"The mother of God was a woman," I said.
"Well?"
"And also there are very many virtuous women."
"If you speak like that the devil will surely drag you to hell."
"Anyway, he is a serious man," I thought to myself.
We arrived at the bakery and he made the fire. There were two large kneading troughs covered with sacks, a large flour bin nearby, a big sack of rye and a bag of wheat. Everything was dirty and filthy, and cobwebs and gray dust lay over all. Misha tore the sack off from one of the troughs, threw it on the earth, and commanded:
"Well, come and learn! Here is the dough. Do you see those bubbles? That means it is ready—it has already risen."
He took a sack of flour as if it were a three-year-old youngster, bent it over the edge of the trough, cut it open with his knife and cried as though at a fire:
"Pour four pails of water here and then knead!"
He was white like a tree with hoarfrost.