chimneys stretched their huge, thick sticks high above the village.

In the evening, when the sun was setting, and red rays languidly
glimmered upon the windows of the houses, the factory ejected its
people like burned-out ashes, and again they walked through the
streets, with black, smoke-covered faces, radiating the sticky odor
of machine oil, and showing the gleam of hungry teeth. But now
there was animation in their voices, and even gladness. The
servitude of hard toil was over for the day. Supper awaited them
at home, and respite.

The day was swallowed up by the factory; the machine sucked out of
men's muscles as much vigor as it needed. The day was blotted out
from life, not a trace of it left. Man made another imperceptible
step toward his grave; but he saw close before him the delights of
rest, the joys of the odorous tavern, and he was satisfied.

On holidays the workers slept until about ten o'clock. Then the
staid and married people dressed themselves in their best clothes
and, after duly scolding the young folks for their indifference to
church, went to hear mass. When they returned from church, they
ate pirogs, the Russian national pastry, and again lay down to
sleep until the evening. The accumulated exhaustion of years had
robbed them of their appetites, and to be able to eat they drank,
long and deep, goading on their feeble stomachs with the biting,
burning lash of vodka.

In the evening they amused themselves idly on the street; and those
who had overshoes put them on, even if it was dry, and those who had
umbrellas carried them, even if the sun was shining. Not everybody