Epiphany morning comes.  The precincts of the church and both banks of the river for a long distance are swarming with people.  Everything that makes up the Jordan is scrupulously concealed under new mats.  Seryozhka is meekly moving about near the mats, trying to control his emotion.  He sees thousands of people.  There are many here from other parishes; these people have come many a mile on foot through the frost and the snow merely to see his celebrated Jordan.  Matvey, who had finished his coarse, rough work, is by now back in the church, there is no sight, no sound of him; he is already forgotten . . . .  The weather is lovely. . . .  There is not a cloud in the sky.  The sunshine is dazzling.

The church bells ring out on the hill . . .  Thousands of heads are bared, thousands of hands are moving, there are thousands of signs of the cross!

And Seryozhka does not know what to do with himself for impatience.  But now they are ringing the bells for the Sacrament; then half an hour later a certain agitation is perceptible in the belfry and among the people.  Banners are borne out of the church one after the other, while the bells peal in joyous haste.  Seryozhka, trembling, pulls away the mat . . . and the people behold something extraordinary.  The lectern, the wooden ring, the pegs, and the cross in the ice are iridescent with thousands of colors.  The cross and the dove glitter so dazzlingly that it hurts the eyes to look at them.  Merciful God, how fine it is!  A murmur of wonder and delight runs through the crowd; the bells peal more loudly still, the day grows brighter; the banners oscillate and move over the crowd as over the waves.  The procession, glittering with the settings of the ikons and the vestments of the clergy, comes slowly down the road and turns towards the Jordan.  Hands are waved to the belfry for the ringing to cease, and the blessing of the water begins.  The priests conduct the service slowly, deliberately, evidently trying to prolong the ceremony and the joy of praying all gathered together.  There is perfect stillness.

But now they plunge the cross in, and the air echoes with an extraordinary din.  Guns are fired, the bells peal furiously, loud exclamations of delight, shouts, and a rush to get the pegs.  Seryozhka listens to this uproar, sees thousands of eyes fixed upon him, and the lazy fellow’s soul is filled with a sense of glory and triumph.

THE SWEDISH MATCH

(The Story of a Crime)

I

ON the morning of October 6, 1885, a well-dressed young man presented himself at the office of the police superintendent of the 2nd division of the S. district, and announced that his employer, a retired cornet of the guards, called Mark Ivanovitch Klyauzov, had been murdered.  The young man was pale and extremely agitated as he made this announcement.  His hands trembled and there was a look of horror in his eyes.