In all Koropta he and the inn-keeper Kristianpoller are the only ones who sometimes, over a glass of mead — and the dish of salted dried peas which goes with it — talk of the strange Colonel Tarabas, and how he came, a mighty king, into the little town, to be buried there a beggar. In Kristianpoller’s out-house there still stands an altar before the miraculous picture of the Virgin, but services are held there less and less often as time goes on. A new generation is growing up which knows nothing of the old story. As in all the years before it happened, the people go to the church to pray. And the new generation is little given to praying at the best of times.
The pig-market comes round often. The little horses neigh, the pigs squeal, the peasants get very drunk. When they have reached the stage of helplessness, the servant Fedya takes their arms and drags them to their carts, where he sobers them with a flood of cold water. The Jews continue to deal in beads and kerchiefs, pocket-knives, scythes, and sickles. Every year hop-merchants from other parts come to Koropta. Many a one, taking a look round the neat little town, strolls down the high street, climbs the hill with the church on its summit, wanders through the grave-yard, and notices the odd epitaph:
COLONEL NICHOLAS TARABAS
A GUEST ON EARTH
The stranger returns to Kristianpoller’s inn, drinks a beer, a mead, or a glass of wine, and says to the inn-keeper: “And by the way, I came across a very curious grave up there in that churchyard of yours!”
Nathan Kristianpoller — he himself knows not why — likes these guests best of all who come into his house. He sits down at the stranger’s table and tells him the story of Tarabas.
“And you Jews are not afraid now, any more?” the stranger will sometimes ask.
“You know how it is”—Kristianpoller’s answer is always the same—“people forget. They forget fear and they forget the terrors that they go through. They want to live at all costs; they make themselves get used to everything, because they want to live! It is quite simple. Even miracles, even the most extraordinary things — they forget them, too, quicker even than the everyday ones. For the everyday is what they want. See it yourself, sir — at the end of every life stands death. We all know it. And who remembers it?”
Thus speaks the inn-keeper Nathan Kristianpoller to the guests that he likes best.
He is a clever man.