in the world

Chapter 11

My work in the icon workshop is not onerous.In the morning, before everyone got up, I first cooked the samovar for the masters.While they were drinking tea in the kitchen, Pavel and I cleaned up the workshop and divided the egg yolks and whites for color mixing.After finishing these, I go to the shop.In the evening, research pigments and "learn" techniques.At the beginning, I was very interested in "learning", but soon realized that almost every worker didn't like this technology with a very detailed division of labor, and felt boring.

I have nothing to do at night, talk to them about life on board, and tell various stories in the book.Unknowingly, he got the special status of storyteller and reciter in the workshop.

I quickly understood that these people did not have as much experience and knowledge as I did. Almost every one of them was locked in a small cage in the workshop since childhood and stayed there all the time.Zhikharev was the only one in the workshop who had been to Moscow. When he mentioned Moscow, he said with deep emotion and gloomily: "Moscow doesn't believe in tears, everything has to be careful there."

The rest have only been to Shuya and Vladimir.When talking about Kazan, everyone asked me: "Are there many Russians there? Is there a church?"

They thought that Perm was in Siberia, and they did not believe that Siberia was in the Urals.

"Aren't the sticklebacks and sturgeons of the Urals brought from there, from the Caspian Sea?

It can be seen that the Urals are on the seashore. "

Sometimes I think they are laughing at me, they say that England is on the other side of the ocean, and Napoleon was born in the noble family of Kruga.When I told them my own experience, they didn't quite believe it, but they liked the horrible anecdote and twisted story.Even the elderly seem to prefer fiction to reality.I know very well that the more absurd the thing, the more imaginative the story, the more eagerly they listen.In short, real things do not interest them.We don't want to see the poverty and ugliness of the present, but dreamily look forward to the future.

Already acutely aware of the contradiction between life and books, this astonishes me all the more.In front of me is a living person, which is not in the book.In the books, there is no Smoore, no stoker Yakov, no evasive Alexander Vasiliev, no Zhikharev and Natalia the washerwoman ... Davydov has worn out Golitsinsky's short stories, Bulgarin's "Ivan Veizhkin" and the pamphlets of Baron Brambius.

I read it all to them, and everyone was very happy, and at that time Larionovich said: "It's good to read, so you don't quarrel and mess around."

I started searching vigorously for books, found them, and read them almost every night.

These were happy evenings, when the workshop was as silent as midnight, and the glass balls hanging on the table—white and cold stars, their light reflected the disheveled and bald head lying on the table.A quiet, pensive face appeared in front of my eyes, sometimes admiring the author and the characters in the book.

They seem to have changed, both attentive and gentle.At such a time, I like them very much, and they are kind to me.I feel like I'm where I should be.

"We have books here, as if in spring, as if the windows had just been opened without the winter sash," said Sitanov one day.

It was not easy to find books, but I never thought of going to the library to borrow them.But I still figured out a way to ask for it like a beggar, and it finally arrived.Once, a copy of Lermontov's book was obtained from the chief of the fire brigade.At that time, I deeply felt the power of poetry and its powerful influence on people.

I remember that as soon as I read the first few lines of "The Devil", Sitanov looked at the book and at my face, put the brush on the table, put his long hands between his knees, swayed his body slightly Laughing, the chair creaked under his body.

"Guys, be quiet," Larionovich said, leaving his work and coming to Sitanov's table where I was reading poetry.This long poem moved me painfully and happily. My voice was often interrupted, tears flowed from my eyes, and I could not read the lines clearly. What moved me even more was the low and cautious movements in the workshop, which seemed to be boiling with pain. When I got up, it seemed to be attracted by a magnet, and surrounded me.When I finished reading Chapter 1, almost all the people gathered around the table, leaning against each other, hugging each other, frowning and smiling.

"Read it, read it," said Zhikharev, pressing my head to the book.

After I finished reading, he took the book over, read the inside cover of the book, and then hugged him under his arms and said, "I have to read it again. You can read it again tomorrow. The book is here with me."

He went away, locked Lermontov's books in a drawer of his desk, and went to work again.The workshop was very quiet, and the workers gently returned to their seats.Sitanov went to the window, pressed his forehead against the pane, and stood there blankly.Zhikharev put down his brush again, and said solemnly: "This is life, a servant of God... alas."

He raised his shoulders, hunched his neck, and went on:

"I can even draw demons: black body, hairy, red wings like flames - painted with red lead, and later the face and hands and feet, pale, like snow under the moonlight."

