The Deacon and His Candle

If a man's pride had a shape, Deacon Pylyp could have ploughed the earth with his. He laid out his wares at the fair and straight away grabbed the thickest candle. Held it as if it were not wax but a living root. Stroked it, winked at the young wives and says: look here, women. Straight, long, thick, made of good wax. And the main thing - it won't bend in your hands however you twist it, and it will stand in any candlestick.

The men began coughing suspiciously, and the women blushed all the way down to their heels. And Pylyp was well and truly warmed up by now. My wick, he says, is twisted like a rope. Take this candle in your hands once and you'll want no other. Set it in the candlestick - and you forget everything else in the world. It burns long, doesn't go out at the first breath, it will last till morning itself, until you ask it to stop.

The women were already snorting into their kerchiefs, for the candle was a candle, but the talk had long since wandered off behind the storehouse. One young wife couldn't hold back: oh, Pylyp, you praise it so, it's about to blush and climb into the candlestick all by itself. Then Motria pushed her way through the crowd. A widow with a tongue sharp as a freshly whetted scythe.

She gave that candle a look that made the wax, it seemed, want to slide guiltily off the table on its own, and says: And is yours, Pylyp, only big, or does it also stand well by the bed - asking so loudly the whole row heard. The fair froze. The deacon turned red but proudly answered that it shines so bright the neighbors can see through the walls. Motria narrowed her eyes: and the wick isn't a bit weak?

Because it happens - plenty of wax, but when it comes to the deed, nothing but smoke and snot. Pylyp, poor soul, began to fight back. In cold and in heat, he shouts, in the pantry and on the stove it won't let you down! It lasts till morning itself, till noon even, and it won't stint you on light! Motria only nodded: then light it. Because with your tongue you've already woken half the fair, and the candle still stands idle. The crowd went wild.

The deacon had nowhere to run. He takes out flint and tinder, sets his giant in the middle of the table and lights it. At first the flame is high, Pylyp proud, chest puffed out like a wheel. But the wax turned out to be soft. The candle began to smoke. Then the wax ran down like tears. And then it began to lean to one side, like a drunk in the inn. Pylyp fusses about, props it up with his fingers, massages it, but that only looks funnier.

Motria sighed and said loudly, across the whole square: oh, Pylyp, I see yours is mighty and hard in words, but as soon as the heat came on, it went sideways and was finished in two minutes. The women are roaring, the men wiping away tears. And the candle fizzled, let out one shameful puff of smoke and went dark. Pylyp stands with his arms hanging. The pride had gone out of him; what was left was simply an old, tired man with wax on his fingers and shame in his eyes.

And here Motria comes closer. Not laughing anymore. She takes from his table the smallest little candle, the one he had set aside. Lights it. It burns evenly, quietly, calmly. There, you see, she says softly. Not every candle that's the biggest on the table lasts till nightfall. And don't shout across the whole fair that it will keep the house lit till morning, because afterwards the women will laugh.

Pylyp looks at that small but living flame. And suddenly he smiles. Crookedly, kindly, like a boy caught red-handed. And don't you worry, Motria adds, holding that little candle out to him: Every man has his hard day and his bad weather. The main thing is that in the darkness something gives warmth, and doesn't just take up space. The deacon carefully takes it with warm, wax-stained fingers. Hides his big but helpless candle under the sackcloth.

After that Pylyp never shouted like that again. He sold quietly, smiled at the women, winked at the men, but without that swaggering gleam in his eyes. So don't brag about your candle before it's been lit, for at the fair a man can prop up the bell tower with his tongue and sculpt himself a monument out of pure talk.

But at home, when the wind beats against the windowpanes, they won't ask how much wax you had - they'll ask whether there was light and warmth from you when someone was truly cold and in the dark.