cross he dips it in
a second time, and so on till the cross is covered with a thick
layer of ice. It is a difficult job, calling for a great deal of
strength and patience.

But now the delicate work is finished. Seryozhka races about the
village like one possessed. He swears and vows he will go at once
to the river and smash all his work. He is looking for suitable
paints.

His pockets are full of ochre, dark blue, red lead, and verdigris;
without paying a farthing he rushes headlong from one shop to
another. The shop is next door to the tavern. Here he has a drink;
with a wave of his hand he darts off without paying. At one hut he
gets beetroot leaves, at another an onion skin, out of which he
makes a yellow colour. He swears, shoves, threatens, and not a soul
murmurs! They all smile at him, they sympathise with him, call him
Sergey Nikititch; they all feel that his art is not his personal
affair but something that concerns them all, the whole people. One
creates, the others help him. Seryozhka in himself is a nonentity,
a sluggard, a drunkard, and a wastrel, but when he has his red lead
or compasses in his hand he is at once something higher, a servant
of God.

Epiphany morning comes. The precincts of the church and both banks
of the river for a long distance are swarming with people. Everything
that makes up the Jordan is scrupulously concealed under new mats.
Seryozhka is meekly moving about near the mats, trying to control
his emotion. He sees thousands of people. There are many here from
other parishes; these people have come many a mile on foot through
the frost and the snow merely to see his celebrated Jordan. Matvey,
who had finished his coarse, rough work, is by now back in the
church, there is no sight, no sound of him; he is already forgotten
. . . . The weather is lovely. . . . There is not a cloud in the sky.
The sunshine is dazzling.

The church bells ring out on the hill . . . Thousands of heads are
bared, thousands of hands are moving, there are thousands of signs
of the cross!

And Seryozhka does not know what to do with himself for impatience.
But now they are ringing the bells for the Sacrament; then half an
hour later a certain agitation is perceptible in the belfry and
among the people. Banners are borne out of the church one after the
other, while the bells peal in joyous haste. Seryozhka, trembling,
pulls away the mat . . . and the people behold something extraordinary.
The lectern, the