Forty Stories

The Bishop

I

VESPERS were being sung on the eve of Palm Sunday in the Old Petrovsky convent. When they began distributing the pussy willows, it was nearly ten o’clock, the candles were shedding only a dim light and the wicks wanted snuffing out: it was like being in a fog. In the twilight of the church the crowd heaved like a sea, and to His Eminence Bishop Peter, who had been ill for three days, it seemed that all those faces—men and women, old and young—were exactly the same, and all those who came up to receive the pussy willows had the same expression in their eyes. He could not see the doors through the haze, the crowd kept moving, and it looked as though there was no end to it and there would never be an end to it. A choir of women’s voices was singing, and a nun was reading the prayers of the day.

How hot and close the air was! The service seemed interminable. The Bishop was tired. His breathing was labored, dry, and rapid, his shoulders ached with weariness, his legs were trembling. He was also unpleasantly disturbed by one of God’s fools who kept screaming from the gallery. Suddenly, as though in a dream or in delirium, the Bishop thought he saw Maria Timofeyevna, his own mother, whom he had not seen in nine years, coming up to him in the crowd, or perhaps it was only an old woman who resembled his mother. She took a pussy willow from him, gazing joyfully after him, a sweet and gentle smile on her lips, until she was lost in the crowd. For some reason tears began to flow down his cheeks. His soul was at rest, everything was at peace, while he kept gazing fixedly at the choir on the left, where the prayers were being read and where amid the evening shadows it was impossible to distinguish any human beings at all; and as he looked, he wept. The tears glistened on his cheeks and on his beard. Soon someone near him began to weep, and then someone farther away, and then still others wept, and gradually the whole church was full of the soft sound of weeping. After about five minutes the nuns’ choir began singing, there was no more weeping, and everything went on as before.

Soon afterward the service came to an end. The Bishop got into his carriage and drove home, listening to the joyous and harmonious chimes of the heavy church bells, which he loved and which filled the whole garden in the moonlight. White walls, white crosses on the tombs, white birches and black shadows, and the moon afar off, yet hanging directly over the convent roof—all these things seemed to be living their own lives, remote and incomprehensible, and very close to mankind. It was early in April, but it had turned chilly after the warm spring day, with a light frost falling. The breath of spring could still be felt in the soft cool air. The road from the convent to the town was sandy, and the horses were obliged to go at a walking pace. Bathed in a clear and peaceful moonlight, the pilgrims were trudging home through the sand on both sides of the carriage. All were silent, deep in thought. Everything around looked familiar and friendly and young—trees and sky and even the moon itself—so that one longed to believe it would endure forever.

At last the carriage drove through the town, rumbling along the main street. All the stores except Yerakin’s were shut. Yerakin was a millionaire who was trying out the new electric lamps, and these flickered so brilliantly that a crowd had gathered round the store. There followed wide, dark, deserted streets in endless procession; then came the highway, the fields, and the smell of pines. Suddenly there rose before the Bishop’s eyes a white crenelated wall, behind it a tall bell tower flanked by five large golden cupolas on fire with moonlight. This was the Pankratievsky Monastery, where the Bishop lived. Here, too, high above the monastery there floated a silent moon lost in thought. The carriage drove through the gates, crunching over sand. Here and there dark monastic shapes hovered in the moonlight, and footsteps rang out over the flagstones.…

“Did you know, Your Eminence, that your mother came here while you were away?” A lay brother spoke to the Bishop as he entered his room.

“My mother? When did she come?”

“Before vespers. She first asked where you were, and then drove to the convent.”

“Then I must have seen her in the church. Dear Lord!”

And the Bishop laughed with joy.

“She bade me tell Your Eminence,” the lay brother went on, “that she will be coming back tomorrow. There was a little girl with her, I suppose a granddaughter. They are staying at Ovsyabnikov’s inn for the night.”

“What time is it?”

“A little after eleven.”

“Oh, what a shame!”

The Bishop sat for a while in his living room, pondering. He could scarcely bring himself to believe it was so late. His legs and arms were stiff, the back of his neck ached. He felt hot and uncomfortable. After resting a few moments he went into his bedroom, and there too he sat down and gave himself up to thoughts of his mother. He heard the lay brother walking away and Father Sisoi coughing in the next room. The monastery clock chimed the quarter.

