Closer and closer-its invisible face grimaces, its claws quiver. It's hungry, famished! It's tormented, tormented! Slyyyy-nnnxxx!

Now it creeps up to the dwelling, closes its eyes, the better to hear, now it will pounce on the rickety roof, on the chilled chimney; now it has tensed its muscles…

There was a sudden knocking and rapping at the door. Knock, knock, knock. Benedikt leaped up as though he'd been hit with a stick, and screamed out loud: Nnnnooooooo!

"Oh, are you busy, Golubchik? Then I'll come by later," said a wonderfully familiar voice from behind the door: Nikita Iva-nich. The Lord sent him… the Lord sent him!

KAKO

Benedikt lay in bed with a fever for a week-shamed and chagrined. Just like a little kid. The old man tended the fire for him, baked the sweet rolls, and gave him hot water to drink. Together they ate up all the food. So much for the New Year Holiday. It came and went as though it never happened. What a pity, they missed everything! The Golubchiks had a grand old time, they danced and sang songs, lit candles like the Decree said, and drank rusht. After the holiday, as usual, there were more injuries and cripples in the town. You'd walk along the street and you could tell right away: there had been a holiday and a lot of merrymaking. Here a guy knocked about on crutches, there another had a black eye or a huge bruise on the side of his head.

Recuperated now, Benedikt pined: life had passed him by. That's the way it always was! What a shame, it was so disappointing. Hadn't he prepared, hadn't he used his brain to approach the whole affair? Hadn't he caught mice and traded them for provisions? He'd lived in anticipation of the bright, joyous event for two whole weeks: guests, candles, music!

What is life made up of, anyway? Work and cold, the wind whistling in the trees! Right? How often does a holiday come along?

But he had to go and catch a cold. Maybe he overdid things. Or maybe it was hunger, or something he ate in the Food Izba- who knows?-and he fell into a fever, and where have those golden days gone now?

But Nikita Ivanich said that Benedikt had a newrottick. Well, whatever. Maybe he's got one and maybe he doesn't, maybe it's rotten and maybe it isn't, but what can you do-some people just never have any luck. Only it's so frustrating it makes you want to cry.

Nikita Ivanich also says, just thank your lucky stars, you'll be in better shape this way. Your legs are in one piece, they'll come in handy yet, you reckless, empty-headed, young dreamer gone astray, like all your kind, your whole generation-and for that matter, the whole human race! Nikita Ivanich doesn't like our holidays, not one bit.

So what if you get hurt once in a while. You could slip on the ice for that matter. Or fall in a ditch and land on a sharp branch, or eat something bad. Don't people die of old age too? Even Oldener Golubchiks-they live for three hundred years and then go and die anyway. New Golubchiks are born.

You feel sorry for yourself, of course, that goes without saying. You feel sorry for relatives and friends too, though not as much. But strangers-who really cares? They're strangers, after all. How can you compare? When Mother died, Benedikt was distraught, he cried so hard, and was so upset that he swelled up. But if someone else died-even Anfisa Terentevna, for instance -would he cry that way? Not on your life! He'd be surprised, he'd ask about it, he'd cock his ear and strain to hear, what did she die of? She ate something bad or what? And where are they burying her? And will Polikarp Matveich marry someone else now, and did Anfisa Terentevna leave a lot of things behind, and just what sort of things? He'd ask lots of questions, it's always interesting to know.

And then he'd be invited to the wake-that's fun. They'd eat. He'd be asked inside the izba-you go in, look around to see what kind of izba they had, what corner the stove was in, where the window was, are there any decorations-there might be a carved bench, someone with a lot of big ideas might have embroidered the bed curtains with colored threads, or there might be a shelf on the wall to hold booklets. You'd eat and drink your fill, walk around the izba, let your eyes wander over to the booklets on the shelf. Sometimes there might be an interesting one-you could lean against the wall, cross your legs, scratch your head, and stand there reading. You never knew what you might find!

But he didn't feel like dying himself, of course not. God forbid! The only thing scarier was the Slynx. It seemed to have moved on now, lost Benedikt from sight-maybe Nikita Ivanich got in its way and it retreated.

And why is the Slynx scarier than dying? Because if you die, well, that's it-you're dead. You're gone. But if the Slynx spoils you-you have to go on living with it. But how? What do they think about, the Spoiled Ones? What do they feel inside? Hunh?…

They must feel a fierce, frightful, unknown anguish. A gloom that's blacker than black, with poisoned tears pouring down! Sometimes that happens in dreams: it's like you're wandering around, shuffling your feet, going left and right-you don't want to go but you do, like you're looking for something, and the farther you go, the more lost you get! And there's no way back. It's like you're walking through empty valleys, terrible ones where dry grass rustles under the snow. It just keeps on rustling. And the tears keep running and running from your face down to your knees, from your knees to the ground, and you can't lift your head! Even if you could, there'd be no point: there's nothing to see! There's nothing there…

If a horrible thing like that happens to a person-if the Slynx sucks the lifeblood out of him, tears at his vein with its claw- he's better off dying quickly, better his bladder should burst, and that would be it. But who really knows, maybe those two or three days before death would be a whole lifetime for him? Inside, in his own head, maybe he's walking through the fields, getting married, having a bunch of children, waiting for grandchildren, and doing his government service, repairing the roads or paying the tithe. Right inside him? Only everything is with tears, with a soulful cry, with an unbearable, inhuman, unending wail: SLYYYYNNXXXX!

That's right. And don't say, "Why all the injuries?" Injuries are no big deal. You get your eye poked out-well, you can still enjoy the sunshine with one eye; you get your teeth knocked out -even a toothless man can smile at his own fortune and be happy.

Benedikt's eyes, teeth, arms, and legs are just fine. So what. That's good.

On the other hand, living alone is kind of boring, you need company. A family. A woman.

A Golubchik definitely needs a woman-how can you get along without a woman? Benedikt went to see the widow woman Marfushka about the woman business: maybe once or twice a week, but he'd always go to see Marfushka. You couldn't exactly say that she was pretty. In fact, her whole face was sort of crooked, like someone hit her with a battle ax. And one eye wandered. Her figure wasn't all that great either. She was shaped like a turnip. But she didn't have any Consequences. She was rounded out where she ought to be, and caved in where she ought to be. After all, he didn't visit her to look at her, but to take care of the woman business. If looking's what you want-well, you can go out on the street and look until your eyes pop out. This was different. Like Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, wrote:

Not because she shines so bright,

But because with her you need no light.

You don't need any light with Marfushka, you're better off without it. As soon as Benedikt got to her place, he'd blow out the candle, and they'd start rolling around, twisting and turning and loving it up every which way. Squatting, and straddling, this way and that, and hopping around the izba-goodness gracious, what kinds of things got into your head sometimes! When you're sitting alone, thinking your own thoughts, stirring your cabbage soup, you'd never hop around the izba or stand on your head. It would be silly. But when you visit a woman-you can't help yourself. Your pants come off right away and there's jokes and giggles. Woman's nature, or rather, her body, is just made for jokes.