“But I’m at the end of my tether with him! Tomorrow I shall let Ignát come, and his wife wanted to come too.”
“All right—let them come,” said the Elder, rising and climbing on to the oven. “What is money? Money is dross!”
“If one had the money, who would grudge it?” muttered one of the tradesman’s men, lifting his head.
“Ah, money, money! It’s the cause of much sin,” replied Doútlof. “Nothing in the world is the cause of so much sin, and the Scriptures say so too.”
“Everything is said there,” the porter agreed. “There was a man told me how a merchant had stored up a heap of money and did not wish to leave any behind; he loved it so that he took it with him to the grave. As he was dying he asked to have a small pillow buried with him. No one suspected anything, and so it was done. Then the sons began to search for the money. Nothing was to be found. At last one of the sons guessed that probably the notes were all in the pillow. It went as far as the Tsar, and he allowed the grave to be opened. And what do you think? There was nothing in the pillow, but the coffin was full of creeping things, and so it was buried again. … You see what money does!”
“It’s a fact, it causes much sin,” said Doútlof, and he got up and began to say his prayers.
When he had finished, he looked at his nephew. The lad was asleep. Doútlof came up to him, loosened the girdle, and then lay down. One of the other peasants went out to sleep with the horses.