"We must read this again! We will read it to-morrow! I will hide the book away."
He went away, locked "Lermontov" in his drawer, and returned to his work. It was quiet in the workshop; the men stole back to their tables. Sitanov went to the window, pressed his forehead against the glass, and stood there as if frozen. Jikharev, again laying down his brush, said in a stern voice:
"Well, such is life; slaves of God—yes—ah!"
He shrugged his shoulders, hid his face, and went on:
"I can draw the devil himself; black and rough, with wings of red flame, with red lead, but the face, hands, and feet—these should be bluish-white, like snow on a moonlight night."
Until close upon supper-time he revolved about on his stool, restless and unlike himself, drumming with his fingers and talking unintelligibly of the devil, of women and Eve, of paradise, and of the sins of holy men.
"That is all true!" he declared. "If the saints sinned with sinful women, then of course the devil may sin with a pure soul."
They listened to him in silence; probably, like me, they had no desire to speak. They worked unwillingly, looking all the time at their watches, and as soon as it struck ten, they put away their work altogether.
Sitanov and Jikharev went out to the yard, and I went with them. There, gazing at the stars, Sitanov said:
"Like a wandering caravan
Thrown into space, it shone."