stopped. "Let him 
 finish. . . . What about the fist, merchant?" 
 
 "Yes . . . that's the main thing." 
 
 "It's like this: if he lost his fingers he wasnl 
 to blame. That means : God allowed it. It was His 
 will! But a man can't live without making 1 the 
 sign of the cross. Without the sign of the cross 
 he's worse than this heathen Tatar. He's bound to 
 cross himself . . . with his right hand. ..." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "And his fingers," concluded Dmitry Parfentye- 
 vich after a pause: "His fingers he must place in 
 thought, as he is ordered by the holy fathers and 
 patriarchs. ..." 
 
 198
 
 ON THE VOLGA 
 
 The crowd heaved a sigh of relief and joy. 
 
 "Merchant, we thank you!" 
 
 "He decided. . . ." 
 
 "That's it: he just chewed it up and explained 
 it." 
 
 ' ' With thought ! That 's true ! ' ' 
 
 * ' Of course ! . . . With thought, nothing else ! ' ' 
 
 "That will work all right. ..." 
 
 Dmitry Parfentyevich looked at his daughter. 
 . . . What did he care for this applause, these 
 praises from strange, ignorant people! She, his 
 daughter, kept looking straight ahead with a look 
 of indifference upon her face, as if her father had 
 said something which she had long known and 
 which had lost all power to touch her confused and 
 weary soul. . . . 
 
 The old man frowned and his voice became men- 
 acing. 
 
 "If he joins his imaginary thumb with the two 
 imaginary fingers beside it he is wrong. ... A 
 man who crosses himself that way will be con- 
 demned to eternal damnation. . . . Cursed be he in 
 this life and he will have no lot in the next." 
 
 These violent and harsh words, suddenly falling 
 upon the crowd which had just quieted down, 
 changed its mood. 
 
 It became excited, began to murmur, separate 
 199
 
 into smaller groups. A black-eyed, black-haired 
 merchant, who had maintained hitherto an obsti- 
 nate silence, now struck his fist on the table and 
 said with a flash of his deepset and enthusiastic 
 eyes: 
 
 "True! The Devil Kuka and his whole crew are 
 in that cursed cross with the thumb and the fingers 
 next to it." 
 
 "No, stop!" shouted the Orthodox, "don't 
 insult the true cross! Why do you separate the 
 Three Persons, c-curses on you? . . . This is the 
 Trinity in these three fingers. ..." 
 
 "Where are your first fingers'?" 
 
 "Merchant, have you read the hundred and fifth 
 article?" 
 
 "Yes, it's on the end of the world." 
 
 Dmitry Parfentyevich remained the centre of the 
 group. He was still composed and calm, but each 
 time when he answered any of his opponents, he 
 transfixed him with a stubborn and unfriendly 
 glance. 
 
 With splashing wheels, the steamboat steadily 
 ascended the river and cleft the blue surface of 
 the stream ; it carried with it this group of violently 
 quarreling people and the clay slopes of the steep 
 bank reechoed their confused voices. 
 
 A steep mountain, which had concealed a bend 
 20Q
 
 ON THE VOLGA 
 
 in the river, now receded to the rear and a broad 
 sweep of the river appeared in front. The sun 
 hung like a red ball above the water and from the 
 east, darkness spread over the meadows as if on the 
 soft wingbeats of the evening shadows, overtaking 
 the boat and falling more and more noticeably over 
 the Volga. 
 
 IV 
 
 The silent group of Tatars suddenly rose from 
 their places in the stern and with even step moved 
 to the paddle box at the edge of the upper deck. 
 They took off their coats and spread them on the 
 deck. Then they took off their slippers and rever- 
 ently stepped upon their coats. The glow of the 
 sunset fell upon the rough faces of the Tatars. 
 Their thickset figures were sharply outlined against 
 the light and cooling heavens. 
 
 "They're praying," one man whispered and sev- 
 eral left the quarreling group and walked to the 
 railing. 
 
 Others followed. The argument quieted down. 
 
 The Tatars stood with their eyes closed, their 
 brows were raised and their thoughts were appar- 
 ently lifted up to that place where the last rays of 
 daylight were fading on the heights. At times they 
 201
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 unlocked their arms which were crossed on their 
 breasts and placed them on their knees, and then 
 they bowed their heads with their sheepskin caps, 
 low, so low. They arose again and stretched their 
 hands with the fingers extended toward the light. 
 
 The lips of the Moslems were whispering the 
 words of an unknown and unintelligible prayer. . . . 
 
