WHAT MEN LIVE BY by Leo Tolstoy.
“We know that we have passed out of death into life, because we love the brethren.  He that loveth not abideth in death.” —1 “Epistle St. John” iii. 14.
“Whoso hath the world’s goods, and beholdeth his brother in need, and shutteth up his compassion from him, how doth the love of God abide in him? 
My little children, let us not love in word, neither with the tongue; but in deed and truth.” —iii. 17-18.
“Love is of God; and every one that loveth is begotten of God, and knoweth God.  He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love.” —iv. 7-8.
“No man hath beheld God at any time; if we love one another,  God abideth in us.” —iv. 12.
 
     “God is love; and he that abideth in love abideth in God, and God abideth in him.” —iv. 16.
“If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar; for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?”  —iv. 20.
A shoemaker named Simon, who had neither house nor land of his own, lived with his wife and children in a peasant’s hut, and earned his living by his work. Work was cheap, but bread was dear, and what he earned he spent for food.
The man and his wife had but one sheepskin coat between them for winter wear, and even that was torn to tatters, and this was the second year he had been wanting to buy sheep-skins for a new coat. Before winter Simon saved up a little money: a three-rouble note lay hidden in his wife’s box, and five roubles and twenty kopeks were owed him by customers in the village.
So one morning he prepared to go to the village to buy the sheep-skins. He put on over his shirt his wife’s wadded nankeen jacket, and over that he put his own cloth coat.
He took the three-rouble note in his pocket, cut himself a stick to serve as a staff, and started off after breakfast. “I’ll collect the five roubles that are due to me,” thought he, “add the three I have got, and that will be enough to buy sheep-skins for the winter coat.”
He came to the village and called at a peasant’s
hut, but the man was not at home.
The peasant’s wife promised that the money should be paid next week, but she would not pay it herself.
Then Simon called on another peasant, but
this one swore he had no money, and would only pay twenty kopeks which he owed for a pair of boots Simon had mended.
Simon then tried to buy the sheep-skins on
credit, but the dealer would not trust him.
“Bring your money,” said he, “then you
may have your pick of the skins.
We know what debt-collecting is like.”
So all the business the shoemaker did was
to get the twenty kopeks for boots he had
mended, and to take a pair of felt boots a
peasant gave him to sole with leather.
Simon felt downhearted.
He spent the twenty kopeks on vodka, and started
homewards without having bought any skins.
In the morning he had felt the frost; but
now, after drinking the vodka, he felt warm,
even without a sheep-skin coat.
He trudged along, striking his stick on the
frozen earth with one hand, swinging the felt
boots with the other, and talking to himself.
I
“I’m quite warm,” said he, “though
I have no sheep-skin coat.
I’ve had a drop, and it runs through all
my veins.
I need no sheep-skins.
I go along and don’t worry about anything.
That’s the sort of man I am!
What do I care?
I can live without sheep-skins.
I don’t need them.
My wife will fret, to be sure.
And, true enough, it is a shame; one works
all day long, and then does not get paid.
Stop a bit!
If you don’t bring that money along, sure
enough I’ll skin you, blessed if I don’t.
How’s that?
He pays twenty kopeks at a time!
What can I do with twenty kopeks?
Drink it-that’s all one can do!
Hard up, he says he is!
So he may be—but what about me?
You have a house, and cattle, and everything;
I’ve only what I stand up in!
You have corn of your own growing; I have
to buy every grain.
Do what I will, I must spend three roubles
every week for bread alone.
I come home and find the bread all used up,
and I have to fork out another rouble and
a half.
So just pay up what you owe, and no nonsense
about it!”
By this time he had nearly reached the shrine
at the bend of the road.
Looking up, he saw something whitish behind
the shrine.
The daylight was fading, and the shoemaker
peered at the thing without being able to
make out what it was.
“There was no white stone here before.
Can it be an ox?
It’s not like an ox.
It has a head like a man, but it’s too white;
and what could a man be doing there?”
He came closer, so that it was clearly visible.
To his surprise it really was a man, alive
or dead, sitting naked, leaning motionless
against the shrine.
Terror seized the shoemaker, and he thought,
“Some one has killed him, stripped him,
and left him there.
If I meddle I shall surely get into trouble.”
So the shoemaker went on.
He passed in front of the shrine so that he
could not see the man.
When he had gone some way, he looked back,
and saw that the man was no longer leaning
against the shrine, but was moving as if looking
towards him.
The shoemaker felt more frightened than before,
and thought, “Shall I go back to him, or
shall I go on?
If I go near him something dreadful may happen.
Who knows who the fellow is?
He has not come here for any good.
If I go near him he may jump up and throttle
me, and there will be no getting away.
Or if not, he’d still be a burden on one’s
hands.
