in those days. . . . And those who are sleeping now the sleep of this grey life and who die without awakening, will not believe me.
"I must go," said I.
"Wait, I will give you something to eat. You haven't eaten anything to-day. See how sensible I am: I shall go to-morrow. I shall give the children away and find you."
"Comrade," said I.
"Yes, comrade."
Through the open windows came the breath of the fields, and silence, and from time to time, the cheerful strokes of the axe, and I sat by the table and looked and listened, and everything was so mysteriously new that I felt like laughing. I looked at the walls and they seemed to me to be transparent. As if embracing all eternity with one glance, I saw how all these walls had been built, I saw how they were being destroyed, and I alone always was and always will be. Everything will pass, but I shall remain. And everything seemed to me strange and queer—so unnatural—the table and the food upon it, and everything outside of me. It all seemed to me transparent and light, existing only temporarily.
"Why don 't you eat?" asked my wife.
I smiled:
"Bread—it is so strange."
She glanced at the bread, at the stale, dry crust of bread, and for some reason her face became sad. Still continuing to look at it, she silently adjusted her apron with her hands and her head turned slightly,
