Father-in-law shook his head. He sat, dejected, leaning on his hand. He gazed reproachfully at Benedikt.

"In a hurry, were you? Well, you went too fast… you didn't protect life… Now he'll never be treated! I mean, how could we treat him now? Huh?" Father-in-law leaned over, shined his light into Benedikt's eyes, and his foul breath enveloped Benedikt.

"It was an accident!" Benedikt whined through his tears. The words came out in a squeak. "It scared me!"

"Who scared you?"

"The Slynx!… It scared me! And I missed!"

"Get out of here, women," said Father-in-law. "My son-in-law is upset, don't you see? What bad luck he's had. He'll survive. Don't get underfoot. Give him some more compote. Bring some soft white patties."

"I don't want any, noooo!"

"You must. You have to eat. Some broth too. Listen to your heart… it's beating so hard…" Father-in-law touched Benedikt's heart, feeling it with hard fingers.

"Don't touch me! Leave me alone!"

"What do you mean, leave you alone? I'm a medical worker. Am I supposed to know your condition? I am. Just look: you're shaking all over. Come on, now. Come on, like that. Eat up! Take some more."

"The book…"

"The one we confiscated?… Don't worry. I've got it."

"Give it…"

"You can't have it! Not now! What are you thinking of? Just lie down. You're very upset. How could you read yourself? I'll read it to you aloud. It's a good book… A book of the highest quality, my dear…"

Benedikt lay there wrapped in blankets, swallowing broth and tears, while Father-in-law, lighting the pages with his eyes, running his fingers under the lines, read in a thick, important voice:

Hickory, dickory, six and seven, Alabone, Crackabone, ten and eleven, Spin, spun, muskidun, Twiddle 'em, twaddle 'em, twenty-one…

A duck and a drake, And a half-penny cake,

With a penny to pay the old baker.

A hop and a scotch

Is another notch,

Slitherum, slatherum, take her.

TSI

They took one from Theofilactus, one from Boris, two from Eulalia. Klementy, Lavrenty, Osip, Zuzya, and Revolt were all a waste of time, they didn't find anything, just bits and pieces. Maliuta had three books buried in the barn, all covered with black spots so you couldn't make out a word. Vandalism pure and simple… Roach Efimich-who would have thought?- had a whole trunkful right out in the open, two dozen books, dry and clean. Only there wasn't one word in our language, all the letters were strange: hooks and bent nails. Ulyana only had ones with pictures. Methuselah and Churilo-the twins who lived behind the river and loaned mice for a living-had one tiny torn book. Akhmetka managed to burn his: they scared him… Zoya Gurevna burned hers. Avenir, Maccabe, Nelly the Harelip, Ulcer, Riurik, Ivan Pricklin, Sysoy had nothing. January used to have one, but he didn't know where it was, though his pantry walls were all hung with pictures, and there were indecent women on the pictures.

Gloom and doom.

"There's so much nastiness among the people," Father-in-law said, "just think. I mean, at one time they were told: Don't keep books at home! Were they told? Yes, they were. But no, they keep holding on to them. Everyone wants things their own way. The books rot, they get them dirty, they bury them in the front garden. Can you imagine?"

"Yes, yes."

"They poke holes in them, tear out pages, roll them up like cigars…"

"That's horrible, I can't even listen!"

"They use them as tops on soup pots…"

"Don't make me sick! I can't stand it!"

"Or they stick them in a dormer window and when it rains, the pages slip and you end up with mush… Or they use them in the stove-what do you get? Smoke, soot, and then poof-it burns up… There are people who don't want to waste firewood, and they just heat the stove with books…"

"Stop, please, I can't stand it!"

"And then-do you hear me, son?-there are people who tear out the pages and use them in the privy, hang them on a nail for nature's calls… And we know what that means…"

Benedikt couldn't take any more. He jumped up from the stool. Running his hands through his hair, he paced the room: there was a tight knot in his heart, his soul was dazed and dizzy as though he were on a steep incline, as though the floor under his feet were tilting like in a dream and any minute now everything would roll off it into a bottomless pit, into a well, who knows where. Here we are sitting around, or lying on the bed in a warm terem, everything is clean and civilized, you can smell bliny cooking in the kitchen, our women are decent, they're white, rosy, steamed in the bath; all decked out with beads, headdresses, sarafans, first, second, and third petticoats with ribbons, and they also thought up wearing shawls that swish, with clean, lacy, patterned feathers. But down there in town are Golubchiks in unswept izbas, living in constant soot and filth, with black and blue faces, dimwitted gazes, they grab books without wiping their hands; they crack the spines, tear out pages crosswise and top to bottom; they tear off the legs of steeds, the heads of beauties. They crumple the Ocean-Sea's wine-dark waves and chuck them into the greedy fire; they roll white roads into cigars and squeeze them: blue-gray smoke winds around the paths, the flowering bushes crackle and go up in flames. Cut down at the root, the lilac tree falls with a moan, the golden birch topples and the tulip is trampled, the secret glade is soiled. With a fierce cry, her mouth torn, Princess Bird tumbles from her branch, her legs upside down, her head smashed against a stone!

What's burned can't be returned, what's dead can't be fed. And what would you take out of a burning house?… Me? You don't know? And you call yourself a Stoker! You asked the riddle, what you call a dilemma. If you had to choose, what would you take: a pussy cat or a painting? a Golubchik or a book? Questions! And he worried about it, wallowed in doubt, shook his head, twisted his beard!… "I can't decide, I've been thinking about it for three hundred years…" Really now, a pussy! A cat, to be scientific, his job is to hunt, to fly like spit on the wind, stay out from underfoot, to know his business-catching mice! Pussy cat pussy cat what did you there? And not paintings! Golubchiks? Golubchiks are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they'll all return to clay. They're full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust.

You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call-

O tender specter, happy chance, Again I heed the ancient lore, Again with beauty rare in stance, You beckon from the distant shore!

You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet-but you laugh, shout, and sing; you're obedient-but you amaze, tease, and entice; you're small, but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin, cloud, make tears spring to the eyes, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in waves and flap its wings! Sometimes a kind of wordless feeling tosses and turns in the chest, pounds its fists on the door, the walls: I'm suffocating! Let me out! How can you let that feeling out, all fuzzy and naked? What words can you dress it in? We don't have any words, we don't know! Just like wild animals, or a blindlie bird, or a mermaid- no words, just a bellowing. But you open a book-and there they are, fabulous, flying words:

O city! O wind! O snowstorms and blizzards!

O azure abyss all raveled and tattered!

Here am I! I'm blameless! I'm with you forever…

… Or there's bile and sadness and bitterness. The emptiness dries your eyes out and you search for the words, and here they are: