What Men Live By

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What Men Live By

AND

WHERE LOVE IS, THERE
GOD IS ALSO

LEO TOLSTOY

These stories have the most beautiful theme that any stories could ever have. They are about God's infinite love and tender mercy.

When such a magnificent novelist as Leo Tolstoy writes of God’s love in terms of simple people and their love of Him and of each other, a unique litera­ture is created that penetrates the heart and grips the soul.

WHAT MEN LIVE BY

and

WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO

LEO TOLSTOY

What Men Live By

AND

WHERE LOVE IS, THERE

GOD IS ALSO

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY

CONTENTS

What Men Live By, page 7

Where Love Is, There God Is Also, page 45

Printed in trie United States of America

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 58-11017

Westwood, New Jersey

1.3.

WHAT MEN LIVE BY

We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren. He that loveth not abideth in death. . . .

But whoso hath the world’s goods, and behold- eth his brother in need, and shutteth up his com­passion from him, how doth the love of God abide in him?

My little children, let us not love in word, neither with the tongue; but in deed and truth. . . .

. . . love is of God; and every one that loveth is begotten of God, and knoweth God.

He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love. . . .

No man hath beheld God at any time: if we love one another, God abideth in us. . . .

... God is love; and he that abideth in love abideth in God, and God abideth in him. . . .

If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, cannot love God whom he hath not

seen.

Ï John 3:14-18; 4:7-20.

WHAT MEN LIVE BY

CHAPTER I

A cobbler named Simon and his wife and children had lodgings with a peasant. He owned neither house nor land, and he supported himself and his family by shoe­making.

Bread was dear and labor was poorly paid, and whatever he earned went for food.

The cobbler and his wife had one sheepskin coat between them, and this had come to tatters, and for two years the cobbler had been hoarding in order to buy sheepskins for a new garment.

When autumn came, the cobbler’s hoard had grown; three paper rubles lay in his wife’s box, and five rubles and twenty kopeks more were due the cobbler from his customers.

One morning the cobbler betook himself to the village to get his new sheepskin coat. He put on his wife’s wadded nankeen jacket over his shirt, and outside of all a woolen kaftan. He put the three-ruble note in hi? pocket, broke off a staff, and after breakfast he set forth.

He said to himself: “I will get my five rubles from the peasant, and that with these three will buy pelts for my fur or sheepskin outside garment,”

The cobbler reached the village and went to one peasant’s; he was not at home, but his wife promised to send her husband with the money the next week, but she could not give him any money. He went to an­other, and this peasant swore that he had no money at all; but he paid him twenty kopeks for cobbling his boots.

The cobbler made up his mind to get the pelts on credit. But the fur-dealer refused to sell on credit.

“Bring the money,” said he; “then you can make your choice; but we know how hard it is to get what is one’s due.”

And so the cobbler did not do his errand, but he had the twenty kopeks for cobbling the boots, and he took from a peasant an old pair of felt boots to mend with leather.

At first the cobbler was vexed at heart; then he spent the twenty kopeks for vodka, and started to go home. In the morning he had felt cold, but after having drunk the vodka he was warm enough even without the fur or sheepskin outside garment.

The cobbler was walking along the road, striking the frozen ground with the staff which he had in one hand, and swinging the felt boots in the other, and thus he talked to himself: “I am warm even without a coat,” said he. “I drank a glass, and it dances through all my veins. And so I don’t need a sheepskin coat. I walk along, and all my vexation is forgotten. What a fine fellow I am! What do I need? I can get along without the sheepskin coat. I don’t need it at all. There’s one thing: the wife will feel bad. Indeed, it is too bad; here I have been working for it, and now to have missed it! You just wait now! If you don’t bring the money, I will take your hat, I vow I will! What a way of doing things! He pays me twenty kopeks at a time! Now what can you do with twenty kopeks? Get a drink; that’s all! You say, T am poor!’ But if you are poor, how is it with me? You have a house and cattle and everything, I have nothing but my own hands. You raise your own grain, but I have to buy mine, when I can, and it costs me three rubles a week for food alone. When I get home now, we shall be out of bread. Another ruble and a half of outgo! So you must give me what you owe me.”

By this time the cobbler had reached the chapel at the crossroads, and he saw something white behind the chapel.

It was already twilight, and the cobbler strained his eyes, but he could not make out what the object was.

“There never was any such stone there,” he said to himself. “A cow? But it does not look like a cow! The head is like a man’s; but what is that white? And why should there be any man there?”

He went nearer. Now he could see plainly. What a strange thing! It was indeed a man, but was he alive or dead, sitting there naked, leaning against the chapel, and not moving?

The cobbler was frightened. He said to himself: ‘Someone has killed that man, stripped him, and flung him down there. If I go near, I may get into trouble.”

And the cobbler hurried by.

In passing the chapel he could no longer see the man; but after he was fairly beyond it, he looked back, and saw that the man was no longer leaning against the chapel, but was moving, and apparently looking after him.

The cobbler was still more scared by this, and he said to himself: “Shall I go back to him or go on? If I go back to him, there might something unpleasant happen; who knows what sort of a man he is? He can’t have gone there for any good purpose. If I went to him, he might spring on me and choke me, and I could not get away from him; and even if he did not choke me, why should I try to make his acquaintance? What could be done with him, naked as he is? I can’t take him with me, and give him my own clothes! That would be absurd.”

And the cobbler hastened his steps. He had already gone some distance beyond the chapel, when his con­science began to prick him.

He stopped short.

“What is this that you are doing, Simon?” he asked himself. “A man is perishing of cold, and you are frightened, and hurry by! Are you so very rich? Are you afraid of losing your money? That is not right!”

Simon turned and went back to the man.

CHAPTER II

Simon went back to the man, looked at him, and saw that it was a young man in the prime of life; there were no bruises visible on him, but he was evidently freezing and afraid; he was sitting there, leaning back, and he did not look at Simon; apparently he was so weak that he could not lift his eyes.

Simon went up close to him, and suddenly the man seemed to revive; he lifted his head and fastened his eyes on Simon.

And by this glance the man won Simon’s heart.

He threw the felt boots down on the ground, took off his belt and laid it on the boots, and pulled off his jacket.

“There’s nothing to be said,” he exclaimed. “Put these on! There now!”

Simon put his hand under the man’s elbow, to help him, and tried to lift him. The man got up.

And Simon saw that his body was graceful and clean, that his hands and feet were comely, and that his face was agreeable. Simon threw the jacket over his shoul­ders. He could not get his arms into the sleeves. Simon found the place for him, pulled the coat up, wrapped it around him, and fastened the belt.

He took off his tattered cap, and was going to give it to the stranger, but his head felt cold, and he said to himself: “The whole top of my head is bald, but he has long curly hair.”

So he put his hat on again.

“I had better let him put on my boots.”

He made him sit down and put the felt boots on him.

After the cobbler had thus dressed him, he said: “There now, brother, just stir about, and you will get warmed up. All these things are in other hands than ours. Can you walk?”

The man stood up, looked affectionately at Simon, but was unable to speak a word.

“Why don’t you say something? We can’t spend the winter here. We must get to shelter. Now, then, lean on my stick, if you don’t feel strong enough. Bestir yourself!”

And the man started to move. And he walked easily, and did not lag behind. As they walked along the road Simon said: “Where are you from, if I may ask?”

“I do not belong hereabouts.”

“No; I know all the people of this region. How did you happen to come here and get to that chapel?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“Someone must have treated you outrageously.”

“No one has treated me outrageously. God has pun­ished me.”

“God does all things, but you must have been on the road bound for somewhere. Where do you want to go?”

“It makes no difference to me.”

Simon was surprised. The man did not look like a criminal, and his speech was gentle, but he seemed reticent about himself.

