Books at bedtime by calming anxiety, where lovers, God is, by tollslay.
In a certain town, they lived a cobbler, Martin Aveditch by name.
He had a tiny room in a basement, the one window of which looked onto the street.
Through it one could only see the feet of those who passed by, but Martin recognized
the people by their boots. He had lived long in the place and had many acquaintances.
There was hardly a pair of boots in the neighborhood that had not once or twice been
through his hands, so he often saw his own handy-work through the window.
Some he had resold, some had been patched, some stitched up, and to some he had even put
fresh appers. He had plenty to do, for he worked well, used good material, did not charge
too much, and could be relied on. If he could do a job by the day required, he undertook
it, if not. He told the truth and gave no false promises, so he was well known and never
short of work.
Martin had always been a good man, but in his old age he began to think more about his soul
and to draw nearer to God. When he still worked for a master, before he set up on his own
account, his wife had died, leaving him with a three-year-old son. None of his elder children
had lived, they had all died in infancy. At first Martin thought of sending his little son
to his sisters in the country, but then he felt sorry to part with the boy thinking, "It
would be hard for my little capitone to have grown up in a strange family. I will keep him
with me."
Martin left his master and went into lodgings with his little son, but he had no luck with
his children. No sooner had the boy reached an age where he could help his father and be
a support as well as a joy to him than he fell ill. And after being laid up for a week with
a burning fever, he died.
Martin buried his son and gave way to despair, so great and overwhelming that he murmured against
God.
In his sorrow he prayed again and again that he too may die, reproaching God for having taken
the son he loved, his only son, while he, old as he was, remained alive. After that, Martin
left off going to church.
One day, an old man from Martin's native village who had been a pilgrim for the last eight
years called in on his way to Trotskoye monastery. Martin opened his heart to him and told him
of his sorrow. "I no longer even wish to live, holy man," he said. "All I ask God is that I
soon may die. I am now quite without hope in the world."
The old man replied, "You have no right to say such things, Martin. We cannot judge God's
ways. Not our reasoning, but God's will decides."
"If God willed that your young son should die and that you should live, it must be best
so."
"As to your despair, that comes because you wish to live for your own happiness."
What else should one live for?" asked Martin.
"For God, Martin," said the old man. "He gives you life and you must live for him."
"When you have learned to live for him, you will grieve no more and all will seem easy to
you."
Martin was silent a while and then asked, "But how is one to live for God?"
The old man answered, "How one may live for God has been shown us by Christ. Can you read them
by the gospels and read them?" "There you will see how God would have you live. You have it
all there."
These words sang deep into Martin's heart and that same day he went and bought himself
a testament in large print and began to read.
At first, he meant only to read on holidays, but having once begun, he found it made his heart
so light that he read every day. Sometimes he was so absorbed in his reading that the oil
in his lamp burnt out before he could tear himself away from the book. He continued to read
every night. And the more he read, the more clearly he understood what God required of
him and how he might live for God. And his heart grew lighter and lighter. Before when he
went to bed, he used to lie with a heavy heart, moaning as he thought of his little capitan,
but now he only repeated again and again. Glory to thee, glory to thee, O Lord thy will be done.
From that time, Martin's whole life changed. Formerly, on holiday, he used to go and have
tea at the public house and did not even refuse a glass or two of vodka. Sometimes, after
having had a drop with a friend, he left the public house, not drunk, but rather merry,
and would say foolish things, shouted a man or abuse him. Now, all that sort of thing
passed away from him. His life became peaceful and joyful. He sat down to his work in the
morning and when he had finished his day's work, he took the lamp down from the wall, stood
it on the table, fetched his book from the shelf, opened it and sat down to read. The more
he read, the better he understood and the clearer and happier he felt in his mind.
It happened once that Martin sat up late, absorbed in his book. He was reading Luke's Gospel
and in the sixth chapter he came upon the verses, to him that smited thee on one cheek
off also the other and from him that takeeth away thy cloak, withhold not thy coat also,
give to every man that askedeth thee and of him that takeeth away thy goods, ask them
not again. As ye would that man should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. He also
read the verses, where the Lord says, and why call ye me, Lord, Lord, or do not the things
which I say, whatsoever comeeth to me and heareth my sayings and doth them, I shall
shoe you to whom he is a light. He is like a man which built a house and dig deep and laid
the foundation on a rock and when the flood arose the stream beat vehemently upon the house
and he could not shake it for it was founded upon a rock. But when he, that heareth and
doth not, is like a man that without a foundation built a house upon the earth, against which
the stream did beat vehemently and immediately it fell and the ruin of that house was great.
