as I live, of course, but it was your
cook, Olga, who really saved me."

"How was that?"

"Why, it was like this. I used to come to you to chop wood and she
would begin: 'Ah, you drunkard! You God-forsaken man! And yet death
does not take you!' and then she would sit opposite me, lamenting,
looking into my face and wailing: 'You unlucky fellow! You have no
gladness in this world, and in the next you will burn in hell, poor
drunkard! You poor sorrowful creature!' and she always went on in
that style, you know. How often she upset herself, and how many
tears she shed over me I can't tell you. But what affected me most
--she chopped the wood for me! Do you know, sir, I never chopped
a single log for you--she did it all! How it was she saved me,
how it was I changed, looking at her, and gave up drinking, I can't
explain. I only know that what she said and the noble way she behaved
brought about a change in my soul, and I shall never forget it.
It's time to go up, though, they are just going to ring the bell."

Lushkov bowed and went off to the gallery.

A STORY WITHOUT A TITLE

IN the fifth century, just as now, the sun rose every morning and
every evening retired to rest. In the morning, when the first rays
kissed the dew, the earth revived, the air was filled with the
sounds of rapture and hope; while in the evening the same earth
subsided into silence and plunged into gloomy darkness. One day was
like another, one night like another. From time to time a storm-cloud
raced up and there was the angry rumble of thunder, or a negligent
star fell out of the sky, or a pale monk ran to tell the brotherhood
that not far from the monastery he had seen a tiger--and that was
all, and then each day was like the next.

The monks worked and prayed, and their Father Superior played on
the organ, made Latin verses, and wrote music. The wonderful old
man possessed an extraordinary gift. He played on the organ with
such art that even the oldest monks, whose hearing had grown somewhat
dull towards the end of their lives, could not restrain their tears
when the sounds of the organ floated from his cell. When he spoke
of anything, even of the most ordinary things--for instance of
the trees, of the wild beasts, or of the sea--they could not
listen to him without a smile or tears, and it seemed that the same
chords vibrated in his soul as in the organ. If he were moved to
anger or abandoned himself to intense joy, or began speaking o