"Of course, it is not pleasant for him to watch an old man. I am not offended with him. The devil doesn't do it of his own free will, and I am used to him. 'Well,' I say to him, 41 am tired of you,' and I don't look at him. He is not bad or evil, only he continually reminds me of my name."
Then the old man lifted his head and said loudly:
"They called me Michail Petrov Viakhiref."
And then he sank down in his coffin again and whispered:
"Thus the devil tempts me. Oh, you devil! Are you still here, brother? Go, and God be with you."
I could have cried with anger that day. What was the use of this old man? What beauty was there in his deed? I could not understand it. All day and many days afterward I thought of him, and I felt that a devil mocked me and made grimaces at me.
The last time that I went to him I filled my pockets with soft bread, and I brought that bread to him, with pain and anger against all mankind. When I gave it to him he whispered:
"Oh, it is still warm. Oh!"
He moved in his coffin. The shavings creaked underneath him while he hid his bread, whispering:
"Oh, oh."