When Martin read those words, his soul was glad within him. He took off his spettacles and
laid them on the book and leaning his elbows on the table pondered over what he had read.
He tried his own life by the standard of those words asking himself. Is my house built on
the rock or on the sand? If it stands on the rock it is well. It seems easy enough while
one sits here alone and one thinks one has done all that God commands, but as soon as
I cease to be on my own guard I sin again. Still I will persevere. It brings such joy. Help
me O Lord. He thought all this and was about to go to bed but was loathes to leave his
book. So he went on reading the seventh chapter about the Centurion, the Widow Son and the
answer to John's disciples. And he came to the part where a rich Pharisee invited the
Lord to his house and he read how the woman who was a sinner, anointed his feet and washed
them with her tears and how he justified her. Coming to the 44th verse he read, and turning
to the woman, he said unto Simon, ceased thou this woman. I entered into thy house, thou
gave us me no water for my feet, but she have wetted my feet with her tears and wiped them
with her hair. Thou gave us me no kiss, but she, since the time I came in, hath not ceased
to kiss my feet. My head with oil thou did not anoint, but she hath anointed my feet with
her eyes. He read these verses and thought, he gave no water for his feet, gave no kiss,
his head with no oil did he anoint. And Martin took off his speck to cause once more, laid
them on his book and pondered. He must have been like me, that Pharisee. He too thought only
of himself, how to get a cup of tea, how to keep warm and comfortable, never a thought
of his guest. He took care of himself, but for his guess he cared nothing at all, yet who
was the guest? The Lord himself, if he came to me, should I behave like that? Then Martin,
he'd his head upon both his arms and before he was aware of it, he fell asleep. He started
from his sleep, who's there, he asked. He turned round and looked at the door, no one was there.
He called again, then he heard quite distinctly, Martin, Martin, look out into the street tomorrow
for I shall come. Martin roused himself, rose from his chair and rubbed his eyes, but did not
know whether he'd heard those words in a dream or awake. He put out the lamp and lay down to sleep.
Next morning, he rose before daylight, and after saying his prayers, he lit the fire and prepared
his cabbage soup and buckwheat porridge. Then he lit the s'mavar, put on his apron and sat
down by the window to his work. As he sat working, Martin thought over what had happened the night
before, at times it seemed to him like a dream, and at times he thought that he had really heard the voice.
Such things have happened before now, thought he. So he sat by the window, looking out in the street
more than he worked, and whenever anyone passed in an unfamiliar boot, he would stay from looking up,
so as to see not only their feet, but the face of the passerby as well.
A house-porter passed in new felt boots, then a water carrier.
Presently, an old soldier of Nicholas regime came near the window spayed in hand.
Martin knew him by his boots, which was shabby old felt ones, galoshed with leather.
The old man was called Steffanage, a neighbouring tradesman kept him in his house for charity,
and his duty was to help the house-porter. He began to clear away the snow before Martin's window.
Martin glanced at him, then went on with his work.
"I must be growing crazy with age," said Martin, laughing at his fancy.
Steffanage comes to clear away the snow, and I must need to imagine it's Christ coming to visit me.
"Oh, dot-on, that I am."
Yet, after he had made a dozen stitches, he felt drawn to look out the window again.
He saw that Steffanage had leaned his spade against the wall,
and was either resting himself or trying to get warm.
The man was old and broken down, and had definitely not enough strength even to clear the snow away.
"What if I called him in and gave him some tea," thought Martin.
The Samervoir is just on the border.
He struck his arm in its place and rose, and putting the Samervoir on the table
made tea. Then, tapped the window with his fingers.
Steffanage turned and came to the window.
Martin beckoned him to come on in and went himself to open the door.
"Come in," he said, and warm yourself a bit. "I'm sure you must be cold."
