A shoemaker named Simon, who had neither house nor land of his own,
lived with his wife and children in a peasant's hut, and earned his
living by his work. Work was cheap, but bread was dear, and what he
earned he spent for food. The man and his wife had but one sheepskin
coat between them for winter wear, and even that was torn to tatters,
and this was the second year he had been wanting to buy sheep-skins for
a new coat. Before winter Simon saved up a little money: a three-rouble
note lay hidden in his wife's box, and five roubles and twenty kopeks
were owed him by customers in the village.
So one morning he prepared to go to the village to buy the sheep-skins.
He put on over his shirt his wife's wadded nankeen jacket, and over that
he put his own cloth coat. He took the three-rouble note in his
pocket, cut himself a stick to serve as a staff, and started off after
breakfast. "I'll collect the five roubles that are due to me,"
thought he, "add the three I have got, and that will be enough to buy
sheep-skins for the winter coat."
He came to the village and called at a peasant's hut, but the man was
not at home. The peasant's wife promised that the money should be
paid next week, but she would not pay it herself. Then Simon called on
another peasant, but this one swore he had no money, and would only pay
twenty kopeks which he owed for a pair of boots Simon had mended. Simon
then tried to buy the sheep-skins on credit, but the dealer would not
trust him.
"Bring your money," said he, "then you may have your pick of the skins.
We know what debt-collecting is like." So all the business the shoemaker
did was to get the twenty kopeks for boots he had mended, and to take a
pair of felt boots a peasant gave him to sole with leather.
Simon felt downhearted. He spent the twenty kopeks on vodka, and started
homewards without having bought any skins. In the morning he had felt
the frost; but now, after drinking the vodka, he felt warm, even without
a sheep-skin coat. He trudged along, striking his stick on the frozen
earth with one hand, swinging the felt boots with the other, and talking
to himself.
I
"I'm quite warm," said he, "though I have no sheep-skin coat. I've had
a drop, and it runs through all my veins. I need no sheep-skins. I go
along and don't worry about anything. That's the sort of man I am! What
do I care? I can live without sheep-skins. I don't need them. My wife
will fret, to be sure. And, true enough, it is a shame; one works all
day long, and then does not get paid. Stop a bit! If you don't bring
that money along, sure enough I'll skin you, blessed if I don't. How's
that? He pays twenty kopeks at a time! What can I do with twenty kopeks?
Drink it-that's all one can do! Hard up, he says he is! So he may
be--but what about me? You have a house, and cattle, and everything;
I've only what I stand up in! You have corn of your own growing; I have
to buy every grain. Do what I will, I must spend three roubles every
week for bread alone. I come home and find the bread all used up, and I
have to fork out another rouble and a half. So just pay up what you owe,
and no nonsense about it!"
By this time he had nearly reached the shrine at the bend of the road.
Looking up, he saw something whitish behind the shrine. The daylight was
fading, and the shoemaker peered at the thing without being able to make
out what it was. "There was no white stone here before. Can it be an ox?
It's not like an ox. It has a head like a man, but it's too white; and
what could a man be doing there?"
He came closer, so that it was clearly visible. To his surprise it
really was a man, alive or dead, sitting naked, leaning motionless
against the shrine. Terror seized the shoemaker, and he thought, "Some
one has killed him, stripped him, and left him there. If I meddle I
shall surely get into trouble."
So the shoemaker went on. He passed in front of the shrine so that he
could not see the man. When he had gone some way, he looked back, and
saw that the man was no longer leaning against the shrine, but was
moving as if looking towards him. The shoemaker felt more frightened
than before, and thought, "Shall I go back to him, or shall I go on? If
I go near him something dreadful may happen. Who knows who the fellow
is? He has not come here for any good. If I go near him he may jump
up and throttle me, and there will be no getting away. Or if not, he'd
still be a burden on one's hands. What could I do with a naked man? I
couldn't give him my last clothes. Heaven only help me to get away!"
So the shoemaker hurried on, leaving the shrine behind him-when suddenly
his conscience smote him, and he stopped in the road.
"What are you doing, Simon?" said he to himself. "The man may be dying
of want, and you slip past afraid. Have you grown so rich as to be
afraid of robbers? Ah, Simon, shame on you!"
So he turned back and went up to the man.