Nikita Ivanich would spend time with Mother. He'd come to the izba, wipe his feet off, "May I?" he'd say, and plop down on the stool and start talking about Oldener Times. "Polina Mik-hailovna, do you recall Kuzminsky? Ha, ha, ha. And how Vais-man used to drop by, do you remember? Oh ho ho. And Sidor-chuk, the son of a gun, remember, he was the one who concocted all those denunciations, and where are they now? Dust, it's all dust! And how Lyalya made coffee! I wouldn't object to a cup of coffee right this minute…" Mother would laugh or start sobbing, and the thought of deportmunt stores and booticks would drive her out of her mind. Or she'd suddenly ask, Where did all the lilac go? Lilac-that was flowers, they grew on trees, it's said, and had a wonderful smell. The old man couldn't stand these conversations, he'd run out into the yard and start chopping wood: Whack! Hack! Smack! Crack!… You could get mad all right, but how could you say a word to Nikita Ivanich? He's Head Stoker.

Benedikt is good with his hands, he can make anything, so can the other Golubchiks, but they can't make fire. It was Fyo-dor Kuzmich, Glorybe, brought fire to people. Only how it all happened, where he got the fire, we don't know. You could think on it for three days and you wouldn't figure it out, you'd just get a headache, like you'd drunk too much egg kvas. Some say it was from the sky, some say that Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, stamped his foot and the earth flared up in a clear fire right then and there. Anything could be true.

And Nikita Ivanich tends the fire. All the Lesser Stokers go to him, they take their coals in stone pots to their izbas. What a good job! Oh, what a job! Sit at home, look out the window, and wait for Golubchiks to come by with surprises. During the daytime the Golubchiks are at work: some are wearing out holes in their chairs in the Work Izbas, some collect rusht in the swamp, some plant turnips in the fields, different things. A stove likes tender loving care; if you're late getting home-oops, it's out. Weren't paying attention-and the coals go cold. Just now, just now a little blue flame was running about and every bit of wood shone as if it were alive inside, red, clear, as if someone were breathing or wanted to say something-and that's that… Then it's quiet, gray, dull, like something died.