"Respect your father and mother," she continued. "I have no father or mother," I said.
"Then pray for the peace of their souls."
"Maybe they are still alive."
She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at me with a pitying smile. Then again she began shaking her head and continued in her singsong:
"The Lord God is good; He is righteous toward all and covers all with His rich bounty."
"That is just what I doubt," I said.
I saw that she started, her arms sank, and she remained silent, while her eyes continued to sparkle. Then she controlled herself and sang on, quite low:
"Remember that prayers have wings which fly even faster than birds and reach the throne of the Lord. No one has yet entered heaven on his own horse."
This much I understood: that she represented God to herself as some noble lord, good natured and lovable, but still, according to her opinion, bound by no law. She expressed all her thoughts in allegories which, to my disappointment, I could not understand. I bowed and went my way.
"Here they have broken the Lord God into many pieces," I thought to myself, "each one to his own need. One makes Him good-natured, the other stern and dark. And the priests have hired Him as their clerk and pay Him with the smoke of incense for His support. Only Larion had an infinite God."
Several nuns passed me, drawing a sleigh full of snow, and tittered. My heart was heavy and I did not know what to do. I went out from the gate. All without was still. The snow sparkled and shone, the frost-covered trees stood motionless, and heaven and earth seemed sunk in thought and looked in a friendly manner at the quiet monastery. A fear arose in me lest I break this stillness with my cries.
The bells called to vespers—what sweet chimes! They were soft and coaxing, but I had no desire to enter the church. I felt as if my head were full of sharp little nails. Suddenly I made the resolution:
"I shall enter a monastery with severe regulations. There I shall live alone in a solitary cell; will reflect and read books, and perhaps I shall in this loneliness become the master of my scattered soul."
A week later I found myself before the Abbot of the small monastery of Sabateieff. I liked the Abbot. He was a good-looking man, gray headed and bald, with red, firm cheeks and a promising look in his eyes.
"Why do you flee the world, my son?" he asked me.
I explained to him that the death of Olga disturbed the peace of my soul, but further I did not dare say anything. Something seemed to hold me back from speaking.
He pulled at his beard, looked at me searchingly and said:
"Can you pay the initiation fee?"
"I have about a hundred rubles with me."
"Give them to me. Now go into the guest room. To-morrow, after the noonday service, I will speak to you."
The care of strangers fell to the lot of Father Nifont, and him, too, I liked.
"Everything is very simple in our monastery," he said. "It is democratic. We all work equally in serving God, not as in other places. True, we have a gentleman here, but he does not mix with any one or bother us in any way. You can find peace and rest for your soul here and attain blessedness."
By the following day I had examined the monastery well. In former times it must have stood in the center of the wood, but now everything around it was hewn down. Only here and there in front of the gates a few tree trunks stood out from the ground. Toward the side the wood reached up to the very walls of the monastery and embraced, as with two black wings, the blue-domed church and the monastery. Nearby lay Blue Lake under its ice cover, formed like a half moon. It was nine versts from end to end and four versts wide. Behind it one could see the land on the other side, and the three churches of Kudejaroff, and the golden cupola of St. Nicholas of Tolokontzeff. On our side of the lake, not far from the monastery, was the hamlet of Kudejaroff, with its three and twenty little huts, and around it lay the mighty forests.
All was beautiful, and a quiet peace filled my soul. Here I would hold communion with the Lord; would unfold before Him my innermost soul, and would ask Him with humble insistence to show me the way to the knowledge of His holy laws.
In the evening I attended vespers. The mass was said severely and according to rule, and with ardor. But the singing did not please me; good voices were lacking.
"O Lord, forgive me if my thoughts about Thee were too bold," I prayed. "I did not do it out of lack of faith, but because of love and passion for the truth, as you know, O Omniscient One!"
Suddenly the monk who stood near me turned and smiled at me. Evidently I had spoken my repentant words too loud. As he smiled I looked at him. Such a handsome face! I let my head sink and closed my eyes. Never, either before or since, have I seen so handsome a face. I stepped lightly forward, placed myself next to him and looked into his wonderful countenance. It was as white as milk and framed in a black beard sprinkled here and there with gray. His eyes were large, and they had a soft mellow light and a bright expression. His figure was well built and tall; his nose a little bent like an eagle's, and his whole bearing was distinguished and noble. He made so deep an impression on me that even at night he stood before me in my dreams.
Early in the morning Father Nifont woke me.
"The Abbot has assigned you some test work. Go to the bakery. This worthy brother here will take you there. He will be your superior in the future. Here, take your cloistral robes."
I put on a monk's garb. They fitted me well, but were worn and dirty and the sole from one boot was loose.
I looked at my superior. He was broad-shouldered and awkward, with his forehead and cheeks full of pimples and pockmarks, from which sprouted little bunches of gray hair; his whole face looked as if it were covered with sheep's wool; he would have been laughable were it not for the deep folds on his forehead, his compressed lip and his little, dark, blinking eyes.
"Hurry up!" he said to me.
His voice was harsh and cracked, like a broken bell.
"This is Brother Misha." Father Nifont introduced him, smiling. "Well, go, and God be with you."
We walked out into the court. It was dark. Misha stumbled over something and swore horribly. Then he asked me:
"Can you knead dough?"
"I have seen the women knead," I answered.
"Women!" he muttered. "You're always thinking about women! Always women! On account of them the world is accursed, don't you forget that!"
"The mother of God was a woman," I said.
"Well?"
"And also there are very many virtuous women."
"If you speak like that the devil will surely drag you to hell."
"Anyway, he is a serious man," I thought to myself.
We arrived at the bakery and he made the fire. There were two large kneading troughs covered with sacks, a large flour bin nearby, a big sack of rye and a bag of wheat. Everything was dirty and filthy, and cobwebs and gray dust lay over all. Misha tore the sack off from one of the troughs, threw it on the earth, and commanded:
"Well, come and learn! Here is the dough. Do you see those bubbles? That means it is ready—it has already risen."
He took a sack of flour as if it were a three-year-old youngster, bent it over the edge of the trough, cut it open with his knife and cried as though at a fire:
"Pour four pails of water here and then knead!"
He was white like a tree with hoarfrost.
I threw off my cassock and rolled up my sleeves. He shouted:
"Not that way! Take off your trousers! With your feet!"
"I haven't taken a bath for a long time," I said.
"Who asked you about that?"
"How can I, then, with dirty feet?"
"Am I your pupil," he roared, "or are you mine?"
He had a large mouth, and strong, broad teeth, and long arms, which he waved angrily in the air.
