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How stern Our Lord looked now pared to the recollection of the tender musing Christs of Fra Angelico or the noble sorrowful Lord of Bellini。 And yet He was warm with my love！ He was the Christ in our style； the old style； loving in severe lines； loving in somber color； loving in the manner of my land。 And He was warm with the love that I believed He gave to me！
A sickness rose up in me。 I felt my Master's hands on my shoulders。 He didn't pull me back as I feared。 He merely held me and put his cheek against my hair。
I was about to go。 It was enough； was it now？ But the music broke off。 A woman there； my Mother； was she？ No； younger； my sister Anya； grown into a woman； talked wearily of how my Father could sing again if somehow they could hide all the liquor from him and make him e back to himself。
My Uncle Borys sneered。 Ivan was hopeless； said Borys。 Ivan would never see another sober night or day； and would soon die。 Ivan was poisoned with liquor； both with the fine spirits he got from the traders by selling off what he stole from this very house； and from the peasant brew he got from those he battered and bullied； still being the terror of the town。
I bristled all over。 Ivan； my Father； alive？ Ivan； alive to die again in such dishonor？ Ivan not slain in the wild fields？
But in their thick skulls； the thoughts of him and the words of him stopped together。 My uncle sang another song； a dancing song。 No one would dance in this house； where all were tired from their labor； and the women half…blind as they continued to mend the clothes that lay piled in their laps。 But the music cheered them and one of them； a boy younger than I had been when I died； yes； my little brother； whispered a soft prayer for my Father； that my Father would not freeze to death tonight； as he had almost done so many times； falling down drunk as he did in the snow。
〃Please bring him home；〃 came the little boy's whisper。
Then behind me； I heard Marius say； seeking to put it in order and to calm me：
〃Yes； it seems it is true； beyond doubt。 Your Father is alive。〃
Before he could caution me； I went around and opened the door。 It was a fierce thing to do； a reckless thing to do； and I ought to have asked Marius's permission； but I was； as I've told you； an unruly pupil。 I had to do this。
The wind gusted through the house。 The huddled figures shivered and pushed their thick furs up around their shoulders。 The fire deep in the mouth of the brick stove flared beautifully。
I knew that I should remove my hat； which in this case was my hood； and that I should face the Ikon corner and cross myself； but I couldn't do this。
In fact； to conceal myself； I pulled my hood up over my head as I shut the door。 I stood alone against it。 I held the fur cloak up against my mouth； so that nothing was visible of my face except my eyes； and perhaps a shock of reddish hair。
〃Why has the drink gotten Ivan？〃 I whispered； the old Russian tongue ing back to me。 〃Ivan was the strongest man in this city。 Where is he now？〃
They were wary and angry at my intrusion。 The fire in the stove crackled and danced from its feast of fresh air。 The Ikon corner seemed a group of perfect radiant flames unto itself； with its brilliant images and random candles； another fire of a different and eternal sort。 The Face of Christ was clear to me in the fluttering light； the eyes seeming to fix me as I stood against the door。
My uncle rose and shoved the harp into the arms of a younger boy I didn't know。 I saw in the shadows the children sitting up in their heavily draped beds。 I saw their shining eyes looking at me in the dark。 The others in the firelight clumped together and faced me。
I saw my Mother； wizened and sad as if centuries had passed since I left her； a veritable crone in the corner； clinging to the rug that covered her lap。 I studied her； trying to fathom the cause of her decay。 Toothless； decrepit； her knuckles big and chafed and shiny from work； perhaps she was merely a woman being worked too rapidly towards her grave。
A great collection of thoughts and words struck me； as if I were being pelted with blows。 Angel； devil； night visitor； terror from the dark； what are you？ I saw hands raised； hastily making the Sign of the Cross。 But the thoughts came clear in answer to my query。
Who does not know that Ivan the Hunter had bee Ivan the Penitent； Ivan the Drunkard； Ivan the Mad； on account of the day in the wild lands when he couldn't stop the Tatars from kidnapping his beloved son； Andrei？
I shut my eyes。 It was worse than death what had happened to him！ And I had never so much as wondered； never so much as dared to think of him alive； or cared enough to hope that he was； or thought what his fate might be had he lived？ All over Venice were the shops in which I might have penned a letter to him； a letter that the great Venetian traders could have carried to some port where it might have been delivered over the famous post roads of the Khan。
I knew all this。 Selfish little Andrei knew all this； the details that might have sealed the past for him neatly so that he could have forgotten it。 I might have written：
Family； I live and am happy； though I can never e home。 Take this money I send to you for my brothers and sisters and my Mother…。
But then I hadn't really ever known。 The past had been misery and chaos。
Whenever the most trivial picture had bee vivid； then torment had reigned。
My uncle stood before me。 He was as big as my Father； and was well dressed in a belted leather tunic and felt boots。 He looked down at me calmly but severely。
〃Who are you that es into our house in this manner？〃 he asked。 〃What is this Prince that stands before us？ You carry a message for us？ Then speak； and we will forgive you that you broke the lock on our door。〃
I drew in my breath。 I had no more questions。 I knew that I could find Ivan the Drunkard。 That he was in the tavern with the fishermen and the fur traders； for that was the only enclosed place he'd ever loved other than his home。
With my left hand； I reached over and found the purse that I always carried； tied； as it should be； to my belt。 I ripped it loose； and I handed it to this man。 He merely looked at it。 Then he drew himself up； offended； and he stepped back。
He seemed then to bee part of a deliberate picture with the house。 I saw the house。 I saw the hand…carved furniture； the pride of the family which had done it； the hand…carved wooden crosses and candlesticks which held the many candles。 I saw the painted symbols decorating the wood frames of the windows； and the shelves on which fine homemade pots； kettles and bowls were displayed。
I saw them all in their pride； then； the entire family； the women with the embroidery； as well as those with mending； and I remembered with a lulling fort the stability and the warmth of their daily life。
Yet it was sad； oh； woefully sad； pared to the world I knew！
I stepped forward and I held out the purse again to him； and I said in a muffled voice； still veiling my face：
〃I beg you to take this as a