Until dinner, he sat on a square stool, different from usual, twirling his body uneasily, fiddling with his fingers, and saying inexplicable words about devils, women, Eve, paradise, how saints sin, and so on.

"It's all true," he said affirmatively. "Since saints have misbehavior with sinful women, it's no wonder that devils also like to commit sins with holy people..." Everyone listened to his words silently, maybe everyone, like me, didn't want to speak.While looking at the clock, they worked lazily. When nine o'clock struck, everyone put down their work together.

Sitanov and Zhikharev went out into the courtyard, and I followed.In the courtyard, Sitanov looked up at the stars and said: Staring at the fleets of stars that were abandoned by the sky wandering in the sky... "This is something that people can't think of."

"I don't remember a word," said Zhikharev, shivering in the freezing cold. "I don't remember anything, but I can see him. It's funny to make people feel sorry for the devil. Poor him, isn't it?"

"Right." Sitanov nodded.

"Man, that's how it is," Zhikharev exclaimed unforgettable.

On the porch he said to me: "Hey, Maximovich, you mustn't talk about this book in the shop, it must be a forbidden book."

I was delighted: I thought it must be this book that the priest asked me during the confession.

Everyone ate dinner listlessly, without the usual noise and conversation, as if something important had happened to everyone and they had to think about it.After dinner, when everyone was sleeping, Zhikhalev took out the book and said to me: "Read it again. Read it slowly, don't worry..." Several people silently got up from the bed, dressed in unlined clothes, and walked to the At the table, I shrank my legs and sat down around.

When I had finished reading, Zhikharev tapped his finger on the table and said: "This is life. Oh, the devil, the devil . . . that's what it is, isn't it, brother?"

Sitanov read a few words over my shoulder, and said with a smile: "I want to copy it in my notebook..." Zhikhalev stood up and took the book to his desk, but suddenly stopped, trembling with aggrieved The voice said: "We live like a puppy whose eyes have not been opened, knowing nothing.

It is of no use to God or to the devil.How can you be called a servant of God?

Job was a servant, God Himself spoke to him, and so did Moses.The name Moses was given by God, Moses - meaning 'our', man of God.But whose are we? "

Hiding the book, locking it, and getting dressed, he asked Sitanov: "Shall we go to the tavern?"

"I'm going to my woman," Sitanov replied in a low voice.

After they went out, I slept with Pavel Odintsov on the floor by the door.He tossed and turned for a long time unable to fall asleep, snorted, and suddenly wept softly: "What's wrong with you?"

"I feel sorry for them," he said. "I have lived with them for four years, and I am familiar with their situation..." I also feel sorry for them.We could not sleep for a long time, talking about them in low voices, and we saw that each of them had a kind character, and there was something about each of them that strengthened our two children's sympathy for them.

I got on well with Pavel Odintsov, and he became a fine craftsman, but after a while, when he was nearly thirty, he drank heavily.Later I met him at the Shitrov market in Moscow, transformed into a bum.Not long ago I heard that he had died of typhoid fever.It is frightening to think how many good people have died meaninglessly in my lifetime.

Everyone, gradually exhausted—die, that's a natural phenomenon; but nowhere is premature aging so horribly rapid and meaningless as in our Russia... He's older than me Two years old, a round-headed child, lively, clever, upright, and very talented: he is good at drawing birds, cats, and dogs.He drew cartoon portraits of his masters, and often painted them as birds, which were surprisingly similar.Sitanov is a dejected snipe standing on one leg, Zhikharev is a rooster with a broken comb and no feathers on his head, and Davydov is a sickly water magpie.But Pavel's best masterpiece is the old gold painter Gogolev, in the shape of a bat, with big ears, ridiculous nose, and six-clawed feet; Like lentils, across the eyes, it gave his face a very vile look that came to life.

When Pavel showed the cartoon to the masters, everyone was not angry, but the portrait of Gogolev gave people an unpleasant impression, so they all advised the artist: "It's better to tear it up, the old man will kill you when he sees it." life."

The filthy, rotten old man, who was always drunk, was an obnoxious believer, sinister in every way, and often told the shopkeeper about the affairs of the workshop.The proprietress of the shop was planning to marry her niece to the shopkeeper, so he seemed to consider himself the master of the shop and all of them.Everyone in the workshop hated him, but they were also afraid of him, so they were wary of Gogolev.