"Well," I thought, "the devil take you; I don't care."
I wiped my feet with a wet cloth, stepped into the kneading trough and began to work the dough, while my teacher ran here and there, grumbling.
"I will teach you to bend, my little mother's son. I will teach you humility and obedience!"
I kneaded one trough, began another, and when that was done, started on the wheat, which is kneaded with the hands. I was a strong fellow, but was not used to the work. The flour filled my nose, my mouth, my ears and eyes, so that I became deaf and blind; and the sweat kept dropping from my forehead into the dough.
"Haven't you a piece of cloth," I asked, "to wipe the sweat off?"
Misha became raging mad. "We will get you velvet towels. The monastery has been standing 230 years, and has only been waiting for your new orders."
I had to laugh, unwillingly. "I am not kneading the dough for myself," I said. "There are others who have to eat the bread."
He walked up to me, bristling like a porcupine and every part of him trembling.
"Take a sack and wipe yourself, if you are so tender. But I will tell the Abbot about your impudence."
I was so surprised at this man that I could not be angry at him. He worked unceasingly, and the heavy two-hundred sacks were like little pillows in his hands. He was covered with flour, grumbled, swore and urged me on continually.
"Hurry! Hurry!"
I hurried till my head swam.
The first days of my cloistral novitiate were not easy. The bakery was in the cellar under the refectory; the ceiling was low and vaulted, and its one window was nailed tightly. The air was suffocating. The dust from the flour hung in the cellar like a thick mist, in which Misha trotted back and forth like a bear on a chain. The flame in the oven burned unclearly; it was a nightmare, not work.
Only we two were down there, for it was seldom that any one was sent as a punishment to help us.
There was no time even to attend religious services.
Day after day Misha preached his sermon to me, and I felt as if I were being bound with stout ropes. He was all aflame and burned with wrath against the world, while I breathed in his words and I felt that my inmost heart was covered with soot.
"You have nothing more to do with man," he said. "They continue to commit sins out there in the world, but you have left the world forever. If you separated from it with your body, then you must also flee it in spirit. You must forget it. If you think of man, you think unwillingly of woman. And through woman the world has sunk into darkness and sin and is bound eternally."
I wanted to say something, but no sooner did I open my mouth than he shouted at me:
"Keep still! Listen attentively to what an experienced man has to say, and respect your elders! I know you were going to blab something about the mother of God again. But it was just on account of her that Christ died on the crucifix—because He was born of woman, and did not descend holy and pure from heaven. He was altogether too good to that nasty woman all his life, and he should have pushed the Samaritan into the well instead of conversing with her. And He should have been the first to throw a stone at the sinner. Then the world would have been free."
"That is not a church thought," I said.
"Again I tellyou, keep still. The church is entirely in the hands of a pale clergy, who are slaves to all sorts of debauchery and who themselves go around in silk clothes like women in petticoats. They are all heretics. They should dance quadrilles, not dictate religious laws. Moreover, is it possible for a man with a wife to think upon God-like things with a pure heart? No, he cannot, for he is committing the terrible sin on account of which the Lord drove him out of the Garden of Eden. And because of this sin we are damned to eternal punishment; sentenced to howl and to gnash our teeth, and we are blinded by it so that we cannot see the countenance of God from one eternity to another. The clergy themselves help spread this sin, for they have children with women and encourage the world to follow their bad example. And thus they change all the laws of God to justify their violations of them."
This man made me feel as if I were surrounded by a stone wall, which came closer and closer around me. He brought the roof of the cellar sinking upon my head. I was oppressed and stifled by the dust of his words.
"But," I said, "did not the Lord say, 'Multiply and increase'?"
Here my superior became blue in the face, stamped his feet on the ground, and roared like a beast:
"He said! He said! How do you know what he meant by it, you blockhead? He said: 'Be fruitful and multiply and people the earth. I leave to you the power of Satan, and may you be damned now, and forever and through all eternity.' That is what he said. And these cursed debauchees who call themselves the servants of God turned these words into a law of God. Do you understand their deceit and their vileness?"
He fell on me like a mountain which crushed me and darkened everything about me. I could not believe him, yet I could not contradict his bigotry, and he confused me by the violence of his attacks. If I quoted a passage from the Scriptures he quoted three others and disarmed me. The Scriptures are like a field of many-colored flowers. If you desire red flowers you can find red ones; if white, they, too, are to be had.
I remained silent, oppressed by his torrent of words, while he triumphed and his eyes glowed like a wolf's. And all the time we toiled hard at our work. I kneaded and he rolled the dough, pushed the loaves into the oven, and took them out when they were ready. But I had to put them on the shelves, which burned my hands.
I was all sticky with dough and covered with flour; I was blind and deaf and did not understand from sheer weariness what was said to me.
Sometimes the monks came to visit us, said something mockingly and laughed. Misha barked at them all angrily, and drove them out of the bakery, and I felt scorched. I was wretched, for I did not like this being together with Misha, whom I not only did not love, but even feared. Many times he asked me:
"Do you see naked women in your dreams?"
"No," I answered, "never."
"You're lying! Why do you lie?"
He became enraged, showed his teeth and threatened me with his fist.
"You're a liar and a rascal," he shouted.
I was only astonished. What is he saying there about naked women? A man works from three o'clock in the morning till ten at night and then lies down to sleep with bones aching like a beggar's in winter—and he talks of women. Such were my thoughts.
Once I went into the ante-room for yeast. It was a dark room in the cellar, opposite the bakery. I found the door unlocked and a lantern burning. I opened the door and saw Misha crawling on the ground on his stomach, and crying out:
"Send them away, I implore Thee, Lord! Send them away! Deliver me!"
Of course, I immediately went out, but I could not guess what it was about.
He always spoke hatefully and insultingly about women, called all womankind vulgar and in real peasant fashion spat at them, clutching the air with his fingers as if in his mind's eye he were tearing and pulling a woman's body apart.
I could not bear to hear him talk. I remembered my own wife and our happy tears the first night of our marriage, and the quiet, inner wonder with each other, and our great joy. Is it not Thy sweet gift to man, O Lord? I remembered Tatiana's good heart and her simplicity, and I was hurt to tears for womankind. I thought to myself:
"When the Abbot will call me for an interview, I shall tell him everything."
But he did not call me. The days passed one after another, like blind people in a wood along a narrow path, each one stumbling upon the other, and still the Abbot did not call me. Darkness was within me. At that time, in my twenty-second year, my first gray hair came.
I wanted to speak with the handsome monk, but I saw him rarely and only for an instant. Now and then his proud countenance came before me and then vanished and my longing for him followed him like an invisible shadow. I asked Misha about him.
