her, and laid her in the coffin. To avoid paying the sacristan,
Yakov read the psalms over the body himself, and they got nothing
out of him for the grave, as the grave-digger was a crony of his.
Four peasants carried the coffin to the graveyard, not for money,
but from respect. The coffin was followed by old women, beggars,
and a couple of crazy saints, and the people who met it crossed
themselves piously. . . . And Yakov was very much pleased that it
was so creditable, so decorous, and so cheap, and no offence to
anyone. As he took his last leave of Marfa he touched the coffin
and thought: "A good piece of work!"

But as he was going back from the cemetery he was overcome by acute
depression. He didn't feel quite well: his breathing was laboured
and feverish, his legs felt weak, and he had a craving for drink.
And thoughts of all sorts forced themselves on his mind. He remembered
again that all his life he had never felt for Marfa, had never been
affectionate to her. The fifty-two years they had lived in the same
hut had dragged on a long, long time, but it had somehow happened
that in all that time he had never once thought of her, had paid
no attention to her, as though she had been a cat or a dog. And
yet, every day, she had lighted the stove had cooked and baked, had
gone for the water, had chopped the wood, had slept with him in the
same bed, and when he came home drunk from the weddings always
reverently hung his fiddle on the wall and put him to bed, and all
this in silence, with a timid, anxious expression.

Rothschild, smiling and bowing, came to meet Yakov.

"I was looking for you, uncle," he said. "Moisey Ilyitch sends you
his greetings and bids you come to him at once."

Yakov felt in no mood for this. He wanted to cry.

"Leave me alone," he said, and walked on.

"How can you," Rothschild said, fluttered, running on in front.
"Moisey Ilyitch will be offended! He bade you come at once!"

Yakov was revolted at the Jew's gasping for breath and blinking,
and having so many red freckles on his face. And it was disgusting
to look at his green coat with black patches on it, and all his
fragile, refined figure.

"Why are you pestering me, garlic?" shouted Yakov. "Don't persist!"

The Jew got angry and shouted too:

"Not so noisy, please, or I'll send you flying over the fence!"

"Get out of my sight!" roared Yakov, and rushed at him with his
fists. "One can't live for you scabby Jews!"

Rothschild