Pavel fanatically tried every means to tease Tu Jinshi, as if he was determined not to let Gogolev have a minute of peace.I helped him as much as I could, too, and the masters took pleasure in watching our almost always extremely crude mischief, but warned us: "You will suffer, lads. The Scarabs will be thrown out."

"Scarab" is the nickname given to the shopkeeper by the people in the workshop.

The warning did not deter us, and while the gilder was asleep, we painted his face.One day he was drunk and fell asleep, and we painted gold on his nose. For three whole days, the sponge-like nasal grooves were covered with gold flakes that could not be washed off.Whenever we pissed off the old man, I remembered the little Viat soldier on the boat and felt uneasy.Although Gogolev is old, he has great strength. If he accidentally caught me, he beat me up;

She also smelled of alcohol every day, so she was always very kind and happy. She frightened us desperately, patted the table with her fat hand, and shouted: "Little devil, are you messing around again? He is old and needs to be respected." He. Who poured the kerosene into his glass?"

"It's us……"

The proprietress was surprised:

"Oh, they admit it themselves. Damn it, old people have to respect."

She turned us off, and told the shopkeeper in the evening, and he said to me angrily, "What's the matter, you know your books, and your Bible, and all this nonsense? You've got to keep an eye out, lad."

The proprietress is a single woman, very pitiful; she often drank sweet wine, sat by the window and sang: No one pities me, no one loves me, no one hears my sighs.No one listened to my sad stories.

She sobbed, drawing out the old man's trill:
"Ah, ah, ah..."

One day, I saw her walking towards the stairs with a pot of boiled milk. Her feet suddenly limp, she squatted down, and rolled down the stairs heavily.But the pot in his hand has not been let go.When the milk splashed all over her, she stretched out her hands and shouted angrily at the jug, "What's the matter with you, plague god, where are you going?"

She is not fat, but her body is limp, like an old cat that can no longer catch mice, but because she eats well, her body is heavy, and she can only hum and recall her success and enjoyment.

"But," said Sitanov, frowning thoughtfully. "In the past, the family had a big business, and it was a very prosperous workshop. Some of the workers were also very capable, but now they can't do anything, and everything is in the hands of the 'chafer'. No matter how hard you work, you are only doing it for others. .Thinking of this, the clockwork in my head suddenly stopped, and I felt nothing interesting, and I really wanted to do nothing, just lie on the roof, look at the sky, and sleep through the summer..." Pavel Odintsov also Understand Sitanov's thoughts, smoke cigarettes in the same adult position, talk about God, drunkenness, women, and some people create, others destroy regardless of good or bad, all careers always fail, etc. .

At this time, his alert and lovely face was wrinkled like an old man.Sitting on the bunk on the floor, with his knees folded, he looked for a long time at the blue square window, at the roof of the woodshed covered with snow, and at the stars in the winter sky.

The craftsmen were snoring and babbling like cows, some people were talking in their dreams, and Davydov was coughing on a high plank bed, spending the rest of his life.In the corner of the room, lay the so-called "servants of God" Kabejiushin, Sorokin and Pershin, who were tightly bound by sleep and drunkenness.Faceless, limbless icons peered from the walls, and there was a dull stench of oil, rotten eggs, and decaying dust in the cracks of the floorboards.

"My God. I'm so sorry for everyone," Pavel whispered.

This kind of pity for others disturbed my heart even more.As mentioned above, we feel that all craftsmen are good people, but their lives are very bad, and this is not the embarrassment they should suffer.On winter days when there is a blizzard, houses and trees, everything on the earth shakes, howls and cries, the bells of Lent toll mournfully, and loneliness flows into the workshop like waves , crushing people like lead, crushing all living things on top of them, and finally driving them to taverns, or to women who are used as a means of forgetting like wine.

On such a night, books are useless, so Pavel and I used our own methods to make everyone happy: painted our faces with bituminous coal and paint, put on a beard made of hemp, and performed our fabricated comedies, Fights boredom bravely and makes everyone laugh.I remembered "The Legend of a Soldier Rescuing Peter the Great", changed it into a dialogue, climbed on Davidov's high plank bed, pretended to happily chop off the head of the imagined Swede, and performed a funny and ridiculous drama.The audience laughed out loud.

The most popular among the audience was the story of the Chinese ghost Qin Youdong. Baska played the poor ghost who wanted to do good deeds, and I played all the other roles.I pretended to be a boy for a while, a girl for a while, and various objects, good ghosts, and even stones, so that every time the Chinese ghosts were sad because they failed to do good deeds, they would sit and rest.