"Oh," Misha cried, "that one! That animal! He was sent away from the military for gambling in cards and from the seminary for his scandals with women. A learned one, yes! He fell into the seminary from the military, cheated all the monks in the monastery of Chudoff; then came here, bought himself in with seven and a half thousand rubles, donated land and so won great respect. Here, too; they play cards. The Abbot, the steward and the treasurer, they all play with him. There is a girl who visits him—oh, the pigs! He has a separate apartment, and there he lives just as he pleases. The great filth of it!"
I did not believe him; I could not. One day I asked the steward, Father Isador, to help me gain an interview with the Abbot.
"An interview about what?"
"About faith."
"What do you mean, 'about faith'?"
"I have various questions."
He looked me over from head to toe. He was a head taller than I, thin, angular, with wise, smiling eyes, a long, crooked nose and a pointed beard.
"Speak plainly; your flesh masters you?"
Always of the flesh! Though I did not want to, nevertheless I told him of some of my doubts in a few words. He frowned, then smiled.
"For this, my son, you should pray. By means of prayer you can heal the suffering of your soul. Still, in consideration of your love for labor, and because your request is so unusual, I will place the matter before the Abbot. Wait."
The word "unusual" surprised me. I felt that the expression was frivolous and there was hostility in it toward me.
Then I was summoned to come before the Father Abbot, and he looked at me sternly as I bowed before him. He said in a tone of authority:
"Father Isador told me of your desire to discuss the faith with me."
"I did not mean to argue," I said.
"Do not interrupt the speech of your elders. Every discussion which two people have about a subject is an argument, and every question is a seducer of thought, unless, of course, it is a subject which concerns itself with the daily life of the brotherhood—: some commonplace subject. Here we have a working community. We work to subjugate the flesh, so that the soul, which lives in it temporarily, may devote itself wholly to the Lord, and thus pray and receive His mercy for the sins of the world. Our lot is not to gain cleverness, but to work. Cleverness is not necessary to us, only simplicity of soul.
"Your discussions with Brother Misha are known to me, and I cannot approve of them. Limit the boldness of your thought so that you do not fall into temptation, for the aimless thoughts which are not bound down by faith are the keenest weapons of the devil. The mind comes from the flesh; bold thoughts from the devil; but the strength of the soul is a part of the spirit of God, and open-heartedness is given the righteous through meditation.
"Brother Misha, your superior, is a strict monk, a true ascetic and brother, beloved by all for his work. I will punish you with a penance. After your day's labor is done read the Acathistus to Christ at the altar on the left in front of the Crucifixion, three times during the night, for ten successive nights.
"Added to this, you will also have to have interviews with the penance monk, Mardarie. The time and the number will be told you later.
"You were a clerk on an estate, were you not? Go in peace. I will think about you. It seems that you have no relatives on this earth. Well, go, I will pray for you. We will hope for the best."
I returned to the bakery and began to weigh his words in my mind. That was easily done. Perhaps the mind does become scattered in its search. Still, to live like a sheep is hardly worthy nor right for man. At that time I understood "meditation in prayer" as a sinking into the depths of my own soul, where all the roots lay, and from which thoughts strove to grow upward, as fruit trees. I could not find anything in my soul which was hostile or not to be understood. All that was not to be understood I felt was in God, and all that was hostile was in the world—that is—outside of me.
That the brothers loved Misha I knew to be absolutely untrue, for although I kept myself apart from all and did not mix in their conversations, still I noticed everything and saw that the vested monks as well as the novices disliked Misha and feared him and abhorred him.
I saw also that the monastery was laid out on a purely business basis. They sold wood, they rented land to peasants and the right to fish on the lake; they had a mill, vegetable gardens, large orchards, and sold apples, berries and cabbages. Seventy horses stood in the stables, and the brotherhood was composed of a little over fifty men, all strong and hard workers. There were a few old men—only for parade—to show off before the pilgrims. The monks drank wine and mixed much with women. The young ones spent their nights in the village; and women came to the cells of the older ones, ostensibly to wash the floors; and of course the pilgrims were made use of also.
But all this was not my affair and I could not judge them. I saw no sin in it, only a disgusting lie.
Many novices came to the monastery, but the tests were so difficult that they could not endure them and deserted. During the two years that I spent in this holy place, eleven brothers escaped. They remained one or two months and fled. It seemed the life in the monastery was too difficult.
For the pilgrims who came to the monastery there were, of course, all kinds of attractions. There were the chains of the deceased pious brother Joseph, which were a cure for rheumatism, and his little cap which, when put on the head, cured headaches. And there was a very cold spring in the wood, whose water was good for sickness in general. An image of the Assumption of the Virgin contained all kinds of wonders for believers, and the pious penance brother, Mardarie, could foretell the future and comfort the unhappy. Everything was as it should be, and in the spring, in the month of May, the people streamed here in crowds.
After my conversation with the Abbot, I wanted to find another monastery, which would be simpler and where I need not work so hard, and where the monks would stand nearer to their real task—the understanding of the sins of this world. But several things happened which kept me back.
One day I made the acquaintance of a novice named Grisha, who was employed in the office of the monastery. I had noticed him before. He walked quickly and noisily among the brothers, wore smoked glasses, had an insignificant face, an under-sized body, and walked with his head bent forward, as if he wanted to see nothing but his own path.
The day after my conversation with the Abbot, Grisha came into the bakery. Misha had just gone to the brother treasurer to give his accounts. Grisha came in, greeted me low, and asked:
"You were at the Abbot's, brother?"
"Yes."
"Did you talk with him?"
"No."
"He sent you away?"
"Why should he?"
Grisha fixed his glasses, became confused and said.
"I beg your pardon, in Christ's name."
"Did he ever send you away?" I asked.
He nodded affirmatively and sat down on the edge of the flour bin, bent forward, coughed dryly and beat the bin with a hook while I told him what the Abbot had said to me. Suddenly he jumped up, straightened to his full height as if on springs, and began to speak in his loud, plaintive, excited voice:
"Why do they call this a place for the salvation of the soul when everything here is based upon money; when we live here for money, just as in the world outside? I fled to save myself from the sin of business, and again I fell upon business here. Where shall I flee now?"
His whole body trembled, and he told me quickly the history of his life. He was the son of a merchant who owned a bakery, had graduated from a school of commerce, and was placed by his father in his business.
