Fifty-Two Stories

“Anyhow it means she’s got no shame! I’m not defending Pyotr…He’s going to get it…He’ll read the letter and scratch his head! He’ll burn with shame!”

“It’s a fine letter, only…better not send it to him, Father Deacon! Let him be.”

“Why so?” The deacon was alarmed.

“Just so! Don’t send it, Deacon! What’s the point? So you send it, he reads it, and…and then what? He’ll just get all upset. Forgive him, let him be!”

The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy’s dark face, at his thrown-open cassock, resembling wings in the darkness, and shrugged his shoulders.

“How can I forgive him?” he asked. “I’ll have to answer to God for him!”

“Even so, forgive him anyway. Really! And God will forgive you for your kindness.”

“But isn’t he my son? Should I teach him or not?”

“Teach him? Why not? You can teach him, only why call him a pagan? It will hurt him, Deacon…”

The deacon was a widower and lived in a small three-window house. His older sister oversaw the housekeeping for him, an unmarried woman who had lost the use of her legs three years ago and therefore never left her bed. He was afraid of her, obeyed her, and did nothing without consulting her. Father Anastasy went home with him. Seeing his table already covered with kulichi and red-dyed eggs,⁹ he began to weep for some reason, probably remembering his own house, and to make a joke of those tears he at once laughed wheezily.

“Yes, soon we’ll break the fast,” he said. “Yes…You know, Deacon, even now it would do no harm…to drink a little glass. May I? I’ll drink it,” he whispered with a sidelong glance at the door, “so that the old woman…doesn’t hear…no, no…”

The deacon silently pushed the decanter and a glass towards him, unfolded the letter, and began to read it aloud. He liked the letter now as much as he had when the dean dictated it. He beamed with pleasure and wagged his head, as if he had tasted something very sweet.

“Now tha-a-at’s a letter!” he said. “Petrukha has never dreamed of getting such a letter. Just what he needs, so that he feels the heat…there!”

“You know what, Deacon? Don’t send it!” said Anastasy, pouring himself a second glass as if absentmindedly. “Forgive him, let him be! I tell you…in all conscience. If his own father won’t forgive him, who will? So it means he’ll live without forgiveness? And consider, Deacon: punishers will turn up even without you, but just try finding people who’ll have mercy on your own son! I…I, brother, will have…One last one…Up and write to him straight out: I forgive you, Pyotr! He’ll understa-a-and! He’ll fe-e-el it! I, brother…I know it from myself, Deacon. When I lived like other people, I didn’t mind much, but now, when I’ve lost the image and likeness,¹⁰ I want only one thing: that good people forgive me. And consider this, that it’s not the righteous who need forgiving, it’s the sinners. What should you forgive your old woman for, if she’s not sinful? No, you forgive the one it’s a pity to see…that’s what!”

Anastasy propped his head with his fist and fell to thinking.

“It’s bad, Deacon,” he sighed, obviously fighting against the wish to drink. “Bad! In sin did my mother conceive me,¹¹ in sin I’ve lived, and in sin I’ll die…Lord have mercy on me a sinner! I’m confounded, Deacon! There’s no salvation for me! And I got confounded not in life, but in old age, just before death…I…”

The old man waved his hand and had another drink, then got up and sat in a different place. The deacon, not letting go of the letter, paced from corner to corner. He was thinking about his son. Discontent, grief, and fear no longer troubled him: it had all gone into the letter. Now he only imagined Pyotr to himself, pictured his face, recalled the past years, when his son used to visit for the holiday. He thought only of what was good, warm, sad, of what he could even think about all his life without wearying. Longing for his son, he reread the letter one more time and looked questioningly at Anastasy.

“Don’t send it!” the latter said, waving his hand.

“No, anyhow…I must. Anyhow it will sort of…set him to rights. It won’t hurt…”

The deacon took an envelope from his desk, but, before putting the letter into it, sat down at the desk, smiled, and added something of his own at the bottom of the letter: “And they’ve sent us a new full-time caretaker. He’s livelier than the previous one. He’s a dancer, and a babbler, and a jack-of-all-trades, and all the Govorov girls have lost their minds over him. They say the military commander Kostirev will also retire soon. It’s high time!” And very pleased with himself, not realizing that by this postscript he had totally ruined the stern letter, the deacon wrote the address on the envelope and placed it in the most conspicuous place on the table.

1887

VOLODYA