Behind your back the izba grows cold. Soup. Bed. On the bed-a cloth: a boiled felt blanket left by Benedikt's mother, a summer coat to cover his legs; a feather pillow, kind of filthy. There should be a table at the window, a stool at the table, on the table a candlestick with an oil candle, and extra candles in the closet, and a half pood of rusht, and in the safe place, hidden from thieves, extra felt boots, knitted socks, lapty for spring, a stone knife, a string of dried marshrooms, and a pot with a handle. They were there this morning, anyway. Everything you could want. Everything. And still, something's missing. Some-thing gnaws, gnaws at you.

… Is it riches I covet?… Or freedom? Or I'm scared of death? Where is it I want to go? Or have I gotten too big for my britches, reached the heights of Freethinking, fancy myself a Murza, or some ruler-who knows what-or a giant, magical, all powerful, the most important of all, who tramples Gol-ubchiks, dwells in a terem squeezing his hands, shaking his head? Think how Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, walked into the mud room and everyone fell on their knees… Think how Nikita Ivanich roared fire…

That old man isn't afraid of anything. He doesn't need anyone-no Murzas, no neighbors. Because he has such power, such an envious Consequence: fire comes from his innards. If he wanted, he could burn down the whole settlement, or the whole town, all the woods around it, even the whole flat pancake of the earth! That must be why the bosses avoid him, they don't mess with him like they do with us, simple Golubchiks; he has strength and glory and power on earth! Aye, aye, aye, but we poor small folk have to stand on our porches at night, inhaling the freezing darkness, exhaling a slightly warmer darkness. We stomp our feet, turn our faces to the distant heavenly Spindle, listen to tears tinkling like frozen peas, rolling into the thickets of our beards, we listen to the silence of the black izbas on black foothills, the creak of the high trees, to the whine of the blizzard, which brings in gusts-barely audible, but still clear-of a distant, pitiful, hungry northern wail.

I KRATKOE

Fyodor kuzmich, glorybe, didn't let them down-exactly a week after his luminous visitation, he issued a Decree and it was handed out to all the Work Izbas to be copied over and over. Benedikt had to make a copy too.

Jackal Demianich called everyone together and announced -as if we didn't know ourselves-that the governmental resolution must be made available to all Golubchiks immediately, and so he therefore hereby commanded that the Decree be copied swiftly and with beautiful calligraphy and flourishes and that a copy be nailed on every corner that has a Decree board.

DECREE

Since I am Fyodor Kuzmich Kablukov, Glory to Me, the Greatest Murza, Long May I Live, a Seckletary and Acade-mishun and Hero and Captain of the High Seas and Carpenter, and seeing as I am constantly concerned with the people's welfare, I hereby command:

That the Holiday of New Year be celebrated.

That this here holiday be celebrated the First of March kinda like the May Holidays.

It's a day off too.

That means nobody goes to work. Drink and make merry, do what you want, but within reason, and not like sometimes happens when you go to town and burn everything down and then have to mend all the fences.

The New Year Holiday should be celebrated like this: chop down a tree in the forest, not too big but full, so that it will fit in your izbas but if you want you can put it in the yard. Stick this tree in the floor or wherever you can, so it stands up, and hang all sorts of stuff on its branches depending on what you 've got. It could be colored threads braided together, or nuts, firelings, or whatever you can spare around the house, all kinds of junk always piles up in the corner and it might come in handy. Tie this stuff on tight so it doesn't fall off on top of you.

Light candles so that everything's bright and cheery.

Cook up lots of yummy dishes, don't be stingy after all spring is coming soon and all kinds of things will grow in the forest.

Invite guests, your neighbors, kinfolk, feed everyone, don't bestingy, they won't eat you out of house and home. You'll get to eat too you know.

Play on pipes whoever has the knack, or on drums, you can dance if your legs are fit.

Put on good clothes, dress to the teeth, also put things in your hair.

Some of you might want to bathe, so I order the Baths to open in daytime, be my guest, drop in and bathe only bring your own firewood with you cause there won't be enough to go around otherwise.

It will be interesting, you'll see.

Kablukov

Benedikt copied the Decree four times, gave Olenka the bark so she could decorate the letters to make them pretty- with plaited ribbons, birds and flowers, since this was serious business, or as Jackal put it, fateful affairs. He perked up and felt cheerful. The rest of the Golubchiks working in the izba also seemed to brighten and straighten up. Why not be happy: spring was on the way! Spring! Who doesn't love spring! Even the most miserable lousy Golubchik looks better, grows kinder, and hopes for something in spring.

You spend the whole winter lying on the stove bed in soot and peelings, not even taking your lapty off; you don't bathe or brush your hair; you can't tell your feet from your felt boots with all the dirt, they're grimy enough to boast about or show off to your neighbors. Your beard is full of knots and rats' nests- mice would be happy to take up house; your eyes are overgrown with scales so you have to push them open with your fingers and hold them or they'll snap shut. But when spring comes, you crawl out in the morning, into the courtyard, to do your business or whatever-and suddenly a strong sweet wind will blow in, as if there were flowers somewhere around the corner, or a girl sighed, or someone invisible were standing at your gate with presents-the stinky fellow stands there, stock-still, and thinks he hears something but can't believe his ears: could it really be? Really? He stands there, his eyes glassed over, his beard rattling in the breeze like rusht or like tiny bells; his mouth wide open 'cause he forgot to close it; he grabs his britches and freezes, and his feet have already melted two black circles, and the shitbird has already messed on his hair and he keeps standing there, innocent, bathed in the first wind, the golden light, and the shadows are blue, and the icicles are burning with the heat and working overtime: drop-drip, drip-drop, ding dong! He stands there until a neighbor or a co-worker walking by shouts: "Whatcha hanging out for, Beauregard, whatcha lookin at? Chokin' or somefin?" and laughs in a friendly way, kindly, springlike.

The First of March is soon. Right around the corner. True, it freezes up good and hard at night still, there'll be more snowstorms, the snow will have to be dug out more than once, a path beaten down to the izba, and the main road shoveled out if it's your turn to do roadwork-but things are already easier, you can see the end of it, and the days already seem longer.

Winter shows its anger still- Its time has almost passed. Spring knocks on the windowsill And shoos it from the path.

That's right. That's the way it is. Now it's time to choose a tree in the forest, like Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, decreed, and dress it in whatever's to hand. During lunch break the Golub-chiks discuss the Decree. What to use for decoration? They're worried.

Ksenia the Orphan says: "I have two nuts and about five yards of thread in my cupboard."

Konstantin Leontich dreams: "I'll make doilies and confetti from bark, and symmetrical garlands."