"Were it some little nonsense," he said, "then, perhaps, I could deal in it. But with bread it was unpleasant and shameful to me. Bread is indispensable to all. One should not own it to make it the means of trade for human need. Perhaps my father would have broken me had his avarice not broken him. I had a sister, an academy student, gay and proud, who read books and was friendly with all the students. Suddenly my father said to her:
"Stop your studying, Elizabeth. I have found a husband for you."
'I don't want him,' she answered.
"But my father pulled her hair until my little sister gave in. The bridegroom was the-son of a rich tea merchant—a cross-eyed, large man, vulgar and continually boasting of his wealth. Liza, next to him, looked like a mouse next to a dog. He disgusted her. But my father said:
"'You fool, he has shops in many cities on the Volga.'
"Well, they were married, and during the wedding supper she went to her room and shot herself in the breast. I found her still living, and she said to me:
"'Good-by, Grisha. I want to live very much, but it is impossible! It is terrible! I can't! I can't!'" I remember that he talked very, very fast, as if he were running away from the past, while I listened and looked at the stove. Its brow was before me and it looked like some ancient and blind face whose black mouth licked with flames ate up the whistling and hissing wood. I saw Grisha's sister in the fire and thought bitterly:
"Why do people violate and destroy one another?"
Grisha's thick words fell one upon the other like dry leaves in autumn:
"My father almost went out of his senses. He stamped his feet and cried: 'She has insulted her parents! Her soul is lost.' Only after the burial, when he saw that all of Kazan followed Liza's body and laid wreaths upon her tomb, did he come to himself. 'If all the people are for her,' he said, 'it means that I behaved like a scoundrel toward my child!'"
Grisha wept and dried his glasses, and his hands trembled.
"Even before this misfortune befell us I wanted to enter a monastery, and I had said to my father:
"'Let me.'
"But he swore at me and beat me. Nevertheless, I said firmly:
"'I will not do business. Let me go.'
"He was frightened by Liza's death, and gave me freedom, and now, in these four years, I have lived in three monasteries, and everywhere there is barter, and I have no place for my soul. They sell God's earth and God's word, His honey and His miracles. I cannot stand it any longer!"
His story awoke my soul again, for I did little thinking while I lived in the monastery. I was so worn out by my labors, thatmyrebellious thought slumbered. Suddenly his words woke me. I asked Grisha:
"Where, then, is our God? There is nothing around us but the arbitrary and mad foolishness of man; nothing but the petty deceptions from which misfortunes arise. Where, then, is God?"
But here Misha appeared and drove us out. From that day Grisha came to me often, and I told him my thoughts, which horrified him, and he counseled humility:
"But why do people suffer so?" I asked.
"For their sins," he answered.
To him everything came from the hands of God—famine, fire, violent death and floods—everything.
"Can it be that God is the sower of misfortune on earth?" I asked.
"Remember Job, insane one," he whispered to me.
"Job has nothing to do with me," I answered. "I in his place would have said to God, 'Do not frighten me, but answer me clearly: Where is the way that leads to Thee? Am I not Thy son, made in Thy image? Don't lower Thyself to repulse Thy child.'"
Often Grisha wept at the foolishness of my audacity, and embracing me, he said:
"My dear brother, I am frightened for you—terribly frightened. Your words and your reasonings are from the devil."
"I do not believe in the devil, for God is all-powerful."
Then he became even more excited. He was a pure and tender man, and I loved him.
It was at this time that I performed the penance.
After my day's work I went to the church, where Brother Nikodime opened the door for me and locked me in, disturbing the stillness of the temple with the loud rattle of iron. I waited at the door till the last reverberation died away on the flagstones, then walked up quietly to the Crucifix and sat down upon the floor before it, for I was too weak to stand. Every muscle in my body ached from toil, and I had no desire to read the Acathistus.
I sat down, clasped my knees and gazed about me with sleepy eyes and thought about Grisha and about myself. It was summer, and the nights were hot and close, but here, in the semi-darkness of the church, it was pleasantly cool. The lamps under the holy pictures twinkled and winked at each other, and the little blue flames tugged upward as if they wished to fly toward the cupola, or higher still, to heaven itself, to the stars of the summer night. The quiet crackling of the wicks could be heard, each with its own peculiar sound, and half asleep, it seemed to me that the church was filled with a secret, unseen life, which, under the flickering of the lamps, held communion with itself. In the warm stillness and darkness the faces of the saints floated meditatively, as if something unsolved were before them. Ghost-like shadows passed before my face and the delicate, sweet odor of oil and cypress wood and incense surrounded me. The gold and the bronze of the holy images appeared duller and simpler, the silver shone warm and friendly, and everything melted and swam fusing into a torrent large and wide as in a dream.
Like a thick, sweet-smelling cloud, the church swung and swam to the low whispering of an indistinct prayer. I swung with it in a row of shadows, until a soft drowsiness took me up from the ground.
Before the ringing of the bell for early mass, the silent Brother Nikodime would enter and wake me, touching me lightly on the head.
"Go, in God's name," he would say, and I would answer:
"Pardon me, I have fallen asleep again."
Then I would go out swaying, and Nikodime would support me and say hardly audibly:
"God will pardon you, my benefactor."
Nikodime was an insignificant looking little old man, who hid his face from all and called every one his "benefactor." Once I asked him:
"Say, Nikodimushke, are you silent because of a vow?"
"No," he answered; "but just so." Then he sighed. "If I had anything to say, I would say it." "Why did you leave the world?"
"Because I left it."
If you questioned him further, he did not answer at all, but looked into jour face with guilty eyes, and said in a whisper:
"I don't know why, my benefactor."
At times I thought to myself: "Perhaps this man, also, had sought an answer at one time."
And I wanted to run away from the monastery.
But here another gentleman appeared, starting up suddenly like a rubber ball against a fence. He was a strong, short, bold fellow, with round eyes like an owl's, a bent nose, light curls, a bushy beard and teeth which shone in a continual smile. He amused all the monks with his jokes and his shameless stories about women. At night he had them come to the monastery, smuggled in vodka without end, and was marvelously handy at everything. I looked at him and said:
"What do you seek in a monastery?"
"I? Things to gobble."
"Bread is given to those who work."
"That," he answered, "is a commandment from the peasants' God, but I am a man from the town and have also served two years in the Council, and can count myself as one of the authorities."
I tried to understand this jester, for I had to see all the springs which moved different kinds of people.
As I became more used to my work, Misha grew lazier, went off somewhere or other, and although it was more difficult for me alone, still it was more pleasant. People came freely to the bakery and we talked.