And Simon said to himself: “Such things as this do not happen every day,” and he said to the man, “Well, come to my house, though you will find it very narrow quarters.”

As Simon approached the yard, the stranger did not lag behind, but walked abreast of him. The wind had arisen, and searched under Simon’s shirt, and as the effect of the wine had now passed away, he began to be chilled to the bone. He walked along, and began to snuffle, and he muffled his wife’s jacket closer around him, and he said to himself: “That’s the way you get a sheepskin coat! You go after a garment, and you come home without your jacket! And you bring with you a naked man—besides, Matrena won’t take kindly to it!”

And as soon as the thought of Matrena occurred to him, he began to feel downhearted.

But as soon as his eyes fell on the stranger, he remem­bered what a look he had given him behind the chapel, and his heart danced with joy.

CHAPTER III

Simon’s wife had finished her work early. She had chopped wood, brought water, fed the children, taken her own supper, and was now deliberating when it would be best to mix some bread, “today or tomorrow?”

A large crust was still left. She said to herself: “If Simon gets something to eat in town, he won’t care for much supper, and the bread will last till tomorrow.”

Matrena contemplated the crust for some time, and said: “I am not going to mix any bread. There’s just enough flour to make one more loaf. We shall get along till Friday.”

Matrena put away the bread, and sat down at the table to sew a patch on her husband’s shirt.

She sewed, and thought how her husband would be buying sheepskins for the garment.

“I hope the fur-dealer will not cheat him. For he is as simple as he can be. He, himself, would not cheat anybody, but a baby could lead him by the nose. Eight rubles is no small sum. You can get a fine garment with it. Perhaps not one tanned, but still a good one. How we suffered last winter without any coat of fur or sheepskin. Could not go to the river nor anywhere! And whenever he went outdoors, he put on all the clothes, and I hadn’t anything to wear. He is late in getting home. He ought to be here by this time. Can my sweetheart have got drunk?”

Just as these thoughts were passing through her mind the door-steps creaked: someone was at the door. Matrena stuck in the needle, and went to the entry. There she saw that two men had come in—Simon, and with him a strange peasant, without a cap and in felt boots.

Matrena perceived immediately that her husband’s breath smelt of liquor.

“Now,” she said to herself, “he has gone and got drunk.”

And when she saw that he had not his jacket on, and wore only her jacket, and had nothing in his hands, and said nothing, but only simpered, Matrena’s heart failed within her.

“He has drunk up the money, he has been on a spree with this miserable beggar; and, worse than all, he has gone and brought him home!”

Matrena let them pass by her into the cottage; ther, she herself went in; she saw that the stranger was young, and that he had on their jacket. There was no shirt to be seen under the jacket; and he wore no cap.

As soon as he went in, he paused, and did not move and did not raise his eyes.

And Matrena thought: “He is not a good man; his conscience troubles him.”

Matrena scowled, went to the oven, and watched to see what they would do.

Simon took off his cap and sat down on the bench goodnaturedly.

“Well,” said he, “Matrena, can’t you get us some­thing to eat?”

Matrena muttered something under her breath.

She did not offer to move, but as she stood by the oven she looked from one to the other and kept shaking her head.

Simon saw that his wife was out of sorts and would not do anything, but he pretended not to notice it, and took the stranger by the arm.

“Sit down, brother,” said he; “we’ll have some sup- ___ ”

per.

The stranger sat down on the bench.

“Well,” said Simon, “haven’t you cooked anything?” Matrena’s anger blazed out.

“I cooked,” said she, “but not for you. You are a fine man! I see you have been drinking! You went to get a new sheepskin garment, and you have come home without your jacket. And, then, you have brought home this naked vagabond with you. I haven’t any supper for such drunkards as you are!”

“That’ll do, Matrena; what is the use of letting your tongue run on so? If you had only asked first: ‘What kind of a man. . .  ”

“You just tell me what you have done with the money!”

Simon went to his jacket, took out the bill, and spread it out.

“Here’s the money, but Trifonof did not pay me; he promised it tomorrow.”

Matrena grew still more angry: “You didn’t buy the new fur or sheepskin outside garment, and you have given away your only jacket to this naked vagabond whom you have brought home!”

She snatched the money from the table, and went oS to hide it away, saying: “I haven’t any supper. I can’t feed all your drunken beggars!”

“Hey there! Matrena, just hold your tongue! First you listen to what I have to say. . . .”

“Much sense should I hear from a drunken fool! Good reason I had for not wanting to marry such a drunkard as you are. Mother gave me linen, and you have wasted it in drink; you went to get a sheepskin garment, and you spent it for drink.”

Simon was going to assure his wife that he had spent only twenty kopeks for drink; he was going to tell her where he had found the man; but Matrena would not give him a chance to speak a word; it was perfectly marvelous, but she managed to speak two words at once! Things that had taken place ten years before—■ she called them all up.

Matrena scolded and scolded; then she sprang at Simon, and seized him by the sleeve.

“Give me back my jacket! It’s the only one I have, and you took it from me and put it on yourself. Give it here, you miserable dog! Bestir yourself, you villain!”

Simon began to strip off the jacket. As he was pulling his arms out of the sleeves, his wife gave it a twitch and split the jacket up the seams. Matrena snatched the garment away, threw it over her head, and started for the door. She intended to go out, but she paused, and her heart was pulled in two directions—she wanted to vent her spite, and she wanted to find what kind of a man the stranger was.

CHAPTER IV

Matrena paused, and said: “If he were a good man, then he would not have been naked; why, even now, he hasn’t any shirt on; if he had been engaged in decent business, you would have told where you discovered such an elegant fellow!”

“Well, I was going to tell you. I was walking along, and there, behind the chapel, this man was sitting, stark naked and half frozen to death. It is not summer, mind you, for a naked man! God brought me to him, else he would have perished. Now what could I do? Such things don’t happen every day. I took and dressed him, and brought him home with me. Calm your anger. It’s a sin, Matrena; we must all die.”

Matrena was about to make a surly reply, but her eyes fell on the stranger, and she held her peace.

The stranger was sitting motionless on the edge of the bench, just as he had sat down. His hands were folded on his knees, his head was bent on his breast, his eyes were shut, and he kept frowning, as if something stifled him.

Matrena made no reply.

Simon went on to say: “Matrena, can it be that God is not in you?”

She heard his words, and glanced again at the stranger, and suddenly her anger vanished. She turned from the door, went to the comer where the oven was, and brought the supper.

She set a bowl on the table, poured out the fermented drink made of rye meal or soaked bread crumbs, and put on the last of the crust. She gave them the knife and the spoons.

“Have some victuals,” she said.

Simon touched the stranger.

“Draw up, young man,” said he.

Simon cut the bread and crumbled it into the bowl, and they began to eat their supper. And Matrena sat at the end of the table, leaned on her hand, and gazed at the stranger. And Matrena began to feel sorry for him, and she took a fancy to him.

And suddenly the stranger brightened up, ceased to frown, lifted his eyes to Matrena, and smiled.

After they had finished their supper, the woman cleared off the things, and began to question the stran­ger: “Where are you from?”

“I do not belong hereabouts.”

“How did you happen to get into this road?”

“I cannot tell you.”

‘ Who maltreated you?”

“God punished me.”

“And you were lying there stripped?”

“Yes; I was lying there freezing to death when Simon saw me, had compassion on me, took off his jacket, put it on me, and bade me come home with him. And here you have fed me, given me something to eat and to drink, and have taken pity on me. May the Lord requite you'”

Matrena got up, took from the window Simon’s old shirt which she had been patching, and gave it to the stranger; then she found a pair of trousers and gave them also to him,

“There now,” said she, “I see that you have no shirt. Put these things on, and then lie down wherever you please, in the loft or on the oven.”

