You stumble and your hands fumble, they're blind, frightened: who knows what you might find or touch, not seeing what it is. Your soul will freeze: What's this? There's never been anything like this in the izba. What is it?

Your insides are like to pop with fear and you throw the thing away, whatever it was… You stand there, petrified, scared to breathe… Scared to take a step… You think: If I move, I'll step on it…

Carefully… sideways… along the edges… against the wall. One step, two steps… and you make it to the door. You yank the door open and run as fast as your legs will carry you!

You collapse under a tree or next to the fence; everything inside is pounding. Now you have to pull yourself together, ask someone for coals or maybe a candle. If they give you a candle it's easier, not so scary; you'll go back to the izba and take a look.

What was that thing? And there doesn't seem to be anything there.

Nothing at all.

Could be your neighbors were playing a trick on you, the jokesters: while you were out, they put who knows what there, to ruin your reason with fear; and while you were running back and forth, trying to get some fire, they go and fetch whatever it was they stuck there. So there's nothing there now, and you never know what it was.

His heart wasn't telling him anything. But his head-yes, his head was telling him something. That's why reason is up there in the head. His head told him that a long time ago, before his wedding-yikes, ages ago-when he was still a wild young man, an uneducated greenhorn with a tail and no sense, he saw a book at Varvara Lukinishna's place. He couldn't remember what book it was, big or little, or what it was called: the fear and the strangeness made it so he didn't understand anything at the time, he only understood that he was scared stiff.

Now, of course, as an educated man, sophisticated, you might say, he'd know how to appreciate such a treasure. He'd fondle it, turn it over, count the number of pages and see what the letters were like: big or small. Is it a quick read or not? Having read it, he'd know which shelf to put it on, with a kiss.

Now, refined and wiser, he knew that a book is a delicate friend, a white bird, an exquisite being, afraid of water.

Darling things! Afraid of water, of fire, They shiver in the wind. Clumsy, crude human fingers leave bruises on them that'll never fade! Never!

Some people touch books without washing their hands!

Some underline things in ink!

Some even tear pages out!

And he himself used to be so barbaric and clumsy, such a Cro-Magnon, that he rubbed a hole in a page with a spit-covered finger! "And the candle by which Anna read a life full of alarm and deceit…" Idiot. He'd rubbed a hole in it, Lord forgive him. It was the same as if you'd found the secret glade in the forest by some miracle-all covered in crimson tulips and golden trees- and finally embraced the sweet Princess Bird, and while embracing her you'd gone and poked your dirty finger in her bright, self-admiring eye!

Varvara Lukinishna said that Nikita Ivanich gave her the book. So, he was caught out in a lie, the old man! You do have books, you old drunk, you hide them somewhere, bury them, won't let good people read them… They aren't in the izba, Benedikt knew that izba like the back of his hand, he'd spent a lot of time there… They aren't in the shed, we carved the pushkin in the shed… There's only rusht in the pantry… In the bathhouse maybe?

Benedikt thought about the bathhouse and got mad. He could feel his face puffing up with anger: the bathhouse is damp, books would mildew there. Here he'd come, asking nicely, offering to trade. He'd brought a valuable present. He didn't begrudge anything; he sat with the Oldeners for half a day, listened to their nonsense-but no, they had to go and lie, had to pretend, and pull the wool over his eyes, look away, brush him off, deny everything. No, no, not us, we don't have any books, don't even bother to look for any!…

And they invited that stinking bastard, that Degenerator, to sit at the table with them. Yes, Terenty Petrovich. What do you think, Terenty Petrovich? Would you care for some rusht, Terenty Petrovich? They fed him and got him drunk, and then they got mad at him for some reason, and threw him out in the snow like a sack of turnips… Served him right, of course.

But they treated Benedikt the same way: they laughed and left him with nothing to show for his trouble…

The old man said: the heavens and the heart, it's all the same, and you remember that. What's in the sky? There's darkness and blizzards, stormy whirlwinds. In summer, stars: the Trough, the Bowl, Horsetail, Nail Clippings, the Belly Button, there are tons of them! They're all written down in a book, he said, and that book lies locked behind seven gates, and that book holds the secret of how to live, only the pages are all shuffled… and the letters aren't like ours. Go and look for it, he said. Pushkin looked for it, and you go and look too. I'm looking, I'm looking, just think how many people I've shaken down: Theofilactus, Eensy Weensy, Zuzya, Nenila the Hare, Methuselah and Churilo, the twins; Osip, Revolt, Eulalia, Avenir, Maccabee, Zoya Gurevna… January, Ulcer, Sysoy, Ivan Pricklin… They caught them all with the hook, dragged them across the floor, all of them grabbed the tables and stools, all of them howled bloody murder when they were taken away to be treated… Noooooo, that is, doooooon't…!

What do you mean, don't? It says: Books shouldn't be kept at home, and whoever keeps them shouldn't hide them, and whoever hides them should be treated.

Because everything's gotten out of hand under Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. And who grabbed the main book and hid it-the one where it says how to live? Roach Efimich had books with letters that weren't like ours right out in plain view, two dozen of them, all clean and dry. Is that where the precious writings are? Probably not. Nikita Ivanich said they're locked behind seven gates, in a valley of fog… So keep on thinking, Benedikt…

Go and hitch up Teterya. To make sure he wouldn't swear the whole time or give anything away, so he'd keep his mouth shut, Benedikt made him a plug, that is, a gag: you take a rag, roll it up, tie it with a string, and stuff it in between the blabbermouth's teeth; then you fasten it around the ears. And off you go, at a gallop, but without songs!

"Where ya going so late, Benny?"

"I've got, I have to… go talk about art…"

From the threshold of the gate Let the wilting beauty gaze Whether gentle or depraved Whether spiteful or quite chaste.

Who cares about her charming hands! Who needs her bed's warm heat Come on, brother, let's retreat, Let's soar above the sands!

But the weather is bad: the air is heavy and full of alarm. The blizzard is rotten, like it was mixed with water, and the snow no longer sparkles as it did, it sticks to things. On the corners, at the crossroads, on the squares, the people stand around in bunches -more than three at a time. They huddle, looking at the sky or talking, or just standing there fretting.

Why is there unrest among the people?… He just passed two Golubchiks with worried faces, their eyes flitting back and forth. Others run past, waving their hands. And those guys over there were chatting, then they ran back in their houses and slammed the gates. Benedikt stopped in the sleigh, watching people he knew. Poltorak whizzed by like a wheel and was gone: he has three legs, you could never catch up with him.

There's a woman being led by the elbow: she can't walk on her own, she beats her breast with her hand, and cries out: "Oh, woe is me! Woe is me!…" She slumps. What's going on…?

"Konstantin Leontich!" Benedikt cried out. "Stop, Konstan-tin Leontich!… What's wrong, what happened?"

Konstantin Leontich, agitated, hatless, his coat buttoned wrong, answered in a strange voice: "There was just an announcement: it's a leap year!"