Mostly we were three—Grisha, I and; oily Seraphim. Grisha would be excited and threatened me with his hands; Seraphim would whistle and shake his curls and smile. Once I asked him:
"Seraphim, you vagabond, do you believe in God?"
"I will tell you later," he answered. "Wait about thirty years. When I am in my sixties, I suppose I will know exactly what I believe. At present I understand nothing and I don't want to lie."
He would tell us about the sea. He spoke about it as about a great miracle, using marvelous words, now quiet and loud; now with fear, and with love. And he glowed all over with joy which made him look like a star. When we listened to him we were silent and even heavy at heart at his stories of this vast, live beauty.
"The sea," he said with passion, "is the blue eye of earth which looks out to the far heaven and meditates on infinite space. On its waves, which are as alive and sensitive as the soul, is reflected the play of the stars and their secret path; and if you watch for a long time the ebb and the flow of the sea, then the sky, too, appears like a far-off ocean, and the stars like islands."
Grisha listened, all pale, and smiled quietly, as if a moonbeam were playing on him, and he whispered sadly:
"And before the countenance of this mystery and beauty we only barter—nothing more."
At other times Seraphim would tell us about the Caucasus. He pictured to us a land gloomy and exquisite, like a fairyland, where hell and heaven embraced, and were at peace, both equal and both proud in their majesty.
"To see the Caucasus," Seraphim said in ecstasy, "that means to see the pure countenance of the earth, on which without inconsistency there unite in a smile the delicate purity of the childlike soul and the proud audacity and wisdom of the devil. The Caucasus is the touchstone of man. Weak spirits are ground to dust there and tremble before the power of the earth; but the strong, on the other hand, feel their strength grow and become proud and exalted like the mountain whose diamond-studded summit sends down its rays into the depths of the celestial wilderness. And this summit is the throne of the thunder."
Grisha sighed and asked in a low voice:
"And who points out the path to the soul? Should one be in the world or go away from it? What should one accept and what reject?"
Seraphim smiled distractedly and luminously.
"The glory of the sun is neither augmented nor diminished because you do not look at the sky, Grisha. Don't bother about that subject, my dear friend."
I understood Seraphim, but not entirely. I asked him, a little hurt:
"And as to people—what do you think about them? Why are they here?"
He shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
"People—are like weeds. There are various kinds among them. For those who are blind the sun is black; for those who are not happy with themselves, God is an enemy. Besides, people are young. To call three-year-old Jack, Mr. So-and-so is early a bit and doesn't quite fit."
His mouth overflowed with such quotations. They dropped from his lips like leaves from an apple tree, just as with Savelko. If you asked him anything, he immediately overpowered you with his puns, as if he were strewing flowers on a child's grave. His evasions made me angry, but he, the young devil, only laughed. At times I would say to him, irritated:
"You are loafing here, you idle dog, eating bread for nothing."
"That is the way it is with us," he answered. "He who eats his own bread remains hungry. Look at our peasants. All their life they sow wheat, yet dare not eat. You're quite right. To work is not my specialty. You get sore bones from work, but never rich and healthy; just lie in bed and shirk and you get fat and wealthy. And even you, Matvei, would rather steal than forego a meal."
I argued with him, but toward the end I myself began to laugh.
He was simple and straightforward, and that attracted me very much. He never made any pretensions, but said simply:
"I am nothing but a little insect, and not very harmful at that. I only ask for bread that I be fed."
I saw that his whole make-up was very much like Savelko's and I marveled how men could keep their clear spirits and their happy frame of mind in this maelstrom of life.
Seraphim, next to Grisha, was like a clear day in spring compared to a day in autumn. Nevertheless, they grew more close to each other than to me. I was a little vexed at this. Soon they both went away together, Grisha having decided to go to Olonetz, and Seraphim said to me:
"I will accompany him. Then I will rest a week and return to the Caucasus. You should come along with us, Matvei. In tramping you will find more quickly what you are seeking, or you will lose what you have in excess, which, perhaps, is just as well. They can't bribe God away from the earth."
But I could not go along with them, for at that time I was having my interviews with Mardarie, and I was especially curious about this ascetic. I saw them off with great sadness, and my quiet evenings and my happy days went with them.
Mardarie, the penance monk, lived in a pit in the stone wall behind the altar. In ancient times this hole was a secret place where the monastery treasure was hidden from robbers, and there had been a secret passage to it direct from the altar. The stone vault from this pit had been taken away, and now it was covered with thick, wooden planks, and underneath it was built a kind of light cage with a little window in the ceiling. There was a grating with a railing around it, through which the pilgrims looked at the ascetic. In a corner was a trap-door, from which spiral steps led down to Mardarie. It made one dizzy to go down them. The pit was deep, twelve steps down, and only one ray of light fell in, and this one did not reach the bottom but melted and faded away in the damp darkness of this underground dwelling. One had to look long and steadily through the grating to see somewhere in the depths of the darkness something still darker which looked like a large rock or a mound. That was the ascetic, sitting motionless.
To go down to him the warm, odiferous dampness caught one, and for the first few seconds nothing could be seen. Then from the gloom would rise an altar and a black coffin, in which sat, bent over, a little, gray-haired old man in a dark shroud, decorated with white crosses, hilts, a reed and a lance, which lay helter-skelter and broken on his dried-up body. In the corner a round stove hid itself, and from it a pipe crawled out like a thick worm, while on the brick walls grew green scales of mildew. A ray of light pierced the darkness like a white sword, then rusted and broke apart.
On a pile of shavings the ascetic swayed back and forth as a shadow, his hands resting on his knees and fingering a rosary. His head was sunk on his breast and his back was curved like a yoke.
I remember that I went up to him, fell on my knees and remained silent. He, too, was silent for a long time, and everything about us seemed glutted with dead silence. I could not see his face, but only the dark end of his sharp nose. He whispered to me so that I could hardly hear:
"Well?"
I could not answer. Pity for this man who lay alive in his coffin oppressed and overcame me. He waited a little while, and then again asked me:
"What is it? Speak."
He turned his face toward me. It was all dark, no eyes were to be seen; only white eyebrows and a mustache and beard, which were like mildew on the agonized and motionless countenance which was effaced by the darkness. I heard the rustling of his voice:
"You argue up there. Why do you argue? You should serve God humbly. What is there to argue about with God? You should simply love God."
"I love Him," I answered.
"Well, perhaps. He punishes you, but you must make believe that you see nothing and say, 'Praise be unto thee, O Lord.' Say that always, and nothing more."
It was evident that it was difficult for him to speak, either from weakness or because he was unused to it. His words were hardly alive and his voice was like the trembling of the wings of a dying bird.