 "Look there," said one peasant, and he stopped 
 hesitatingly, without expressing his thought. 
 
 "They are fulfilling the rites of their religion," 
 asserted another. 
 
 "Yes, they're praying too. ..." 
 
 The Tatars suddenly knelt, touched their fore- 
 heads to the deck, and at once rose again. The 
 three young men took their coats and slippers and 
 went back to their former seats on the stern. The 
 old man was left alone. He sat with his feet 
 crossed under him. His lips moved and over his 
 beautiful face with its gray beard passed a strange 
 and touching expression of deep sorrow softened 
 by reverence before the will of the Most High. 
 His hands quickly fingered his beads. 
 
 "See. ... He has beads too." 
 
 "A zealous man. ..." 
 
 "Yes, it's for his son. . . . He died in Astrak- 
 han," explained the merchant who had gone down 
 the river with the Tatars. 
 202
 
 ON THE VOLGA 
 
 "Oh, oh, oh!" sighed one of them philosophic- 
 ally. "Every man wishes to be saved. No one 
 wishes to perish, whoever he is, even' if he's a 
 Tatar. ..." 
 
 It was too dark to tell who was speaking. Tho 
 group melted together but the isolated figure of the 
 old man still at his devotions could be seen at the 
 edge of the paddle box above the water. He was 
 silently swaying backwards and forwards. 
 "Papa!" suddenly came a soft voice. 
 It was Grunya calling her father. 
 "What is it, daughter?" 
 
 The girl was silent for a moment ; she kept look- 
 ing at that praying figure of the adherent of an 
 alien faith, and then her young and eager voice 
 clearly sounded through the quiet : 
 
 "Please, . . . what do you think: will God hear 
 that prayer?" 
 
 Grunya spoke softly, but all heard her. It 
 seemed as if a light breeze had passed along the 
 deck and in more than one soul the question of 
 the pale girl found response: will God hear that 
 prayer? 
 
 All were silent. . . . Their eyes involuntarily 
 
 turned upward, as if they wished to follow in the 
 
 blue of the evening sky the invisible flight of that 
 
 strange and unintelligible but beautiful prayer. . . . 
 
 203
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 ''Why won't He? ..." came the irresolutely 
 soft words of a good-natured peasant. "You see, 
 he 's not praying to any one else. There 's only one 
 God." 
 
 "Yes, the Father. You see, he's looking to 
 heaven." 
 
 "Who knows, who knows? ..." 
 
 "It's a hard question the ways of the 
 Lord " 
 
 A block creaked at the bow, the light of a golden 
 star flew to the top of the mast ; the waves splashed 
 somewhere in the darkness; the distant whistle of 
 an almost invisible steamboat re-echoed above the 
 sleeping river. In the sky the bright stars appeared 
 one after the other, and the blue night hung noise- 
 lessly above the meadows, the mountains and the 
 ravines of the Volga. 
 
 The earth seemed to be sadly asking some ques- 
 tion but the heavens remained silent with its quiet 
 and its mystery. . . . 
 
 204
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
 
 (A SKETCH FROM A TRAVELER'S NOTEBOOK)
 
 THE VILLAGE OP GOD 
 
 (A SKETCH FROM A TRAVELER'S NOTEBOOK) 
 
 EARLY one summer morning I put my knap- 
 sack on my shoulders and set out from 
 Arzamas. 
 
 Southeast of the city stretched the slopes of a 
 green mountain. A little white church welcomingly 
 and mildly peered out through the trees which grew 
 in large numbers among the graves and beside the 
 cemetery on the pitted sides of the mountain were 
 some strange white spots. . . . 
 
 As I drew near I saw that these were small 
 and almost toy houses of old brick with peaked 
 roofs covered with mosses and lichens. Three were 
 shorter than a man, one, in the form of a chapel, 
 was taller. The roofs supported eight-pointed 
 crosses, and on the walls were the dark boards of 
 ikons. The faces had been worn away by the winds 
 and beaten by the rains. 
 
 I was told in Arzamas that these were all thai 
 207
 
 was left of a unique village. In earlier times the 
 entire mountainside had been covered with similar 
 structures, as if a city of dwarfs had been laid out 
 opposite to the real city with its gigantic churches 
 and its monastery. The people called this place 
 the "Village of God." 
 
