time one would pay no attention to the fireworks, but to-day one
rejoices in every vanity. Where do you come from?"

I told him where I came from.

"To be sure . . . a joyful day to-day. . . ." Ieronim went on in a
weak sighing tenor like the voice of a convalescent. "The sky is
rejoicing and the earth and what is under the earth. All the creatures
are keeping holiday. Only tell me kind sir, why, even in the time
of great rejoicing, a man cannot forget his sorrows?"

I fancied that this unexpected question was to draw me into one of
those endless religious conversations which bored and idle monks
are so fond of. I was not disposed to talk much, and so I only
asked:

"What sorrows have you, father?"

"As a rule only the same as all men, kind sir, but to-day a special
sorrow has happened in the monastery: at mass, during the reading
of the Bible, the monk and deacon Nikolay died."

"Well, it's God's will!" I said, falling into the monastic tone.
"We must all die. To my mind, you ought to rejoice indeed. . . .
They say if anyone dies at Easter he goes straight to the kingdom
of heaven."

"That's true."

We sank into silence. The figure of the peasant in the high hat