I could not ask the old man anything, for I was sorry to disturb the peace of his death-waiting, and I feared to startle something; so I stood there motionless. From above the sound of bells leaked down, rocking the hair on my head, and I desired ardently to lift up my head toward the sky and gaze at it, but the darkness pressed down heavily on my neck and I did not move.
"Pray," he said to me, "and I will pray for you."
He became silent again. All was quiet, and a terrible fear made my flesh creep and filled my breast with icy coldness. A little later he whispered to me:
"Are you still here?"
"Yes."
"I can't see. Well, go, and God be with you. Don't argue."
I went out quietly. When I reached the earth above and breathed the pure air, I was drunk with joy and my head swam. I was all wet as if I had been in a cave; and he, Mardarie, had been sitting there now the fourth year!
I was to have five interviews with him, but I kept silent through them all; I could not speak. When I went down to him he listened, and then asked me in his unnatural voice:
"Some one came—the same one as yesterday?"
"Yes. It is I."
Then he began to mumble, with interruptions:
"Don't offend God—what do you need? You need nothing. Perhaps a little piece of bread. But to offend God is a sin. That comes from the devil. The devils, they lend a hand to every one. I know them. They are offended and they are malicious. They are offended—that is why they are malicious. So don't get offended, or you will resemble the devil. People offend you, but you should say to them: 'Christ save you,' and then go. Everything is vanity. The main thing is yourself. Let them not take your soul away. Hide it, so that they cannot take it away."
He sowed his quiet words, and they spread themselves over me like ashes from a far-off fire. They were not necessary to me, and they did not touch my soul. It seemed to me I saw a black dream, which I could not understand and which wearied me very much.
"You are silent," he said thoughtfully. "That is good. Let them do what they want, but you keep quiet. Others come to me and they talk—they talk very much. But I cannot understand what they want. They even talk about women. What is that to me? They talk about everything. But what they say about everything, I cannot understand. But you are right to keep silent. I also would not speak, but the Abbot up there said: 'Console him; he needs to be consoled.' Well, all right. But I myself would much rather not talk.
"Oh, God, forgive them all! Everything was taken from me—only prayers remained to me. Whoever tortures you, take no notice of him. It is the devils who torture you. They tortured me, too. My own brother, he beat me, and my wife gave me rat's poison. Evidently I was only a rat to her. They stole all I had from me, then said that I set fire to the village. They wanted to throw me into the fire. And I sat in prison. Everything happened to me. I was judged—sat some more. God be with them. I pardoned every one—I was not guilty, yet I pardoned. That was for my own sake.
"A whole mountain of injury lay on me. I could not breathe. Then I pardoned them and it went away. The mountain was no more. The devils were offended and they went away. So you, too, pardon every one. I need nothing. It will be the same with you."
At the fourth interview he asked me:
"Bring me a crumb of bread. I will suck it. I am weak. Pardon me, in Christ's name."
My heart ached with pity for him. I listened to his ravings and I thought:
"Why is that necessary, O Lord, why?"
But he still rustled his dry tongue:
"My bones ache. Night and day they draw. If I sucked a crumb it would be better perhaps; but this way my bones itch. It disturbs me—it disturbs my prayers. It is necessary to pray every second, even in one's dreams. If not, the devil immediately reminds one. He reminds one of one's name and where one lived, and everything. There he sits on the stove. It doesn't matter to him if it is hot—sometimes red hot. He is used to it. He sits himself there, a little, gray thing, opposite me, and just sits. I cross myself and do not look at him, and he gets tired. Then he crawls on the wall like a spider, or sometimes he floats in the air like a gray rag. He can do anything, my devil. He gets bored with an old man, but he has got to watch me, he has orders to.
"Of course, it is not pleasant for him to watch an old man. I am not offended with him. The devil doesn't do it of his own free will, and I am used to him. 'Well,' I say to him, 41 am tired of you,' and I don't look at him. He is not bad or evil, only he continually reminds me of my name."
Then the old man lifted his head and said loudly:
"They called me Michail Petrov Viakhiref."
And then he sank down in his coffin again and whispered:
"Thus the devil tempts me. Oh, you devil! Are you still here, brother? Go, and God be with you."
I could have cried with anger that day. What was the use of this old man? What beauty was there in his deed? I could not understand it. All day and many days afterward I thought of him, and I felt that a devil mocked me and made grimaces at me.
The last time that I went to him I filled my pockets with soft bread, and I brought that bread to him, with pain and anger against all mankind. When I gave it to him he whispered:
"Oh, it is still warm. Oh!"
He moved in his coffin. The shavings creaked underneath him while he hid his bread, whispering:
"Oh, oh."
The darkness and the mildewed wall—everything around us moved, reechoing the low groans of the ascetic—"Oh."
Four times a week they brought him food. Of course, he was starved.
This last time he said nothing to me, only sucked the bread. He evidently had not a tooth left in his head.
I stood there for some time. Then I said:
"Well, pardon me, in Christ's name, Father Mardarie. I am going now, and I won't return again. Let me thank you."
"Yes, yes," he answered eagerly. "It is I who thank you; it is I who thank you. But don't tell the monks about the bread. They will take it away. They are jealous, the monks are. No doubt the devils know them, too. The devils know everything and everybody—say nothing about it."
Soon after this he became ill and died. They buried him with solemnity. The Bishop came from the city with all his clergy, and they held a Cathedral Mass. Afterward I heard that under the tombstone of the old man a little blue fire burns of itself at night.
How pitiful it all was and how disgraceful to man!
Soon after this my life changed entirely. Even while Grisha was here an ugly incident happened to me. Once I went into the ante-room and caught Misha in an act which gave the lie to his constant and disgusting denunciation of women as unclean. It was inexpressibly disgusting to me, for I remembered all the filth which he spoke about women; I remembered his hatred of them; and I spat and escaped to the bakery, trembling with wrath and shame and bitterness. He followed me, fell on his knees, and begged me not to tell.
"I know that she torments you at night, too. The power of the devil is strong."
"You lie," I said. "Go to all the devils, you pig. And you bake bread, you dog!"
I insulted him, for I could not contain myself.
If he had not soiled all womankind with his dirty words, I would not have minded it so much.
But he crawled before me and begged me not to tell.
"Well," I said, "can one speak about such things? It is too shameful. But I don't want to work with you. Tell them to give me other work."
I insisted on that.
At this time people were not yet alive or clear to me, and I strove only for one thing: to keep myself apart.
Misha became ill and lay in the hospital. I worked as of old and was given two assistants to help me.