What could I do with a naked man?
I couldn’t give him my last clothes.
Heaven only help me to get away!”
So the shoemaker hurried on, leaving the shrine
behind him-when suddenly his conscience smote
him, and he stopped in the road.
“What are you doing, Simon?” said he to
himself.
“The man may be dying of want, and you slip
past afraid.
Have you grown so rich as to be afraid of
robbers?
Ah, Simon, shame on you!”
So he turned back and went up to the man.
II
Simon approached the stranger, looked at him,
and saw that he was a young man, fit, with
no bruises on his body, only evidently freezing
and frightened, and he sat there leaning back
without looking up at Simon, as if too faint
to lift his eyes.
Simon went close to him, and then the man
seemed to wake up.
Turning his head, he opened his eyes and looked
into Simon’s face.
That one look was enough to make Simon fond
of the man.
He threw the felt boots on the ground, undid
his sash, laid it on the boots, and took off
his cloth coat.
“It’s not a time for talking,” said
he.
“Come, put this coat on at once!”
And Simon took the man by the elbows and helped
him to rise.
As he stood there, Simon saw that his body
was clean and in good condition, his hands
and feet shapely, and his face good and kind.
He threw his coat over the man’s shoulders,
but the latter could not find the sleeves.
Simon guided his arms into them, and drawing
the coat well on, wrapped it closely about
him, tying the sash round the man’s waist.
Simon even took off his torn cap to put it
on the man’s head, but then his own head
felt cold, and he thought: “I’m quite
bald, while he has long curly hair.”
So he put his cap on his own head again.
“It will be better to give him something
for his feet,” thought he; and he made the
man sit down, and helped him to put on the
felt boots, saying, “There, friend, now
move about and warm yourself.
Other matters can be settled later on.
Can you walk?”
The man stood up and looked kindly at Simon,
but could not say a word.
“Why don’t you speak?” said Simon.
“It’s too cold to stay here, we must be
getting home.
There now, take my stick, and if you’re
feeling weak, lean on that.
Now step out!”
The man started walking, and moved easily,
not lagging behind.
As they went along, Simon asked him, “And
where do you belong to?”
“I’m not from these parts.”
“I thought as much.
I know the folks hereabouts.
But, how did you come to be there by the shrine?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Has some one been ill-treating you?”
“No one has ill-treated me.
God has punished me.”
“Of course God rules all.
Still, you’ll have to find food and shelter
somewhere.
Where do you want to go to?”
“It is all the same to me.”
Simon was amazed.
The man did not look like a rogue, and he
spoke gently, but yet he gave no account of
himself.
Still Simon thought, “Who knows what may
have happened?”
And he said to the stranger: “Well then,
come home with me, and at least warm yourself
awhile.”
So Simon walked towards his home, and the
stranger kept up with him, walking at his
side.
The wind had risen and Simon felt it cold
under his shirt.
He was getting over his tipsiness by now,
and began to feel the frost.
He went along sniffling and wrapping his wife’s
coat round him, and he thought to himself:
“There now—talk about sheep-skins!
I went out for sheep-skins and come home without
even a coat to my back, and what is more,
I’m bringing a naked man along with me.
Matryona won’t be pleased!”
And when he thought of his wife he felt sad;
but when he looked at the stranger and remembered
how he had looked up at him at the shrine,
his heart was glad.
III
Simon’s wife had everything ready early
that day.
She had cut wood, brought water, fed the children,
eaten her own meal, and now she sat thinking.
She wondered when she ought to make bread:
now or tomorrow?
There was still a large piece left.
“If Simon has had some dinner in town,”
thought she, “and does not eat much for
supper, the bread will last out another day.”
She weighed the piece of bread in her hand
again and again, and thought: “I won’t
make any more today.
We have only enough flour left to bake one
batch; We can manage to make this last out
till Friday.”
So Matryona put away the bread, and sat down
at the table to patch her husband’s shirt.
While she worked she thought how her husband
was buying skins for a winter coat.
“If only the dealer does not cheat him.
My good man is much too simple; he cheats
nobody, but any child can take him in.
Eight roubles is a lot of money—he should
get a good coat at that price.
Not tanned skins, but still a proper winter
coat.
How difficult it was last winter to get on
without a warm coat.
I could neither get down to the river, nor
go out anywhere.
When he went out he put on all we had, and
there was nothing left for me.
He did not start very early today, but still
it’s time he was back.
I only hope he has not gone on the spree!”
Hardly had Matryona thought this, when steps
were heard on the threshold, and some one
entered.
Matryona stuck her needle into her work and
went out into the passage.
There she saw two men: Simon, and with him
a man without a hat, and wearing felt boots.