 Every year, on the Thursday of the Seventh 
 Week after Easter the local clergy come to this 
 mountain and wave their censers in the air amid 
 these peculiar houses; the incense perfumes the 
 place and the choir sings : 
 
 "Remember, Lord, Thy slaughtered servants and 
 those who died an unknown death, whose names, 
 Lord, Thou knowest. ..." 
 
 For whom they pray, for whom they sing the 
 requiem, whose sinful souls are remembered in this 
 prayer, neither the people of Arzamas who stand 
 around and pray nor the clergy of Arzamas can 
 tell definitely. . . . For them the service in the 
 disappearing "village" is merely a pious and re- 
 vered custom, a relic of the hoary past. . . . 
 
 And this past was sad and bloodstained. . . . 
 
 Arzamas was once on the frontier. The city 
 guarded the border. The breeze which raised the 
 dust on the distant steppes here roused great 
 anxiety and alarm. Some looked toward the 
 steppes with terror, others with uneasy hopes. . , , 
 208
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
 
 And every spark borne hither on the winds from 
 the Don or the Volga, found here a goodly supply 
 of inflammable material in oppression, violence, 
 injustice, slavery, and grievous national suffering. 
 This was the soil where was planted the Village 
 of God. 
 
 II 
 
 It began, according to tradition, in the days of 
 Stepan Timofeyevich Razin. . . . The workmen of 
 Stenka robbed even in Arzamas. They fled from 
 here to the north of Nizhny Novgorod, nested for 
 a while in the village of Bolshoye Murashkino, and 
 then passed on to Lyskovo and Makary. At their 
 heels came the generals of the tsar and the bloody 
 vengeance of the followers of Razin was followed 
 by the not less bloody vengeance of the tsar. 
 
 During Peter's reign in 1708, Kondrashka 
 Bulavin sent from the free Don his "pleasant 
 letters." "Young atamans, lovers of travel, free 
 people of every class, thieves and robbers! He 
 who wishes to go with the military campaigning 
 ataman Kondraty Afanasyevich Bulavin, he who 
 wishes to raid with him, to travel gloriously, drink 
 and eat as he will, ride over the open fields on fine 
 horses, let him come to the black mountains of 
 209
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Samara." ... So wrote the rebellious ataman to 
 the Cossacks of the Don, to the Ukraine, and the 
 Zaporozhian Syech. Along the Volga, through 
 cities north and south, to worthy commanders, flew 
 the message and also to the villages and towns. In 
 long and business-like letters, carefully composed 
 with a view to their political effect, he set forth all 
 the oppressions of nobles and magnates, all the 
 wrongs and injustice under which the land had long 
 been suffering. The appeals of Kondrashka in- 
 flamed the whole land, more blood was shed, and 
 savage was the vengeance of the people. . . . Again 
 from Moscow advanced the regiments of troops in 
 accordance with the terrible order of Tsar Peter : 
 
 ". . . Go through the cities and villages which 
 have joined the robbers, burn them to the last 
 straw, slay the people and torture the leaders on 
 wheel and stake. . . . For this plague cannot be 
 removed, except by sternness. ..." 
 
 In those days there was no lack of sternness 
 and after the pacification even the cruel tsar wrote 
 to Dolgoruky, not to execute the brother of the 
 slain Bulavin, for many had joined the revolt from 
 misapprehension or "from compulsion." 
 
 The rebels were carried to Arzamas. Scaffolds, 
 stakes, and wheels were erected along the roads 
 and the city during one of these periods of ven- 
 210
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
 
 geance was, in the words of an eye-witness quoted 
 by Solovyev, "like hell"; for more than a weefc 
 the groans of the victims of the terrible tortures 
 filled the air and birds of prey hung over the places 
 of execution. 
 
 After this pacification arose on the mountainside 
 houses of the "Village of God," and the people 
 began to sing the requiems on the hillside. . . . 
 
 Ere long the bone of the followers of Razin and 
 of Bulavin were joined by the bones of the ban- 
 ished Stryeltsi (Guards). . . . Defiantly and in 
 disobedience to the tsar's order, they left Vekikiya 
 Luki, whither they had been sent, and they stoutly 
 resisted the tsar's General, Shein, with a large 
 force, but they were defeated in a desperate hand- 
 to-hand encounter, as they were trying to cut their 
 way through to Moscow to the Stryeltsi villages 
 where their wives and children were living. The 
 victorious general filled the prisons and dungeons 
 of Arzamas with the men who had disobeyed the 
 tsar's orders. The ring-leaders were punished. 
 The tsar returning from abroad was dissatisfied 
 with the weakness and the mildness shown by Shein 
 to the rebels. A judge was sent from Moscow to 
 make a new investigation. . . . There were not 
 enough executioners in the city to administer the 
 new tortures and punishments and more had to be 
 211
 
 BIKVS OF HEAVEN 
 
 summoned from Moscow for the occasion. . . . 
 
