What Men Live By, and Other Tales
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."