Interrupted Stories

and, finally, in the entire village. Agafya Ivanovna went to have a prayer service performed and lit a candle in the maidservants’ room before the icon of the Joy of All Who Sorrow a famous icon of the Virgin Mary. The Moldavian woman, who in all emergencies tended to lapse into a confused state, muttered through her teeth,

“About Tsar David and all his meekness”
and incessantly repeated
“Holy, holy, holy”
as if before a
thunderclap.

Tit did not have to search for Mitka for long; he was sitting barefoot in the tavern, having already spent his shoe money on sivukha raw, cheap potato vodka, and was shouting loudly:

“I do not want to serve such an asp; I want to serve the Tsar. I will go into the army; I have neither father nor mother. I will serve for the people, but I am no longer his servant, and I will not go back. And if he takes me by force, then I shall commit a sin upon myself, by God, I shall.”

“Mitry, Mitry, do not bellow,” Tit told him, “and do not spout such nonsense. The master’s hand is long, it will reach you everywhere. You had better come with me, otherwise, we will have to tie your hands; such is the master’s order.”

Tit’s eloquence finally conquered Mitka, and, protesting and saying that he would commit a sin the very next day, he went along, adding, “No, Tit Trofimovich, there is no need to tie me up. I am not a thief, nor a dog, to be led on a rope. We will get there without a rope.” On the road, Mitka sang at the top of his lungs, “Oh, mistress, mistress!” with those colorful variations that all anterooms abound in.

The incorruptible Tit, having put his friend in the stocks, ran to the door with the sour cabbage soup. At five o’clock, Marfa Petrovna sent to inquire whether the master had awakened; Tit waved his hand silently and placed a finger to his lips. At six, Marfa Petrovna herself came to the door. “It seems he has not yet deigned to wake,” Tit reported. Marfa Petrovna quietly opened the door and suddenly shrieked so loudly that Tit knocked over the pitcher of sour cabbage soup. It was no wonder she screamed. The old master was lying stretched out beside the bed; one eye was squinted, the other completely open with a dull, glassy expression; his mouth was twisted, and several drops of bloody foam were running down his lips. For a minute, absolute silence reigned, but suddenly, from out of nowhere, all the servants flooded into the room; the formidable Tit did not stop them but stood rooted to the spot. They carried Marfa Petrovna out in a faint and placed under her bosom an icon containing the relics of St. Antipas; the Moldavian woman ran into the room with some kind of unnatural whimpering and, slipping in a puddle of sour cabbage soup, nearly broke her leg.

Tit, as the stronger character, was the first to regain his composure and again, in that commanding voice he had used to issue the master’s orders for twenty years, said, “Well, what are you gaping at, Senka? Drag a tub in here, and water. And you, Larivon, run and fetch the priest. And tell me, Agafya Ivanovna, is there not a copper penny to place on his right eye, for it is needed...” And everything went off like clockwork.