 New houses were added to the "Village of 
 God." . . . 
 
 Drenched with blood, the naive and rebellious 
 dream of the people for a free life died away until 
 new outbreaks commenced, a dream closely con- 
 nected with the old cross and the beard, with Cos- - 
 sack bands, and with confused memories of the 
 freedom of the steppes. The old injustice weighed 
 more and more heavily upon them and hardened 
 and increased their century-old suffering. The 
 memory of the people involuntarily -returned to 
 those who promised freedom and who sealed this 
 promise with their own and others' blood. . . . 
 Time and time again, like stones washed down to 
 the shore by the raging torrent, new groups of 
 "houses of God" appeared on the slopes of the 
 mountain of Arzamas. 
 
 At first, perhaps, each grave preserved the mem- 
 ory of a definite man, his name, and his saint on an 
 ikon. Some one would bring these ikons and 
 sprinkle the tombs of shame with passionate tears 
 of love and sympathy. These mourners died. . . s 
 The wind, the rains, and the sun faded the faces 
 on the ikons, and along with these there perished 
 the living personal memory of the people buried 
 here. There remained hanging above the moun- 
 212
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
 
 tain only a vague tradition and a vague popular 
 feeling, ... a feeling of sad inability to compre- 
 hend, which dared not pronounce its own judg- 
 ment and presented this to heaven. . . . And down 
 the centuries, from year to year, even to our own 
 times, sounds the solemn prayer for all those who 
 had been put to death, be they innocent or guilty, 
 and for all those who died an unknown death. . . . 
 . . . Whose names, Lord, Thou knowest. . . . 
 
 Ill 
 
 I heard the following tale in Arzamas. 
 
 It was after the suppression of the rebellion of 
 Razin. The tsar's generals had erected near 
 Arzamas a whole forest of columns with cross- 
 beams and towards evening the city saw in horror, 
 as they looked from one hill to another, hanging 
 upon them the bodies of atamans and of the men 
 of Arzamas who had joined the revolt. The bloody 
 sun set behind the mountain, fearful darkness cov- 
 ered the heavens, and crows swarmed in clouds 
 around their booty. The people kept asking one 
 another: "Who is hanging there on the mountain? 
 Criminals and murderers or the defenders of pop- 
 ular freedom, the avengers of century-old injus- 
 tices?" 
 
 213
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 That same night a young merchant of Arzamas 
 was driving his tired horse along the road from 
 Saratov and he was urging it on with all his might. 
 He abandoned far from the city his cart and the 
 wares which he was bringing from the Volga, and 
 was hurrying ahead without resting at all ; he had 
 learned from fugitives whom he had met that there 
 was something wrong in the city and that the men 
 of Razin were rioting in it. And he had left in 
 the city his father and mother and his young wife 
 with her first-born babe. 
 
 At midnight the young man galloped on his 
 foaming horse out of the forest on to a hill in sight 
 of his natal city. There was no gleam of fire to be 
 seen above the city, no alarm bells to be heard. The 
 city seemed dead; but in two or three of the 
 churches were there timid lights, perchance by 
 the dead bodies of ' ' honorable citizens, ' ' who were 
 waiting Christian burial. . . . 
 
 Suddenly ... his horse started. ... It was at 
 that very place where now stand the "houses of 
 God. "... The merchant saw a dread and leafless 
 forest standing on the mountain side, and, like 
 ripe fruit, the bodies of good young men hanging 
 on the trees, with crows flapping their wings and 
 picking out the eyes of the dead. 
 
 The young merchant's heart had been surging 
 214
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
 
 Avith uncertainty and sorrow during his hurried 
 journey by day and night, uninterrupted save by 
 the need of changing his tired horses, and his soul 
 was weighted down as by a rock with his hatred for 
 the rebels of Razin. He stopped his horse under 
 one scaffold, rose in his stirrups and with all his 
 strength he lashed one of the dead bodies and 
 cursed it. ... The body swayed. . . . The chain 
 creaked and a cloud of crows rose in the air, flap- 
 ping and cawing. 
 