The audience laughed out loud.I wonder why it is so easy to make them laugh.Because it was too easy, it made me feel uncomfortable.

"Ah, clown." "Qu, enemy." People shouted at us.

But the more it goes on, the more I feel that sorrow is closer to the hearts of these people than joy.

Joy can never exist among us, nor is it valued, but it is deliberately brought up as a means of suppressing the melancholy of the Russian dream.This kind of joy does not exist by itself, does not exist for the sake of existence, but only appears due to the attraction of sorrow. The inner strength of such joy is really doubtful.

And this Russian joy often turns suddenly into cruel tragedy.There is a person dancing here, as if he wants to break free from the shackles that bind him, but he suddenly vents the cruel animal nature in his heart, and in the distress of the beast, he rushes towards everyone, tearing, biting, and destroying everything... This forced joy caused by external stimuli makes me anxious.When I was ecstasy, I uttered and acted out sudden fantasies—I only wanted to excite innocent, free, and hearty joy in people's hearts.I performed quite successfully, and everyone praised and surprised me, but the melancholy that seemed to have been removed by me gradually thickened and became stronger, which annoyed everyone.

The gloomy Larionovich said kindly:

"You're such a funny kid, God bless you."

"You're a delight," Zhikharev echoed him. "Maximovich, you will make a good buffoon if you go to the circus or the theater."

Kabejukhin and Sitanov were the only ones who had seen the play in the workshop, on Christmas and Maslenitsa.The elder master solemnly advised them to go to the cold ice cave in Jordan at the time of Baptism to wash away this sin.Sitanov often said to me: "Leave everything behind and learn to play."

So excitedly told the tragic story of the actor Yakovlev's life.

"Look, there's such a thing."

He called Mary Queen of the Stuarts a "villain," but liked to tell her stories; but it was the book "Spanish Nobility" that he particularly admired.

"Don César de Bazin, Maximovich, is a very noble and surprising man."

And he himself was a bit of a "Spanish nobleman": one day, in the empty field in front of the watchtower, three firefighters played and beat a countryman.

Forty or so people gathered around to watch the fun, applauding and cheering the firefighters.Sitanov jumped in, and with a valiant wave of his long arm, knocked down the fireman, picked up the countryman, pushed him into the crowd, and shouted: "Take him away."

Standing upright by himself, he fought against three firefighters.The fire brigade was within ten paces, and the firemen could call for help. Maybe Sitanov would suffer. Fortunately, the firemen were so frightened that they fled into the yard.

"Dog thing." He called to their backs.

Every Sunday, young people go to the forest farm behind Peter Pavlov's cemetery to fight boxing.Those who went there competed with the scavengers and the peasants of the nearby villages.

There was a well-known boxer on the scavenger team against the townspeople—a big Moldeva man with a small head, bad eyes, and a lot of tears.He wiped his tears with the dirty sleeves of his jacket, and stood in front of his people with his legs wide apart, challenging them in a gentle tone: "Is anyone coming, otherwise, I will freeze to death."

Kabejiushin on our side went out to fight the boxer, and he was always beaten by the Moldeva.But the Cossack Kabejiushin who was beaten badly still said angrily: "I will defeat this Moldeva man even if I die."

Finally this became the purpose of his life, he didn't even drink anymore, rubbed his body with snow before going to bed, and ate meat desperately.In order to develop his muscles, he carried two extra-heavy scale hammers every night and drew the cross on his body many times.But all this has no effect at all.So he sewed lead weights into his glove and boasted for Sitanov: "This time, the end of the Moldvars has come."

Sitanov warned him sternly:

"Don't do that, or I'll yell before Biquan."

Kabejiuxin didn't believe his words.But during the match, Sitanov suddenly said to the Moldvars: "Stay away, Vasily Ivanitch, let me fight Kabegiushin first."

The Cossack blushed and shouted loudly: "I won't compare with you, go away."

"You have to compare with me," said Sitanov, squinting at the Cossack's face, and went up to him.Kabejiuxin stomped his feet a few times, took off his gloves, stuffed his hands in his arms, and walked away quickly from the boxing arena.

Both the enemy and our side were greatly surprised, and some impartial man came over and said to Sitanov angrily: "My friend, it is against the law to bring your own affairs to the boxing ring."