"May God bless you," Steffanage chants, "my bones do wait to be sure."
He came in, first shaking off the snow, unless he should leave marks on the floor.
He began wiping his feet. But as he did so, he tottered and nearly fell.
"Don't trouble to wipe your feet," said Martin. "I'll wipe up the floor.
It's all in a day's work. Come, friend. Sit down and have some tea."
Filling two tumblers, he passed one to his visitor and pouring his own out into the saucer, began to blow on it.
Steffanage emptied his glass and turned it upside down, but the remains of his peace of sugar on the top.
He began to express his thanks, but it was plain that he would be glad of Samervoir.
"Have another glass," said Martin, refilling the visitors' tumbler and his own.
But while he drank his tea, Martin kept looking out into the street.
"Are you expecting anyone?" asked the visitor.
"Am I expecting anyone?" "Well, now, I am ashamed to tell you. It isn't that I rarely expect
anyone, but I heard something last night which I can't get out of my mind. Whether it was a vision
or only a fancy, I can't tell you. You see, friend, last night I was reading the gospel about Christ the
Lord, how he suffered, and how he walked on earth. You have heard "televit," I dare say.
"I have heard "televit" answered Steffanage, but I am ignorant man and not able to read."
"Well, you see, I was reading of how he walked on earth. I came to that part, you know,
where he went to the Pharisee who did not receive him well."
"Well, friend, as I read about it, I thought how that man did not receive Christ the Lord with
proper honor. Supposed such a thing could happen to such a man as myself."
"What would I do if I did not receive him?" "But that man gave him no reception at all."
"Well, friend, as I was thinking of this, I began to doze, and as I dozed, I heard someone
call me by my name. I got up and thought I heard someone whispering, "Expect me. I will come tomorrow."
This happened twice over, and to tell you the truth, it sank so much into my mind, though I am ashamed
of it myself. I keep on expecting him, the dear Lord." Steffanage shook his head in silence, finished
his tumbler and laid it on his side, but Martin stood it up again and refilled it for him.
"Here, drink another glass, bless you, and I was thinking too how he walked on earth and despised
no one, but went mostly among common folk. He went with plain people and chose his disciples from
among the likes of us, from workmen like us, sinners that we are. He who raises himself," he said,
"shall be humbled and he who humbles himself shall be raised." "You call me Lord," he said, "and I will
wash your feet." "He who would be first," he said, "let him be the servant of all, because,"
he said, "blessed of the poor, the humble, the meek, and the merciful."
Steffanage forgot his tea. He was an old man, easily moved to tears, and as he sat and listened,
the tears ran down his cheek. "Come, drink some more," said Martin, but Steffanage crossed himself,
thanked him, moved away his tumbler and rose. "Thank you," Martin averaged, he said, "you have given
me food and comfort both the soul and body. You are very welcome. Come again another time."
"I am glad to have a guest," said Martin. Steffanage went away, and Martin poured out the last of the
tea and drank it up. Then he put away the tea things and sat down to his work, stitching the back
seam of a boot, and as he stitched, he kept looking out of the window, waiting for Christ,
and thinking about Him and His doings, and His head was full of Christ's sayings.
Two soldiers went by, one in government boots, the other in boots of his own,
then the master of a neighbouring house in shining galoshes, then a baker carrying a basket
all these passed on. Then a woman came up in worsened stockings and peasant-made souls.
She passed the window, but stopped by the wall. Martin glanced up at her through the window
and saw that she was a stranger, poorly dressed, and with a baby in her arms.
She stopped by the wall with her back to the window, trying to wrap the baby up,
though she had hardly anything to wrap it in. The woman had only some of clothes on,
and even they were shabby and warm. Through the window, Martin heard the baby crying,
and the woman trying to see it, but unable to do so. Martin rose and going out to the door
and up the steps he called to her, "My dear," I say, "My dear," the woman heard and turned round.
