Yanishev and I dropped a few copecks into the bags they thrust before them. The women followed with large pieces cut from the big black loaves, while Ivan solemnly deposited in each sack a great green cucumber. Cucumbers were scarce this year, so it was truly a gift of love. But whether we gave cucumbers or bread or copecks, back to each of us came the plaintive sing-song blessing of the beggar.
Even the roughest, poorest Russian peasant is moved to profound pity by the spectacle of human misery. His own life teaches him the meaning of pain and privation. But this does not dull his sympathy; it makes him the more sensitive to the sufferings of others.
To Ivan the city workingmen cooped up in their hot dusty streets were "poor fellows" (bedniakee); the criminals locked up in jails were "unfortunates" (neschastnenkie); while a group of war-prisoners in Austrian uniforms cut him deepest of all. They seemed jolly enough as they came rollicking by, and I said so.
"But they are so far away from home," said Ivan. "How can they be happy?"
"Well," I said, "here am I, farther from home than they are, and I am happy."
"Yes," assented the others, "that is right."
"No," said Ivan Ivanov, "that is wrong. Albert Davidovich is here because he wanted to come. The prisoners are here because we made them come."
Naturally two foreigners sitting at the table of