Matryona noticed at once that her husband
smelt of spirits.
“There now, he has been drinking,” thought
she.
And when she saw that he was coatless, had
only her jacket on, brought no parcel, stood
there silent, and seemed ashamed, her heart
was ready to break with disappointment.
“He has drunk the money,” thought she,
“and has been on the spree with some good-for-nothing
fellow whom he has brought home with him.”
Matryona let them pass into the hut, followed
them in, and saw that the stranger was a young,
slight man, wearing her husband’s coat.
There was no shirt to be seen under it, and
he had no hat.
Having entered, he stood, neither moving,
nor raising his eyes, and Matryona thought:
“He must be a bad man—he’s afraid.”
Matryona frowned, and stood beside the oven
looking to see what they would do.
Simon took off his cap and sat down on the
bench as if things were all right.
“Come, Matryona; if supper is ready, let
us have some.”
Matryona muttered something to herself and
did not move, but stayed where she was, by
the oven.
She looked first at the one and then at the
other of them, and only shook her head.
Simon saw that his wife was annoyed, but tried
to pass it off.
Pretending not to notice anything, he took
the stranger by the arm.
“Sit down, friend,” said he, “and let
us have some supper.”
The stranger sat down on the bench.
“Haven’t you cooked anything for us?”
said Simon.
Matryona’s anger boiled over.
“I’ve cooked, but not for you.
It seems to me you have drunk your wits away.
You went to buy a sheep-skin coat, but come
home without so much as the coat you had on,
and bring a naked vagabond home with you.
I have no supper for drunkards like you.”
“That’s enough, Matryona.
Don’t wag your tongue without reason.
You had better ask what sort of man—”
“And you tell me what you’ve done with
the money?”
Simon found the pocket of the jacket, drew
out the three-rouble note, and unfolded it.
“Here is the money.
Trifonof did not pay, but promises to pay
soon.”
Matryona got still more angry; he had bought
no sheep-skins, but had put his only coat
on some naked fellow and had even brought
him to their house.
She snatched up the note from the table, took
it to put away in safety, and said: “I have
no supper for you.
We can’t feed all the naked drunkards in
the world.”
“There now, Matryona, hold your tongue a
bit.
First hear what a man has to say-”
“Much wisdom I shall hear from a drunken
fool.
I was right in not wanting to marry you-a
drunkard.
The linen my mother gave me you drank; and
now you’ve been to buy a coat-and have drunk
it, too!”
Simon tried to explain to his wife that he
had only spent twenty kopeks; tried to tell
how he had found the man—but Matryona would
not let him get a word in.
She talked nineteen to the dozen, and dragged
in things that had happened ten years before.
Matryona talked and talked, and at last she
flew at Simon and seized him by the sleeve.
“Give me my jacket.
It is the only one I have, and you must needs
take it from me and wear it yourself.
Give it here, you mangy dog, and may the devil
take you.”
Simon began to pull off the jacket, and turned
a sleeve of it inside out; Matryona seized
the jacket and it burst its seams, She snatched
it up, threw it over her head and went to
the door.
She meant to go out, but stopped undecided—she
wanted to work off her anger, but she also
wanted to learn what sort of a man the stranger
was.
IV
Matryona stopped and said: “If he were a
good man he would not be naked.
Why, he hasn’t even a shirt on him.
If he were all right, you would say where
you came across the fellow.”
“That’s just what I am trying to tell
you,” said Simon.
“As I came to the shrine I saw him sitting
all naked and frozen.
It isn’t quite the weather to sit about
naked!
God sent me to him, or he would have perished.
What was I to do?
How do we know what may have happened to him?
So I took him, clothed him, and brought him
along.
Don’t be so angry, Matryona.
It is a sin.
Remember, we all must die one day.”
Angry words rose to Matryona’s lips, but
she looked at the stranger and was silent.
He sat on the edge of the bench, motionless,
his hands folded on his knees, his head drooping
on his breast, his eyes closed, and his brows
knit as if in pain.
Matryona was silent: and Simon said: “Matryona,
have you no love of God?”
Matryona heard these words, and as she looked
at the stranger, suddenly her heart softened
towards him.
She came back from the door, and going to
the oven she got out the supper.
Setting a cup on the table, she poured out
some kvas.
Then she brought out the last piece of bread,
and set out a knife and spoons.
“Eat, if you want to,” said she.
Simon drew the stranger to the table.
“Take your place, young man,” said he.
Simon cut the bread, crumbled it into the
broth, and they began to eat.
Matryona sat at the corner of the table resting
her head on her hand and looking at the stranger.
And Matryona was touched with pity for the
stranger, and began to feel fond of him.
And at once the stranger’s face lit up;
his brows were no longer bent, he raised his
eyes and smiled at Matryona.
