“Who would eat oil on a day like this?” asked Aglaya.
“I’m not a monk, sister, I’m a regular man. Due to my ill health, I may take not only oil but even some milk.”
“Sure; if this were your factory, you could have anything you want.”
Aglaya took a bottle of oil from the shelf and set it down angrily before Matthew. She was gloating, obviously very pleased to see that he was such a sinner.
“But I tell you, you can’t eat oil!” shouted Yakov, startling Aglaya and Dashutka. Matthew, as if he had not heard the comment, poured some oil into the bowl and continued eating.
“I tell you, you can’t have the oil!” Yakov shouted still more loudly, blushing at his own boldness. He suddenly yanked away the bowl, lifted it above his head, and dashed it to the ground with such force that the bowl broke into little pieces. “Don’t you dare speak!” he shouted furiously, although Matthew had not said a word. “Don’t you dare!” he repeated, and struck his fist on the table.
Matthew turned pale as he rose from the table. “Brother!” he said, while still chewing, “brother, come to your senses!”
“Get out of my house, NOW!” shouted Yakov. He was thoroughly disgusted by Matthew’s wrinkled face, his voice, the crumbs on his moustache, and even his chewing. “Get out, I tell you!”
“Brother, calm down! Evil pride has seized you!”
“Shut up!” Yakov stamped his feet. “Get lost, you devil!”
“If you care to know,” Matthew went on loudly, as he, too, began to get angry, “you are an apostate and a heretic. You’ve been cursed by having the light of truth hidden from you, and God is not pleased with your prayer. Repent before it is too late! The death of a sinner is cruel! Repent, brother!”
Yakov grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged Matthew away from the table. Confused, Matthew, who turned even paler, began muttering, “What’s the matter? What’s going on?” and, struggling in his effort to free himself from Yakov’s grip, he accidentally tore the collar of Yakov’s shirt, causing Aglaya to believe he was going to beat Yakov. She uttered a scream, snatched the bottle of oil, and with all her force smashed it down straight on the top of the hateful brother’s head. Matthew reeled, and a moment later his face turned calm and indifferent.
Panting heavily, Yakov was excited and pleased by the crack made by the bottle as it struck Matthew’s head. Yet, Yakov would not let him fall. Several times (he remembered it very well) he pointed to Aglaya and the iron with his index finger. It was not until the blood started trickling over his hands, and Dashutka let loose with a loud cry as the ironing board fell over when Matthew fell against it heavily, that the anger released Yakov and he finally realized what had happened.
“Let him croak, the factory stud!” Aglaya uttered with repulsion, the iron still in her hand. The white bloodstained kerchief slipped down onto her shoulders, allowing her gray hair to hang loose. “It serves him right!”
Everything was frightening. Dashutka was sitting on the floor near the stove with her yarn in her hands, sobbing and bowing, uttering “Gam! Gam!” with every bow. However, nothing was more frightening to Yakov than the boiled potatoes, sodden with blood. He was afraid to step on them. Yet something else was more sobering, depressing, and seemed to him most dangerous of all. It took him a moment to grasp that the barman, Sergey Nikanorych, was standing in the doorway with the abacus in his hands, very pale, and had watched in terror what had just happened in the kitchen. Only when he turned, walking quickly through the hall and outside, did Yakov realize who had observed them, and went after him.
Yakov wiped his hands on the snow as he walked, and reflected. The idea came to him that he could say their hired hand had asked to go to his village to stay there overnight and so wasn’t around to be a witness. They had just butchered a pig the day before, and there were signs of blood from the slaughtering on the snow, the sleigh, and even on one side of the well cover. It would not seem suspicious to any outsider if even all of Yakov’s family had bloodstains. It would be grievous enough to conceal the murder, but when Yakov thought about the policeman, whistling and smiling ironically, the local villagers coming together to gossip and stare at Yakov and Aglaya as they would be bound, and taken triumphantly to the police station, while everyone would point at them along the way cheering, “Ha, here come the preachers!” This seemed to Yakov the most grievous offense of all. He wished time could somehow stretch, so this disgrace would occur not now, but sometime in the future.
“I can lend you a thousand rubles,” he said, catching up to Sergey Nikanorych. “There is nothing in it for you if you tell anyone … and there’s no way to bring him back.” He could hardly keeping pace with the barman, who refused to look at him as he tried to walk as far from Yakov as possible. “I could give you fifteen hundred as well …”
He stopped as he was out of breath. Sergey Nikanorych kept on walking as quickly as he could, probably afraid that he, too, would be killed. It was not until he had walked past the railroad crossing and halfway down the road to the railroad station, that he looked back quickly and slowed his pace. The red and green lights were already on at the station and along the tracks; the wind was dying but snowflakes were still falling, turning the road white again. Sergey Nikanorych stopped as far as the station itself, deep in thought, and then resolutely walked back. It was growing dark.
“Fifteen hundred rubles, Yakov Ivanych,” he said quietly, trembling all over. “I agree.”
Only part of Yakov Ivanych’s money was in the town bank; the other part he had invested by offering mortgages in the village. He kept very little at home, just what he needed to run the household.
Entering the kitchen, he groped for a box of matches. Lighting one, he was able to make out the Matthew’s corpse still lying on the floor where he had fallen, covered with a white sheet. Only his boots could be seen. A cricket was chirping loudly outside. Aglaya and Dashutka were sitting behind the counter in the tearoom, winding yarn in complete silence.
Holding a lamp in his hand, Yakov Ivanych went into his room and pulled the little chest holding the household money out from under the bed. There was only four hundred and twenty-one rubles in small bills, and thirty-five rubles in silver; the notes felt heavy and unpleasant. Yakov Ivanych put the money into his cap, heading first into the yard, then outside the gate. He walked, looking around, but could not find the barman.
“Hey!” cried Yakov.
A dark figure separated from the shadows near the railroad crossing and moved slowly toward him.
“Why are you still walking?” asked Yakov with annoyance, as he recognized the barman. “Here you are; it’s a little less than five hundred, but that’s all I had at home.”
“Very well … I’m grateful to you,” mumbled Sergey Nikanorych, grabbing the money greedily as he stuffed it into his pockets. He was visibly trembling all over, despite the darkness. “And you, Yakov Ivanych, don’t worry about it…. Why would I tell? It’s simple. I was there earlier, and then left. As the saying goes, I know nothing and I can say nothing …” And he added with a sigh, “This cursed life!”
They stood standing quietly for a minute without looking at each other.
“Yeah, but this all happened over a trifle, God knows how it could …” said the barman, trembling. “You know, I was sitting counting to myself when I heard that noise…. I looked through the door…. It was all because of the oil…. Where is he now?”
“Lying in the kitchen.”
“You’d better take him somewhere…. What are you waiting for?”
In silence, Yakov accompanied him to the station, and then returned home. He harnessed the horse to take Matthew to Limarovo forest and leave him somewhere on the road, the plan being to tell everyone that Matthew had gone off to Vedenyapino and not returned, causing everyone to think he had been killed by some travelers. He knew he would not deceive anyone with these lies, but it felt less torturous to have something to do than just to sit and wait. He called Dashutka, and together they carried Matthew away. Aglaya remained in the kitchen to clean up.