"What makes you think that?"

"Because 'Don't I take care of you, don't I fill your trough with oats?' That's it, a mouse."

"Well, then, what about 'The steed races, the earth trembles'?"

"It must be a big mouse. Once they start running around, you can't get to sleep. You remember, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, also wrote, 'Life, you're but a mouse's scurry, why do you trouble me?' It's a mouse, that's for sure."

"Still, it's strange. No, you haven't convinced me."

Varvara Lukinishna knows a lot of poems by heart. And she's always wanting to understand something. Who can count all the hard words! Someone else would shrug it off, but she needs to understand. Go figure. And she talks like a book. That's the way Mother talked. Or Nikita Ivanich.

Varvara Lukinishna lives alone. She catches mice, takes them to market, and trades them for booklets. Reads all the time.

"You know, Benedikt, poetry is everything to me. Our job is pure joy. And I've noticed something. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glory-he, he's different at different times. Do you understand what I mean? It's as though he speaks with different voices."

"That's what makes him the Biggest Murza, Long May He Live," said Benedikt cautiously.

"No, that's not what I mean… I don't know how to explain it, but I can sense it. For example: 'The reed pipe sings upon the bridge, and apple trees do bloom. The angel lifts a single star on high, of greenish hue. And on that bridge it is divine to gaze into those depths, those heights…' That's one voice. But, say-"

"On the bridge?" Benedikt interrupted. "That must be Foul Bridge. I know it. I caught worrums there. It really is deep as can he there. Watch out! If you bump your head and topple over, all they'll remember is your name. There'll only be bubbles left. The boards are rotten there too. When they herd the goats over it, one always falls through. I know that place." And he sucked on a bone.

"No, no, that's not what I mean. Listen: 'In the district where no feet have passed, save assassins' / Your herald the aspen is lipless and hushed, a specter far paler than canvas…' That's an entirely different voice, you must admit. Entirely different."

"I know that neighborhood too," cried Benedikt. "That's where Pakhom cracked his skull open."

Varvara Lukinishna shook her head, looked at the candle, and the blue flame wavered in her only eye.

"No, no… I keep reading and reading, and thinking, thinking… And I've divided the poems into different categories. And re-sewed the notebooks. And you know what's interesting?"

"Vasiuk the Earful over there is interested too," said Benedikt. "Huh, look how he's spread out. And you're wasting your time sewing poems back and forth. That's Freethinking."

"Oh, my God… Let's go back to work. They'll be ringing the clapper any moment now." Varvara Lukinishna looked around the hut. Rusht smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife. It hung down blue to the floor. In the corner, Golubchiks who had had their fill were playing thwackers. Two of them had already drunk a lot of kvas and lay on the floor. Vasiuk wrote down their names.

"This restaurant is rather noisy," said Varvara Lukinishna, sighing. " 'I sat by the window in a crowded ballroom, while the bows in the background sang about love…' What do you think bows are?"

"Some kind of fast women?"

"No… You know, I so long to talk about art… Come visit me. Really, do come!"

"All right, I'll drop by sometime," said Benedikt unwillingly. If she weren't so ugly, he'd be happy to, of course. Take a steam bath and then go visiting. But in this case-there's plenty of time.

Maybe if he squinted it wouldn't be so bad. She was a nice woman. And she'd feed him soup. Then again, all of these conversations unsettled Benedikt.

Everyone had gathered in the Work Izba, but Olenka wasn't there. Benedikt waited, chewed on his writing stick. She wasn't coming. That happened sometimes: she was there before lunch, but didn't come in the afternoon. That must be the way it had to be. None of his business. But it made things boring.

He sat down to work on a new fairy tale, "The Gingerbread Man." What a funny story. This Gingerbread Man ran from a husband, he ran from a wife, and from a bear and a cow. He ran all on his lonesome through the forest, singing little ditties: "Run, run, as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man." Benedikt was happy for the Gingerbread Man. He laughed. His mouth hung open as he wrote.

But when he got to the last line, his heart skipped a beat. The Gingerbread Man died. The fox gobbled him up! Benedikt even set his writing stick down and looked at the scroll. The Gingerbread Man died. Such a jolly little fellow. Singing songs. Enjoying life. And then-he was gone. Why?

Benedikt swallowed and looked around the izba. Everyone was writing, leaning over. The candles flickered. The bear bladders on the windows let in a bluish light. It was evening already. A storm was probably coming. It would sweep the snow into high drifts, whistle through the streets, bury the izbas up to the windows. The high trees would moan in the northern forests, the Slynx would come out of the woods, head for the town, hiss sadly, wail mournfully: Slyyyyynx! Slyyyynx! And the snowy wind would rage over the village, whirl over the terems, carrying the wild plaint into the distance.

Benedikt imagined himself sitting on the stove as a child, his boots hanging down and a blizzard carousing outside the window. The bluish mouse-oil candle crackled, shadows danced on the ceiling, Mother was sitting by the windowsill, embroidering a bed curtain or a towel with colored threads. Kitty crawled out from underneath the stove, soft, fuzzy, and jumped on Bene-dikt's lap. Mother doesn't like Kitty: if he claws her skirt she always brushes him off. Says she can't stand to look at his bare pink tail, the trunk on his face. And she doesn't like his pink, childlike fingers either. It seems these animals were completely different when she was young. So what, a lot of things have changed! If not for Kitty, who would catch so many mice for them, and where would they get lard for candles? And Benedikt loves him. If you reach out your finger, he'll grab it with his little hands and purr.

Mother supposedly had an Oldenprint book. But she kept it hidden. Because, they say, they're contagious. So Benedikt hadn't ever touched it or even seen it, and Mother strictly forbade him to talk about it, as if it didn't exist.

Father wanted to burn it. He was afraid. Some kind of Illness came from them, God forbid, God forbid.

And if it came, then the Red Sleigh would come.

And in the sleigh would be the Saniturions, may they remain nameless at night. They fly about in Red Sleighs, knock on wood, in red robes and hoods, slits where their eyes should be, and you can't see their faces, knock on wood.

And there's Benedikt sitting on the stove, and Mother embroidering, and the blizzard wailing outside the window, and the candle flares a bit, like the flickering lights above swamp rusht, and it's dark in the corners, and Father has already gotten ready for bed and undressed.

And suddenly Father screamed: A-a-a-a! And his eyes bugged out and he stared at his stomach, and kept on screaming and screaming. And there was a sort of rash on his stomach, like someone had patted him all over with dirty hands. And he screamed, "Illness! Illness!"

Mother pulled on her felt boots, threw a scarf on her head, and ran out for Nikita Ivanich.

Father: "He'll tell! He'll tell!" And he grabbed her skirts.

He meant that Nikita Ivanich would tell the Saniturions. All in vain. She pulled away from him and ran out into the blizzard.

She came running back with Nikita Ivanich. He said, "What is it now? Show me. What do we have here? Neurodermatitis. Don't eat so many mice. It'll go away on its own. Don't scratch it."