When they had finished supper, the woman cleared
away the things and began questioning the
stranger.
“Where are you from?” said she.
“I am not from these parts.”
“But how did you come to be on the road?”
“I may not tell.”
“Did some one rob you?”
“God punished me.”
“And you were lying there naked?”
“Yes, naked and freezing.
Simon saw me and had pity on me.
He took off his coat, put it on me and brought
me here.
And you have fed me, given me drink, and shown
pity on me.
God will reward you!”
Matryona rose, took from the window Simon’s
old shirt she had been patching, and gave
it to the stranger.
She also brought out a pair of trousers for
him.
“There,” said she, “I see you have no
shirt.
Put this on, and lie down where you please,
in the loft or on the oven.”
The stranger took off the coat, put on the
shirt, and lay down in the loft.
Matryona put out the candle, took the coat,
and climbed to where her husband lay.
Matryona drew the skirts of the coat over
her and lay down, but could not sleep; she
could not get the stranger out of her mind.
When she remembered that he had eaten their
last piece of bread and that there was none
for tomorrow, and thought of the shirt and
trousers she had given away, she felt grieved;
but when she remembered how he had smiled,
her heart was glad.
Long did Matryona lie awake, and she noticed
that Simon also was awake—he drew the coat
towards him.
“Simon!”
“Well?”
“You have had the last of the bread, and
I have not put any to rise.
I don’t know what we shall do tomorrow.
Perhaps I can borrow some of neighbor Martha.”
“If we’re alive we shall find something
to eat.”
The woman lay still awhile, and then said,
“He seems a good man, but why does he not
tell us who he is?”
“I suppose he has his reasons.”
“Simon!”
“Well?”
“We give; but why does nobody give us anything?”
Simon did not know what to say; so he only
said, “Let us stop talking,” and turned
over and went to sleep.
V
In the morning Simon awoke.
The children were still asleep; his wife had
gone to the neighbor’s to borrow some bread.
The stranger alone was sitting on the bench,
dressed in the old shirt and trousers, and
looking upwards.
His face was brighter than it had been the
day before.
Simon said to him, “Well, friend; the belly
wants bread, and the naked body clothes.
One has to work for a living What work do
you know?”
“I do not know any.”
This surprised Simon, but he said, “Men
who want to learn can learn anything.”
“Men work, and I will work also.”
“What is your name?”
“Michael.”
“Well, Michael, if you don’t wish to talk
about yourself, that is your own affair; but
you’ll have to earn a living for yourself.
If you will work as I tell you, I will give
you food and shelter.”
“May God reward you!
I will learn.
Show me what to do.”
Simon took yarn, put it round his thumb and
began to twist it.
“It is easy enough—see!”
Michael watched him, put some yarn round his
own thumb in the same way, caught the knack,
and twisted the yarn also.
Then Simon showed him how to wax the thread.
This also Michael mastered.
Next Simon showed him how to twist the bristle
in, and how to sew, and this, too, Michael
learned at once.
Whatever Simon showed him he understood at
once, and after three days he worked as if
he had sewn boots all his life.
He worked without stopping, and ate little.
When work was over he sat silently, looking
upwards.
He hardly went into the street, spoke only
when necessary, and neither joked nor laughed.
They never saw him smile, except that first
evening when Matryona gave them supper.
VI
Day by day and week by week the year went
round.
Michael lived and worked with Simon.
His fame spread till people said that no one
sewed boots so neatly and strongly as Simon’s
workman, Michael; and from all the district
round people came to Simon for their boots,
and he began to be well off.
One winter day, as Simon and Michael sat working,
a carriage on sledge-runners, with three horses
and with bells, drove up to the hut.
They looked out of the window; the carriage
stopped at their door, a fine servant jumped
down from the box and opened the door.
A gentleman in a fur coat got out and walked
up to Simon’s hut.
Up jumped Matryona and opened the door wide.
The gentleman stooped to enter the hut, and
when he drew himself up again his head nearly
reached the ceiling, and he seemed quite to
fill his end of the room.
Simon rose, bowed, and looked at the gentleman
with astonishment.
He had never seen any one like him.
Simon himself was lean, Michael was thin,
and Matryona was dry as a bone, but this man
was like some one from another world: red-faced,
burly, with a neck like a bull’s, and looking
altogether as if he were cast in iron.
The gentleman puffed, threw off his fur coat,
sat down on the bench, and said, “Which
of you is the master bootmaker?”
“I am, your Excellency,” said Simon, coming
forward.
Then the gentleman shouted to his lad, “Hey,
Fedka, bring the leather!”
The servant ran in, bringing a parcel.
The gentleman took the parcel and put it on
the table.
“Untie it,” said he.
The lad untied it.
