But the real work begins the following day.  Then Seryozhka displays himself before the ignorant Matvey in all the greatness of his talent.  There is no end to his babble, his fault-finding, his whims and fancies.  If Matvey nails two big pieces of wood to make a cross, he is dissatisfied and tells him to do it again.  If Matvey stands still, Seryozhka asks him angrily why he does not go; if he moves, Seryozhka shouts to him not to go away but to do his work.  He is not satisfied with his tools, with the weather, or with his own talent; nothing pleases him.

Matvey saws out a great piece of ice for a lectern.

“Why have you broken off the corner?” cries Seryozhka, and glares at him furiously.  “Why have you broken off the corner?  I ask you.”

“Forgive me, for Christ’s sake.”

“Do it over again!”

Matvey saws again . . . and there is no end to his sufferings.  A lectern is to stand by the hole in the ice that is covered by the painted ring; on the lectern is to be carved the cross and the open gospel.  But that is not all.  Behind the lectern there is to be a high cross to be seen by all the crowd and to glitter in the sun as though sprinkled with diamonds and rubies.  On the cross is to be a dove carved out of ice.  The path from the church to the Jordan is to be strewn with branches of fir and juniper.  All this is their task.

First of all Seryozhka sets to work on the lectern.  He works with a file, a chisel, and an awl.  He is perfectly successful in the cross on the lectern, the gospel, and the drapery that hangs down from the lectern.  Then he begins on the dove.  While he is trying to carve an expression of meekness and humility on the face of the dove, Matvey, lumbering about like a bear, is coating with ice the cross he has made of wood.  He takes the cross and dips it in the hole.  Waiting till the water has frozen on the cross he dips it in a second time, and so on till the cross is covered with a thick layer of ice.  It is a difficult job, calling for a great deal of strength and patience.

But now the delicate work is finished.  Seryozhka races about the village like one possessed.  He swears and vows he will go at once to the river and smash all his work.  He is looking for suitable paints.

His pockets are full of ochre, dark blue, red lead, and verdigris; without paying a farthing he rushes headlong from one shop to another.  The shop is next door to the tavern.  Here he has a drink; with a wave of his hand he darts off without paying.  At one hut he gets beetroot leaves, at another an onion skin, out of which he makes a yellow colour.  He swears, shoves, threatens, and not a soul murmurs!  They all smile at him, they sympathise with him, call him Sergey Nikititch; they all feel that his art is not his personal affair but something that concerns them all, the whole people.  One creates, the others help him.  Seryozhka in himself is a nonentity, a sluggard, a drunkard, and a wastrel, but when he has his red lead or compasses in his hand he is at once something higher, a servant of God.