 A dreadful result followed: the tortured dead 
 descended from every scaffold, from every wheel, 
 and from every hook and rushed at the merchant. 
 . . . The maddened horse tore through the fields, 
 leaped the ravines, and reached the city utterly ex- 
 hausted. And throughout the whole flight, like 
 autumn leaves driven by a gale, dashed after him 
 the shades of the executed, with their dead eyes 
 aflame, and their fettered hands grasped after him 
 with curses and moans, and their dead voices wailed, 
 lamented, cursed. . . . 
 
 Then the merchant realized that it was not for 
 him to judge those who were now standing before 
 a far different tribunal, pleading there their own 
 and others' sins, their own and others' wrongs, 
 their own and others' blood. In that dreadful 
 hour he took a solemn oath to bury all those who 
 215
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 had been executed and yearly to have a requiem 
 for them. 
 
 Since then, it is said that the houses of God 
 have stood in Arzamas. Since then the clergy sing 
 the requiem over the nameless graves and the ikons 
 which have been brought hither do not perish 
 unnoticed. . . . 
 
 IV 
 
 It was a clear, calm morning when I went out 
 to the remains of the Village of God. A tired 
 woman who was driving a lost cow crossed herself, 
 when she saw the cross of the chapel. A gang of 
 workmen, "panniers" of Arzamas, were going to 
 their work. A very old peasant, gray as an owl 
 and with faded but still living eyes, was sitting on 
 the threshold of the chapel and binding the flaps of 
 his rough boots. The sun had just risen above 
 the distant forests. 
 
 "Greetings, grandsir," I said to the old man. 
 
 "Good morning, son. . . . Where 're you going?" 
 
 "To Sarov." 
 
 "You're on the wrong road. There's the proper 
 way. ... To the bridge and then the village 
 there." 
 
 "I know, grandsir. I left the road on purpose, 
 so as to see the houses of God." 
 216
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
 
 "Look, son, look. . . . And pray here too. . . . 
 It's a holy place, you know. ..." 
 
 "Don't you know who's buried here?" 
 
 "Yes, son, yes! People of every class. . . . Vio- 
 lence! ... A Saltykov, a landowner from the 
 Vyyezdnaya Sloboda, who oppressed the people, 
 God forbid." 
 
 The old man sadly shook his gray beard. 
 
 "You know, old people say, a merchant was 
 going from Makary to Arzamas, and offered 
 thanksgiving for arriving safely. Glory to God 
 he was at home ! At dawn he went out of the city 
 peacefully and met the lord and his retainers cm 
 the bridge. There was no justice. . . . They 
 hurled him from the bridge into the Tesha and in 
 a day or two his body floated to the city. ... It 
 was picked up and buried here, on the mountain. 
 And here it lies till the Day of Judgment. ..." 
 
 I was already familiar with the name of this 
 Saltykov : the old records in the archives of Nizhny 
 Novgorod preserve the dark memories of the acts 
 of this noble family, and one is well known from 
 the revolt of Pugachev : his retainers collected the 
 taxes by robbery. When the glad tidings spread 
 among the people that Petr Fedorovich had made 
 himself known and was marching to recover his 
 throne, the serfs of Saltykov thought that there 
 217
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 would be an end to their master's outrages and 
 their necessarily sinful lives. The mir assembled, 
 seized and bound their lord, put him in a cart 
 and took him to the "tsar's camp" for trial. 
 * ' But, ' ' said one landowner who described the inci- 
 dent, "the Lord heard the prayers of the innocent 
 victim and the rascals instead of going to the camp 
 of the pretender, carried him to the troops of 
 Mikhelson." 
 
 It goes without saying that the kindly nobleman 
 was quickly released and the wicked peasants 
 received just punishment. Their bones perhaps 
 joined those of the followers of Bulavin, the Stry- 
 eltsi and the victims of this same Saltykov. They 
 all lie there together awaiting "the judgment of 
 God" over all earthly actions. . . . 
 
 "Yes, there's the Sloboda," said the old man, 
 rising to his feet and pointing to the village with 
 its columns of smoke and with the morning fog 
 across the river Tesha. "And there, higher up, 
 were the gardens of Saltykov. ..." 
 
 "Do you think these houses of God were built 
 since, grandsir?" I asked. 
 
 "N-no, friend! Since! N-no. . . . Much ear- 
 lier. . . . Perhaps since Pugachev." 
 
 "Who was Pugachev?" 
 