The gentleman pointed to the leather.
“Look here, shoemaker,” said he, “do
you see this leather?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“But do you know what sort of leather it
is?”
Simon felt the leather and said, “It is
good leather.”
“Good, indeed!
Why, you fool, you never saw such leather
before in your life.
It’s German, and cost twenty roubles.”
Simon was frightened, and said, “Where should
I ever see leather like that?”
“Just so!
Now, can you make it into boots for me?”
“Yes, your Excellency, I can.”
Then the gentleman shouted at him: “You
can, can you?
Well, remember whom you are to make them for,
and what the leather is.
You must make me boots that will wear for
a year, neither losing shape nor coming unsown.
If you can do it, take the leather and cut
it up; but if you can’t, say so.
I warn you now if your boots become unsewn
or lose shape within a year, I will have you
put in prison.
If they don’t burst or lose shape for a
year I will pay you ten roubles for your work.”
Simon was frightened, and did not know what
to say.
He glanced at Michael and nudging him with
his elbow, whispered: “Shall I take the
work?”
Michael nodded his head as if to say, “Yes,
take it.”
Simon did as Michael advised, and undertook
to make boots that would not lose shape or
split for a whole year.
Calling his servant, the gentleman told him
to pull the boot off his left leg, which he
stretched out.
“Take my measure!” said he.
Simon stitched a paper measure seventeen inches
long, smoothed it out, knelt down, wiped his
hand well on his apron so as not to soil the
gentleman’s sock, and began to measure.
He measured the sole, and round the instep,
and began to measure the calf of the leg,
but the paper was too short.
The calf of the leg was as thick as a beam.
“Mind you don’t make it too tight in the
leg.”
Simon stitched on another strip of paper.
The gentleman twitched his toes about in his
sock, looking round at those in the hut, and
as he did so he noticed Michael.
“Whom have you there?” asked he.
“That is my workman.
He will sew the boots.”
“Mind,” said the gentleman to Michael,
“remember to make them so that they will
last me a year.”
Simon also looked at Michael, and saw that
Michael was not looking at the gentleman,
but was gazing into the corner behind the
gentleman, as if he saw some one there.
Michael looked and looked, and suddenly he
smiled, and his face became brighter.
“What are you grinning at, you fool?”
thundered the gentleman.
“You had better look to it that the boots
are ready in time.”
“They shall be ready in good time,” said
Michael.
“Mind it is so,” said the gentleman, and
he put on his boots and his fur coat, wrapped
the latter round him, and went to the door.
But he forgot to stoop, and struck his head
against the lintel.
He swore and rubbed his head.
Then he took his seat in the carriage and
drove away.
When he had gone, Simon said: “There’s
a figure of a man for you!
You could not kill him with a mallet.
He almost knocked out the lintel, but little
harm it did him.”
And Matryona said: “Living as he does, how
should he not grow strong?
Death itself can’t touch such a rock as
that.”
VII
Then Simon said to Michael: “Well, we have
taken the work, but we must see we don’t
get into trouble over it.
The leather is dear, and the gentleman hot-tempered.
We must make no mistakes.
Come, your eye is truer and your hands have
become nimbler than mine, so you take this
measure and cut out the boots.
I will finish off the sewing of the vamps.”
Michael did as he was told.
He took the leather, spread it out on the
table, folded it in two, took a knife and
began to cut out.
Matryona came and watched him cutting, and
was surprised to see how he was doing it.
Matryona was accustomed to seeing boots made,
and she looked and saw that Michael was not
cutting the leather for boots, but was cutting
it round.
She wished to say something, but she thought
to herself: “Perhaps I do not understand
how gentleman’s boots should be made.
I suppose Michael knows more about it—and
I won’t interfere.”
When Michael had cut up the leather, he took
a thread and began to sew not with two ends,
as boots are sewn, but with a single end,
as for soft slippers.
Again Matryona wondered, but again she did
not interfere.
Michael sewed on steadily till noon.
Then Simon rose for dinner, looked around,
and saw that Michael had made slippers out
of the gentleman’s leather.
“Ah,” groaned Simon, and he thought, “How
is it that Michael, who has been with me a
whole year and never made a mistake before,
should do such a dreadful thing?
The gentleman ordered high boots, welted,
with whole fronts, and Michael has made soft
slippers with single soles, and has wasted
the leather.
What am I to say to the gentleman?
I can never replace leather such as this.”
And he said to Michael, “What are you doing,
friend?
You have ruined me!
You know the gentleman ordered high boots,
but see what you have made!”
Hardly had he begun to rebuke Michael, when
“rat-tat” went the iron ring that hung
at the door.
Some one was knocking.
They looked out of the window; a man had come
on horseback, and was fastening his horse.
