Evening and night, twinkled in Yakov's brain the willow, the fish, the dead geese, Marfa with her profile like that of a bird about to drink, the pale, pitiable face of Rothschild, and an army of snouts thrusting themselves out of the dark- Des and muttering about lo^es. He shifted from side to side, and five times in the night rose from his bed and played on the fiddle.
In the morning be rose with an effort and went to the hospital. The same Maksim Kikolaich ordered him to bind his head with a cold compress, and gave him powders; and by the expression of his face, and by his tone Yakov saw that it was a bad business, and that no powders would make it any better. But upon his way home he reflected that from death at least there would be one profit; it would no longer be neces sary to eat, to drink, to pay taxes, or to injure others; and as a man lies in his grave not one year, but hundreds and thou- sands of years, the profit was enormous. The life of man was, in short, a loss, and only his death a profit. Yet this considera- tion, though entirely just, was offensive and bitter; for why in this world is it so ordered that life, which is given to a man only once, pas:;es by without profit?
He did not regret dying, but as soon as he arrived home and saw his fiddle, his heart fell, and he felt sorry. The fiddle could not be taken to the grave; it must remain an orphan, and the same thing would happen with it as had happened with the birchwood and the pine forest. Everything in this world decayed, and would decay! Yakov went to the door of the hut and sat upon the threshold stone, pressing his fiddle to his shoulder. Still thinking of life, full ot decay and full of losses, he began to play, and as the tune poured out plain- tively and touchingly, the tears flowed down his cheeks. And the harder he thought, the sadder was the song of the fiddle.
The latch creaked twice, and in the wicket door appeared Rothschild. The first half of the yard he crossed boldly, but seeing Yakov, he stopped short, shrivelled up, and apparently from fright began to make signs as if he wished to tell the time with his fingers.
"Come on, don't be afraid," said Yakov kindly, beckoning him. "Come!"
With a look of distrust and terror Rothschild drew ne&? and stopped about two yards away.
"Don't beat me, Yakov, it is not my fault!" he said, with
bow. "Moses Ilyich has sent me again. 'Don't be afraid!' he said, 'go to Yakov again and tell him that without him we cannot possibly get on.' The wedding is on Wednesday. Shapovalov's daughter is marrying a wealthy man. . . . It will be a first-class wedding," added the Jew, blinking one eye.
"I cannot go," answered Yakov, breathing heavily. "I am ill, brother.''
And again he took his bow, and the tears burst from his eyes and fell upon the fiddle. Rothschild listened attentively, standing by his side with arms folded upon his chest. The distrustful, terrified expression upon his face little by little changed into a look of suffering and grief, he rolled his eyes as if in ecstasy of torment, and ejaculated "Wachchch!" And the tears slowly rolled down his cheeks and made little black patches on his green frock-coat.
All day long Yakov l2y in bed and worried. With evening came the priest, and, confessing him, asked whether he had any particular sin which he would like to confess; and Yakov exerted his fading memory, and remembering Marfa's un- happv face, and the Jew's despairing cry when he was bitten by tfie dog, said in a hardly audible voice:
"Give the fiddle to Rothschild.''
And now in the town everyone asks: Where did Rothschild get such an excellent fiddle? Did he buy it or steal it . . . or did he get it in pledge? Long ago he abandoned his flute, and now plays on the fiddle only. From beneath his bow issue the same mournful sounds as formerly came from the flute; but when he tries to repeat the tune that Yakov played when be sat on the threshold stone, the fiddle emits sounds so pas- sionately sad and full of grief that the listeners weep; and he himself rolls his eyes and ejaculates "Wachchch!" . . . But this new song so pleases everyone in the town that wealthy traders and officials never fail to engage Rothschild for their social gatherings, and even force him to play it as many as ten times.