Fifty-Two Stories

“So Nikolai Matveich asked him, ‘Who is this madame who serves soup at your table?’ ” the deacon went on, looking darkly at Anastasy’s bent body. “And he says to him, ‘She’s my wife,’ he says. And the other asks, ‘Have you been pleased to be married long?’ And Pyotr replies, ‘We were married in Kulikov’s pastry shop.’ ”

The dean’s eyes lit up wrathfully, and his temples turned red. Apart from his sinfulness, he found Pyotr unsympathetic in general as a human being. Father Fyodor had what is known as a bone to pick with him. He remembered him when he was still a high school boy, and remembered him distinctly, because even then he had seemed abnormal to him. The schoolboy Petrusha was embarrassed to assist at the altar, was offended when addressed informally, did not cross himself on entering a room, and, most memorably of all, liked to talk much and heatedly, and, in Father Fyodor’s opinion, garrulousness in children was improper and harmful; besides that, Petrusha had a scornful and critical attitude towards fishing, of which the dean and the deacon were great enthusiasts. As a student Pyotr did not go to church at all, slept until noon, looked down his nose at people, and, with a sort of special defiance, liked to raise ticklish, unanswerable questions.

“What do you want?” the dean asked, going up to the deacon and looking at him crossly. “What do you want? This was to be expected! I aways knew and was sure that nothing good would come of your Pyotr! I told you and I’m telling you. You’re now reaping what you sowed! Reap, then!”

“What did I sow, Father Fyodor?” the deacon asked softly, looking up at the dean.

“And whose fault is it, if not yours? You are the parent, he is your child! It was for you to instruct him, to instill the fear of God in him. You had to teach him! Begot him, yes, you begot him, but instruct him—no, you did not. That’s a sin! Bad! Shameful!”

The dean forgot about his weariness, paced about, and went on talking. On the deacon’s bare crown and forehead small drops appeared. He raised guilty eyes to the dean and said:

“So I didn’t instruct him, Father Fyodor? Lord have mercy, am I not the father of my child? You yourself know I spared nothing for him, all my life I strove and prayed to God to give him a proper education. I sent him to school, and I hired private tutors for him, and he finished university. And if I couldn’t guide his mind, Father Fyodor, then, judge for yourself, I simply had no ability for it! He used to come here when he was a student, and I would tell him what I thought, but he didn’t listen. I tell him, ‘Go to church,’ and he says, ‘Why should I?’ I’d explain, and he says, ‘Why? What for?’ Or else he pats me on the shoulder and says, ‘Everything in this world is relative, approximate, and conventional. I don’t know anything, and you don’t know a blessed thing either, Papa.’ ”

Father Anastasy burst into wheezy laughter, had a coughing fit, and waved his fingers in the air as if he was about to say something. The dean glanced at him and said sternly:

“Don’t butt in, Father Anastasy.”

The old man laughed, beamed, and evidently enjoyed listening to the deacon, as if he was glad there were other sinful people in this world besides himself. The deacon spoke sincerely, with a contrite heart, and tears even came to his eyes. Father Fyodor felt sorry for him.

“It’s your fault, Deacon, your fault,” he said, but not so sternly and heatedly now. “If you know how to beget, you should know how to instruct. You should have instructed him while he was still a child, but now that he’s a student, just try putting him right!”

Silence ensued. The deacon clasped his hands and said with a sigh:

“And I’m the one who must answer for him!”

“There you have it!”

After a brief pause, the dean yawned and sighed at the same time, and asked:

“Who is reading the Acts?”⁵

“Evstrat. Evstrat always reads the Acts.”

The deacon got up and, looking imploringly at the dean, asked:

“Father Fyodor, what am I to do now?”

“Do whatever you like. I’m not his father, you are. You know best.”

“I know nothing, Father Fyodor! Be so kind as to teach me! Believe me, I’m sick at heart! I can’t sleep now, or sit quietly, and the holiday isn’t a holiday for me! Tell me what to do, Father Fyodor!”

“Write him a letter.”

“What am I going to write to him?”

“Write that he mustn’t do this. Write briefly but sternly and specifically, without softening or diminishing his guilt. It’s your parental obligation. You’ll write, fulfill your duty, and calm down.”

“That’s true, but what am I to write to him? In what sense? I’ll write, and he’ll answer: ‘Why? What for? How is it a sin?’ ”

Father Anastasy again laughed wheezily and moved his fingers.

“ ‘Why? What for? How is it a sin?’ ” he began shrilly. “I was once confessing a certain gentleman and told him that to trust too much in God’s mercy is a sin, and he asks: ‘Why?’ I wanted to answer him, but up here,” Anastasy slapped himself on the forehead, “up here I had nothing! Haa-ha-ha-ha…”