The stranger took off the jacket, put on the shirt, and went to bed in the loft. Matrena put out the light, took the kaftan, and lay down beside her hus­band.

Matrena covered herself up with the skirt of the jacket, but she lay without sleeping; she could not get the thought of the stranger out of her mind.

When she remembered that he had eaten her last crust, and that there was no bread for the morrow, when she remembered that she had given him the shirt and the trousers, she felt disturbed; but then came the thought of how he had smiled at her, and her heart leaped within her.

Matrena lay a long time without falling asleep, and when she heard that Simon was also awake, she pulled up the jacket, and said; “Simon!”

“Ha?”

“You ate up the last of the bread, and I did not mix any more. I don’t know how we shall get along tomorrow. Perhaps I might borrow some of neighbor Malanya.”

“We shall get along; we shall have enough.”

The wife lay without speaking. Then she said: “Well, he seems like a good man; but why doesn’t he tell us about himself?”

“It must be because he can’t.”

“Simon!”

“Ha?”

“We are always giving; why doesn’t someone give to us?”

Simon did not know what reply to make. He said;

“You have talked enough!”

Then he turned over and went to sleep.

CHAPTER V

In the morning Simon woke up.

His children were still asleep; his wife had gone to a neighbor’s to get some bread. The stranger of the eve­ning before, dressed in the old shirt and trousers, was sitting alone on the bench, looking up. And his face was brighter than it had been the evening before. And Simon said: “Well, my dear, the belly asks for bread, and the naked body for clothes. You must earn your own living. What do you know how to do?”

“There is nothing that I know how to do.”

Simon was amazed, and he said: “If one has only the mind to, men can learn anything.”

“Men work, and I will work.”

“What is your name?”

“Michael.”

“Well, Michael, if you aren’t willing to tell about yourself, that is your affair; but you must earn your own living. If you will work as I shall show you, I will keep you.”

“The Lord requite you! I am willing to learn; only show me what to do.”

Simon took a thread, drew it through his fingers, and showed him how to make a waxed end.

“It does not take much skill . . . look. . . .”

Michael looked, and then he also twisted the thread between his fingers; he instantly imitated him, and finished the point.

Simon showed him how to make the welt. This also Michael immediately understood. The shoemaker like­wise showed him how to twist the bristle into the thread, and how to use the awl; and these things also Michael immediately learned to do.

Whatever part of the work Simon showed him he imitated him in, and in two days he was able to work as if he had been all his fife a cobbler. He worked without relaxation, he ate little, and when his work was done he would sit silent, looking up. He did not go on the street, he spoke no more than was absolutely necessary, he never jested, he never laughed.

The only time that he was seen to smile was on the first evening, when the woman got him his supper.

CHAPTER VI

Day after day, week after week, rolled by for a whole year.

Michael lived on in the same way, working for Simon. And the fame of Simon’s apprentice went abroad; no one, it was said, could make such neat, strong boots as Simon’s apprentice, Michael. And from all around people came to Simon to have boots made, and Simon began to lay up money.

One winter’s day, as Simon and Michael were sitting at their work, a sleigh drove up to the cottage, with a jingling of bells.

They looked out of the window; the sleigh stopped in front of the cottage; a footman jumped down from the box and opened the door. A baron in a fur coat got out of the sleigh, walked up to Simon’s cottage, and mounted the steps. Matrena hurried to throw the door wide open.

The baron bent his head and entered the cottage; when he drew himself up to his full height, his head almost touched the ceiling; he seemed to take up nearly all the room.

Simon rose and bowed; he was surprised to see the baron. He had never before seen such a man.

Simon himself was thin, the stranger was spare, and Matrena was like a dry bone; but this man seemed to be from a different world. His face was ruddy and full, his neck was like a bull’s; it seemed as if he were made out of cast iron.

The baron got his breath, took off his fur coat, sat down on the bench, and said: “Which is the master shoemaker?”

Simon stepped out, saying: “I, your honor.”

The baron shouted to his footman: “Hey, Theodore, bring me the leather.”

The young fellow ran out and brought back a parcel. The baron took the parcel and laid it on the table.

“Open it,” said he.

The footman opened it.

The baron touched the leather with his finger, and said to Simon: “Now listen, shoemaker. Do you see this leather?”

“I see it, your honor,” said he.

“Well, do you appreciate what kind of leather it is?”

Simon felt of the leather, and said: “That’s good leather.”

“Indeed it’s good! Fool that you are! You never in your life saw such before! German leather. It cost twenty rubles.”

Simon was startled. He said: “Where, indeed, could we have seen anything like it?”

“Well, that’s all right. Can you make from this leather a pair of boots that will fit me?”

“I can, your honor.”

The baron shouted at him: “ ‘Can’ is a good word. Now just realize whom you are making those boots for, and out of what kind of leather. You must make a pair of boots, so that when the year is gone they won’t have got out of shape, or ripped. If you can, then take the job and cut the leather; but if you can’t, then don’t take it and don’t cut the leather. I will tell you before­hand, if the boots rip or wear out of shape before the year is out, I will have you locked up; but if they don’t rip or get out of shape before the end of the year, then I will give you ten rubles for your work.”

Simon was frightened, and was at a loss what to say.

He glanced at Michael. He nudged him with his elbow, and whispered: “Had I better take it?”

Michael nodded his head, meaning: “You had better take the job.”

Simon took Michael’s advice; he agreed to make a pair of boots that would not rip or wear out of shape before the year was over.

The baron shouted to his footman, ordered him to take the boot from his left foot; then he stretched out his leg: “Take the measure!”

Simon cut off a piece of paper seventeen inches long, smoothed it out. knelt down, wiped his hands nicely on his apron, so as not to soil the baron’s stockings, and began to take the measure.

Simon took the measure of the sole, he took the measure of the instep; then he started to measure the calf of the leg, but the paper was not long enough. The leg at the calf was as thick as a beam.

“Look out; don’t make it too tight around the calf!”

Simon was going to cut another piece of paper. The . baron sat there, rubbing his toes together in his stock­ings, and looking at the inmates of the cottage; he caught sight of Michael.

“Who is that yonder?” he asked; “does he belong to you?”

“He is a master workman. He will make the boots.”

“Look here,” said the baron to Michael, “remember that they are to be made so as to last a whole year.”

Simon also looked at Michael; he saw that Michael was paying no attention, but was standing in the comer, as if he saw someone behind the baron. Michael gazed and gazed, and suddenly smiled, and his whole face lighted up.

“What a fool you are, showing your teeth that way! You had better see to it that the boots are ready in time.”

And Michael replied: “They will be ready as soon as they are needed.”

“Very well.”

The baron drew on his boot, wrapped his fur coat round him, and went to the door. But he forgot to stoop, and so struck his head against the lintel.

The baron stormed and rubbed his head; then he got into his sleigh and drove off. After the baron was gone Simon said: “Well, he’s as solid as a rock! You could not kill him with a mallet. His head almost broke the doorpost, but it did not seem to hurt him much.”

And Matrena said: “How can they help getting fat, living as they do? Even death has no hold on such a rock as he is.”

CHAPTER VII

And simon said to Michael: “Now, you see, we have taken this work, and we must do it as well as we can. The leather is expensive, and the baron gruff. We must not make any blunder. Now, your eye has become quicker, and your hand is more skillful than mine; there’s the measure. Cut out the leather, and I will be finishing up those vamps.”

Michael did not fail to do as he was told; he took the baron’s leather, stretched it out on the table, doubled it over, took the knife, and began to cut.

Matrena came and watched Michael as he cut, and she was amazed to see what he was doing. For she was used to cobbler’s work, and she looked and saw that Michael was not cutting the leather for boots, but in a circle.

Matrena wanted to speak, but she thought in her own mind: “Of course I can’t be expected to under­stand how to make boots for gentlemen; Michael must understand it better than I do; I will not interfere.”