Why do you stand out here with a baby in the cold? Come inside, you can wrap him up better in a warm
place. Come this way. The woman was surprised to see an old man in an apron, with spectacles on his
nose calling to her, but she followed him in. They went down the steps, entered the little room,
and the old man led her to the bed. There, sit down, my dear, near the stove, warm yourself and feed the
baby. "Having any milk, I haven't eaten nothing myself since early morning," said the woman,
but she still took the baby to her breast. Martin shook his head. He brought out a basin and
some bread, then he opened the oven door and poured some cabbage soup into the basin. He took out
the porridge pot also, but the porridge was not yet ready, so he spread a cloth on the table and served
only the soup and bread. Sit down and eat my dear, and I'll mine the baby. Why, bless him,
I've had children of my own, I know how to manage them."
The woman crossed herself, and sitting down at the table began to eat, while Martin put the baby
on the bed and sat down by it. He chucked and chucked, but having no teeth, he could not do it too well
and the baby continued to cry. Then Martin tried poking at him with his finger. He drove his finger
straight into the baby's mouth and then quickly drew it back and did this again and again.
He did not let the baby take his finger in its mouth because it was all black with cobbler's wax,
but the baby first grew quiet watching the finger and then began to laugh.
And Martin felt quite pleased. The woman sat eating and talking and told him who she was and where
she had been. "I'm a soldier's wife," she said. "They sent my husband somewhere far away,
eight months ago, and I have heard nothing of him since. I had a place as a cook till my baby was
born, but then they would not keep me with a child. For three months now, I have been struggling,
unable to find a place and I've had to sell all I had for food. I tried to go as a wet nurse,
but no one would have me. They said I was too starved looking and thin.
Now I have just been to see a tradesman wife, a woman from our villages in service with her,
and she is promised to take me. I thought it was all settled at last, but she tells me not to come
till next week. It is far to her place and I am fagged out and the baby is quite starved, the poor
might. Fortunately, our landlady has pity on us and lets us lodge free. Else, I don't know what else I'd
do." Martin said. "Haven't you any warmer clothing?" he asked. "How could I get warmer clothing?"
said she. "When I pawned up for my last short for six months yesterday, then the woman came and took
the child, and Martin got up. He went and looked among some things that were hanging on the wall
and brought back an old cloak. Here he said, though it's worn out and it's an old thing,
it will do to wrap him up in. The woman looked at the cloak, then at the old man,
and taking it burst into tears. Martin turned away and groping under the bed brought out a small trunk.
He fumbled about in it and again sat down opposite the woman, and the woman said,
"The Lord bless you, friend. Surely Christ must have sent you to the window. Else, the child would have
frozen. It was mild when I started, but now see how cold it has turned."
Surely it must have been Christ who made you look out your window and take pity on me, the poor
edge. Martin smiled and said, "It is quite true. It was he who made me do it. It was no mere chance
that made me look out." And he told the woman of his dream and how he had heard the Lord's voice
promising to visit that day. "Who knows? All things are possible," said the woman,
and she got up and threw the cloak over her shoulders,
brapping it around herself and around the baby. Then she bowed and thanked Martin once more.
"Take this, but Christ's sake," said Martin, and gave her six pence to get her shawl out of the
pawn. The woman crossed herself and Martin did the same. And then he saw her out.
After the woman had gone, Martin ate some cabbage soup, cleared the things away and sat down to work
again. He sat and worked, but did not forget the window, and every time a shadow fell on it,
he looked at once more to see who was passing. People he knew and strangers passed by,
but no one remarkable. After a while, Martin saw an apple woman stop in front of the window.
She had a large basket, but there did not seem to be many apples left in it.
She had evidently sold most of her stock. On her back, she had a sack full of chips,
which she was taking home. No doubt, she had gathered them at some place where building was going on.
The sack evidently hurt her, and she wanted to shift it from one shoulder to the other.
So she put it down on the footpath, and placing her basket on a post, began to shake down the chips in
the shack. While she was doing this, a boy in a tattered cap ran up, snatched an apple out of the
basket and tried to slip away. But the old woman noticed it, and turning, caught the boy by his sleeve.
He began to struggle, trying to free himself. But the old woman held on with both hands,
knocked his cap off his head and ceased hold of his hair. The boy screamed, and the old woman
scolded. Martin dropped his arm, not waiting to stick it in its place and rushed out of the door,
stumbling up the steps and dropping his spectacles in his hurry. He ran out into the street.