They opened the door, and the servant who
had been with the gentleman came in.
“Good day,” said he.
“Good day,” replied Simon.
“What can we do for you?”
“My mistress has sent me about the boots.”
“What about the boots?”
“Why, my master no longer needs them.
He is dead.”
“Is it possible?”
“He did not live to get home after leaving
you, but died in the carriage.
When we reached home and the servants came
to help him alight, he rolled over like a
sack.
He was dead already, and so stiff that he
could hardly be got out of the carriage.
My mistress sent me here, saying: ‘Tell
the bootmaker that the gentleman who ordered
boots of him and left the leather for them
no longer needs the boots, but that he must
quickly make soft slippers for the corpse.
Wait till they are ready, and bring them back
with you.’
That is why I have come.”
Michael gathered up the remnants of the leather;
rolled them up, took the soft slippers he
had made, slapped them together, wiped them
down with his apron, and handed them and the
roll of leather to the servant, who took them
and said: “Good-bye, masters, and good day
to you!”
VIII
Another year passed, and another, and Michael
was now living his sixth year with Simon.
He lived as before.
He went nowhere, only spoke when necessary,
and had only smiled twice in all those years—once
when Matryona gave him food, and a second
time when the gentleman was in their hut.
Simon was more than pleased with his workman.
He never now asked him where he came from,
and only feared lest Michael should go away.
They were all at home one day.
Matryona was putting iron pots in the oven;
the children were running along the benches
and looking out of the window; Simon was sewing
at one window, and Michael was fastening on
a heel at the other.
One of the boys ran along the bench to Michael,
leant on his shoulder, and looked out of the
window.
“Look, Uncle Michael!
There is a lady with little girls!
She seems to be coming here.
And one of the girls is lame.”
When the boy said that, Michael dropped his
work, turned to the window, and looked out
into the street.
Simon was surprised.
Michael never used to look out into the street,
but now he pressed against the window, staring
at something.
Simon also looked out, and saw that a well-dressed
woman was really coming to his hut, leading
by the hand two little girls in fur coats
and woolen shawls.
The girls could hardly be told one from the
other, except that one of them was crippled
in her left leg and walked with a limp.
The woman stepped into the porch and entered
the passage.
Feeling about for the entrance she found the
latch, which she lifted, and opened the door.
She let the two girls go in first, and followed
them into the hut.
“Good day, good folk!”
“Pray come in,” said Simon.
“What can we do for you?”
The woman sat down by the table.
The two little girls pressed close to her
knees, afraid of the people in the hut.
“I want leather shoes made for these two
little girls for spring.”
“We can do that.
We never have made such small shoes, but we
can make them; either welted or turnover shoes,
linen lined.
My man, Michael, is a master at the work.”
Simon glanced at Michael and saw that he had
left his work and was sitting with his eyes
fixed on the little girls.
Simon was surprised.
It was true the girls were pretty, with black
eyes, plump, and rosy-cheeked, and they wore
nice kerchiefs and fur coats, but still Simon
could not understand why Michael should look
at them like that—just as if he had known
them before.
He was puzzled, but went on talking with the
woman, and arranging the price.
Having fixed it, he prepared the measure.
The woman lifted the lame girl on to her lap
and said: “Take two measures from this little
girl.
Make one shoe for the lame foot and three
for the sound one.
They both have the same size feet.
They are twins.”
Simon took the measure and, speaking of the
lame girl, said: “How did it happen to her?
She is such a pretty girl.
Was she born so?”
“No, her mother crushed her leg.”
Then Matryona joined in.
She wondered who this woman was, and whose
the children were, so she said: “Are not
you their mother then?”
“No, my good woman; I am neither their mother
nor any relation to them.
They were quite strangers to me, but I adopted
them.”
“They are not your children and yet you
are so fond of them?”
“How can I help being fond of them?
I fed them both at my own breasts.
I had a child of my own, but God took him.
I was not so fond of him as I now am of them.”
“Then whose children are they?”
IX
The woman, having begun talking, told them
the whole story.
“It is about six years since their parents
died, both in one week: their father was buried
on the Tuesday, and their mother died on the
Friday.
These orphans were born three days after their
father’s death, and their mother did not
live another day.
My husband and I were then living as peasants
in the village.
We were neighbors of theirs, our yard being
next to theirs.
Their father was a lonely man; a wood-cutter
in the forest.
When felling trees one day, they let one fall
on him.
It fell across his body and crushed his bowels
out.
They hardly got him home before his soul went
to God; and that same week his wife gave birth
to twins—these little girls.
She was poor and alone; she had no one, young
or old, with her.
Alone she gave them birth, and alone she met
her death.”
“The next morning I went to see her, but
when I entered the hut, she, poor thing, was
already stark and cold.
