It was quite an awful spectacle to look upon the poor old man, and yet more awful to listen to him.
None of the neighbours answered him.
“What, then, will none of you lend me one little match?” shouted Loyka. “Oh! fie! the shame of it. I lent to each one of you whoever came to me at any time; without usury I lent to all. Who of you can say I ever refused to lend him what he wanted. If any one needed stock I lent him live stock. If any one needed a team I lent him a team, if any wanted harvesters I lent him harvesters, and now I want a match from you and ye will not lend it me. And on this he cursed all his previous neighbourliness.
It was evident to everyone without further demonstration that old Loyka’s mind was unstrung. Some in their compassion took one another by the hand, some began to show their pity by shedding tears. The mayor stepped up to him, and said “Pantata, perhaps, if you were to lie down you would get over it in sleep.”
But old Loyka replied instantly. “I thank you for your good counsel, excellent man. Do you think that I could lay me down in the chambers by the coach-house? I might. Why should I not? When the musicians and the tinkers and the kalounkar lay there, why should not I lie there also? But I know why I cannot lie there—because it would break my heart,” and at these words he struck his old breast