After he had cut out the work, he took his waxed ends and began to sew, not as one does in making boots, with double threads, but with one thread, just as slippers are made.

Matrena wondered at this also, but still she did not like to interfere. And Michael kept on steadily with lus work

It came time for the noomng; Simon got up, looked and saw that Michael had been making slippers out of the baron’s leather. Simon groaned.

“How is this?” he asked himself. “Michael has lived with me a whole year, and never made a mistake, and now he has made such a blunder! The baron ordered thick-soled boots, and he has been making slippers with­out soles! He has ruined the leather. How can I make it right with the baron? We can’t find such leather.”

And he said to Michael: “What is this you have been doing? My dear fellow, you have ruined me! You know the baron ordered boots, and what have you made?”

He was in the midst of his talk with Michael when the door-latch rattled; someone was at the door. They looked out of the window; someone had come on horse­back and was fastening his horse. They opened the door. The same baron’s footman came walking in.

“Good-day.”

“Good-day to you; what is it?”

“My mistress sent me in regard to a pair of boots.”

“What about the boots?”

“It is this. My baron does not need the boots; he has gone from this world.”

“What is that you say?”

“He did not live to get home from your house; he died in the sleigh. When the sleigh reached home, we went to help him out, but there he had fallen over like a bag, and there he lay stone dead, and it took all our strength to lift him out of the sleigh. And his lady has sent me, saying: ‘Tell the shoemaker of whom your baron just ordered boots from leather which he left with him—tell him that the boots are not needed, and that he is to make a pair of slippers for the corpse out of that leather just as quick as possible.’ And I was to wait till they were made, and take them home with me. And so I have come.”

Michael took the rest of the leather from the table and rolled it up; he also took the slippers, which were all done, slapped them together, wiped them with his apron, and gave them to the young man. The young man took them.

“Good-by, friends! Good luck to you!”

CHAPTER VIII

Still another year, and then two more passed by, and Michael had now been living five years with Simon. He lived in just the same way as before. He never went anywhere, he kept his own counsels, and in all that time he smiled only twice—once when Matrena gave him something to eat, and the other time when he smiled on the baron.

Simon was more than contented with his workman, and he no longer asked him where he came from; his only fear was lest Michael should leave him.

One time they were all at home. The mother was putting the iron kettles on the oven, and the children were playing on the benches and looking out of the window. Simon was pegging away at one window, and Michael at the other was putting lifts on a heel.

One of the boys ran along the bench toward Michael, leaned over his shoulder, and looked out of the window.

“Uncle Michael, just look! A merchant’s wife is com­ing to our house with some little girls. And one of the little girls is a cripple.”

The words were scarcely out of the boy’s mouth before Michael threw down his work, leaned over toward the window, and looked out-of-doors. And Simon

was surprised. Never before had Michael cared to look out, but now his face seemed soldered to the window; he was looking at something very intently.

Simon also looked out of the window: he saw a woman coming straight through his yard; she was neatly dressed; she had two little girls by the hand; they wore little fur garments, and kerchiefs over their heads. The little girls looked so much alike that it was hard to tell them apart, except that one of the little girls was lame in her foot; she limped as she walked.

The woman came into the entry, felt about in the dark, lifted the latch, and opened the door. She let the two little girls go before her into the cottage, and then she followed.

“How do you do, friends?”

“Welcome! What can we do for you?”

The woman sat down by the table; the two little girls clung to her knee; they were bashful.

“These little girls need to have some leather shoes made for the spring.”

“Well, it can be done. We don’t generally make such small ones; but it’s perfectly easy, either with welts or lined with linen. This is Michael; he’s my master work­man.”

Simon glanced at Michael, and saw that he had thrown down his work, and was sitting with his eyes fastened on the little girls.

And Simon was amazed at Michael. To be sure the little girls were pretty; they had dark eyes, they were plump and rosy, and they wore handsome fur garments and kerchiefs; but still Simon could not understand why he gazed so intently at them, as if they were friends of his.

Simon was amazed, and he began to talk with the woman, and to make his bargain. After he had made his bargain, he began to take the measures. The woman lifted on her lap the little cripple, and said: “Take two measures from this one; make one little shoe from the twisted foot, and three from the well one. Their feet are alike; they are twins.”

Simon took his tape, and said in reference to the little cripple: “How did this happen to her? She is such a pretty little girl. Was she born so?”

“No; her mother crushed it.”

Matrena joined the conversation; she was anxious to learn who the woman and children were, and so she said: “Then you aren’t their mother?”

“No, I am not their mother; I am no relation to them, good wife, and they are no relation to me at all; I adopted them.”

“If they are not your children, you take good care of them.”

“Why shouldn’t I take good care of them? I nursed them both at my own breast. I had a baby of my own, but God took him. I did not take such good care of him as I do of these.”

“Whose children are they?”

CHAPTER IX

The woman became confidential, and began to tell them about it.

“Six years ago,” said she, “these little ones were left orphans in one week; the father was buried on Tuesday, and the mother died on Friday. Three days these little ones remained without their father, and then their mother followed him. At that time I was living with my husband in the country: we were neighbors; we lived in adjoining yards. Their father was a peasant, and worked in the forest at wood-cutting. And they were felling a tree, and it caught him across the body. It hurt him all inside. As soon as they got him out, he gave his soul to God, and that same week his wife gave birth to twins—these are the little girls here. There they were, poor and alone, no one to take care of them, either grandmother or sister.

“She must have died soon after the children were bom. For when I went in the morning to look after my neighbor, as soon as I entered the cottage, I found the poor thing dead and cold. And when she died she must have rolled over on this little girl. That’s the way she crushed it, and spoiled this foot.

“The people got together, they washed and laid out the body, they had a coffin made, and buried her. The people were always kind. But the two little ones were left alone. What was to be done with them? Now I was the only one of the women who had a baby. For eight weeks I had been nursing my first-born, a boy. So I took them for the time being. The farmers got together; they planned and planned what to do with them, and they said to me: ‘Maria, you just keep the little girls for a while, and give us a chance to decide.’

“So I nursed the well one for a while, but did not think it worth while to nurse the deformed one. I did not expect that she was going to live. And, then, I thought to myself, why should the little angel’s soul pass away? I felt sorry for it. I tried to nurse her, and so I had my own and these two besides; yes, I had three children at the breast. But I was young and strong, and I had good food! And God gave me so much milk in my breasts that I had enough and to spare. I used to nurse two at once and let the third one wait. When one had finished, I would take up the third. And so God let me nurse all three; but when my boy was in his third year, I lost him. And God never gave me any more children. But we began to be in comfortable circumstances. And now we are living with the trader at the mill. We get good wages and live well. But we have no children of our own. And how lonely it would be, if it were not for these two little girls! How could I help loving them? They are to me like the wax in the candle!”

And the woman pressed the little lame girl to her with one arm, and with the other hand she tried to wipe the tears from her cheeks.

And Matrena sighed, and said: ‘The old saw isn’t far wrong, ‘Men can live without father and mother, but without God one cannot live.’ ”

While they were thus talking together, suddenly a flash of lightning seemed to irradiate from that comer of the cottage where Michael was sitting. All looked at him; and, behold! Michael was sitting there with bis hands folded in his lap, and looking up and smiling..

CHAPTER X

The woman went away with the children, and Michael arose from the bench and laid down his work; he took off his apron, made a low bow to the shoemaker and his wife, and said: “Farewell, friends; God has for­given me. Do you also forgive me?”

