d.

Legends were composed about his drinking bouts in town; everybody
censured him strictly, but no one ever declined his invitation to those
drinking bouts. Thus he lived for weeks.

And unexpectedly he used to come home, not yet altogether freed from
the odour of the kabaks, but already crestfallen and quiet. With humbly
downcast eyes, in which shame was burning now, he silently listened to
his wife's reproaches, and, humble and meek as a lamb, went away to his
room and locked himself in. For many hours in succession he knelt before
the cross, lowering his head on his breast; his hands hung helplessly,
his back was bent, and he was silent, as though he dared not pray. His
wife used to come up to the door on tiptoe and listen. Deep sighs were
heard from behind the door--like the breathing of a tired and sickly
horse.

"God! You see," whispered Ignat in a muffled voice, firmly pressing the
palms of his hands to his broad breast.

During the days of repentance he drank nothing but water and ate only
rye bread.

In the morning his wife placed at the door of his room a big bottle of
water, about a pound and a half of bread, and salt. He opened the door,
took in these victuals and locked himself in again. During this time he
was not disturbed in any way; everybody tried to avoid him. A few days
later he again appeared on the exchange, jested, laughed, made contracts
to furnish corn as sharp-sighted as a bird of prey, a rare expert at
anything concerning his affairs.

But in all the moods of Ignat's life there was one passionate desire
that never left him--the desire to have a son; and the older he grew the
greater was this desire. Very often such conversation as this took place
between him and his wife. In the morning, at her tea, or at noon during
dinner hour he gloomily glared at his wife, a stout, well-fed woman,
with a red face and sleepy eyes, and asked her:

"Well, don't you feel anything?"

She knew what he meant, but she invariably replied:

"How can I help feeling? Your fists are like dumb-bells."

"You know what I'm talking about, you fool."

"Can one become pregnant from such blows?"

"It's not on account of the blows that you don't bear any children;
it's because you eat too much. You fill your stomach with all sorts of
food--and there's no room for the child to engender."

"As if I didn't bear you any children?"

"Those were girls," said Ignat, reproachfully. "I want a son! Do you
understand?