stood on either side of the river, and were snow-covered in parts
and already green in others, and intersected by rivulets that wound
their way with murmuring noise down into the river, where the water
foamed with the broken ice and the increasing thaw. The whole of
Chaschtschevate lay before him as on a plate, while the top of the
monastery sparkled like a light in the setting sun. Standing to recite
the Eighteen Benedictions, with his face towards Chaschtschevate, Fishel
turned his eyes away and drove out the idle thoughts and images that had
crept into his head: Bath-sheba with the new silk kerchief, Froike with
the Gemoreh, Resele with her plait, the hot bath and the highest bench,
and freshly-baked Matzes, together with nice peppered fish and
horseradish that goes up your nose, Passover borshtsh with more Matzes,
a heavenly mixture, and all the other good things that desire is
capable of conjuring up--and however often he drove these fancies away,
they returned and crept back into his brain like summer flies, and
disturbed him at his prayers.

When Fishel had repeated the Eighteen Benedictions and Olenu, he betook
him to Prokop, and entered into conversation with him about the
ferry-boat and the festival eve, giving him to understand, partly in
Polish and partly in Hebrew and partly with his hands, what Passover
meant to the Jews, and Passover Eve falling on a Sabbath, and that if,
which Heaven forbid, he had not crossed the Bug by that time to-morrow,
he was a lost man, for, beside the fact that they were on the lookout
for him at home--his wife and children (Fishel gave a sigh that rent the
heart)--he would not be able to eat or drink for a week, and Fishel
turned away, so that the tears in his eyes should not be seen.

Prokop Baranyuk quite appreciated Fishel's position, and replied that he
knew to-morrow was a Jewish festival, and even how it was called; he
even knew that the Jews celebrated it by drinking wine and strong
brandy; he even knew that there was yet another festival at which the
Jews drank brandy, and a third when all Jews were obliged to get drunk,
but he had forgotten its name--

"Well and good," Fishel interrupted him in a lamentable voice, "but what
is to happen? How if I don't get there?"

To this Prokop made no reply. He merely pointed with his hand to the
river, as much as to say, "See for yourself!"

And Fishel lifted up his eyes to the river, and saw that which he had
never seen before