Three weeks passed, when suddenly the steward called me and told me that Misha had recovered but did not want to work with me because of my obstinate nature; and therefore in the meantime I would be ordered to dig stumps out of the wood. This work was considered a punishment.
"Why?" I asked.
Suddenly the handsome monk, Father Anthony, entered the office, stood modestly aside and listened. The steward continued to explain to me:
"Because of your obstinate nature and your impudent opinions about the brothers. At your age and in your condition, it is foolish; unbearable; and you must be punished. But the Father Superior, in his goodness, said that we should take you over to the office for easy work. And that is how it may turn out."
He spoke for a long time, in a singsong voice and without feeling; and I saw that it did not come from his conscience, but that he dragged one word after another from duty.
Father Anthony leaned against a bench, looked at me, stroked his beard and smiled with his beautiful eyes as if he were joking with me about something.
I wished to show him my character and said to the steward:
"I don't seek to be raised, nor do I wish to accept humiliation, for I do not deserve it, as you know, but I want justice."
The steward grew red in the face and beat the ground with his stick.
"Keep silent, insolent one!"
Father Anthony bent to his ear and said something.
"It is impossible," answered the steward. "He is to take his punishment without a murmur."
Anthony shrugged his shoulders and turned toward me. His voice was low and warm:
"Submit, Matvei."
He conquered me with his two words and his caressing look. I bowed to the steward and to him, and then I asked the steward when I must go to the wood.
"In three days," he answered. "But these three days you must go to the dungeon—that's what."
If Anthony had not been there I certainly would have broken the steward's bones. But I took Anthony's words as a sign of the possibility to get near him, and for this I was ready to cut off my right arm—anything.
They sent me down to the dungeon. It was a hole underneath the office, in which it was impossible to stand or lie down; one had to sit. Straw was thrown on the floor, but it was wet from dampness. And it was quiet as a grave, not even mice were there; and such darkness that the hands disappeared. If you put your hands before your face they were not visible.
I sat there and was silent, and everything in me seemed poured from lead. I was heavy as stone, and cold as ice.
I clinched my teeth for I wished to hold back my thoughts; but they flamed up within me like coals and burned me. I could have bitten somebody, but there was no one to bite. I caught my hair with my hands, swayed back and forth like the tongue of a bell, and shrieked and raved and roared within:
"Where is Thy justice, O Lord? Do not the lawless play with it? And do not the strong trample it in their evil, drunken power? What am I before Thee? A lawless sacrifice or a keeper of Thy beauty and justice?"
I recalled the arrangement of the life in the monastery. It stood before me, ugly and cynical.
And why did they call the monks the servants of God? In what way were they holier than laymen? I knew the difficult peasant life in the villages. They lived starved and wretched. They drank, they fought, they stole, they committed every sin. But was not His path unseen? And they had no strength to struggle for righteousness; nor time. Each one was attached to the soil and tied to his house with a strong chain—the fear of starvation. What could one ask of them?
But here men lived free and satisfied. Here books and wisdom were open to them. But which one of them served God? Only the weak and the bloodless, like Grisha, remained faithful to God, who to the others was only a protector of sins and a source of lies. I remembered the evil lust of the monks for women and all their offenses of the flesh, which even the animals disdained—and their laziness and gluttony; their quarrels over the distribution of the funds, when they cawed maliciously at one another like ravens in a cemetery.
Grisha told me that no matter how much the peasants worked for the monastery, their indebtedness grew continually. I thought of myself: "Here I have already spent a long time and what has my soul profited? I have received only wounds and sores. How has my intelligence been enriched? Only by the knowledge of all kinds of baseness and of loathing for man."
Around me was silence. Even the sound of the bells, by which I could have measured time, did not reach me, and there was neither day nor night for me. Who dared to take away the sun from man?
The rank darkness oppressed me, and my soul was consumed by it. There was nothing left to light my path. The faith which was dear to my heart, the justice and omniscience of God, sank and melted away.
But like a bright star the face of Father Anthony flashed before me, and all my thoughts and feelings circled around it like a moth around a flame. I conversed with him, and complained to him, and asked him questions, and saw his two caressing eyes in the darkness.
I paid dearly for those three days and I went out of the hole blinded, my head feeling as if it were not my own, and my knees trembling. The monks laughed at me.
"What," they said, "you took a good soul-bath, eh?"
At night the Abbot called me, made me kneel before him, and gave me a long lecture.
"It is written that I shall crush the teeth of the sinner and bend his back in the yoke."
I was silent and controlled my heart. The peacemaker, Father Anthony, stood before me, and stilled my evil mouth with his affectionate look. Suddenly the Abbot softened.
"We value you, you fool," he said. "We think of you. We have noticed your zeal in work and wish to reward your intelligence. I even place before you a choice of two duties. Do you want to work in the office, or do you want to be a lay brother to Father Anthony?"
I felt as if I had been revived with warm water. I was stifled with joy and could hardly speak:
"Permit me to be a lay brother."
He frowned, became thoughtful, and looked at me curiously.
"If you go to the office," he said, "I will take away the stump digging; but if you go as a lay brother, I will increase the work in the woods."
"Permit me to be a lay brother."
He asked me sternly:
"Why, you fool! The work is easier in the office, and more respectable."
I insisted. He bowed his head and thought a while.
"I permit it. You are a strange fellow, and one should not lose sight of you. Who knows what fires you will light—who knows? Go in peace."
I went to the wood. It was spring then, cold April. The work was hard, the wood an ancient one. The main roots went deep into the earth; the side ones were big. I dug and dug, and chopped and chopped; tied the trunk and made the horse pull out the stump. He tried with all his strength, but only broke the harness. Already by noon my bones felt broken and my horse trembled and was covered with foam. He looked at me out of his round eyes, as if he wished to say: "I cannot, brother; it is hard."
I petted him and slapped his neck. "I see," I said. And again I dug and chopped and the horse looked at me, his hide trembling and his head nodding. Horses are intelligent, and I am sure that they perceive all the senseless actions of man.
At this time I had an encounter with Misha, which came near ending badly for both of us. Once I went to my work after the noon-day meal, and had already reached the wood when suddenly he overtook me, club in hand, his face wild, his teeth showing, and panting like a bear. What did it mean?
I stopped and waited for him. He did not say a word, but brandished his club at me. I bent in time, and struck him below the belt with my head. I threw him down, sat on his chest, and took away his club.
"What is the matter with you?" I asked him. "What's this for?"
He struggled underneath me and said hoarsely:
"Get out of the monastery!"
"Why?"
"I can't look at you. I'll kill you! Get out of here!"
