Where Love is, There God is Also Page #3

"Where Love Is, There God Is Also" is a poignant short story by Leo Tolstoy that explores the theme of love as a divine force. The narrative follows a humble carpenter named Martin who grapples with feelings of isolation and despair. Throughout the story, he encounters a series of people in need, prompting reflections on compassion and the significance of kindness. Ultimately, Tolstoy illustrates that true understanding of God's presence comes through acts of love and selflessness, emphasizing the interconnectedness of humanity through the lens of spirituality. The tale serves as a reminder of the profound ways in which love can manifest in everyday life.

• Short story

								

work,--to tap a boot. And as he worked, he kept looking out of the
window,--waiting for Christ and thinking of Him and His works. And all
kinds of Christ's speeches ran through his head.

There passed by two soldiers, one in Crown boots, the other in boots of
his own; then the proprietor of a neighbouring house came by in clean
galoshes, and then a baker with a basket. All of these went past the
window, and then a woman in woollen stockings and peasant shoes came in
line with the window. She went by the window and stopped near a wall.
Avdyéich looked at her through the window, and saw that she was a
strange, poorly dressed woman, with a child: she had stopped with her
back to the wind and was trying to wrap the child, though she did not
have anything to wrap it in. The woman's clothes were for the summer,
and scanty at that. Avdyéich could hear the child cry in the street, and
her vain attempt to quiet it. Avdyéich got up and went out of his room
and up to the staircase, and called out:

"Clever Woman! Clever woman!"

The woman heard him and turned around.

"Why are you standing there in the cold with the child? Come in here! It
will be easier for you to wrap the child in a warm room. Here, this
way!"

The woman was surprised. She saw an old man in an apron, with glasses
over his nose, calling to her. She followed him in.

They went down the stairs and entered the room, and Martýn took the
woman up to the bed.

"Sit down here, clever woman, nearer to the stove, and get warm and feed
the child."

"There is no milk in my breasts,--I have not had anything to eat since
morning," said the woman, but still she took the child to her breast.

Avdyéich shook his head, went to the table, fetched some bread and a
bowl, opened a door in the stove, filled the bowl with beet soup, and
took out the pot of porridge, but it was not done yet. He put the soup
on the table, put down the bread, and took off a rag from a hook and put
it down on the table.

"Sit down, clever woman, and eat, and I will sit with the babe,--I used
to have children of my own, and so I know how to take care of them."

The woman made the sign of the cross, sat down at the table, and began
to eat, while Avdyéich seated himself on the bed with the child. He
smacked his lips at it, but could not smack well, for he had no teeth.
The babe kept crying all the time. Avdyéich tried to frighten it with
his finger: he quickly carried his finger down toward the babe's mouth
and pulled it away again. He did not put his finger into the child's
mouth, because it was black,--all smeared with pitch. But the child took
a fancy for his finger and grew quiet, and then began even to smile.
Avdyéich, too, was happy. The woman was eating in the meantime and
telling him who she was and whither she was going.

"I am a soldier's wife," she said. "My husband was driven somewhere far
away eight months ago, and I do not know where he is. I had been working
as a cook when the baby was born; they would not keep me with the child.
This is the third month that I have been without a place. I have spent
all I had saved. I wanted to hire out as a wet-nurse, but they will not
take me: they say that I am too thin. I went to a merchant woman, where
our granny lives, and she promised she would take me. I thought she
wanted me to come at once, but she told me she wanted me next week. She
lives a distance away. I am all worn out and have worn out the dear
child, too. Luckily our landlady pities us for the sake of Christ, or
else I do not know how we should have lived until now."

Avdyéich heaved a sigh, and said:

"And have you no warm clothes?"

"Indeed, it is time now to have warm clothing, dear man! But yesterday I
pawned my last kerchief for twenty kopeks."

The woman went up to the bed and took her child, but Avdyéich got up,
went to the wall, rummaged there awhile, and brought her an old
sleeveless cloak.

"Take this!" he said. "It is an old piece, but you may use it to wrap
yourself in."

The woman looked at the cloak and at the old man, and took the cloak,
and burst out weeping. Avdyéich turned his face away; he crawled under
the bed, pulled out a box, rummaged through it, and again sat down
opposite the woman.

And the woman said:

"May Christ save you, grandfather! Evidently He sent me to your window.
My child would have frozen to death. When I went out it was warm, but
now it has turned dreadfully cold. It was He, our Father, who taught you
to look through the window and have pity on me, sorrowful woman."

Avdyéich smiled, and said:

"It is He who has instructed me: clever woman, there was good reason why
I looked through the window."

Martýn told the soldier woman about his dream, and how he had heard a
voice promising him that the Lord would come to see him on that day.

"Everything is possible," said the woman. She got up, threw the cloak
over her, wrapped the child in it, and began to bow to Avdyéich and to
thank him.

"Accept this, for the sake of Christ," said Avdyéich, giving her twenty
kopeks, with which to redeem her kerchief.

The woman made the sign of the cross, and so did Avdyéich, and he saw
the woman out.

She went away. Avdyéich ate some soup, put the things away, and sat down
once more to work. He was working, but at the same time thinking of the
window: whenever it grew dark there, he looked up to see who was
passing. There went by acquaintances and strangers, and there was
nothing peculiar.

Suddenly Avdyéich saw an old woman, a huckstress, stop opposite the very
window. She was carrying a basket with apples. There were but few of
them left,--evidently she had sold all, and over her shoulder she
carried a bag with chips. No doubt, she had picked them up at some new
building, and was on her way home. The bag was evidently pulling hard on
her shoulder; she wanted to shift it to her other shoulder, so she let
the bag down on the flagstones, set the apple-basket on a post, and
began to shake down the chips. While she was doing that, a boy in a torn
cap leaped out from somewhere, grasped any apple from the basket, and
wanted to skip out, but the old woman saw him in time and turned around
and grabbed the boy by the sleeve. The boy yanked and tried to get away,
but the old woman held on to him with both her hands, knocked down his
cap, and took hold of his hair. The boy cried, and the old woman
scolded. Avdyéich did not have time to put away the awl. He threw it on
the floor, jumped out of the room, stumbled on the staircase, and
dropped his glasses. He ran out into the street. The old woman was
pulling the boy's hair and scolding him. She wanted to take him to a
policeman; the little fellow struggled and tried to deny what he had
done:

"I did not take any, so why do you beat me? Let me go!"

Avdyéich tried to separate them. He took the boy's arm, and said:

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