But his voice trembled, his eyes flashed, and his whole being burned with wrath when he started talking of the town and its people. Never in his life had he seen, never durst imagine, what confronted him when he entered the town. Only now, in his old age, had he seen and understood for the first time how mighty was the devil, how beautiful wickedness, and how feeble, cowardly and faint-hearted were human beings. As luck would have it, the first dwelling that he went into was a house of ill fame. Some fifty people with lots of money were eating and drinking immoderate quantities of wine. Intoxicated by the wine, they sang songs and bandied about terrible, disgusting words that no God-fearing person could ever bring himself to utter; completely uninhibited, boisterous and happy, they did not fear God, the devil or death, but said and did exactly as they wished, and went wherever their lusts impelled tht-m. And the wine, as dear as amber and fizzing with gold, must have been unbearably sweet and fragrant, because everyone drinking it smiled blissfully and wanted to drink more. In rcsponsc to men's smiles it smiled back, and sparkled joyfully when it was drunk, as ifit knew what devilish charm lurked in its sweetness.
More and more worked up and weeping with rage, the old man continued to describe what he had seen. On a table among the revellers, he said, stood a half-naked harlot. It would be difficult to imagme or to find in nature anything more lovely and captivating. ^is foul creature, young, with long hair, dusky skin, dark eyes and full lips, shamcless and brazen, flashed her snow-white teeth and smiled as ifto say: 'Look at me, how brazen I am and beautiful!' Silk and brocade hung down in graceful folds from her shoulders, but her beauty would not be hid, and like young shoots in the spring earth, eagerly thrust through the folds of her garments. The brazen woman drank wine, sang songs, and gave herself to anyone who wished.
Then the old man, waving his arms in anger, went on to describc the horse-races and bull fights, the theatrcs, and the artists' work- shops where they made paintings and sculptures in clay of naked women. His speech was inspired, beautiful and melodious, as if he were playing on invisible chords, and the monks, rooted to the spot, devoured his every word and could scarcely breathe for excitement . . . When he had finished describing all the devil's charms, the beauty of wickedness and the captivating graces of the vile female body, the old man denounced rhe devil, turned back to his cell and closed the door behind him . . .
When he came out of his cell next morning, there was not a single monk left in the monastery. They had all run away to the town.
Let Me Sleep
Night-time.
Varka the nursemaid, a girl ofabout thirteen, rocks the cradle with the baby in and croons very faintly:
Bayu-bayushki-bayu, I*ll sing a song for you . ..
In front of the icon burns a small green lamp; across the entire room, from one corner to another, stretches a cord with baby-clothes and a pair of big black trousers hanging on it. The icon-lamp throws a large patch of green onto the ceiling, and the baby-clothes and trousers cast long shadows on the stove, the cradle, and Varka . .. When the lamp begins to flicker, the green patch and the shadows come to life and are set in motion, as if a wind were blowing them. It is stuffy. The room smells ofcabbage soup and bootmaker's wares.
The baby is crying. It grew hoarse and wore itself out crying ages ago, but still it goes on screaming and goodness knows when it will stop. And Varka wants to sleep. Her eyes keep closing, her head droops, her neck aches. She can scarcely move her lips or eyelids, her face feels all parched and wooden, and her head seems to have become no bigger than a pin*s.
'Bayu-bayushki-bayushe croons, 'I'll cook some groats for you .. .*
The cricket chirps in the stove. Behind the door, in the next room, the master and his apprentice Afanasy are snoring gently . . . And these sounds, along with the plaintive squeaking of the cradle and Varka's own soft crooning, all blend into that soothing night music which is so sweet to hear when you yourself are going to bed. But now that music merely irritates and oppresses Varka, because it makes her drowsy, and sleeping*s forbidden; please God she doesn*t drop off, or master and mistress will thrash her.
The icon-lamp flickers. The green patch and the shadows are set in motion, steal into Varka's half-open, motionless eyes, and form themselves into misty visions in her half-sleeping brain. She sees dark clouds, chasing each other across the sky and screaming like the baby. But now the wind gets up, the clouds vanish, and Varka sees a broad highway swimming in mud; along this highway strings of carts arc moving, pcoplc trudging with knapsacb on thcir backs, and vagut- shadows flitting to and fro; on eithcr side, through thc gnm, cold mist shc can scc forests. Suddcnly thc shadows and the pcoplc with the knapsacks all fall down in the wct mud. 'What are you doing?' asks Varka. 'Going to slccp, going to sleep!' thcy reply. And they fall into a sweet, dcep slumbcr, whilst on the tclcgraph wircs crows and magpies sit, scrcaming likc the baby and trying to wakc thcm.
'Uavu-ha_vujht/-ha)'i<, I'll sing a song for you . . .' croons Varka and sces herself now in a dark, stuffy hut.
Yefim Stcpanov, her dead father, is tossing and turning on thc tloor. She cannot see him, but she he.irs him rolling abom on the floor and groan ing. Hc says his 'rupture's burst'. The pain is so great that he cannot utter a single word, only draw in sharp breaths and bcat a tattoo with his tccth:
'Bm-bm-bm-bm-bm . . .'
Pdageya, Varka's mother, has run up to the big house to tell them that Yefim is dying. She's becn gone agcs, it's time she was back. Varka lies awake on thc stovc, listening to her father's 'bm-bm-bm'. But now she hears someone drive up to the hut. Thcy've sent along the young doctor from town who is staying with them. The doctor comes into the hut; it's too dark to see him, but Varka hears him cough and fumble with the door.
'Let's have some light,' he says.
'Bm-bm-bm . . .' Yefim answers.
Pdageya rushes to the stove and begins looking for the broken pot with the matches. A minute passes in silence. The doctor rummages in his pockets and lights his own match.
'I won't be a minute, sir,' says Pelageya, rushes out of the hut and returns soon after with a candle-end.
Yefim's cheeks are pink and his eyes have a strange steely glint, as if he can see right through the hut and the doctor.
'Well now, what have you been up to?' says the doctor, bending over him. 'Ah! Been like this long, have you.?'
'Beg pardon, sir? My hour has come, your honour . . . I'm not for this world . . .'
'Nonsense . . . We'll get you better!'
'That's as you please, your honour, and we're much obliged to you, but we know the way it is ... When death comes, it comes.'
The doctor is busy for about a quarter of an hour bending over
Yefim; rhen he gets up and says:
'There's no more I can do - you musr go to the hospiral and they'll operate on you. And you must go straight away, without fail! lt's rarher late, they'll all be asleep ar the hospital, but never mind, I'll give you a note. Right?'
'Buthowcan heget there, sir?'says Pelageya. 'Wehaven't a horse.'
'Don't worry, I'll ask them at the house to let you have one.'
The doctor leaves, the candle goes our, the 'bm-bm-bm' begins again . .. Half an hour later someone drives up to the hur. They've sent along a cart ro take Yefim to the hospital. He gets ready and goes . . .
But now it's morning, fine and bright. Pelageya is nor there: she's walked to rhe hospital to find our what's happening to Yefim. Somewhere a baby's crying, and Varka can hear someone with her voice singing: