s still at his mother's breast he is
only taught 'every man to his own job.' Father does not believe in God,
either. You were saying that Guntorev had some sheep stolen.... I have
found them; it was a peasant at Shikalovo stole them; he stole them, but
father's got the fleeces... so that's all his faith amounts to."

Anisim winked and wagged his head.

"The elder does not believe in God, either," he went on. "And the clerk
and the deacon, too. And as for their going to church and keeping the
fasts, that is simply to prevent people talking ill of them, and in case
it really may be true that there will be a Day of Judgment. Nowadays
people say that the end of the world has come because people have grown
weaker, do not honour their parents, and so on. All that is nonsense.
My idea, mamma, is that all our trouble is because there is so little
conscience in people. I see through things, mamma, and I understand. If
a man has a stolen shirt I see it. A man sits in a tavern and you fancy
he is drinking tea and no more, but to me the tea is neither here nor
there; I see further, he has no conscience. You can go about the whole
day and not meet one man with a conscience. And the whole reason is that
they don't know whether there is a God or not.... Well, good-bye, mamma,
keep alive and well, don't remember evil against me."

Anisim bowed down at Varvara's feet.

"I thank you for everything, mamma," he said. "You are a great gain to
our family. You are a very ladylike woman, and I am very pleased with
you."

Much moved, Anisim went out, but returned again and said:

"Samorodov has got me mixed up in something: I shall either make my
fortune or come to grief. If anything happens, then you must comfort my
father, mamma."

"Oh, nonsense, don't you worry, tut, tut, tut... God is merciful. And,
Anisim, you should be affectionate to your wife, instead of giving each
other sulky looks as you do; you might smile at least."

"Yes, she is rather a queer one," said Anisim, and he gave a sigh. "She
does not understand anything, she never speaks. She is very young, let
her grow up."

A tall, sleek white stallion was already standing at the front door,
harnessed to the chaise.

Old Tsybukin jumped in jauntily with a run and took the reins. Anisim
kissed Varvara, Aksinya, and his brother. On the steps Lipa, too, was
standing; she was standing motionless, looking away, and it seemed
as though she had not come to see him off but just b