heard of in the suburb. The men did not argue with him, but
listened to his odd speeches with incredulity. His words aroused
blind irritation in some, perplexed alarm in others, while still
others were disturbed by a feeble, shadowy glimmer of the hope of
something, they knew not what. And they all began to drink more in
order to drive away the unnecessary, meddlesome excitement.

Noticing in the stranger something unusual, the villagers cherished
it long against him and treated the man who was not like them with
unaccountable apprehension. It was as if they feared he would throw
something into their life which would disturb its straight, dismal
course. Sad and difficult, it was yet even in its tenor. People
were accustomed to the fact that life always oppressed them with the
same power. Unhopeful of any turn for the better, they regarded
every change as capable only of increasing their burden.

And the workingmen of the suburb tacitly avoided people who spoke
unusual things to them. Then these people disappeared again, going
off elsewhere, and those who remained in the factory lived apart, if
they could not blend and make one whole with the monotonous mass in
the village.

Living a life like that for some fifty years, a workman died.


Thus also lived Michael Vlasov, a gloomy, sullen man, with little
eyes which looked at everybody from under his thick eyebrows
suspiciously, with a mistrustful, evil smile. He was the best
locksmith in the factory, and the strongest man in the village. But
he was insolent and disrespectful toward the foreman and the