And Simon and Matrena perceived that it was from Michael that the light had flashed. And Simon arose, bowed low before Michael, and said to him: “I see, Michael, that you are not a mere man, and I have no right to detain you nor to ask questions of you. But tell me one thing: when I had found you and brought you home, you were sad; but when my wife gave you something to eat, you smiled on her, and after that you became more cheerful. And then when the baron ordered the boots, why did you smile a second time, and after that become still more cheerful? And now when this woman brought these two little girls, why did you smile for the third time and become perfectly radiant? Tell me, Michael, why was it that such a light streamed from you, and why you smiled three times?”

And Michael said: “The light blazed from me because I had been punished, but now God has forgiven me. And I smiled the three times because it was required of me to learn three of God’s truths, and I have now learned the three truths of God. One truth I learned when your wife had pity on me, and so I smiled; the second truth I learned when the rich man ordered the boots, and I smiled for the second time; and now that I have seen the little girls, I have learned the third and last truth, and I smiled for the third time.”

And Simon said: “Tell me, Michael, why God pun­ished you, and what were the truths of God, that I too may know them.”

And Michael said: “God punished me because I disobeyed Him. I was an angel in heaven, and I was disobedient to God. I was an angel in heaven, and the Lord sent me to bring back the soul of a certain woman. I flew down to earth and I saw the woman lying alone —she was sick—she had just borne twins, two little girls. The little ones were sprawling about near their mother, but their mother was unable to lift them to her breast. The mother saw me; she perceived that God had sent me after her soul; she burst into tears, and said: ‘Angel of God, I have just buried my husband; a tree fell on him in the forest and killed him. I have no sister, nor aunt, nor mother to take care of my little ones; do not carry off my soul; let me bring up my children myself, and nurse them and put them on their feet. It is impossible for children to live without father or mother.’

“And I heeded what the mother said; I put one child to her breast, and laid the other in its mother’s arms, and I returned to the Lord in heaven. I flew back to the Lord, and I said:

“ T cannot take the mother’s soul. The father has been killed by a tree, the mother has given birth to twins, and begs me not to take her soul; she says:

“ ‘ “Let me bring up my little ones; let me nurse them and put them on their feet. It is impossible for children to live without father and mother.” I did not take the mother’s soul.’

“And the Lord said:

“ ‘Go and take the mother’s soul, and thou shalt learn three lessons: Thou shalt learn what is in men, and what is not given unto men, and what men live by. When thou shalt have learned these three lessons, then return to heaven.’

“And I flew down to earth and took the mother’s soul. The little ones fell from her bosom. The dead body rolled over on the bed, and fell on one of the little girls and crushed her foot. I rose above the village and was going to give the soul to God, when a wind seized me, my wings ceased to move and fell off, and the soul arose alone to God, and I fell back to earth.”

CHAPTER XI

And simon and Matrena now knew whom they had clothed and fed, and who it was that had been living with them, and they burst into tears of dismay and joy; and the angel said:

“I was there in the field naked and alone. Hitherto ï had never known what human poverty was; I had Known neither cold nor hunger, and now I was a man. I was famished, I was freezing, and I knew not what to do. And I saw across the field a chapel made for God’s service. I went to God’s chapel, thinking to get shelter in it. But the chapel was locked, and I could not enter. And I crouched down behind the chapel, so as to get shelter from the wind. Evening came; I was hungry and chill, and ached all over. Suddenly I heard a man walk­ing along the road, with a pair of boots in his hand, and talking to himself. I now saw for the first time since I had become a man the face of a mortal man, and it filled me with dismay, and I tried to hide from him. And I heard this man asking himself how he should protect himself from cold during the winter, and how get food for his wife and children. And I thought: ‘I am perishing with cold and hunger, and here is a man whose sole thought is to get a fur or sheepskin outside garment for himself and his wife and to furnish bread for their sustenance. It is impossible for him to help me.’

“The man saw me and scowled; he seemed even more terrible than before; then he passed on. And I was in despair. Suddenly I heard the man coming back. I looked up, and did not recognize that it was the same man as before; then there was death in his face, but now it had suddenly become alive, and I saw that God was in his face. He came to me, put clothes on me, and took me home with him.

“When I reached his house, a woman came out to meet us, and she began to scold. The woman was even more terrible to me than the man; a dead soul seemed to proceed forth from her mouth, and I was suffocated by the stench of death. She wanted to drive me out into the cold, and I knew that she would die if she drove me out. And suddenly her husband reminded her of God. And instantly a change came over the woman. And when she had prepared something for me to eat, and looked kindly on me, I looked at her, and there waa no longer anything like death about her; she was now alive, and in her also I recognized God.

“And I remembered God’s first lesson: 'Thou shalt learn what is in men?

“And I perceived that Love was in men. And I was glad because God had begun to fulfill His promise to me, and I smiled for the first time. But I was not yet ready to know the whole. I could not understand what was not given to men, and what men live by.

“I began to live in your house, and after I had lived with you a year the man came to order die boots which should be strong enough to last him a year without ripping or wearing out of shape. And I looked at him, and suddenly perceived behind his back my comrade, the Angel of Death. No one besides myself saw this angel; but I knew him, and I knew that before the sun should go down he would take the rich man’s soul. And I said to myself: ‘This man is laying his plans to live another year, and he knows not that ere evening comes he will be dead.’

“And I realized suddenly the second saying of God: ‘Thou shalt know what is not given unto men.’

“And now I knew what was in men. And now I knew also what was not given unto men. It is not given unto men to know what is needed for their bodies. And I smiled for the second time. I was glad because I saw my comrade, die angel, and because God had revealed unto me the second truth.

“But I could not yet understand all. I could not under­stand what men live by, and so I lived on, and waited until God should reveal to me the third truth also. And now in the sixth year the little twin girls have come with the woman, and I recognized the little ones, and I remembered how they had been left. And after I had recognized them, I thought: ‘The mother besought me in behalf of her children, because she thought that it would be impossible for children to live without father and mother, but another woman, a stranger, has nursed them and brought them up.’

“And when the woman caressed the children that were not her own, and wept over them, then I saw in her the Living God, and knew what people live by. And I knew that God had revealed to me the last truth, and had pardoned me, and I smiled for the third time.’

CHAPTER XII

And the angel’s body became manifest, and he was clad with light so bright that the eyes could not endure to look on him, and he spoke in clearer accents, as if the voice proceeded not from him, but came from heaven.

And the angel said: “I have learned that every man lives, not through care of himself, but by love.

“It was not given to the mother to know what her children needed to keep them alive. It was not given the rich man to know what he himself needed, and it is not given to any man to know whether he will need boots for daily living, or slippers for his burial.

“When I became a man, I was kept alive, not by what thought I took for myself, but because a stranger and his wife had love in their hearts, and pitied and loved me. The orphans were kept alive, not because other people deliberated about what was to be done with them, but because a strange woman had love for them in her heart, and pitied them and loved them. And all men are kept alive, not by their own fore­thought, but because there is love in men.

“I knew before that God gave life to men, and de­sired them to live; but now I know something above and beyond that.

“I have learned that God does not wish men to live each for himself, and therefore He has not revealed to them what they each need for themselves; but He wishes them to live in union, and therefore He has revealed to them what is necessary for each and for all together.

“I have now learned that it is only in appearance that they are kept alive through care for themselves, but that in reality they are kept alive through love. He who dwelle th in love dw elle th in God, and God in him, for God is love.”

And the angel sang a hymn of praise to God, and the cottage shook with the sound of his voice.

And the ceiling parted, and a column of fire reached from earth to heaven. And Simon and his wife and children fell prostrate on the ground. And pinions ap­peared on the angel’s shoulders, and he soared away to heaven.

And when Simon opened his eyes, the cottage was the same as it had ever been, and there was no one in it save himself and his familv.