Audiences approached Sitanov from all sides and scolded him. He was silent for a long time, and finally said to the justice: "Is it a bad thing that I prevented a murder?"

The just man understood right away, and even took off his hat to apologize to him: "Then we want to thank you."

"But, uncle, please don't shout."

"Why is that? Kabejiushin is a rare boxer. But when a person loses, he will be ruthless. We understand. From now on, before the match, check his gloves first."

"This is your business."

After the just man walked away, people from our side scolded Sitanov: "You bastard, what are you talking about. Let the Cossacks beat him up, and now we will lose again..." Everyone pestered , scolded him happily for a long time.

Sitanov let out a sigh of relief and said, "Oh, you bastards..."

What surprised everyone even more was that he invited the Moldevas to fight.The other party put up a posture, waved his fist happily, and said jokingly: "Okay, look at it, warm your body..." Several people joined hands, pressed their backs against the people who came behind, and opened up a big circle.

The two boxers folded their right hands forward, put their left hands on their chests, looked at each other nervously, and moved their feet back and forth.Experienced people immediately saw that Sitanov's arms were longer than those of the Moldvars.There was silence all around, and the snow creaked under the feet of the boxers.Someone couldn't bear the tension, and complained anxiously: "Get started..." Sitanov swung his right hand, and the Moldeva raised his left arm to block Zhu. At this time, Sitanov's left hand punched him. into his heart.He snorted, took a few steps back, and said with satisfaction, "You are not an idiot, even if you are a novice."

They threw themselves on each other and shook each other's old fists, and after a few minutes the audience on both sides shouted excitedly: "Come on. Painter. Paint and gilt."

The Moldvars were much more powerful than Sitanov, but they were heavy and clumsy when they fought, and they took two or three punches when they hit someone.But the strong body of the Moldeva man doesn't care if he eats a few times, and he smiles after a few snorts.At this moment, a strong blow came from below, which hit the ribs and dislocated Sitanov's right hand.

"Pull away, open up—it doesn't matter who wins or loses." Several people shouted at the same time, and everyone went over to pull the fighters away.

"The painter is not very strong, but he is very quick," said the Moldeva kindly. "He could make a good boxer, if you want to tell the truth."

The ordinary games for the half-old children began.I accompanied Sitanov to the orthopedic assistant.Since this incident, he has become more noble in my eyes, and my sympathy and respect for him have increased.

In short, he was honest and just about everything, as he thought he should be.But the unrestrained Kabejikhin taunted him cleverly: "Hey, Yenya, you're just a showman. You polished your soul to shine like a samovar at the festival, and you brag about it everywhere, look! , how bright. But your heart is made of copper, it's too boring to be with you..." Sitanov remained silent, either concentrating on his work or copying Lermontov's poems into his notebook .He spent all his free time copying poems.I advised him: "If you have money, go buy a copy." He replied: "No, it's better to copy it by hand."

He finished copying a page in chic and beautiful fonts, and while waiting for the ink to dry, read softly: no emotion, no destiny, you look at this earth, neither real happiness nor permanent beauty... Then, He squinted and said, "That's the truth. Well, how well he knows the truth."

What I think is strange is the relationship between Sitanov and Kabejukhin.The Cossack was drunk and always picked fights with his friends, and Sitanov persuaded him for a long time: "Forget it. Don't do it..." But then he beat the drunk so hard that even the usual The masters who watched other people's fights as lively had to join in and pull the two friends apart.

"If you don't catch Yevgeny in time, he will kill you. This guy doesn't even feel sorry for himself," they said.

Even when he was sober, Kabedyukhin would often play tricks on Sitanov, laughing at his love of poetry and his unhappy romances, and trying obscenely to arouse his jealousy, but without success.Sitanov listened to the Cossacks' jeers in silence, without getting angry, and sometimes even laughed with Kabedyukhin himself.

They slept together and talked for a long time every night in low tones.

The voice kept me from falling asleep. I really wanted to know what these two completely different people were talking about so affectionately, but when I approached them, the Cossack shouted, "What are you doing here?"

Sitanov didn't seem to see me.

But once they called me, and the Cossack asked: "Maximovich, what will you do if you get rich?"

"Then buy books."

"anything else?"

"do not know."

"Bah." Kabejukhin turned away angrily, but Sitanov said quietly: "You see, no one knows, young or old. I tell you: wealth itself is neither good nor bad. Everything needs to be added with some kind of factor..." I asked, "What are you talking about?"

