peasants. One was a tall youngster with a faint mustache and thick black bushy eyebrows, wearing bast shoes and a tattered sheepskin jacket, his feet stretched out in front of him, as he sat in the damp grass. He was trying to make time go faster by getting down to work. His long neck was bent, and he wheezed loudly while he whittled a spoon from a big curved chunk of wood. The other was a small, thin pock-marked peasant with an ancient face, a scant mustache, and a little goatee beard. His hands had fallen on his knees, and he gazed listlessly and motionlessly into the flames.
The small pile of faggots that lay between them blazed up and threw a red glare on their faces. It was very quiet. The only sound came from the scraping of the knife on the wood and the crackling of the damp faggots in the flames.
“Don’t fall asleep, Syoma,” the young man said.
“Me? No, I’m not falling asleep,” stammered the man with a goatee.
“That’s good. It’s hard sitting here alone, I’d get frightened. Talk to me, Syoma.”
“I wouldn’t know …”
“Oh, you’re a strange fellow, Syomushka! Some people laugh, invent stories, and sing songs, but you—God knows what to make of you. You sit there like a scarecrow in a potato field and stare at the flames. You don’t know how to put words together.… You’re plain scared of talking. You must be getting on for fifty, but you’ve no more sense than a baby. Aren’t you sorry you are such a fool?”
“Reckon so,” said the man with a goatee gloomily.
“Well, we’re sorry too. Wouldn’t you say so? There you are, a good solid fellow, don’t drink too much, and the only trouble is that you haven’t a brain in your head. Still, if the good Lord afflicted you by making you witless, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t try to pick up some glimmerings of intelligence, is there? Make an effort, Syoma.… If someone speaks a good word and you don’t understand it, you ought to try to fathom it, get the sense of it somehow, keep on thinking and concentrating. If there’s anything you don’t understand, you should make an effort and think over exactly what it means. Do you understand me? Just make an effort! If you don’t get some sense into your head, you’ll die an idiot, you’ll be the least important man in the world.”
Suddenly a long-drawn-out moaning sound was heard from the direction of the forest. There was the sound of something being torn from the top of a tree, slithering down and rustling among the leaves, and falling to the ground, followed by a dull echo. The young man shuddered and looked searchingly at his companion.
“It’s only an owl running after little birds,” Syoma said gloomily.
“I’d have thought it was time for the birds to be flying to warm countries now.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And the dawns are getting cold now—there’s a chill in the air. Birds, too—cranes, for example—they feel the cold, they’re delicate things. When it’s cold like this, they die. Me, I’m not a crane, but I’m frozen. Put some more wood on!”
Syoma rose and vanished in the dark undergrowth. While he was wandering through the undergrowth, snapping off dry twigs, his companion shielded his eyes with his hands, shivering at every sound. Syoma brought back an armful of wood and threw it on the fire. Little tongues of flame licked the black twigs uncertainly, and then suddenly, as though at a word of command, the flames leapt up and enveloped their faces in a deep purple glow; and the pathway, and the white linen sheet which showed the dead man’s hands and feet in relief, and the icon, all these shone with the same deep purple glow. The watchers remained silent. The young man bent his neck still lower and went back to work more nervously than ever. Meanwhile the old man with the goatee sat motionless, never taking his eyes from the fire.
“Oh, ye that love not Zion shall be ashamed in the face of the Lord!”—the silence of the night was suddenly broken by a high falsetto voice, and soft footsteps.
Into the purple firelight there emerged the dark figure of a man wearing a broad-brimmed hat and the short cassock of a monk, carrying a birch-bark sack on his shoulders.
“Thy will be done, O Lord! O Holy Mother!” he sang in a voice grown hoarse. “I saw the fire in the depths of night, and my soul leapt for joy! At first, I told myself they were keeping watch over horses, and then I told myself, it cannot be so, for there are no horses. Then, said I, they were thieves waiting to pounce upon some rich Lazarus, and then it crossed my mind they were gypsies preparing to sacrifice victims to their idols. My soul again leapt for joy! I said to myself: Go then, Theodosy, thou servant of God, receive a martyr’s crown! So I flew to the fire on the gentle wings of a moth. Now I stand before you, and examine your physiognomies, and judge your souls, and I conclude you are neither thieves nor heathens! Peace be upon you!”
“Good evening to you.”
“Dear brethren in God, pray tell me where I can find Makukhinsky’s brickyard?”
“It’s not far. Straight down the road, and after a mile and a half you’ll come to Ananova, which is our village. Turn right at the village, Father, follow the riverbank, and keep on going till you reach the brickyard. It’s two miles from Ananova.”
“God give you health!… Tell me, why are you sitting here?”
“We are keeping watch. Look over there—there’s a dead body.”
“Eh, what’s that? A dead body! Holy Mother!”
When the stranger saw the white sheet and the icon, he shivered so violently that his legs involuntarily made little hopping motions. This unexpected sight produced an overwhelming effect. He shrank within himself and was rooted to the spot, his eyes glazed, his mouth wide open. For three minutes he remained completely silent, as though he could not believe his eyes, and then he muttered: “O Lord, O Holy Mother! I was wandering abroad and giving offense to none, and now am I consigned to punishment.…”
“What are you?” the young man asked. “Are you a member of the clergy?”
“No, no … I wander from one monastery to another. Do you know by chance Mikhail Polikarpich? He runs the brickyard, and I’m his nephew.… Thy will be done, O Lord!… What are you doing here?”
“We are the watchers. They told us to watch him.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered the man in the cassock, running his hands over his eyes. “Tell me—the dead man—where
