t of the
wash-house he went into the service of one of the young ladies,
used to run about at night on errands of some sort, and began to
be spoken of as "a dangerous customer."

What has happened to him since I don't know.

And in this room here a street musician lived for ten years. When
he died they found twenty thousand roubles in his feather bed.

IN PASSION WEEK

"Go along, they are ringing already; and mind, don't be naughty in
church or God will punish you."

My mother thrusts a few copper coins upon me, and, instantly
forgetting about me, runs into the kitchen with an iron that needs
reheating. I know well that after confession I shall not be allowed
to eat or drink, and so, before leaving the house, I force myself
to eat a crust of white bread, and to drink two glasses of water.
It is quite spring in the street. The roads are all covered with
brownish slush, in which future paths are already beginning to show;
the roofs and side-walks are dry; the fresh young green is piercing
through the rotting grass of last year, under the fences. In the
gutters there is the merry gurgling and foaming of dirty water, in
which the sunbeams do not disdain to bathe. Chips, straws, the husks
of sunflower seeds are carried rapidly along in the water, whirling
round and sticking in the dirty foam. Where, where are those chips
swimming to? It may well be that from the gutter they may pass into
the river, from the river into the sea, and from the sea into the
ocean. I try to imagine to myself that long terrible journey, but
my fancy stops short before reaching the sea.

A cabman drives by. He clicks to his horse, tugs at the reins, and
does not see that two street urchins are hanging on the back of his
cab. I should like to join them, but think of confession, and the
street urchins begin to seem to me great sinners.

"They will be asked on the day of judgment: 'Why did you play pranks
and deceive the poor cabman?'" I think. "They will begin to defend
themselves, but evil spirits will seize them, and drag them to fire
everlasting. But if they obey their parents, and give the beggars
a kopeck each, or a roll, God will have pity on them, and will let
them into Paradise."

The church porch is dry and bathed in sunshine. There is not a soul
in it. I open the door irresolutely and go into the church. Here,
in the twilight which seems to me thick and gloomy as at no other
time, I am overcome by the sense of sinfulness and ins