"I don't want to sleep, just talk about it," replied the Cossack.

Later, I listened carefully to their conversations, and I realized that what they talked about every night was God, truth, happiness, women's stupidity and cunning, rich people's greed, and life is confusing and incomprehensible, etc. .

I have always listened greedily to their conversations, they thrilled me, and I liked to hear almost all of them say in unison: life is bad, life should be better.But at the same time, I saw that the desire to live better did not entail much responsibility, that nothing had changed in the life of the workshop, in the relations of the masters to each other.Those words lit up life before my eyes, exposing the gloomy emptiness behind it.In this emptiness, people float chaotically and impatiently like fine dust in a turbulent pool, and they themselves say that this chaos is meaningless and annoying.

People talked a lot, hotly, blamed people, confessed, boasted, and every little thing caused a fierce row and insulted each other fiercely.They often speculate about what will happen to them after they die.The floor of the cesspool at the entrance of the workshop was rotten, and from the dank, rotten hole a cold wind and a sour, earthy smell blew everyone's legs cold; Pavel and I stuffed it with straw and rags. this hole.They often say that the floor needs to be replaced, but the hole is getting bigger and bigger. When the snow blows, it looks like a chimney, and snowflakes blow in through the hole, making everyone cough.The tin blades on the transom made annoying noises, and everyone scolded it with unpleasant words. I applied some oil to it. After listening to it, Zhikhalev said: "The transom has no sound, and it seems a little lonely."

They came back from the baths and lay down in the filthy, dusty beds, the filth and the stench, which disturbed no one.In addition, there are many little things that get in the way of life, and which can be removed at once, but no one has done it.

It is often said: "No one has mercy on anyone, neither God nor himself..." But when Pavel and I bathed Davydov, who was dying of dirt and insects, they were ashamed. Laughing at us, taking off our coats to make us catch lice, make us wipe our backs, make fun of us, as if we have done something shameful and very ridiculous.

Davydov had been lying on a high plank bed from Christmas to Lent, coughing non-stop, spitting out bloody sputum, which couldn't get into the dirty bucket and fell on the floor.Every night he talked loudly in his sleep, waking people up.

Almost every day they said, "He should be taken to the hospital."

But at first because Davydov's ID card had expired, and later because he was getting better, it was finally decided: "Anyway, he's going to die."

He himself had a premonition and said, "I won't live long."

He was a quiet humorist and loved to say something funny to clear up the gloomy atmosphere in the workshop.With his dark and thin face bent down, he panted and said: "Everyone, listen to the voice of the person on the high plank bed..." Then he sang a sad and funny tune harmoniously:
I live in bed and wake up very early in the morning.

Whether awake or dreaming,
Being bitten by bugs all day long...

"He's not depressed." They praised him.

Sometimes when Pavel and I climbed into his bed, he would joke bitterly: "Dear guests, what do you offer? Do you like fresh little spiders?"

He died so slowly that even he himself was a little anxious, and he said really annoyed: "Why am I still not dead, it's terrible."

He is not afraid of death, which makes Pavel very afraid.Every night he wakes me up and says in a low voice: "Maximovich, he seems to be dead... he really is going to die in the night, and we're sleeping under him, oh my God, I'm afraid of death..." Otherwise, he would say, "Well, what was he born for? He's not yet 20 years old, and he's going to die..." One moonlit night, he woke me up, opened his eyes wide in fear, and said, "Listen."

On the high plank bed, Davydov was gasping for breath, and said in a panic, "Come here, come..." and then snorted. "I'm going to die, just watch." Pavel said anxiously.

All day during the day I cleared the snow in the yard and moved out into the field, so tired I just wanted to sleep.But Pavel begged me, "Don't you sleep, for God's sake, don't sleep."

Suddenly he knelt down and shouted frantically:

"Get up, everyone, Davydov is dead."

Someone woke up, a few shadows got up from the bed, and heard angry rhetorical voices.

Kabejiuxin climbed onto the high plank bed and said in surprise: "It seems to be really dead...the body is still a little hot..." There was no sound around.Zhikhalev drew the sign of the cross, wrapped himself in the quilt and said, "Oh, let him ascend to heaven."

Someone said: "Carry it down the porch..."

Kabejiushin climbed off the high plank bed and looked out the window: "Let him lie down until dawn, he never disturbed anyone when he was alive..." Pavel buried his head under the pillow and cried bitterly.

But Sitanov did not wake up.

(End of this chapter)