In dying she had rolled on to this child and
crushed her leg.
The village folk came to the hut, washed the
body, laid her out, made a coffin, and buried
her.
They were good folk.
The babies were left alone.
What was to be done with them?
I was the only woman there who had a baby
at the time.
I was nursing my first-born—eight weeks
old.
So I took them for a time.
The peasants came together, and thought and
thought what to do with them; and at last
they said to me: ‘For the present, Mary,
you had better keep the girls, and later on
we will arrange what to do for them.’
So I nursed the sound one at my breast, but
at first I did not feed this crippled one.
I did not suppose she would live.
But then I thought to myself, why should the
poor innocent suffer?
I pitied her, and began to feed her.
And so I fed my own boy and these two—the
three of them—at my own breast.
I was young and strong, and had good food,
and God gave me so much milk that at times
it even overflowed.
I used sometimes to feed two at a time, while
the third was waiting.
When one had enough I nursed the third.
And God so ordered it that these grew up,
while my own was buried before he was two
years old.
And I had no more children, though we prospered.
Now my husband is working for the corn merchant
at the mill.
The pay is good, and we are well off.
But I have no children of my own, and how
lonely I should be without these little girls!
How can I help loving them!
They are the joy of my life!”
She pressed the lame little girl to her with
one hand, while with the other she wiped the
tears from her cheeks.
And Matryona sighed, and said: “The proverb
is true that says, ‘One may live without
father or mother, but one cannot live without
God.’”
So they talked together, when suddenly the
whole hut was lighted up as though by summer
lightning from the corner where Michael sat.
They all looked towards him and saw him sitting,
his hands folded on his knees, gazing upwards
and smiling.
X
The woman went away with the girls.
Michael rose from the bench, put down his
work, and took off his apron.
Then, bowing low to Simon and his wife, he
said: “Farewell, masters.
God has forgiven me.
I ask your forgiveness, too, for anything
done amiss.”
And they saw that a light shone from Michael.
And Simon rose, bowed down to Michael, and
said: “I see, Michael, that you are no common
man, and I can neither keep you nor question
you.
Only tell me this: how is it that when I found
you and brought you home, you were gloomy,
and when my wife gave you food you smiled
at her and became brighter?
Then when the gentleman came to order the
boots, you smiled again and became brighter
still?
And now, when this woman brought the little
girls, you smiled a third time, and have become
as bright as day?
Tell me, Michael, why does your face shine
so, and why did you smile those three times?”
And Michael answered: “Light shines from
me because I have been punished, but now God
has pardoned me.
And I smiled three times, because God sent
me to learn three truths, and I have learnt
them.
One I learnt when your wife pitied me, and
that is why I smiled the first time.
The second I learnt when the rich man ordered
the boots, and then I smiled again.
And now, when I saw those little girls, I
learn the third and last truth, and I smiled
the third time.”
And Simon said, “Tell me, Michael, what
did God punish you for? and what were the
three truths? that I, too, may know them.”
And Michael answered: “God punished me for
disobeying Him.
I was an angel in heaven and disobeyed God.
God sent me to fetch a woman’s soul.
I flew to earth, and saw a sick woman lying
alone, who had just given birth to twin girls.
They moved feebly at their mother’s side,
but she could not lift them to her breast.
When she saw me, she understood that God had
sent me for her soul, and she wept and said:
‘Angel of God!
My husband has just been buried, killed by
a falling tree.
I have neither sister, nor aunt, nor mother:
no one to care for my orphans.
Do not take my soul!
Let me nurse my babes, feed them, and set
them on their feet before I die.
Children cannot live without father or mother.’
And I hearkened to her.
I placed one child at her breast and gave
the other into her arms, and returned to the
Lord in heaven.
I flew to the Lord, and said: ‘I could not
take the soul of the mother.
Her husband was killed by a tree; the woman
has twins, and prays that her soul may not
be taken.
She says: “Let me nurse and feed my children,
and set them on their feet.
Children cannot live without father or mother.”
I have not taken her soul.’
And God said: ‘Go-take the mother’s soul,
and learn three truths: Learn What dwells
in man, What is not given to man, and What
men live by.
When thou has learnt these things, thou shalt
return to heaven.’
So I flew again to earth and took the mother’s
soul.
The babes dropped from her breasts.
Her body rolled over on the bed and crushed
one babe, twisting its leg.
I rose above the village, wishing to take
her soul to God; but a wind seized me, and
my wings drooped and dropped off.
Her soul rose alone to God, while I fell to
earth by the roadside.”
XI
And Simon and Matryona understood who it was
that had lived with them, and whom they had
clothed and fed.
And they wept with awe and with joy.
And the angel said: “I was alone in the
field, naked.