WHERE LOVE IS. THERE
GOD IS ALSO

In the city lived Martin Avdeich, a shoemaker. He lived in a basement, in a little room with one window. The window looked out on the street. Through the window he used to watch the people passing by: although only their feet could be seen, yet by the boots Martin Avdeich recognized their owners. He had lived long in one place, and had many acquaintances. Few pairs of boots in his district had not been in his hands once and again. Some he would half-sole, some he would patch, some he would stitch around, and occasionally he would also put on new uppers. And through the window he quite often recognized his work. Avdeich had plenty to do, because he was a faithful workman, used good material, did not make exorbitant charges, and kept his word. If he could finish an order by a cer­tain time, he accepted it: if not, he would not deceive you—he told you so beforehand. And all knew Av­deich, and he was never out of work.

Avdeich had always been a good man; but as he grew old, he began to think more about his soul, and get nearer to God. Martin’s wife had died when he was still living with his master. His wife left him a boy three years old. None of their other children had lived. All the eldest had died in childhood. Martin at first intended to send his little son to his sister in the village, but afterwards he felt sorry for him: he thought to him­self, “It will be hard for my Kapiton to five in a strange family. I shall keep him with me.”

And Avdeich left his master, and went into lodgings with his little son. But, through God’s will, Avdeich had no luck with children. As Kapiton grew older, he began to help his father, and would have been a delight to him, but fell sick, went to bed, suffered a week, and died. Martin buried his son, and fell into despair. So deep was this despair, that he began to complain of God. Martin fell into such a melancholy state that more than once he prayed to God for death, and re­proached God because He did not take away him who was an old man, instead of his beloved only son. Av­deich also ceased to go to church.

And once a little old man, a fellow countryman, came from the Troitsa (Trinity) Monastery to see Avdeich: for seven years he had been absent. Avdeich talked with him, and began to complain about his sorrows.

“I have no more desire to live,” he said; “I only wish I were dead. That is all I pray God for. I am a man without anything to hope for now.”

And the little old man said to him, “You don’t talk right, Martin: we must not judge God’s doings. The world moves, not by your skill, but by God’s will. God decreed for your son to die, for you—to live. Conse­quently, it is for the best. And you are in despair, be­cause you wish to live for your own happiness.”

“But what shall one live for?” asked Martin.

And the little old man said, “We must live for God, Martin. He gives you life, and for His sake you must live. When you begin to live for Him, you will not grieve over anything, and all will seem easy to you.”

Martin kept silent for a moment, and then said, “But how can one live for the sake of God?”

And the little old man said, “Christ has taught us how to live for God. You know how to read? Buy a Testa­ment, and read it: there you will learn how to live foi God. Everything is explained there.”

And these words kindled a fire in Avdeich’s heart. And he went that very same day, bought a New Testa­ment in large print, and began to read. At first Avdeich intended to read only on holidays; but as he began to read, it so cheered his soul that he used to read every day. At times he would become so absorbed in reading that all the kerosene in the lamp would bum out, and still he could not tear himself away. And so Avdeich used to read every evening. And the more he read, the clearer he understood what God wanted of him, and how one should live for God; and his heart constantly grew easier and easier. Formerly, when he lay down to sleep, he used to sigh and groan, and always think of his Kapiton; and now he only exclaimed, “Glory to Thee! Glory to Thee, Lord! Thy will be done.”

And from that time Avdeich’s whole life was changed. In other days he too used to drop into a saloon, as a holiday amusement, to drink a cup of tea; and he was not averse to a little brandy either. He would take a drink with some acquaintance, and leave the saloon, not intoxicated exactly, yet in a happy frame of mind, and inclined to talk nonsense, and shout, and use abu­sive language at a person. Now he left off this sort of thing. His life became quiet and joyful. In the morning he sat down to work, finished his allotted task, then took the little lamp from the hook, put it on the table, got his book from the shelf, opened it, and sat down to read. And the more he read, the more he understood, and the brighter and happier it was in his heart.

Once it happened that Martin read till late into title night. He was reading the Gospel of Luke. He was read­ing over the sixth chapter; and he was reading the verses, “And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.” He read further also those verses, where God speaks: “And why call ye me, Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say? Whosoever cometh to me, and heareth my sayings, and doeth them, I will shew you to whom he is like: He is like a man which built an house, and digged deep, and laid the foundation on a rock: and when the flood arose, the stream beat vehemently upon that house, and could not shake it: for it was founded upon a rock. But he that heareth, and doeth not, is like a man that with­out a foundation built an house upon the earth; against which the stream did beat vehemently, and immediately it fell; and the ruin of that house was great.”

Avdeich read these words, and joy filled his soul. He took off his spectacles, put them down on the book, leaned his elbows upon the table, and became lost in thought. And he began to measure his fife by these words. And he thought to himself, “Is my house built upon the rock, or upon the sand? ’Tis well if on the rock. It is so easy when you are alone by yourself; it seems as if you had done everything as God commands : but when you forget yourself, you sin again. Yet I shall still struggle on. It is very good. Help me, Lord!”

Thus ran his thoughts: he wanted to go to bed, but he felt loath to tear himself away from the book. And he began to read further in the seventh chapter. He read about the centurion, he read about the widow’s son, he read about the answer given to John’s disciples, and finally he came to that place where the rich Pharisee desired the Lord to sit at meat with him; and he read how the woman that was a sinner anointed His feet, and washed them with her tears, and how He forgave her. He reached the forty-fourth verse, and began to read:

“And he turned to the woman, and said unto Simon, Seest thou this woman? I entered into thine house, thou gavest me no water for my feet: but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss: but this woman since the time I came in hath not ceased to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou didst not anoint: but this woman hath anointed my feet with ointment.” He finished reading these verses, and thought to himself, “Thou gavest me no water for my feet, thou gavest me no kiss. My head with oil thou didst not anoint.”

And again Avdeich took off his spectacles, put them down upon the book, and again he became lost in thought.

“It seems that Pharisee must have been such a man as I am. I too apparently have thought only of myself—how I might have my tea, be warm and comfortable, but never to think about my guest. He thought about him­self, but there was not the least care taken of the guest. And who was his guest? The Lord Himself. If He had come to me, should I have done the same way?”

Avdeich rested his head upon both his arms, and did not notice how he fell asleep.

“Martin!” suddenly seemed to sound in his ears.

Martin started from his sleep: “Who is here?”

He turned around, glanced toward the door—no onv.

Again he fell into a doze. Suddenly he plainly heard, “Martin! Ah, Martin! look tomorrow on the street. I am coming.”

Martin awoke, rose from the chair, began to rub his eyes. He himself did not know whether he heard those words in his dreams, or in reality. He turned down his lamp, and went to bed.

At daybreak next morning, Avdeich rose, made his prayer to God, lighted the stove, put on the cabbage soup and the gruel, put the water in the samovar, put on his apron, and sat down by the window to work.

Avdeich was working, and at the same time thinking about all that had happened yesterday. He thought both ways: now he thought it was a dream, and now he thought he really heard a voice. “Well,” he thought, “such things have been.”

Martin was sitting by the window, and did not work as much as he looked through the window: when any­one passed by in boots that he did not know, he bent down, looked out of the window, in order to see not only the feet but also the face. The house-porter passed by in new felt boots; the water-carrier passed by; then came alongside of the window an old soldier of Czar Nicholas’ time, in an old pair of laced felt boots, with a shovel in his hands. Avdeich recognized him by his felt boots. The old man’s name was Stepanich; and a neighboring merchant, out of charity, gave him a home with him. He was required to assist the house-porter. Stepanich began to shovel away the snow from in front of Avdeich’s window. Avdeich glanced at him, and took up his work again.

