Yakov was never in a good temper, as he was continually having to put up with terrible losses.  For instance, it was a sin to work on Sundays or Saints’ days, and Monday was an unlucky day, so that in the course of the year there were some two hundred days on which, whether he liked it or not, he had to sit with his hands folded.  And only think, what a loss that meant.  If anyone in the town had a wedding without music, or if Shahkes did not send for Yakov, that was a loss, too.  The superintendent of the prison was ill for two years and was wasting away, and Yakov was impatiently waiting for him to die, but the superintendent went away to the chief town of the province to be doctored, and there took and died.  There’s a loss for you, ten roubles at least, as there would have been an expensive coffin to make, lined with brocade.  The thought of his losses haunted Yakov, especially at night; he laid his fiddle on the bed beside him, and when all sorts of nonsensical ideas came into his mind he touched a string; the fiddle gave out a sound in the darkness, and he felt better.

On the sixth of May of the previous year Marfa had suddenly been taken ill.  The old woman’s breathing was laboured, she drank a great deal of water, and she staggered as she walked, yet she lighted the stove in the morning and even went herself to get water.  Towards evening she lay down.  Yakov played his fiddle all day; when it was quite dark he took the book in which he used every day to put down his losses, and, feeling dull, he began adding up the total for the year.  It came to more than a thousand roubles.  This so agitated him that he flung the reckoning beads down, and trampled them under his feet.  Then he picked up the reckoning beads, and again spent a long time clicking with them and heaving deep, strained sighs.  His face was crimson and wet with perspiration.  He thought that if he had put that lost thousand roubles in the bank, the interest for a year would have been at least forty roubles, so that forty roubles was a loss too.  In fact, wherever one turned there were losses and nothing else.

“Yakov!” Marfa called unexpectedly.  “I am dying.”

He looked round at his wife.  Her face was rosy with fever, unusually bright and joyful-looking.  Bronze, accustomed to seeing her face always pale, timid, and unhappy-looking, was bewildered.  It looked as if she really were dying and were glad that she was going away for ever from that hut, from the coffins, and from Yakov. . . .  And she gazed at the ceiling and moved her lips, and her expression was one of happiness, as though she saw death as her deliverer and were whispering with him.

It was daybreak; from the windows one could see the flush of dawn.  Looking at the old woman, Yakov for some reason reflected that he had not once in his life been affectionate to her, had had no feeling for her, had never once thought to buy her a kerchief, or to bring her home some dainty from a wedding, but had done nothing but shout at her, scold her for his losses, shake his fists at her; it is true he had never actually beaten her, but he had frightened her, and at such times she had always been numb with terror.  Why, he had forbidden her to drink tea because they spent too much without that, and she drank only hot water.  And he understood why she had such a strange, joyful face now, and he was overcome with dread.