“No, none of that today. I won’t eat anything either, just have a little tea. Nothing should go to one’s head; one should keep it light. One needs great lightness of soul in this business.…”

People started coming after midday; until then the old man remained silent and dull. His merry, lively eyes had a concentrated look: a grave poise marked all his movements. He looked frequently at the sky and hearkened to the light rustle of the wind. His face was drawn; it seemed more disfigured, and the twitching of the mouth more poignant.

“Someone is coming,” he said softly.

I heard nothing.

“Yes. Women. Look here, friend, don’t speak to anyone and keep out of the way—or you’ll scare them. Sit quietly somewhere nearby.”

Two women crawled noiselessly out of the bushes: one, plump, middle-aged, with the meek eyes of a horse; the other, a young woman with a gray, consumptive face; they both stared at me in fear.

I walked away along the slope of the ravine, and heard the old man saying:

“He does not matter; he’s not in our way. He’s a bit touched in the head; he does not care, does not bother about us.…”

The younger woman started to speak in a cracked voice, in hurried and hurt tones, coughing and wheezing, her companion interrupting her speech with short, low, deep notes, while Savel, in a voice that sounded like a stranger’s, exclaimed, full of sympathy:

“So—so—so! What people, eh?”

The woman began to whimper plaintively—then the old man drawled melodiously:

“Dear—wait a bit; stop that; listen…”

It seemed to me that his voice had lost its hoarseness, sounded more clear and high; and the melody of his words reminded me curiously of the artless song of a goldfinch. I could see, through the net of branches, that he was bending towards the woman, speaking straight into her face; while she, sitting awkwardly at his side, opened her eyes wide and pressed her hands to her breast. Her friend, holding her head on one side, rocked it to and fro.

“They’ve hurt you; that means they’ve hurt God!” the old man said loudly and the brisk, almost cheerful sound of his words was strikingly out of keeping with their meaning. “God—where is He? In your soul, behind your breasts, lives the Holy Ghost; and these witless brothers of yours have injured Him by their foolishness. You should take pity on the fools—they’ve done the wrong. To hurt God is like hurting a small child of yours.…”

And once more he drawled:

“Dee-ear…”

I started: never before had I heard this familiar, trivial little word spoken with such triumphant tenderness. Now the old man was talking in a quick whisper; his hand on the woman’s shoulder, he pushed her gently, and the woman rocked as though half-asleep. The older woman sat down on the stones at the old man’s feet, methodically spreading the hem of her blue skirt around her.

“A pig, a dog, a horse—every beast trusts in human reason; and your brothers are human beings, remember this! And tell the elder one to come to me on Sunday.”