“Defender!  Mother!” sobbed Marya.  “Mother!”

But the thanksgiving service ended and the ikon was carried away, and everything went on as before; and again there was a sound of coarse drunken oaths from the tavern.

Only the well-to-do peasants were afraid of death; the richer they were the less they believed in God, and in the salvation of souls, and only through fear of the end of the world put up candles and had services said for them, to be on the safe side.  The peasants who were rather poorer were not afraid of death.  The old father and Granny were told to their faces that they had lived too long, that it was time they were dead, and they did not mind.  They did not hinder Fyokla from saying in Nikolay’s presence that when Nikolay died her husband Denis would get exemption—­to return home from the army.  And Marya, far from fearing death, regretted that it was so slow in coming, and was glad when her children died.

Death they did not fear, but of every disease they had an exaggerated terror.  The merest trifle was enough—­a stomach upset, a slight chill, and Granny would be wrapped up on the stove, and would begin moaning loudly and incessantly: 

“I am dy-ing!”

The old father hurried off for the priest, and Granny received the sacrament and extreme unction.  They often talked of colds, of worms, of tumours which move in the stomach and coil round to the heart.  Above all, they were afraid of catching cold, and so put on thick clothes even in the summer and warmed themselves at the stove.  Granny was fond of being doctored, and often went to the hospital, where she used to say she was not seventy, but fifty-eight; she supposed that if the doctor knew her real age he would not treat her, but would say it was time she died instead of taking medicine.  She usually went to the hospital early in the morning, taking with her two or three of the little girls, and came back in the evening, hungry and ill-tempered—­with drops for herself and ointments for the little girls.  Once she took Nikolay, who swallowed drops for a fortnight afterwards, and said he felt better.

Granny knew all the doctors and their assistants and the wise men for twenty miles round, and not one of them she liked.  At the Intercession, when the priest made the round of the huts with the cross, the deacon told her that in the town near the prison lived an old man who had been a medical orderly in the army, and who made wonderful cures, and advised her to try him.  Granny took his advice.  When the first snow fell she drove to the town and fetched an old man with a big beard, a converted Jew, in a long gown, whose face was covered with blue veins.  There were outsiders at work in the hut at the time:  an old tailor, in terrible spectacles, was cutting a waistcoat out of some rags, and two young men were making felt boots out of wool; Kiryak, who had been dismissed from his place for drunkenness, and now lived at home, was sitting beside the tailor mending a bridle.  And it was crowded, stifling, and noisome in the hut.  The converted Jew examined Nikolay and said that it was necessary to try cupping.