"Whom are you talking to?" I asked.
He was silent, either not hearing my question or not caring to answer it. Then his words again fell into the expectant silence:
"The lives of the saints are what we ought to know! What do we know? We live without wings. Where is the soul? The soul—where is it? The originals are there—yes—but where are the souls?"
This thinking aloud caused even Sitanov to laugh derisively, and almost always some one whispered with malicious joy:
"He will get drunk on Saturday."
Tall, sinewy Sitanov, a youngster of twenty-two years, with a round face without whiskers or eyebrows, gazed sadly and seriously into the corner.
I remember when the copy of the Theodorovski Madonna, which I believe was Kungur, was finished. Jikharev placed the icon on the table and said loudly, excitedly:
"It is finished, Little Mother! Bright Chalice, Thou! Thou, bottomless cup, in which are shed the bitter tears from the hearts of the world of creatures!"
And throwing an overcoat over his shoulders, he went out to the tavern. The young men laughed and whistled, the elder ones looked after him with envious sighs, and Sitanov went to his work. Looking at it attentively, he explained:
"Of course he will go and get drunk, because he is sorry to have to hand over his work. That sort of regret is not given to all."