“Pshaw! I must be getting crazy in my old age,” said Avdeich, and laughed at himself. “Stepanich is clearing away the snow, and I imagine that Christ is coming to see me. I was entirely out of my mind, old dotard that I am!” Avdeich sewed about a dozen stitches, and then felt impelled to look through the window again. He looked out again through the window, and saw Stepa­nich had leaned his shovel against the wall, and was either warming himself, or resting. He was an old, broken-down man: evidently he had not strength enough even to shovel the snow. Avdeich said to him­self, “I will give him some tea: by the way, the samovar must be boiling by this time.” Avdeich laid down his awl, rose from his seat, put the samovar on the table, made the tea, and tapped with his finger at the glass. Stepanich turned around, and came to the window. Avdeich beckoned to him, and went to open the door.

“Come in, warm yourself a little,” he said. “You must be cold.”

“May Christ reward you for this! My bones ache,” said Stepanich.

Stepanich came in, and shook off the snow; he tried to wipe his feet, so as not to soil the floor, but stag­gered.

“Don’t trouble to wipe your feet. I will clean it up myself: we are used to such things. Come in and sit down,” said Avdeich. “Drink a cup of tea.”

And Avdeich filled two glasses, and handed one to his guest; while he himself poured his tea into a saucer and began to blow it.

Stepanich finished drinking his glass of tea, turned the glass upside down (a custom among the Russians), put upon it the half-eaten lump of sugar, and began to express his thanks. But it was evident he wanted some more.

“Have some more,” said Avdeich, filling both his own glass and his guest’s. Avdeich drank his tea, but from time to time kept glancing out into the street.

“Are you expecting anyone?” asked his guest.

“Am I expecting anyone? I am ashamed even to tell whom I expect. I am, and I am not, expecting someone; but one word has impressed itself upon my heart. Whether it is a dream, or something else, I do not know. Don’t you see, brother, I was reading yesterday the Gospel about Christ, the Little Father; how He suffered, how He walked on the earth. I suppose you have heard about it?”

“Indeed I have,” replied Stepanich: “but we are people in darkness; we can’t read.”

“Well, now, I was reading about that very thing— how He walked upon the earth: I read, you know, how He comes to the Pharisee, and the Pharisee did not not treat Him hospitably. Well, and so, my brother, I was reading yesterday about this very thing, and was thinking to myself how he did not receive Christ, the Little Father, with honor. If, for example, He should come to me, or anyone else, I think to myself I should not even know how to receive Him. And he gave Him no reception at all. Well! While I was thus thinking, I fell asleep, brother, and I heard someone call me by name. I got up: the voice, just as though someone whispered, said, ‘Be on the watch: I shall come tomorrow.’ And this happened twice. Well! Would you believe it, it got into my head? I scolded myself—and yet I was expecting Him, the Little Father.”

Stepanich shook his head, and said nothing: he finished drinking his glass of tea, and put it on the side; but Avdeich picked up the glass again, and filled it once more.

“Drink some more for your good health. You see, I have an idea that, when the Little Father went about the earth, He disdained no one, and had more to do with the simple people. He always went to see the simple people. He picked out His disciples more from among our brethren, sinners like ourselves from the working-class. He, says He, who exalts himself shall be humbled, and he who is humbled shall become ex­alted. You, says He, call me Lord, and I, says He, wash your feet. Whoever wishes, says He, to be the first, the same shall be a servant to all. Because, says He, blessed are the poor, the humble, the kind, the generous.” And Stepanich forgot about his tea: he was an old man, and easily moved to tears. He was sitting listening, and the tears were rolling down his face.

’‘Come, now, have some more tea,” said Avdeich; but Stepanich made the sign of the cross, thanked him, turned up his glass, and arose.

“Thanks to you,” he said, “Martin Avdeich, for treating me kindly, and satisfying me, soul and body.”

“You are welcome; come in again: always glad to see a friend,” said Avdeich.

Stepanich departed; and Martin poured out the rest of the tea, drank it up, put away the dishes, and sat down again by the window to work, to stitch on a patch. He was stitching, and at the same time looking, through the window. He was expecting Christ, and was all the while thinking of Him and His deeds, and his head was filled with the different speeches of Christ.

Two soldiers passed by: one wore boots furnished by the Crown, and the other one, boots that he had made; then the master of the next house passed by in shining galoshes; then a baker with a basket passed by. All passed by; and now there came also by the window a woman in woolen stockings and wooden shoes. She passed by the window, and stood still near the window-case.

Avdeich looked up at her from the window, saw it was a strange woman poorly clad, and with a child: she was standing by the wall with her back to the wind, trying to wrap up the child, and she had nothing to wrap it up in. The woman was dressed in shabby summer clothes: and from behind the frame, Avdeich heard the child crying, and the woman trying to pacify it; but she was not able to pacify it. Avdeich got up, went to the door, ascended the steps, and cried, “Hey! my good woman!” The woman heard him and turned around.

“Why are you standing in the cold with the child? Come into my room, where it is warm: you can manage it better. Right in this way!”

The woman was astonished. She saw an old, old man in an apron, with spectacles on his nose, call­ing her to him. She followed him. They descended the steps, entered the room: the old man led the woman to his bed.

“There,” says he, “sit down, my good woman, nearer to the stove: you can get warm, and nurse the child.”

“I have no milk for him. I myself have not eaten anything since morning,” said the woman; but, never­theless, she took the child to her breast.

Avdeich shook his head, went to the table, brought out the bread and a dish, opened the oven door, poured into the dish some cabbage soup, took out the pot with the gruel, but it was not done yet; so he filled the dish with soup only, and put it on the table. He got the bread, took the towel down from the hook, and put it upon the table.

“Sit down,” he said, “and eat, my good woman; and I will mind the little one. You see, I once had children of my own: I know how to handle them.”

The woman crossed herself, sat down at the table, and began to eat, while Avdeich took a seat on the bed near the infant. Avdeich kept smacking and smacking to it with his lips; but it was a poor kind of smacking, for he had no teeth. The little one still cried. And it oc­curred to Avdeich to threaten the little one with his finger: he waved, waved his finger right before the child’s mouth, and hastily withdrew it. He did not put it to its mouth, because his finger was black, and soiled with wax. And the little one looked at his finger, and became quiet: then it began to smile, and Avdeich also was glad. While the woman was eating, she told who she was, and whither she was going.

“I,” said she, “am a soldier’s wife. It is now seven months since they sent my husband away ofi, and no tidings. I lived out as cook; the baby was bom; no one cared to keep me with a child. This is the third month that I have been struggling along without a place. I ate up all I had. I wanted to engage as a wet-nurse— no one would take me—I am too thin, they say. I have just been to the merchant’s wife, where lives our little grandmother, and so they promised to take us in. I thought this was the end of it. But she told me to come next week. And she lives a long way oS. I got tired out; and it tired him, too, my heart’s darling. Fortunately, our landlady takes pity on us for the sake of Christ, and gives us a room, else I don’t know how I should manage to get along.”

Avdeich sighed, and said, “Haven’t you any warm clothes?”

“Now is the time, friend, to wear warm clothes; but yesterday I pawned my last shawl for a twenty-kopek piece.”

The woman came to the bed, and took the child; and Avdeich rose, went to the little wall, and succeeded in finding an old coat.

“Now!” said he, “it is a poor thing, yet you may turn it to some use.”

The woman looked at the coat, looked at the old man; she took the coat, and burst into tears: and Av­deich turned away his head; crawling under the bed, he pushed out a little trunk, rummaged in it, and sat down again opposite the woman.

And the woman said, “May Christ bless you, little grandfather! He must have sent me Himself to your window. My little child would have frozen to death. When I started out, it was warm, but now it is ter­ribly cold. And He, Little Father, led you to look through the window, and take pity on me, an unfor­tunate.”

Avdeich smiled, and said, “Indeed, He did that! I have been looking through the window, my good woman, not without cause.” And Martin told the sol­dier’s wife his dream, and how he heard the voice—how the Lord promised to come and see him that day.