The old woman was pulling the boy's hair and scolding him and threatening to take him to the police.
The lad was struggling and protesting, saying, "I did not take it. Why are you beating me for? Let me go."
Martin separated them. He took the boy by the hand and said, "Let him go,
granny. Forgive him for Christ's sake. I'll pay him out so that he won't forget it for a year.
I'll take the rascal to the police." Martin began and treating the old woman.
"Let him go, granny. He won't do it again. Let him go for Christ's sake."
The old woman let go, and the boy wished her run away, but Martin stopped him.
"Ask the granny's forgiveness," said he, "and don't do it another time. I saw you take the apple."
The boy began to cry and to beg pardon. That's right. And now here's an apple for you.
And Martin took an apple from the basket and gave it to the boy saying, "I will pay you,
granny. You will spoil them that way." The young rascal said the old woman. He ought to be whipped so
that he should remember it for a week. "Oh, granny, granny," said Martin. "That's our way, but it's not
God's way. If he should be whipped for stealing an apple, what should be done to us for our sins?"
The woman fell silent. And Martin told her of the parable of the Lord who forgave his
servant, a large debt, and how the servant went out and seized his debtor by the throat.
The old woman listened to it all, and the boy too stood by and listened.
"God bids us forgive," said Martin, "or else we shall not be forgiven. Forgive everyone,
and I thought this youngster most of all." The old woman wagged her head inside.
"It's true enough," she said, "but they are getting terribly spoiled."
Then we old ones must show them better ways," Martin replied.
"That's just what I say," said the old woman. "I've had seven of them myself, and only one
daughter is left, and the old woman began to tell how where she was living with her daughter,
and how many grandchildren she had." "There now," she said. "I have but little strength left,
yet I work hard for the sake of my grandchildren, and nice children they are too."
"No one comes out to meet me but the children. Little Annie now won't leave me for anyone."
"It's grandmother, dear grandmother, darling grandmother," and the old woman completely softened
at the thought. Of course, it was only his childnessness, God help him, she said, referring to the boy.
As the old woman was about to hoist her sack on her back, the lad sprang forward to her saying,
"Let me carry it for you, Granny. I'm going that way."
The old woman nodded her head and put the sack on the boys back,
and they went down the street together. The old woman quite forgetting to ask Martin to
pay for the apple. Martin stood and watched them as they went along talking to each other.
When they were out to sight, Martin went back to the house, having found his spectacles unbroken
on the step. He picked up his shore and sat down again to work. He worked a little,
but could not soon see past the bristle through the holes in the leather, and presently he noticed
a lamp light passing on his way to light the street lamps. Seems it's time to light up, 40.
So he trimmed his lamp, hung it up and sat down again to work.
He finished off one boot and turning it about examined it. It was all right. Then he gathered his
tools together, swept up the cuttings, put away the bristles and the thread and the holes,
and taking down the lamp placed it on the table.
Then he took the gospels from the shelf. He meant to open them at the place he had marked the day before
with a bit of Morocco, but the book opened and another place. As Martin opened it, his yesterday's
dreams came back to his mind. And no sooner had he thought of it than he seemed to hear footsteps,
as though someone was moving behind him. Martin turned around, and it seemed to him as if people
were standing in the dark corner, but he could not make out who they were and a voice whispered in his
ear. Martin, Martin, don't you know me? Who is it, Martin?
His eyes said the voice, and out of the dark corner, stepped step on it, who smiled and vanishing
like a cloud was seen no more. His eyes said the voice again, and out of the darkness,
stepped the woman with the baby in her arms and the woman smiled and the baby laughed, and they too
vanished. It his eyes said the voice once more, and the old woman and the boy with the apple stepped
out and both smiled, and then they too vanished. And Martin's soul grew glad. He crossed himself,
put on his spectacles and began reading the gospel just where it had opened,
and at the top of the page he read, "I was a hungered, and you gave me me."
I was thirsty, and you gave me drunk. I was a stranger, and you took me in.
And at the bottom of the page he read, "In as much as you did it unto one of these my brethren,
even these least he did it unto me." And Martin understood that his dream had come true,
and that the Savior had rarely come to him that day, and he had welcomed him in.