 "Who knows, we are dark people. We heard 
 218
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
 
 from our fathers and grandfathers nothing but 
 Pugachev and Pugachev. . . . You know the old 
 story. My father died forty years ago and he was 
 ninety years old when he died. . . . And he was 
 still a boy when Pugachev appeared. Count now, 
 how long ago it was." 
 
 "A hundred and twenty years, grandsir." 
 
 "Yes, a hundred and twenty, and more! . . . 
 Pugachev was a stern man. Oh, so stern. You 
 know, he didn't love the landowners. He'd go into 
 a village. 'Give me your lords!' If the peasants 
 hid them, God forbid! Cruel. . . . My father, 
 God bless him, once told me there were two villages 
 side by side. The people of one guessed right. 
 They took the ikon and went to meet him, ringing 
 the bells. He pardoned them, rewarded them, gave 
 them a charter of his favor. . . . Ours didn't; 
 the fools didn't meet him and he burned the whole 
 village." 
 
 The old man suddenly looked at me, saw my 
 watchchain and the notebook in which I began to 
 jot down the main points of his story, and lie 
 suddenly took off his cap and said : 
 
 "Forgive me, for Christ's sake!" 
 
 "What's the matter, grandsir?" 
 
 "That wasn't so, perhaps. . . . We're dark 
 people; how should we know? . . . Perhaps he 
 219
 
 never said it. ... But it is true that he was stern. 
 . . . He loved order. ..." 
 
 The old man seemed to be afraid that the gen- 
 tleman would condemn him for familiar stories 
 about the high qualities of Pugachev, who "loved 
 order" and issued "charters of his favor". . . . 
 
 I succeeded in calming his anxiety, and we con- 
 tinued to talk. The old man proved communi- 
 cative. His memory kept much curious lore and 
 his simple answers revealed that same vague 
 atmosphere which filled the place: a feeling of 
 pardoning and timid lack of comprehension, of 
 vague questioning and of prayer for those who 
 lie here, under the earth, and perchance had been 
 executed as punishment for crime or perchance had 
 laid down their lives for a cause punishable here 
 on earth but counted holy and righteous there. 
 
 The group of workmen stopped along with me 
 to hear the almost forgotten traditions connected 
 with this spot. 
 
 We went together into the little chapel. Its 
 
 walls were covered with regiments of ikons, and 
 
 at the eastern end was a crucifix also surrounded 
 
 by ikons. Gloomy faces, dark boards, bereft of 
 
 220
 
 THE VILLAGE OF GOD 
 
 heads. . . . Oh, so many were lacking heads. . . . 
 As if the vague feeling of the simple offerers had 
 sought thus to express their feeling that the pun- 
 ishments were undeserved. . . . 
 
 I was especially surprised by one ikon, of a cruci- 
 fix painted on the cubical base. It was not old or 
 had perhaps been renewed and it might well have 
 been a piece of individual workmanship inspired 
 by the sadness of this place. On a semi-circular hill 
 with no attempt at perspective could be seen a 
 severed hand with compressed fingers. Beside it 
 were huge nails. Hammer and saw were hanging 
 in the air. Fragments of chains. ... A column 
 with a bundle of rods and whips fastened to it were 
 painted against a background of whirling clouds. 
 But a faint light pierced the clouds and penetrated 
 the mists like a faint gleam of hope. And as if to 
 emphasize this idea more clearly, the artist had de- 
 picted a cock greeting the sunrise. . . . On the 
 top of the column the bird was standing with vibrat- 
 ing wings and open beak, welcoming the morn- 
 ing. . . . 
 
 Silently we left the chapel. Although the inte- 
 rior was not dark, yet it seemed to me that in 
 passing out through this low door we were passing 
 from deep gloom into the light of a clear sky. 
 221
 
 BIRDS OF HEAVEN 
 
 Directly ahead of me little heads of grain waved 
 their brilliant wings as if they were alive. The 
 churches and monasteries of Arzamas, like lace, 
 gleamed on the neighboring mountain. The 
 Vyyezdnaya Sloboda with its little church looked 
 down beautifully into the Tesha. 
 
 "Oh, God," sighed one of the peasants deeply 
 and slowly. 
 
 What did this sigh express? I do not know. 
 "Was it a consciousness of the difficult conditions 
 of life for the workingmen at this present time? 
 Or was it a feeling that, no matter how hard con- 
 ditions were now, yet it was better to live in the 
 present than in the gloomy night of the past? . . . 
 I thought it was the second idea. 
 
 We parted and each went his own way. 
 
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