“God! You see,” whispered Ignat in a muffled voice, firmly pressing the palms of his hands to his broad breast. During the days of repentance he drank nothing but water and ate only rye bread. In the morning his wife placed at the door of his room a big bottle of water, about a pound and a half of bread, and salt. He opened the door, took in these victuals and locked himself in again. During this time he was not disturbed in any way; everybody tried to avoid him. A few days later he again appeared on the exchange, jested, laughed, made contracts to furnish corn as sharp-sighted as a bird of prey, a rare expert at anything concerning his affairs. But in all the moods of Ignat’s life there was one passionate desire that never left him--the desire to have a son; and the older he grew the greater was this desire. Very often such conversation as this took place between him and his wife. In the morning, at her tea, or at noon during dinner hour he gloomily glared at his wife, a stout, well-fed woman, with a red face and sleepy eyes, and asked her: “Well, don’t you feel anything?” She knew what he meant, but she invariably replied: “How can I help feeling? Your fists are like dumb-bells.” “You know what I’m talking about, you fool.” “Can one become pregnant from such blows?” “It’s not on account of the blows that you don’t bear any children; it’s because you eat too much. You fill your stomach with all sorts of food--and there’s no room for the child to engender.” “As if I didn’t bear you any children?” “Those were girls,” said Ignat, reproachfully. “I want a son! Do you understand? A son, an heir! To whom shall I give my capital after my death? Who shall pray for my sins? Shall I give it to a cloister? I have given them enough! Or shall I leave it to you? What a fine pilgrim you are! Even in church you think only of fish pies. If I die, you’ll marry again, and my money will be turned over to some fool. Do you think this is what I am working for?” And he was seized with sardonic anguish, for he felt that his life was aimless if he should have no son to follow him. During the nine years of their married life his wife had borne him four daughters, all of whom had passed away. While Ignat had awaited their birth tremblingly, he mourned their death but little--at any rate they were unnecessary to him. He began to beat his wife during the second year of their married life; at first he did it while being intoxicated and without animosity, but just according to the proverb: “Love your wife like your soul and shake her like a pear-tree;” but after each confinement, deceived in his expectation, his hatred for his wife grew stronger, and he began to beat her with pleasure, in revenge for not bearing him a son. Once while on business in the province of Samarsk, he received a telegram from relatives at home, informing him of his wife’s death. He made the sign of the cross, thought awhile and wrote to his friend Mayakin: