THE BISHOP
ITHE
evening service was being celebrated on the eve of Palm Sunday in
the
Old Petrovsky Convent. When they began distributing the palm it was
close upon ten o'clock, the candles were burning dimly, the wicks
wanted snuffing; it was all in a sort of mist. In the twilight of
the
church the crowd seemed heaving like the sea, and to Bishop Pyotr,
who had been unwell for the last three days, it seemed that all the
faces—old and young, men's and women's—were alike, that everyone
who came up for the palm had the same expression in his eyes. In
the
mist he could not see the doors; the crowd kept moving and looked
as
though there were no end to it. The female choir was singing, a nun
was reading the prayers for the day.How
stifling, how hot it was! How long the service went on! Bishop
Pyotr
was tired. His breathing was laboured and rapid, his throat was
parched, his shoulders ached with weariness, his legs were
trembling.
And it disturbed him unpleasantly when a religious maniac uttered
occasional shrieks in the gallery. And then all of a sudden, as
though in a dream or delirium, it seemed to the bishop as though
his
own mother Marya Timofyevna, whom he had not seen for nine years,
or
some old woman just like his mother, came up to him out of the
crowd,
and, after taking a palm branch from him, walked away looking at
him
all the while good-humouredly with a kind, joyful smile until she
was
lost in the crowd. And for some reason tears flowed down his face.
There was peace in his heart, everything was well, yet he kept
gazing
fixedly towards the left choir, where the prayers were being read,
where in the dusk of evening you could not recognize anyone,
and—wept. Tears glistened on his face and on his beard. Here
someone close at hand was weeping, then someone else farther away,
then others and still others, and little by little the church was
filled with soft weeping. And a little later, within five minutes,
the nuns' choir was singing; no one was weeping and everything was
as
before.Soon
the service was over. When the bishop got into his carriage to
drive
home, the gay, melodious chime of the heavy, costly bells was
filling
the whole garden in the moonlight. The white walls, the white
crosses
on the tombs, the white birch-trees and black shadows, and the
far-away moon in the sky exactly over the convent, seemed now
living
their own life, apart and incomprehensible, yet very near to man.
It
was the beginning of April, and after the warm spring day it turned
cool; there was a faint touch of frost, and the breath of spring
could be felt in the soft, chilly air. The road from the convent to
the town was sandy, the horses had to go at a walking pace, and on
both sides of the carriage in the brilliant, peaceful moonlight
there
were people trudging along home from church through the sand. And
all
was silent, sunk in thought; everything around seemed kindly,
youthful, akin, everything—trees and sky and even the moon, and one
longed to think that so it would be always.At
last the carriage drove into the town and rumbled along the
principal
street. The shops were already shut, but at Erakin's, the
millionaire
shopkeeper's, they were trying the new electric lights, which
flickered brightly, and a crowd of people were gathered round. Then
came wide, dark, deserted streets, one after another; then the
highroad, the open country, the fragrance of pines. And suddenly
there rose up before the bishop's eyes a white turreted wall, and
behind it a tall belfry in the full moonlight, and beside it five
shining, golden cupolas: this was the Pankratievsky Monastery, in
which Bishop Pyotr lived. And here, too, high above the monastery,
was the silent, dreamy moon. The carriage drove in at the gate,
crunching over the sand; here and there in the moonlight there were
glimpses of dark monastic figures, and there was the sound of
footsteps on the flag-stones. . . ."You
know, your holiness, your mamma arrived while you were away,"
the lay brother informed the bishop as he went into his
cell."My
mother? When did she come?""Before
the evening service. She asked first where you were and then she
went
to the convent.""Then
it was her I saw in the church, just now! Oh, Lord!"And
the bishop laughed with joy."She
bade me tell your holiness," the lay brother went on, "that
she would come to-morrow. She had a little girl with her—her
grandchild, I suppose. They are staying at Ovsyannikov's
inn.""What
time is it now?""A
little after eleven.""Oh,
how vexing!"The
bishop sat for a little while in the parlour, hesitating, and as it
were refusing to believe it was so late. His arms and legs were
stiff, his head ached. He was hot and uncomfortable. After resting
a
little he went into his bedroom, and there, too, he sat a little,
still thinking of his mother; he could hear the lay brother going
away, and Father Sisoy coughing the other side of the wall. The
monastery clock struck a quarter.The
bishop changed his clothes and began reading the prayers before
sleep. He read attentively those old, long familiar prayers, and at
the same time thought about his mother. She had nine children and
about forty grandchildren. At one time, she had lived with her
husband, the deacon, in a poor village; she had lived there a very
long time from the age of seventeen to sixty. The bishop remembered
her from early childhood, almost from the age of three, and—how he
had loved her! Sweet, precious childhood, always fondly remembered!
Why did it, that long-past time that could never return, why did it
seem brighter, fuller, and more festive than it had really been?
When
in his childhood or youth he had been ill, how tender and
sympathetic
his mother had been! And now his prayers mingled with the memories,
which gleamed more and more brightly like a flame, and the prayers
did not hinder his thinking of his mother.When
he had finished his prayers he undressed and lay down, and at once,
as soon as it was dark, there rose before his mind his dead father,
his mother, his native village Lesopolye . . . the creak of wheels,
the bleat of sheep, the church bells on bright summer mornings, the
gypsies under the window—oh, how sweet to think of it! He
remembered the priest of Lesopolye, Father Simeon—mild, gentle,
kindly; he was a lean little man, while his son, a divinity
student,
was a huge fellow and talked in a roaring bass voice. The priest's
son had flown into a rage with the cook and abused her: "Ah, you
Jehud's ass!" and Father Simeon overhearing it, said not a word,
and was only ashamed because he could not remember where such an
ass
was mentioned in the Bible. After him the priest at Lesopolye had
been Father Demyan, who used to drink heavily, and at times drank
till he saw green snakes, and was even nicknamed Demyan Snakeseer.
The schoolmaster at Lesopolye was Matvey Nikolaitch, who had been a
divinity student, a kind and intelligent man, but he, too, was a
drunkard; he never beat the schoolchildren, but for some reason he
always had hanging on his wall a bunch of birch-twigs, and below it
an utterly meaningless inscription in Latin: "Betula
kinderbalsamica secuta." He had a shaggy black dog whom he
called Syntax.And
his holiness laughed. Six miles from Lesopolye was the village
Obnino
with a wonder-working ikon. In the summer they used to carry the
ikon
in procession about the neighbouring villages and ring the bells
the
whole day long; first in one village and then in another, and it
used
to seem to the bishop then that joy was quivering in the air, and
he
(in those days his name was Pavlusha) used to follow the ikon,
bareheaded and barefoot, with naïve faith, with a naïve smile,
infinitely happy. In Obnino, he remembered now, there were always a
lot of people, and the priest there, Father Alexey, to save time
during mass, used to make his deaf nephew Ilarion read the names of
those for whose health or whose souls' peace prayers were asked.
Ilarion used to read them, now and then getting a five or ten
kopeck
piece for the service, and only when he was grey and bald, when
life
was nearly over, he suddenly saw written on one of the pieces of
paper: "What a fool you are, Ilarion." Up to fifteen at
least Pavlusha was undeveloped and idle at his lessons, so much so
that they thought of taking him away from the clerical school and
putting him into a shop; one day, going to the post at Obnino for
letters, he had stared a long time at the post-office clerks and
asked: "Allow me to ask, how do you get your salary, every month
or every day?"His
holiness crossed himself and turned over on the other side, trying
to
stop thinking and go to sleep."My
mother has come," he remembered and laughed.The
moon peeped in at the window, the floor was lighted up, and there
were shadows on it. A cricket was chirping. Through the wall Father
Sisoy was snoring in the next room, and his aged snore had a sound
that suggested loneliness, forlornness, even vagrancy. Sisoy had
once
been housekeeper to the bishop of the diocese, and was called now
"the former Father Housekeeper"; he was seventy years old,
he lived in a monastery twelve miles from the town and stayed
sometimes in the town, too. He had come to the Pankratievsky
Monastery three days before, and the bishop had kept him that he
might talk to him at his leisure about matters of business, about
the
arrangements here. . . .At
half-past one they began ringing for matins. Father Sisoy could be
heard coughing, muttering something in a discontented voice, then
he
got up and walked barefoot about the rooms."Father
Sisoy," the bishop called.Sisoy
went back to his room and a little later made his appearance in his
boots, with a candle; he had on his cassock over his underclothes
and
on his head was an old faded skull-cap."I
can't sleep," said the bishop, sitting up. "I must be
unwell.And what it
is I don't know. Fever!""You
must have caught cold, your holiness. You must be rubbed with
tallow." Sisoy stood a little and yawned. "O Lord, forgive
me, a sinner.""They
had the electric lights on at Erakin's today," he said; "I
don't like it!"Father
Sisoy was old, lean, bent, always dissatisfied with something, and
his eyes were angry-looking and prominent as a crab's."I
don't like it," he said, going away. "I don't like it.
Bother it!"IINext
day, Palm Sunday, the bishop took the service in the cathedral in
the
town, then he visited the bishop of the diocese, then visited a
very
sick old lady, the widow of a general, and at last drove home.
Between one and two o'clock he had welcome visitors dining with
him—his mother and his niece Katya, a child of eight years old. All
dinner-time the spring sunshine was streaming in at the windows,
throwing bright light on the white tablecloth and on Katya's red
hair. Through the double windows they could hear the noise of the
rooks and the notes of the starlings in the garden."It
is nine years since we have met," said the old lady. "And
when I looked at you in the monastery yesterday, good Lord! you've
not changed a bit, except maybe you are thinner and your beard is a
little longer. Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven! Yesterday at the
evening
service no one could help crying. I, too, as I looked at you,
suddenly began crying, though I couldn't say why. His Holy
Will!"And
in spite of the affectionate tone in which she said this, he could
see she was constrained as though she were uncertain whether to
address him formally or familiarly, to laugh or not, and that she
felt herself more a deacon's widow than his mother. And Katya gazed
without blinking at her uncle, his holiness, as though trying to
discover what sort of a person he was. Her hair sprang up from
under
the comb and the velvet ribbon and stood out like a halo; she had a
turned-up nose and sly eyes. The child had broken a glass before
sitting down to dinner, and now her grandmother, as she talked,
moved
away from Katya first a wineglass and then a tumbler. The bishop
listened to his mother and remembered how many, many years ago she
used to take him and his brothers and sisters to relations whom she
considered rich; in those days she was taken up with the care of
her
children, now with her grandchildren, and she had brought Katya. .
.
."Your
sister, Varenka, has four children," she told him; "Katya,
here, is the eldest. And your brother-in-law Father Ivan fell sick,
God knows of what, and died three days before the Assumption; and
my
poor Varenka is left a beggar.""And
how is Nikanor getting on?" the bishop asked about his eldest
brother."He
is all right, thank God. Though he has nothing much, yet he can
live.
Only there is one thing: his son, my grandson Nikolasha, did not
want
to go into the Church; he has gone to the university to be a
doctor.
He thinks it is better; but who knows! His Holy Will!""Nikolasha
cuts up dead people," said Katya, spilling water over her
knees."Sit
still, child," her grandmother observed calmly, and took the
glass out of her hand. "Say a prayer, and go on eating.""How
long it is since we have seen each other!" said the bishop, and
he tenderly stroked his mother's hand and shoulder; "and I
missed you abroad, mother, I missed you dreadfully.""Thank
you.""I
used to sit in the evenings at the open window, lonely and alone;
often there was music playing, and all at once I used to be
overcome
with homesickness and felt as though I would give everything only
to
be at home and see you."His
mother smiled, beamed, but at once she made a grave face and
said:"Thank
you."His
mood suddenly changed. He looked at his mother and could not
understand how she had come by that respectfulness, that timid
expression of face: what was it for? And he did not recognize her.
He
felt sad and vexed. And then his head ached just as it had the day
before; his legs felt fearfully tired, and the fish seemed to him
stale and tasteless; he felt thirsty all the time. . . .After
dinner two rich ladies, landowners, arrived and sat for an hour and
a
half in silence with rigid countenances; the archimandrite, a
silent,
rather deaf man, came to see him about business. Then they began
ringing for vespers; the sun was setting behind the wood and the
day
was over. When he returned from church, he hurriedly said his
prayers, got into bed, and wrapped himself up as warm as
possible.It
was disagreeable to remember the fish he had eaten at dinner. The
moonlight worried him, and then he heard talking. In an adjoining
room, probably in the parlour, Father Sisoy was talking
politics:"There's
war among the Japanese now. They are fighting. The Japanese, my
good
soul, are the same as the Montenegrins; they are the same race.
They
were under the Turkish yoke together."And
then he heard the voice of Marya Timofyevna:"So,
having said our prayers and drunk tea, we went, you know, toFather
Yegor at Novokatnoye, so. . ."And
she kept on saying, "having had tea" or "having drunk
tea," and it seemed as though the only thing she had done in her
life was to drink tea.The
bishop slowly, languidly, recalled the seminary, the academy. For
three years he had been Greek teacher in the seminary: by that time
he could not read without spectacles. Then he had become a monk; he
had been made a school inspector. Then he had defended his thesis
for
his degree. When he was thirty-two he had been made rector of the
seminary, and consecrated archimandrite: and then his life had been
so easy, so pleasant; it seemed so long, so long, no end was in
sight. Then he had begun to be ill, had grown very thin and almost
blind, and by the advice of the doctors had to give up everything
and
go abroad."And
what then?" asked Sisoy in the next room."Then
we drank tea . . ." answered Marya Timofyevna."Good
gracious, you've got a green beard," said Katya suddenly in
surprise, and she laughed.The
bishop remembered that the grey-headed Father Sisoy's beard really
had a shade of green in it, and he laughed."God
have mercy upon us, what we have to put up with with this girl!"
said Sisoy, aloud, getting angry. "Spoilt child! Sit quiet!"The
bishop remembered the perfectly new white church in which he had
conducted the services while living abroad, he remembered the sound
of the warm sea. In his flat he had five lofty light rooms; in his
study he had a new writing-table, lots of books. He had read a
great
deal and often written. And he remembered how he had pined for his
native land, how a blind beggar woman had played the guitar under
his
window every day and sung of love, and how, as he listened, he had
always for some reason thought of the past. But eight years had
passed and he had been called back to Russia, and now he was a
suffragan bishop, and all the past had retreated far away into the
mist as though it were a dream. . . .Father
Sisoy came into the bedroom with a candle."I
say!" he said, wondering, "are you asleep already, your
holiness?""What
is it?""Why,
it's still early, ten o'clock or less. I bought a candle to-day; I
wanted to rub you with tallow.""I
am in a fever . . ." said the bishop, and he sat up. "I
really ought to have something. My head is bad. . . ."Sisoy
took off the bishop's shirt and began rubbing his chest and back
with
tallow."That's
the way . . . that's the way . . ." he said. "Lord Jesus
Christ . . . that's the way. I walked to the town to-day; I was at
what's-his-name's—the chief priest Sidonsky's. . . . I had tea with
him. I don't like him. Lord Jesus Christ. . . . That's the way. I
don't like him."IIIThe
bishop of the diocese, a very fat old man, was ill with rheumatism
or
gout, and had been in bed for over a month. Bishop Pyotr went to
see
him almost every day, and saw all who came to ask his help. And now
that he was unwell he was struck by the emptiness, the triviality
of
everything which they asked and for which they wept; he was vexed
at
their ignorance, their timidity; and all this useless, petty
business
oppressed him by the mass of it, and it seemed to him that now he
understood the diocesan bishop, who had once in his young days
written on "The Doctrines of the Freedom of the Will," and
now seemed to be all lost in trivialities, to have forgotten
everything, and to have no thoughts of religion. The bishop must
have
lost touch with Russian life while he was abroad; he did not find
it
easy; the peasants seemed to him coarse, the women who sought his
help dull and stupid, the seminarists and their teachers
uncultivated
and at times savage. And the documents coming in and going out were
reckoned by tens of thousands; and what documents they were! The
higher clergy in the whole diocese gave the priests, young and old,
and even their wives and children, marks for their behaviour—a
five, a four, and sometimes even a three; and about this he had to
talk and to read and write serious reports. And there was
positively
not one minute to spare; his soul was troubled all day long, and
the
bishop was only at peace when he was in church.He
could not get used, either, to the awe which, through no wish of
his
own, he inspired in people in spite of his quiet, modest
disposition.
All the people in the province seemed to him little, scared, and
guilty when he looked at them. Everyone was timid in his presence,
even the old chief priests; everyone "flopped" at his feet,
and not long previously an old lady, a village priest's wife who
had
come to consult him, was so overcome by awe that she could not
utter
a single word, and went empty away. And he, who could never in his
sermons bring himself to speak ill of people, never reproached
anyone
because he was so sorry for them, was moved to fury with the people
who came to consult him, lost his temper and flung their petitions
on
the floor. The whole time he had been here, not one person had
spoken
to him genuinely, simply, as to a human being; even his old mother
seemed now not the same! And why, he wondered, did she chatter away
to Sisoy and laugh so much; while with him, her son, she was grave
and usually silent and constrained, which did not suit her at all.
The only person who behaved freely with him and said what he meant
was old Sisoy, who had spent his whole life in the presence of
bishops and had outlived eleven of them. And so the bishop was at
ease with him, although, of course, he was a tedious and
nonsensical
man.After
the service on Tuesday, his holiness Pyotr was in the diocesan
bishop's house receiving petitions there; he got excited and angry,
and then drove home. He was as unwell as before; he longed to be in
bed, but he had hardly reached home when he was informed that a
young
merchant called Erakin, who subscribed liberally to charities, had
come to see him about a very important matter. The bishop had to
see
him. Erakin stayed about an hour, talked very loud, almost shouted,
and it was difficult to understand what he said."God
grant it may," he said as he went away. "Most
essential!According
to circumstances, your holiness! I trust it may!"After
him came the Mother Superior from a distant convent. And when she
had
gone they began ringing for vespers. He had to go to church.In
the evening the monks sang harmoniously, with inspiration. A young
priest with a black beard conducted the service; and the bishop,
hearing of the Bridegroom who comes at midnight and of the Heavenly
Mansion adorned for the festival, felt no repentance for his sins,
no
tribulation, but peace at heart and tranquillity. And he was
carried
back in thought to the distant past, to his childhood and youth,
when, too, they used to sing of the Bridegroom and of the Heavenly
Mansion; and now that past rose up before him—living, fair, and
joyful as in all likelihood it never had been. And perhaps in the
other world, in the life to come, we shall think of the distant
past,
of our life here, with the same feeling. Who knows? The bishop was
sitting near the altar. It was dark; tears flowed down his face. He
thought that here he had attained everything a man in his position
could attain; he had faith and yet everything was not clear,
something was lacking still. He did not want to die; and he still
felt that he had missed what was most important, something of which
he had dimly dreamed in the past; and he was troubled by the same
hopes for the future as he had felt in childhood, at the academy
and
abroad."How
well they sing to-day!" he thought, listening to the
singing."How
nice it is!"IVOn
Thursday he celebrated mass in the cathedral; it was the Washing of
Feet. When the service was over and the people were going home, it
was sunny, warm; the water gurgled in the gutters, and the
unceasing
trilling of the larks, tender, telling of peace, rose from the
fields
outside the town. The trees were already awakening and smiling a
welcome, while above them the infinite, fathomless blue sky
stretched
into the distance, God knows whither.On
reaching home his holiness drank some tea, then changed his
clothes,
lay down on his bed, and told the lay brother to close the shutters
on the windows. The bedroom was darkened. But what weariness, what
pain in his legs and his back, a chill heavy pain, what a noise in
his ears! He had not slept for a long time—for a very long time, as
it seemed to him now, and some trifling detail which haunted his
brain as soon as his eyes were closed prevented him from sleeping.
As
on the day before, sounds reached him from the adjoining rooms
through the walls, voices, the jingle of glasses and teaspoons. . .
.
Marya Timofyevna was gaily telling Father Sisoy some story with
quaint turns of speech, while the latter answered in a grumpy,
ill-humoured voice: "Bother them! Not likely! What next!"
And the bishop again felt vexed and then hurt that with other
people
his old mother behaved in a simple, ordinary way, while with him,
her
son, she was shy, spoke little, and did not say what she meant, and
even, as he fancied, had during all those three days kept trying in
his presence to find an excuse for standing up, because she was
embarrassed at sitting before him. And his father? He, too,
probably,
if he had been living, would not have been able to utter a word in
the bishop's presence. . . .Something
fell down on the floor in the adjoining room and was broken; Katya
must have dropped a cup or a saucer, for Father Sisoy suddenly spat
and said angrily:"What
a regular nuisance the child is! Lord forgive my
transgressions!One
can't provide enough for her."Then
all was quiet, the only sounds came from outside. And when the
bishop
opened his eyes he saw Katya in his room, standing motionless,
staring at him. Her red hair, as usual, stood up from under the
comb
like a halo."Is
that you, Katya?" he asked. "Who is it downstairs who keeps
opening and shutting a door?""I
don't hear it," answered Katya; and she listened."There,
someone has just passed by.""But
that was a noise in your stomach, uncle."He
laughed and stroked her on the head."So
you say Cousin Nikolasha cuts up dead people?" he asked after a
pause."Yes,
he is studying.""And
is he kind?""Oh,
yes, he's kind. But he drinks vodka awfully.""And
what was it your father died of?""Papa
was weak and very, very thin, and all at once his throat was bad. I
was ill then, too, and brother Fedya; we all had bad throats. Papa
died, uncle, and we got well."Her
chin began quivering, and tears gleamed in her eyes and trickled
down
her cheeks."Your
holiness," she said in a shrill voice, by now weeping bitterly,
"uncle, mother and all of us are left very wretched. . . . Give
us a little money . . . do be kind . . . uncle darling. . .
."He,
too, was moved to tears, and for a long time was too much touched
to
speak. Then he stroked her on the head, patted her on the shoulder
and said:"Very
good, very good, my child. When the holy Easter comes, we will talk
it over. . . . I will help you. . . . I will help you. . .
."His
mother came in quietly, timidly, and prayed before the ikon.Noticing
that he was not sleeping, she said:"Won't
you have a drop of soup?""No,
thank you," he answered, "I am not hungry.""You
seem to be unwell, now I look at you. I should think so; you may
well
be ill! The whole day on your legs, the whole day. . . . And, my
goodness, it makes one's heart ache even to look at you! Well,
Easter
is not far off; you will rest then, please God. Then we will have a
talk, too, but now I'm not going to disturb you with my chatter.
Come
along, Katya; let his holiness sleep a little."And
he remembered how once very long ago, when he was a boy, she had
spoken exactly like that, in the same jestingly respectful tone,
with
a Church dignitary. . . . Only from her extraordinarily kind eyes
and
the timid, anxious glance she stole at him as she went out of the
room could one have guessed that this was his mother. He shut his
eyes and seemed to sleep, but twice heard the clock strike and
Father
Sisoy coughing the other side of the wall. And once more his mother
came in and looked timidly at him for a minute. Someone drove up to
the steps, as he could hear, in a coach or in a chaise. Suddenly a
knock, the door slammed, the lay brother came into the
bedroom."Your
holiness," he called."Well?""The
horses are here; it's time for the evening service.""What
o'clock is it?""A
quarter past seven."He
dressed and drove to the cathedral. During all the "Twelve
Gospels" he had to stand in the middle of the church without
moving, and the first gospel, the longest and the most beautiful,
he
read himself. A mood of confidence and courage came over him. That
first gospel, "Now is the Son of Man glorified," he knew by
heart; and as he read he raised his eyes from time to time, and saw
on both sides a perfect sea of lights and heard the splutter of
candles, but, as in past years, he could not see the people, and it
seemed as though these were all the same people as had been round
him
in those days, in his childhood and his youth; that they would
always
be the same every year and till such time as God only knew.His
father had been a deacon, his grandfather a priest, his
great-grandfather a deacon, and his whole family, perhaps from the
days when Christianity had been accepted in Russia, had belonged to
the priesthood; and his love for the Church services, for the
priesthood, for the peal of the bells, was deep in him,
ineradicable,
innate. In church, particularly when he took part in the service,
he
felt vigorous, of good cheer, happy. So it was now. Only when the
eighth gospel had been read, he felt that his voice had grown weak,
even his cough was inaudible. His head had begun to ache intensely,
and he was troubled by a fear that he might fall down. And his legs
were indeed quite numb, so that by degrees he ceased to feel them
and
could not understand how or on what he was standing, and why he did
not fall. . . .It
was a quarter to twelve when the service was over. When he reached
home, the bishop undressed and went to bed at once without even
saying his prayers. He could not speak and felt that he could not
have stood up. When he had covered his head with the quilt he felt
a
sudden longing to be abroad, an insufferable longing! He felt that
he
would give his life not to see those pitiful cheap shutters, those
low ceilings, not to smell that heavy monastery smell. If only
there
were one person to whom he could have talked, have opened his
heart!For
a long while he heard footsteps in the next room and could not tell
whose they were. At last the door opened, and Sisoy came in with a
candle and a tea-cup in his hand."You
are in bed already, your holiness?" he asked. "Here I have
come to rub you with spirit and vinegar. A thorough rubbing does a
great deal of good. Lord Jesus Christ! . . . That's the way . . .
that's the way. . . . I've just been in our monastery. . . . I
don't
like it. I'm going away from here to-morrow, your holiness; I don't
want to stay longer. Lord Jesus Christ. . . . That's the way. . .
."Sisoy
could never stay long in the same place, and he felt as though he
had
been a whole year in the Pankratievsky Monastery. Above all,
listening to him it was difficult to understand where his home was,
whether he cared for anyone or anything, whether he believed in
God.
. . . He did not know himself why he was a monk, and, indeed, he
did
not think about it, and the time when he had become a monk had long
passed out of his memory; it seemed as though he had been born a
monk."I'm
going away to-morrow; God be with them all.""I
should like to talk to you. . . . I can't find the time," said
the bishop softly with an effort. "I don't know anything or
anybody here. . . .""I'll
stay till Sunday if you like; so be it, but I don't want to stay
longer. I am sick of them!""I
ought not to be a bishop," said the bishop softly. "I ought
to have been a village priest, a deacon . . . or simply a monk. . .
.
All this oppresses me . . . oppresses me.""What?
Lord Jesus Christ. . . . That's the way. Come, sleep well, your
holiness! . . . What's the good of talking? It's no use.
Good-night!"The
bishop did not sleep all night. And at eight o'clock in the morning
he began to have hemorrhage from the bowels. The lay brother was
alarmed, and ran first to the archimandrite, then for the monastery
doctor, Ivan Andreyitch, who lived in the town. The doctor, a stout
old man with a long grey beard, made a prolonged examination of the
bishop, and kept shaking his head and frowning, then said:"Do
you know, your holiness, you have got typhoid?"After
an hour or so of hemorrhage the bishop looked much thinner, paler,
and wasted; his face looked wrinkled, his eyes looked bigger, and
he
seemed older, shorter, and it seemed to him that he was thinner,
weaker, more insignificant than any one, that everything that had
been had retreated far, far away and would never go on again or be
repeated."How
good," he thought, "how good!"His
old mother came. Seeing his wrinkled face and his big eyes, she was
frightened, she fell on her knees by the bed and began kissing his
face, his shoulders, his hands. And to her, too, it seemed that he
was thinner, weaker, and more insignificant than anyone, and now
she
forgot that he was a bishop, and kissed him as though he were a
child
very near and very dear to her."Pavlusha,
darling," she said; "my own, my darling son! . . . Why are
you like this? Pavlusha, answer me!"Katya,
pale and severe, stood beside her, unable to understand what was
the
matter with her uncle, why there was such a look of suffering on
her
grandmother's face, why she was saying such sad and touching
things.
By now he could not utter a word, he could understand nothing, and
he
imagined he was a simple ordinary man, that he was walking quickly,
cheerfully through the fields, tapping with his stick, while above
him was the open sky bathed in sunshine, and that he was free now
as
a bird and could go where he liked!"Pavlusha,
my darling son, answer me," the old woman was saying."What
is it? My own!""Don't
disturb his holiness," Sisoy said angrily, walking about the
room. "Let him sleep . . . what's the use . . . it's no good. .
. ."Three
doctors arrived, consulted together, and went away again. The day
was
long, incredibly long, then the night came on and passed slowly,
slowly, and towards morning on Saturday the lay brother went in to
the old mother who was lying on the sofa in the parlour, and asked
her to go into the bedroom: the bishop had just breathed his
last.Next
day was Easter Sunday. There were forty-two churches and six
monasteries in the town; the sonorous, joyful clang of the bells
hung
over the town from morning till night unceasingly, setting the
spring
air aquiver; the birds were singing, the sun was shining brightly.
The big market square was noisy, swings were going, barrel organs
were playing, accordions were squeaking, drunken voices were
shouting. After midday people began driving up and down the
principal
street.In
short, all was merriment, everything was satisfactory, just as it
had
been the year before, and as it will be in all likelihood next
year.A
month later a new suffragan bishop was appointed, and no one
thought
anything more of Bishop Pyotr, and afterwards he was completely
forgotten. And only the dead man's old mother, who is living to-day
with her son-in-law the deacon in a remote little district town,
when
she goes out at night to bring her cow in and meets other women at
the pasture, begins talking of her children and her grandchildren,
and says that she had a son a bishop, and this she says timidly,
afraid that she may not be believed. . . .And,
indeed, there are some who do not believe her.
THE LETTER
The clerical superintendent of the district, his Reverence
Father Fyodor Orlov, a handsome, well-nourished man of fifty, grave
and important as he always was, with an habitual expression of
dignity that never left his face, was walking to and fro in his
little drawing-room, extremely exhausted, and thinking intensely
about the same thing: "When would his visitor go?" The thought
worried him and did not leave him for a minute. The visitor, Father
Anastasy, the priest of one of the villages near the town, had come
to him three hours before on some very unpleasant and dreary
business of his own, had stayed on and on, was now sitting in the
corner at a little round table with his elbow on a thick account
book, and apparently had no thought of going, though it was getting
on for nine o'clock in the evening.
Not everyone knows when to
be silent and when to go. It not infrequently happens that even
diplomatic persons of good worldly breeding fail to observe that
their presence is arousing a feeling akin to hatred in their
exhausted or busy host, and that this feeling is being concealed
with an effort and disguised with a lie. But Father Anastasy
perceived it clearly, and realized that his presence was burdensome
and inappropriate, that his Reverence, who had taken an early
morning service in the night and a long mass at midday, was
exhausted and longing for repose; every minute he was meaning to
get up and go, but he did not get up, he sat on as though he were
waiting for something. He was an old man of sixty-five, prematurely
aged, with a bent and bony figure, with a sunken face and the dark
skin of old age, with red eyelids and a long narrow back like a
fish's; he was dressed in a smart cassock of a light lilac colour,
but too big for him (presented to him by the widow of a young
priest lately deceased), a full cloth coat with a broad leather
belt, and clumsy high boots the size and hue of which showed
clearly that Father Anastasy dispensed with goloshes. In spite of
his position and his venerable age, there was something pitiful,
crushed and humiliated in his lustreless red eyes, in the strands
of grey hair with a shade of green in it on the nape of his neck,
and in the big shoulder-blades on his lean back. . . . He sat
without speaking or moving, and coughed with circumspection, as
though afraid that the sound of his coughing might make his
presence more noticeable.
The old man had come to see
his Reverence on business. Two months before he had been prohibited
from officiating till further notice, and his case was being
inquired into. His shortcomings were numerous. He was intemperate
in his habits, fell out with the other clergy and the commune, kept
the church records and accounts carelessly —these were the formal
charges against him; but besides all that, there had been rumours
for a long time past that he celebrated unlawful marriages for
money and sold certificates of having fasted and taken the
sacrament to officials and officers who came to him from the town.
These rumours were maintained the more persistently that he was
poor and had nine children to keep, who were as incompetent and
unsuccessful as himself. The sons were spoilt and uneducated, and
stayed at home doing nothing, while the daughters were ugly and did
not get married.
Not having the moral force
to be open, his Reverence walked up and down the room and said
nothing or spoke in hints.
"So you are not going home
to-night?" he asked, stopping near the dark window and poking with
his little finger into the cage where a canary was asleep with its
feathers puffed out.
Father Anastasy started,
coughed cautiously and said rapidly:
"Home? I don't care to,
Fyodor Ilyitch. I cannot officiate, as you know, so what am I to do
there? I came away on purpose that I might not have to look the
people in the face. One is ashamed not to officiate, as you know.
Besides, I have business here, Fyodor Ilyitch. To-morrow after
breaking the fast I want to talk things over thoroughly with the
Father charged with the inquiry."
"Ah! . . ." yawned his
Reverence, "and where are you staying?"
"At Zyavkin's."
Father Anastasy suddenly
remembered that within two hours his Reverence had to take the
Easter-night service, and he felt so ashamed of his unwelcome
burdensome presence that he made up his mind to go away at once and
let the exhausted man rest. And the old man got up to go. But
before he began saying good-bye he stood clearing his throat for a
minute and looking searchingly at his Reverence's back, still with
the same expression of vague expectation in his whole figure; his
face was working with shame, timidity, and a pitiful forced laugh
such as one sees in people who do not respect themselves. Waving
his hand as it were resolutely, he said with a husky quavering
laugh:
"Father Fyodor, do me one
more kindness: bid them give me at leave-taking . . . one little
glass of vodka."
"It's not the time to drink
vodka now," said his Reverence sternly."One must have some regard for decency."
Father Anastasy was still
more overwhelmed by confusion; he laughed, and, forgetting his
resolution to go away, he dropped back on his chair. His Reverence
looked at his helpless, embarrassed face and his bent figure and he
felt sorry for the old man.
"Please God, we will have a
drink to-morrow," he said, wishing to soften his stem refusal.
"Everything is good in due season."
His Reverence believed in
people's reforming, but now when a feeling of pity had been kindled
in him it seemed to him that this disgraced, worn-out old man,
entangled in a network of sins and weaknesses, was hopelessly
wrecked, that there was no power on earth that could straighten out
his spine, give brightness to his eyes and restrain the unpleasant
timid laugh which he laughed on purpose to smoothe over to some
slight extent the repulsive impression he made on
people.
The old man seemed now to
Father Fyodor not guilty and not vicious, but humiliated, insulted,
unfortunate; his Reverence thought of his wife, his nine children,
the dirty beggarly shelter at Zyavkin's; he thought for some reason
of the people who are glad to see priests drunk and persons in
authority detected in crimes; and thought that the very best thing
Father Anastasy could do now would be to die as soon as possible
and to depart from this world for ever.
There were a sound of
footsteps.
"Father Fyodor, you are not
resting?" a bass voice asked from the passage.
"No, deacon; come
in."
Orlov's colleague, the
deacon Liubimov, an elderly man with a big bald patch on the top of
his head, though his hair was still black and he was still
vigorous-looking, with thick black eyebrows like a Georgian's,
walked in. He bowed to Father Anastasy and sat down.
"What good news have you?"
asked his Reverence.
"What good news?" answered
the deacon, and after a pause he went on with a smile: "When your
children are little, your trouble is small; when your children are
big, your trouble is great. Such goings on, Father Fyodor, that I
don't know what to think of it. It's a regular farce, that's what
it is."
He paused again for a
little, smiled still more broadly and said:
"Nikolay Matveyitch came
back from Harkov to-day. He has been telling me about my Pyotr. He
has been to see him twice, he tells me."
"What has he been telling
you, then?"
"He has upset me, God bless
him. He meant to please me but when I came to think it over, it
seems there is not much to be pleased at. I ought to grieve rather
than be pleased. . . 'Your Petrushka,' said he, 'lives in fine
style. He is far above us now,' said he. 'Well thank God for that,'
said I. 'I dined with him,' said he, 'and saw his whole manner of
life. He lives like a gentleman,' he said; 'you couldn't wish to
live better.' I was naturally interested and I asked, 'And what did
you have for dinner?' 'First,' he said, 'a fish course something
like fish soup, then tongue and peas,' and then he said, 'roast
turkey.' 'Turkey in Lent? that is something to please me,' said I.
'Turkey in Lent? Eh?'"
"Nothing marvellous in
that," said his Reverence, screwing up his eyes ironically. And
sticking both thumbs in his belt, he drew himself up and said in
the tone in which he usually delivered discourses or gave his
Scripture lessons to the pupils in the district school: "People who
do not keep the fasts are divided into two different categories:
some do not keep them through laxity, others through infidelity.
Your Pyotr does not keep them through infidelity. Yes."
The deacon looked timidly at
Father Fyodor's stern face and said:
"There is worse to follow. .
. . We talked and discussed one thing and another, and it turned
out that my infidel of a son is living with some madame, another
man's wife. She takes the place of wife and hostess in his flat,
pours out the tea, receives visitors and all the rest of it, as
though she were his lawful wife. For over two years he has been
keeping up this dance with this viper. It's a regular farce. They
have been living together for three years and no
children."
"I suppose they have been
living in chastity!" chuckled FatherAnastasy, coughing huskily. "There are children, Father
Deacon—there are, but they don't keep them at home! They send them
to theFoundling! He-he-he! . . ." Anastasy went on coughing till he
choked.
"Don't interfere, Father
Anastasy," said his Reverence sternly.
"Nikolay Matveyitch asked
him, 'What madame is this helping the soup at your table?'" the
deacon went on, gloomily scanning Anastasy's bent figure. "'That is
my wife,' said he. 'When was your wedding?' Nikolay Matveyitch
asked him, and Pyotr answered, 'We were married at Kulikov's
restaurant.'"
His Reverence's eyes flashed
wrathfully and the colour came into his temples. Apart from
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