The man and woman in Kirekoj with whom Vuk lived were kind to him, though they thought him strange and often wondered what his thoughts were. When Vuk set out in the evening to his work, the woman would give him a little parcel of food—bread, a handful of olives, and a bottle of red wine, and Vuk would smile at her shyly and say some words of thanks. The young men of the village—mostly Bulgars—had long ago accepted him; at first, they had teased him a little, but as he always replied with a smile of good-nature, they had soon come to see that his oddness was not a thing to give them amusement.
Sometimes Vuk would try to throw himself into their company, forcing himself to be one of them. He was afraid of his own strangeness. But his abnormal shyness barred his way, and the sensitive distaste he had for life was too strong to be overcome. He envied his fellows. He envied their capacity for comradeship, their day-long happiness, the ease with which they laughed and talked. But he could never become like them. His self-distrust increased with the years, and he turned more passionately than ever to his dreams of the past and to his silent companion in the sky.
One afternoon, the man with whom he lived came in from his work in the fields and found Vuk reading a book.
“Will you drink wine with me?” the man asked.
“Thank you: I will,” answered Vuk, shrinking a little.
The man poured out two glasses, and, as the day was very hot, Vuk drained his at a single draught. The man silently refilled it, and in five minutes the glass was again empty.
His host, looking at him, smiled.
“Why don’t you go to the inn and drink with Stepan and the other lads?” he asked. “To get drunk sometimes is good for a man.”
Vuk, returning his gaze, smiled also.
“I will drink with you, if you like,” he returned, for the wine had excited him, and he did not feel as much afraid as usual.