His eyes were red. The tears that came out seemed red, and his lips were covered with foam. He tore at my clothes; he scratched and pinched me, anxious to reach my face. I shook him lightly and arose from his chest.
"You wear the garb of a monk," I said, "and yet you are capable of such vileness, you brute! Why?"
He sat in the mud and demanded, obstinately:
"Get out of here! Don't make me lose my soul!"
I did not understand him. Finally I made a guess, and asked him low:
"Perhaps, Misha, you think I told some one about your wretched sin? It is not so. I told no one about it."
He arose, swayed, held on to the tree and looked at me with his wild eyes.
"I wish you had told it to the whole world!" he roared. "It would be easier for me! I could repent before others and they would forgive me. But you, scoundrel, despise every one. I do not want to be under obligations to you, you proud heretic. Get out, or I'll have the sin of blood on me!"
"If that is the way it is," I said, "go away yourself, if you have to. I won't go—that is sure."
He again jumped on me, and we both fell into the mud, getting dirty like frogs. I proved to be the stronger, and arose, but he still lay there, weeping and miserable.
"Listen, Misha," I said. "I am going away a little later. Now I can't. I am not staying out of spite, but because I have to. I have got to be here."
"Go to your father, the devil," he groaned, and gnashed his teeth.
I went away from him, and a little while later he was ordered to go to the monastic inn in the city, and I never saw him again.
When my penance was finished I stood before Anthony, dressed in new clothes. I remember this period of my life from the first day to the last; everything, even to each word, was burned into my soul and cut into my flesh.
He led me to his cells quietly, and taught me in detail how and when and in what way I was to serve him.
One room was arranged with book-cases, full of worldly and religious books. "This," he said, "is my chapel."
In the center of the room stood a large table, near the window an upholstered armchair, and toward one side of the table a divan covered with rich tapestry. In front of the table there was a chair with a high back, covered with pressed leather.
A second room was his bedroom. It had a wide bed, a wardrobe filled with cassocks and linen, a wash stand with a large mirror, many brushes and combs and gaily colored perfume bottles. And on the walls of the third room, which was uninviting and empty, were two closed cupboards, one for wine and food and the other for china, pastry, preserves and sweets.
Having finished this inspection, he led me to his library and said:
"Take a seat. So, this is the way I live. Not like a monk, eh?"
"No," I answered; "not quite according to rule."
"Well, you condemn every one. I suppose you will condemn me soon, too."
He smiled, haughty as a bell tower.
I loved him for his beautiful face, but his smile was disagreeable to me.
"I do not know whether I will condemn you," I said. "I certainly would like to understand you."
He laughed low, in a base, which was offensive to me.
"You are illegitimate?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You have good blood in your veins?"
"What is good blood?" I asked.
He laughed, then answered impressively.
"Good blood is something from which proud souls are made."
The day was clear, the sun shone in through the window, and Anthony sat entirely covered by its rays. Suddenly an unexpected thought flashed through my head and pierced my heart like the bite of a snake. I jumped from my chair and stared hard at the monk. He, too, arose, and I saw that he picked up a knife from the table and played with it, asking:
"What is the matter with you?"
"Are you not my father?" I asked him.
His face became drawn, immovable and blue, as if it were carved from ice. He half closed his eyes so that the light went out of them, and said, almost in a whisper:
"I think—not. Where were you born? When? How old are you? Who is your mother?"
And as I told him how I was abandoned he smiled and put the knife back on the table.
"I was not in the district at that time," he answered.
I became embarrassed and uncomfortable. It was as if I had begged for charity and been refused.
"Well," he said, "and if I had been your father, what then?"
"Nothing," I answered.
"Exactly. That is the way I think about it. We are living together in a place where there are no fathers and no children in the flesh, only in the spirit. On the other hand, we are all abandoned on this earth—that is, we are brothers in misery, which we call life. Man is an accident in life, do you know that?"
I read in his eyes that he was making fun of me. I was still laboring under the unpleasant impression which my strange and incomprehensible question had aroused in me, and I would have liked to explain the question to him or to forget it altogether. But I made matters worse by asking:
"Why did you take that knife in your hand?" Anthony gazed at me and then laughed low:
"You are a bold questioner. I took it because I took it, and why I really do not know. I like it; it is a very pretty thing."
And he gave me the knife. It was sharp and pointed, with a design in gold laid on the steel, and a silver handle, with red stones.
"It is an Arabian knife," he explained to me. "I use it for cutting pages of books, and at night I put it under my pillow. There is a rumor abroad that I am rich and there are poor people living about me, and my cell is out of the way."
The knife as well as the hands of Anthony had a rich, peculiar perfume, which almost intoxicated me and made my head swim.
"Let us talk a little more," Anthony continued in his low, deep, soft voice. "Do you know that a woman comes to see me?"
"So I heard."
"It is not true that she is my sister. I sleep with her."
"Why do you talk of these things to me?" I asked.
"So that you will be shocked once and for all and not continue to be surprised. You like worldly books?"
"I have never read them."
He took from the book-case a little book bound in red leather and gave it to me.
"Go, prepare the samovar and read this," he said, in a tone of command.
I opened the book, and on the very first page I found a picture—a woman naked to her knees and a man in front of her, also naked.
"I will not read this," I said.
Then he turned to me and said sternly:
"And if your spiritual superior orders you to? How do you know why this is necessary? Go."
In the annex where my room was I sat down on my bed, overcome by fear and sadness. I felt as if I had been poisoned; I was weak and trembling. I did not know what to think; I could not understand. From where did the thought come that he was my father? It was a strange idea.
I remembered his words about the soul: "The soul is made of blood." And about man: "That he is an accident on earth." All this was so plainly heretical. I remembered his drawn face at my question.
I opened the book again. It was a story about some French cavalier and about women. What did I want with it?
He rang for me and called. I came in, and he met me in a friendly manner.
"Where is the samovar?"
"Why did you give me this book?"
"So that you would know what sin is."
I became happy again. It seemed to me I understood his object; he wished to educate me. I bowed low, went out, prepared the samovar eagerly and brought it back into the room, where Anthony had already prepared everything for tea. And as I was going out he said:
"Remain and drink tea with me."
I was grateful to him, for I wanted to understand something very much.
"Tell me," he said, "how you have lived and why you came here."
I began to tell him about myself, not hiding from him my most secret impulse, not a thought which I could remember. And he listened to me with half-closed eyes, so engrossed that he did not even drink his tea.
Behind him the evening looked in at the window, and against the red sky the black branches of the trees made their outline.