“All things are possible,” said the woman. She rose, put on the coat, wrapped up her little child in it; and, as she started to take leave, she thanked Avdeich again.

“Take this, for Christ’s sake,” said Avdeich, giving her a twenty-kopek piece, “redeem your shawl.” She made the sign of the cross. Avdeich made the sign of the cross, and went with her to the door.

The woman left. Avdeich ate some soup, washed some dishes, and sat down again to work. While he worked he still remembered the window: when the window grew darker, he immediately looked out to see who was passing by. Both acquaintances and strangers passed by, and there was nothing out of the ordinary.

But here Avdeich saw that an old apple-woman had stopped right in front of his window. She carried a basket with apples. Only a few were left, as she had nearly sold them all out; and over her shoulder she had a bag full of chips. She must have gathered them up in some new building, and was on her way home. One could see that the bag was heavy on her shoulder: she wanted to shift it to the other shoulder. So she lowered the bag upon the sidewalk, stood the basket with the apples on a little post, and began to shake down the splinters in the bag. And while she was shak­ing her bag, a little boy in a tom cap came along, picked up an apple from the basket, and was about to make his escape; but the old woman noticed it, turned around, and caught the youngster by his sleeve. The little boy began to struggle, tried to tear himself away; but the old woman grasped him with both hands, knocked off his cap, and caught him by the hair.

The little boy was screaming, the old woman was scolding. Avdeich lost no time in putting away his awl; he threw it upon the floor, sprang to the door— he even stumbled on the stairs, and dropped his eye­glasses—and rushed out into the street.

The old woman was pulling the youngster by his hair, and was scolding, and threatening to take him to the policeman: the youngster defended himself, and denied the charge. “I did not take it,” he said: “what are you licking me for? Let go!” Avdeich tried to separate them. He took the boy by his arm, and said, “Let him go, Granny; forgive him, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ll pay him out so that he won’t forget it for a year! I am going to take the little villain to the police.”

Avdeich began to entreat the old woman: “Let him go, Granny,” he said, “he will never do it again. Let him go, for Christ’s sake.”

The old woman let him loose: the boy tried to run. but Avdeich kept him back.

“Ask the Granny’s forgiveness,” he said, “and don’t ever do it again: I saw you taking the apple.”

With tears in his eyes, the boy began to ask for­giveness.

“Good! That’s right; and now, here’s an apple for you.” Avdeich got an apple from the basket, and gave it to the boy. “I will pay you for it, Granny,” he said to the old woman.

“You ruin them that way, the good-for-nothings,” said the woman. “He ought to be treated so that he would remember it for a whole week.”

“Eh, Granny, Granny,” said Avdeich, “that is right according to our judgment, but not according to God’s. If he is to be whipped for an apple, then what do we de­serve for our sins?”

The old woman was silent.

Avdeich told her the parable of the ruler who for­gave a debtor all that he owed him, and how the debtor went and began to choke one who owed him.

The old woman listened, and the boy stood listening.

“God has commanded us to forgive,” said Avdeich, “else we, too, may not be forgiven. All should be forgiven, and the thoughtless especially.”

The old woman shook her head, and sighed.

“That’s so,” said she; “but the trouble is that they are very much spoiled.”

“Then we who are older must teach them,” said Avdeich.

“That’s just what I say,” remarked the old woman. “I myself had seven of them—only one daughter is left.” And the old woman began to relate where and how she lived with her daughter, and how many grand­children she had. “Here,” she says, “my strength is only so-so, and yet I have to work. I pity the youngsters —my grandchildren—how nice they are! No one gives me such a welcome as they do. Aksintka won’t go to anyone but me. ‘It’s Grandmother, dear Grandmother, darling Grandmother.’ ” And the old woman grew quite sentimental.

“Of course, it is a childish trick. God be with him,” said she, pointing to the boy.

The woman was just about to lift the bag upon her shoulder, when the boy ran up and said, “Let me carry it, Granny: it is on my way.”

The old woman nodded her head, and put the bag on the boy’s back.

Side by side they both passed along the street. And the old woman even forgot to ask Avdeich to pay for the apple.

Avdeich stood motionless, and kept gazing after them; and he heard them talking all the time as they walked away. After Avdeich saw them disappear, he returned to his room; he found his eyeglasses on the stairs—they were not broken; he picked up his awl, and sat down to work again.

After working a little while, it grew darker so that he could not see to sew: he saw the lamplighter passing by to light the street lamps.

“It must be time to make a light,” he thought to himself; so he fixed his little lamp, hung it up, and betook himself to work. He had one boot already finished; he turned it around, looked at it: “Well done.” He put away his tools, swept off the cuttings, cleared off the bristles and ends, took the lamp, put it on the table, and took down the Gospels from the shelf. He intended to open the book at the very place where he had yesterday put a piece of leather as a mark, but it happened to open at another place; and the moment Avdeich opened the Testament, he recollected his last night’s dream. And as soon as he remembered it, it seemed as though he heard someone stepping about behind him. Avdeich looked around, and saw—there, in the dark comer, it seemed as though people were standing: he was at a loss to know who they were And a voice whispered in his ear, “Martin—ah, Mar­tin! Did you not recognize me?”

“Who?” uttered Avdeich.

“Me,” replied the voice. “It is I”; and Stepanich stepped forth from the dark comer; he smiled, and like a little cloud faded away, and soon vanished.

“And this is I,” said the voice. From the dark comer stepped forth the woman with her child: the woman, smiled, the child laughed, and they also vanished.

“And this is I,” continued the voice; both the old woman and the boy with the apple stepped forward; both smiled and vanished.

Avdeich’s soul rejoiced: he crossed himself, put on his eyeglasses, and began to read the Gospel where it happened to open. On the upper part of the page he read:

“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”

And on the lower part of the page he read this:

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Mat­thew 25).

And Avdeich understood that his dream did not deceive him; that the Saviour really called upon him that day, and that he really received Him.

Leo Tolstoy was more than a great 19th century novelist. Tn his later years he was converted to the doctrine of Christian love. From that time on, moral and social elements played a great role in Tolstoy's works.

What Men Live By is the story of a poor shoemaker, his wife and children. They took in a naked stranger and with him learned three divine lessons: 1) What is given to men; 2) What is not given to men; 3) What men live by.

Where Love Is, There God Is Also— based on Matthew 25:35-40—is about an old shoemaker who lived alone. He started to read the New Testament; his life began to change; and one day he experienced when and how Christ comes to men.

INSPIRATIONAL CLASSICS

ACRES OF DIAMONDS

Russell Conwell’s famous lecture urging man’s greater appreciation of God-given resources and opportunities.

AS A MAN THINKETH

A man’s character is the sum of his thoughts — James Allen’s inspiring thesis on the power of thought.

FAMOUS LETTERS

A compilation of unusual correspondence.

FAVORITE INSPIRATIONAL POEMS

A variety of favorite selections, classical and contempo­rary, including Browning, Tennyson, Whittier, Words­worth and Longfellow.

FRIENDSHIP

An American classic concerning one of life’s richest ex­periences, by Ralph Wald Emerson.

THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD

The famous message from the Scottish writer, Henry Drummond, on the 13th chapter of I Corinthians.

LIFE’S EXTRAS

The spiritual extras of life, half-hidden in nature’s bounty, gloriously exposed by Archibald Rutledge.

THE MAJESTY OF CALMNESS

Eye-opening truths, reminding us that calmness conr from within, by William George Jordan.

SEVEN REASONS WHY A SCIENTIST

BELIEVES IN GOD

The central conclusions of scientist A. Cressy Morrison leading him to believe in God.

THE STORY OF THE OTHER WISE MAN

Henry van Dyke’s beloved story of a fourth wise man, who also sought the King.

Ask your dealer about other CLASSICS titles.

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY • Publishers

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