Jacob cudgelled his brains, but could recall neither baby nor willow. 'You're imagining things.'
The priest came and gave the last rites, whereupon Martha mumbled something or other. By mo^rng she was gone.
Old women neighbours washed her, dressed her, laid her in her coffin. So as not to waste money on the sexton, Jacob read the lesson hi^^lf, and he got the grave for nothing because the cemetery care- taker was a crony of his. Four peasants bore the coffin to the cemetery out ofrespect, not for money. It was followed by old women, beggars and two vilage idiots while people in the street crossed the^relves piously. Jacob was delighted that it was al so right and seemly, that it didn't cost much or hurt anyone's feelings. As he said good-bye to Martha for the last time he tou^ed the coffin.
'Good workmanship, that,' he thought.
But on his way back from the cemetery he was overcome by a great sorrow. He felt vaguely unwell. His breath came hot and heavy, his legs were weak, he felt thirsty. Then various thoughts began to prey on his mind. He again remembered that never in his life had he been kind to Martha or sho^wn her affection. The fifty-two years of their life together in one hut—it seemed su^ a long, long time. But somehow he had never given her a thought in all that time, he had no more noticed her than a cat or dog. But she had made up the stove every day, hadn't she? She had cooked, baked, fetched water, cut wood, shared his bed. And when he came back from weddings she would
reverently hang his fiddle on the wall and put him to bed—all this in silence, looking scared and troubled.
Rothschild approached Jacob, s^^^g and bowing.
'I been looking for you, ^iter,' he said. 'Mister Moses sends his respects, says he vonts you at once.'
Jacob wasn't interested. He wanted to cry.
'Leave me alone.' He walked on.
'Vot are you doing?' Rothschild ran ahead, much alarmed. 'Mister Moses'll be offended. You're to come at once, said he.'
Out of breath, blinking, with all those red freckles, the Jew dis- gusted Jacob. The green frock-coat with the black patches, his whole frail, puny figure—what a loathsome sight.
'Keep out of my way, Garlick-breath,' shouted Jacob. 'You leave me alone.'
The Jew, angered, also shouted. 'You are being quiet or I am throwing you over fence.'
'Out of my fight, you!' bellowed Jacob, pouncing on him with clenched fists. 'Proper poison, them greasy bastards are.'
Scared to death, Rothschild crouched do^wn, waving his hands above his head as if warding off blows, then jumped up and scampered off as fast as he could, hopping about and flapping his arms as he ran. You could see the quaking of his long, thin back. At ^^ the street gleefully rushed after him shouting 'Dirty Yid !' Barking dogs chased him too. Someone roared with laughter and then whistled, the dogs barked louder and in closer harmony.
Then a dog must have bitten Rothschild, for a shout of pain and despair was heard.
Jacob walked on the co^rnon, then started off along the edge of the townwn without kno^mg where he was going. 'There's old Jake, there he goes,' shouted the boys. Then he came to the river. Here sand- pipers swooped and twittered, ducks quacked. The sun's heat beat downwn and the water sparkled till it hurt the eyes. Walking along the tow-path, Jacob saw a buxom, red-<heeked woman emerge from a bathing hut.
'Da^ performing seal,' he thought.
Not far from the bathing hut boys were fishing for crayfish, using meat as bait. They saw ^m.
'Hey, there's old Jake,' they shouted nastily.
Then came the broad old willow tree with its huge hollow and crows' nests.
SuddenlyJacob's memory up a vivid image ofthat fair-haired baby and the willow that Martha had spoken oЈ Yes, it was the same willow—so green, so quiet, so sad.
How old it had gro^, poor thing.
He sat beneath it and began remembering. On the other bank, now a water meadow, had been a silver-birch forest, and over there on that bare hill on the horizon the dark blue bulk of an ancient pine wood. Barges had plied up and downwn the river. But now it was al flat and bare with the one little silver birch on the near side, slim and youthful as a young girl. There were only ducks and geese on the river, and it was hard to ^^ that barges had ever passed here. Even the geese seemed fewer. Jacob shut his eyes and pictured vast fliocks of white geese swooping towards each other.
How was it, he wondered, that he had never been by the river in the last forty or ftfty years of his life. Or, if he had, it had made no impre»ion on him. Why, this was a proper river, not just any old stream. You could fish it, you could sell the fish to shopkeepers, clerks and the man who kept the station bar, you could put the money in the bank. You could sail a boat from one riverside estate to another playing your fiddle, and all m^mer of folk would pay you for it. You could try starting up the barges again—better than making coffins, that was. Then you could breed geese, slaughter them and send them to Moscow in winter. 'The downwn alone would fetch ten roubles a year, I'll be bound.' But he had let al this go by, he had done nothing about it. Oh, what a waste, what a waste of money! If you put it all together —fishing, fiddling, barging, goose-slaughtering—what a lot of money you'd have made. But none of it had happened, not even in your dreams. Life had flowed past without profit, without enjoyment— gone aimlessly, leaving nothing to show for it. The future was empty. And ifyou looked back there was only all the awful waste of money that sent shivers downwn your spine. Why couldn't a man live without all that loss and waste? And why, he wondered, had they cut downwn the birch forest? Aid the pine wood? Why wasn't that common put to use? Why do people always do the wrong things? Why had Jacob spent all his life cursing, bellowing, threatening people with his fists, ill-treating his wife? And what, oh what, was the point of scaring and insulting that Jew just now? Why are people generally such a nuisance to each other? After all, it's all such a waste of money, a terrible waste it is. Without the hate and malice folks could get a lot of profit out of each other.
That evening and night he had visions of baby, willow, fish, dead geese, of Martha widi her thirsty bird's profile, and of Rothschild's wretched, pale face, while various other gargoyle-like faces advanced on him from all sides muttering about all the waste of money. He tossed and turned, he got out of bed half a dozen times to play his fiddle.
Next morning he forced himself to get up and went to the hospital. That same Maxim told him to put a cold compress on his head and gave him powders, but his look and tone made Jacob realize that it was all up and that no powders would help now. Later, on his way home, he reckoned that dcath would be pure gain to him. He wouldn't have to eat, drink, pay taxes or offend folk. And since a man lies in his grave not just one but hundreds and thousands of years, the proft would be colossal. Man's life is debit, his death credit. The argument was correct, of course, but painfuUy disagreeable too. Why are things so oddly arranged? You only live once, so why don't you get anything out of it?
He didn't mind dying, but when he got home and saw his fiddle his heart missed a beat and he felt sorry. He couldn't take his fiddle with him to the grave, so it would be orphaned and go the way of the birches and the pines. Nothing in this world has ever come to any- thing, nothing ever will. Jacob went out of the hut and sat in the door- way clasping the fiddle to his breast. Thinking of his wasted, profitless life, he started playing he knew not what, but it came out poignantly moving and tears coursed do^wn his cheeks. The harder he thought the sadder grew the fiddle's song.
The latch squeaked twice and Rothschild appeared at the garden gate. He crossed half the yard boldly, but when he saw Jacob he suddenly stopped, cringed and—through fear, no doubt—gesticulated as if trying to indicate the time with his fingers.