But is the world not all alike? From the Cabbala of Chaldaic signs Throughout the ages, now and ever more, To the sky where the even star shines.

The same old wisdom-born of ashes, And in that wisdom, like our twin, The face of longing, frailty, fear, and sin, Stares straight across the ages at us.

Benedikt ran out onto the gallery, looked at the settlement from the heights, at the city, its hills and valleys, the paths worn between the fences, the snow-covered streets. Snow blew and swirled all around, it slid with a swish from the roof beyond the gates. He stood there, his neck craned, turning his head this way and that, staring hard, blinking away the frost: Who was hiding them? Who had them wrapped in a cloth on the stove, in a box under the bed, in an earthen pit, in a birch chest-who? If only he knew! There are books out there! I know there are, I can sense them, I can smell them: they're there! Only where? Squinting, he gazed into the blind gloom: it was twilight, lights were coming on in the izbas; little people below were hurrying, running, rushing to the stove warmth, to their benches, to their soup, their thin mouse stew… How do they eat that slop, isn't it disgusting?… A murky water… like when you wash your feet, the same color… Bits of flesh settle on the bottom, spiced salty worrums. The people's anchovies… That was what Nikita Ivanich called worrums… Was the old man still alive? It would be good to see him… Maybe he has a book? Maybe he'd let him read it? And he wouldn't need to be treated, he'd hand it over himself… If I had my way-I'd turn the whole city upside down. Hand over those books, right now! But Father-in-law won't allow it, he holds back, all in good measure, son, if we take them all off for treatment-who's going to work? Who'll clear the roads, plant the turnips, weave the baskets? That's not the governmental approach: all in a rush. In one fell swoop! Right away! Really, now! You'd only scare people, they'd run off! You caught mice? You know the science? Well, there you go!…

It's true, he used to catch mice. He'd feed them first. That's right. He was even rich for a whole hour. And then? It all disappeared, like it was never there! All that was left of his riches was some sweet rolls-and they were burnt!

He needed to stretch his legs. He went into the stalls. No culture… A heavy animal smell. The goats are bleating. Teterya and his pals, as always, are playing cards: "Here's a jack for you!"

"We'll play a ten."

"Are you nuts?"

"It's trump!"

"So what if it's trump?? The ten takes it. He dropped a ten! He's cheating, guys!"

As always-they haven't mucked out the stables or anything.

"Teterya! Over here. Bridle up."

"Wait a minute, we're not finished."

"What do you mean, wait? You've had enough rest."

"So, no… then… A dame, and another dame! There you go!"

"Teterya!"

"I'm between shifts. You'll take it? Here's a jack for change."

"Teterya!!!" Benedikt shouted, stamping his foot.

"Now, now, there he goes, shouting up a storm. The sleigh runners are bent."

"Don't lie! It's always the same old thing! Get your boots on, I'm going for a ride. You've got five minutes to tack up!…"

Benedikt walked along the cages. Here were the sparrows. A small bird, like a mouse, but tasty. Only it has a lot of bones. There were nightingales in this cage. They ate them, need to catch some new ones. In springtime. Right now they're all hiding. Here-what's this? Here's the woodsucker.

"Woodsucker!" Benedikt called. "Come out!"

It didn't come out.

"Come out of there, you bitch!"

It didn't want to. Terenty pulled up, smirking. "Shout louder."

He shouted louder.

"Even louder."

"Woodsuuuuuuccker!!"

It won't come, what's going on!

"Shout like your guts are gonna split. She'll come out. From the gut."

Benedikt looked at him doubtfully: the pig is laughing, happy: "Ha ha! You ate it already!"

"Did we? Then what the hell are you…"

Idiotic jokes… You could ruin your voice in a frost like this. Benedikt checked out the cage. All the weaker birds were in the hollow. The blindlie had hidden his head under his wing. The shitbirds had flocked together and were warming each other. They were suffering! There you go! That'll teach you to shit on people's heads! What a trashy bird! And its meat is rubbish- stringy, tough, they only feed it to Degenerators, but people don't eat it. And it doesn't want to live in the forest, only in town.

In the farthest cage, where the bare tree and branch stood, you couldn't see anyone. Who knows who lived there. Whatever it was, it was in the hollow. Or maybe there wasn't anyone: the cage was clean, no droppings, no feathers. Maybe they ate it already.

Jeez, they ate the woodsucker. And he hadn't even noticed, he was so busy reading. He never got a good look at it. Who knows when they'd catch another one. They don't just come and fly into your hand, woodsuckers.

"Let's go," Teterya hurried him. "I'm freezing."

"Don't give me orders, you pig. If you have to-you'll freeze!"

He kicked the louse in his side, sat down in the sleigh, and covered himself with a bear skin. "Off with you! At a gallop- and I want songs!"

CHERV

… Nikita Ivanich and another Oldener, Lev Lvovich of the Dissidents, were sitting at the table drinking rusht. They'd been drinking awhile and were feeling fine: their faces were red, and they were mumbling a lot of nonsense.

Benedikt took off his hat. "And a good day to you."

"Benya? Benya! Is it really you?" Nikita Ivanich was pleased. "It's been so long! How long has it been? A year, two?… Extraordinary… Do you know each other? Benedikt Kar-pov, our sculptor, the people's Opekushin."

Lev Lvovich looked at him skeptically, as though he didn't recognize him, as if he hadn't helped to carry the pushkin himself. He made a face. "Kudeyarov's son-in-law?"

"That's right."

"I heard about it, I heard about your mesalliance."

"Thank you," said Benedikt, feeling touched. So they had heard about his marriage.

He sat down and the Oldeners moved over. It was crowded, of course. The izba seemed smaller than the last time he'd been there. The candle smoked and dripped, shadows danced. The walls were black with soot. Poverty showed on the table too: a jug, a couple of mugs, a plate of peas. They poured some rusht for Benedikt.

"So what are you up to? How are you? Just think… Here we were, sitting, drinking… talking about life… about the past… That is, we were talking about the future too, of course… About our Pushkin… How we sculpted him, hey? How we erected him! What an event! A milestone! The resuscitation of the saints! An historical landmark! Now he's with us again. And Pushkin, you know, Benya, Pushkin is our be all and end all! He's everything to us. You just think about it, remember, and assimilate it… But what a pity… can you imagine? He already requires restoration…"

"What does he require?" asked Benedikt, standing up.

"Fixing, Benya, he needs fixing! The rain, the snow, the birds… they've all taken their toll. If he were only made of stone! I won't even mention bronze, we're nowhere near having bronze. And then there's the people-people are utter savages: they tie a rope around him, and hang their laundry on freedom's bard! Underwear and pillowcases-barbarians!"

"But Nikita Ivanich, you were the one who always said the people's path to him should never be overgrown. And now you're complaining."

"Oh, Lord… Benya… That was a figure of speech."

"All right, we can put that figure wherever you want. I'll send some serfs. We could use the sleigh too."

"O Lord in Heaven, help us."

"We need a Xerox," said Lev Lvovich gloomily.

"It was only about a hundred years ago that you said we needed a fax. That the West would come to our aid," replied Nikita Ivanich.