I had never known human needs, cold and hunger,
till I became a man.
I was famished, frozen, and did not know what
to do.
I saw, near the field I was in, a shrine built
for God, and I went to it hoping to find shelter.
But the shrine was locked, and I could not
enter.
So I sat down behind the shrine to shelter
myself at least from the wind.
Evening drew on.
I was hungry, frozen, and in pain.
Suddenly I heard a man coming along the road.
He carried a pair of boots, and was talking
to himself.
For the first time since I became a man I
saw the mortal face of a man, and his face
seemed terrible to me and I turned from it.
And I heard the man talking to himself of
how to cover his body from the cold in winter,
and how to feed wife and children.
And I thought: ‘I am perishing of cold and
hunger, and here is a man thinking only of
how to clothe himself and his wife, and how
to get bread for themselves.
He cannot help me.’
When the man saw me he frowned and became
still more terrible, and passed me by on the
other side.
I despaired; but suddenly I heard him coming
back.
I looked up, and did not recognize the same
man; before, I had seen death in his face;
but now he was alive, and I recognized in
him the presence of God.
He came up to me, clothed me, took me with
him, and brought me to his home.
I entered the house; a woman came to meet
us and began to speak.
The woman was still more terrible than the
man had been; the spirit of death came from
her mouth; I could not breathe for the stench
of death that spread around her.
She wished to drive me out into the cold,
and I knew that if she did so she would die.
Suddenly her husband spoke to her of God,
and the woman changed at once.
And when she brought me food and looked at
me, I glanced at her and saw that death no
longer dwelt in her; she had become alive,
and in her, too, I saw God.
“Then I remembered the first lesson God
had set me: ‘Learn what dwells in man.’
And I understood that in man dwells Love!
I was glad that God had already begun to show
me what He had promised, and I smiled for
the first time.
But I had not yet learnt all.
I did not yet know What is not given to man,
and What men live by.
“I lived with you, and a year passed.
A man came to order boots that should wear
for a year without losing shape or cracking.
I looked at him, and suddenly, behind his
shoulder, I saw my comrade—the angel of
death.
None but me saw that angel; but I knew him,
and knew that before the sun set he would
take that rich man’s soul.
And I thought to myself, ‘The man is making
preparations for a year, and does not know
that he will die before evening.’
And I remembered God’s second saying, ‘Learn
what is not given to man.’
“What dwells in man I already knew.
Now I learnt what is not given him.
It is not given to man to know his own needs.
And I smiled for the second time.
I was glad to have seen my comrade angel—glad
also that God had revealed to me the second
saying.
“But I still did not know all.
I did not know What men live by.
And I lived on, waiting till God should reveal
to me the last lesson.
In the sixth year came the girl-twins with
the woman; and I recognized the girls, and
heard how they had been kept alive.
Having heard the story, I thought, ‘Their
mother besought me for the children’s sake,
and I believed her when she said that children
cannot live without father or mother; but
a stranger has nursed them, and has brought
them up.’
And when the woman showed her love for the
children that were not her own, and wept over
them, I saw in her the living God and understood
What men live by.
And I knew that God had revealed to me the
last lesson, and had forgiven my sin.
And then I smiled for the third time.”
XII
And the angel’s body was bared, and he was
clothed in light so that eye could not look
on him; and his voice grew louder, as though
it came not from him but from heaven above.
And the angel said:
“I have learnt that all men live not by
care for themselves but by love.
“It was not given to the mother to know
what her children needed for their life.
Nor was it given to the rich man to know what
he himself needed.
Nor is it given to any man to know whether,
when evening comes, he will need boots for
his body or slippers for his corpse.
“I remained alive when I was a man, not
by care of myself, but because love was present
in a passer-by, and because he and his wife
pitied and loved me.
The orphans remained alive not because of
their mother’s care, but because there was
love in the heart of a woman, a stranger to
them, who pitied and loved them.
And all men live not by the thought they spend
on their own welfare, but because love exists
in man.
“I knew before that God gave life to men
and desires that they should live; now I understood
more than that.
“I understood that God does not wish men
to live apart, and therefore he does not reveal
to them what each one needs for himself; but
he wishes them to live united, and therefore
reveals to each of them what is necessary
for all.
“I have now understood that though it seems
to men that they live by care for themselves,
in truth it is love alone by which they live.
He who has love, is in God, and God is in
him, for God is love.”
And the angel sang praise to God, so that
the hut trembled at his voice.
The roof opened, and a column of fire rose
from earth to heaven.
Simon and his wife and children fell to the
ground.
Wings appeared upon the angel’s shoulders,
and he rose into the heavens.
And when Simon came to himself the hut stood
as before, and there was no one in it but
his own family.