The Bishop undressed and recited the prayers before going to sleep. He uttered those old and long-familiar words with scrupulous attention, and yet all the time he was thinking about his mother. She had nine children, and perhaps forty grandchildren. She had spent most of her life in a poor village with her husband, who was a deacon; she had lived there for a very long time, from the age of seventeen to the age of sixty. The Bishop had memories of her going back to his earliest childhood, almost from the age of three. How he had loved her! Dear, precious, unforgettable childhood! Why was it that those far-off days, which would never return, seemed brighter, gayer, and richer than they really were! How gentle and good his mother had been to him when he fell ill during childhood, and in his youth! And now his prayers mingled with memories which shone ever more luminously like a flame, and they did not hinder him from thinking of his mother.

After his prayers the Bishop finished undressing and lay down, and as soon as he became aware of being in darkness there rose before him the image of his dead father, his mother, and his native village, which was called Lyesopolye. Wheels creaking, sheep bleating, church bells on clear summer mornings, gypsies beneath the window—how sweet to dream of such things! He remembered Father Simeon, the priest at Lyesopolye, a decent, gentle, good-natured man, small and lean, with a son studying for the priesthood—the son was a huge strapping fellow with a ferocious bass voice. Once the young seminarian flew into a rage at the cook and thundered: “Jehu’s ass—that’s what you are!” And Father Simeon heard him and said nothing, ashamed because he could no longer remember where the existence of such an ass was recorded in holy scripture. The priest who followed Father Simeon at Lyesopolye was called Father Demian. Because he drank heavily and sometimes saw green snakes, this priest was sometimes called “Demian the Snake Seer.” The schoolmaster at Lyesopolye was called Matvey Nikolaich. He, too, had been a divinity student. Though kindly and intelligent, he was a drunkard. He never beat his students, but for some reason or other he always kept a bundle of birch twigs hanging on the wall, and underneath it there was the wholly unintelligible inscription: Betula kinderbalsamica secuta. He also had a shaggy black dog who went by the name of Syntax.

The Bishop laughed. Some five miles from Lyesopolye lay the village of Obnino with its wonder-working icon. In summer they would take the icon in procession, leaving Obnino to make the rounds of the neighboring villages, so that the church bells rang all day, now in one place, now in another, and to the Bishop it seemed as though the air itself had trembled with joy as he followed behind the icon, barefoot and hatless, with a simple smile on his lips and a simple faith in his heart. He had been immeasurably happy in those days, when he was known as Little Paul. Now he remembered that there were always crowds of people in Obnino, and in those days the priest, Father Alexey, in order to allow time for the offertory, made his deaf nephew read out the names of those for whom special prayers were asked “for the peace of their souls” or “for the health of their bodies.” Ilarion would read out the list of names, receiving an occasional five- or ten-kopeck coin for his services, and it was only when he had grown gray and bald, and was close to death, that he suddenly noticed on one of the slips of paper the words: “What a fool you are, Ilarion!” Until the age of fifteen Little Paul showed few signs of promise, and his schoolwork was so bad that his parents thought of removing him from the ecclesiastical school and putting him to work in a store. One day, calling at the Obnino post office for letters, he stared for a long time at the clerks and said: “Excuse me, how are you paid, every month or every day?”

The Bishop crossed himself and turned over on the other side, hoping to put his thoughts to rest, hoping to sleep.

“My mother has come,” he remembered, and laughed.

The moon glittered through the window, the floor shone white with moonlight, and the shadows lay over him. A cricket chirped. Through the wall came the sound of Father Sisoi snoring in the next room, and the old man’s snores somehow suggested loneliness, forlornness, a strange wandering. Once Father Sisoi had been the housekeeper of the diocesan bishop, and so they called him “the former Father Housekeeper.” He was seventy years old, and sometimes he lived in the monastery twelve miles out of town, and sometimes he remained in the town. Just three days before he had turned up at the Pankratievsky Monastery, and the Bishop was keeping him there to discuss some affairs and business with him at his leisure.

The bell for matins rang at half past one. Father Sisoi coughed, muttered something in a disgruntled voice, and then got up and went wandering barefoot through the rooms.

“Father Sisoi,” the Bishop called.

Father Sisoi returned to his room and a little later reappeared, wearing boots and carrying a candle, with a cassock over his underclothes and an old, small, faded skullcap on his head.

“I can’t sleep,” the Bishop said, sitting up. “I must be ill. I don’t know what it is. Fever!”

“You may have caught cold, Your Eminence. You should get yourself rubbed with tallow.”

Father Sisoi stood there for a while and yawned: “O Lord, forgive me, a poor sinner …”

“I saw the electric lamps in Yerakin’s store,” the Bishop went on. “I don’t like them at all.”

Father Sisoi was old, lean, bent, always dissatisfied with something or other, and his eyes were angry and prominent like a crab’s.

“I don’t like it either,” he said, going away. “I don’t like it at all. O Lord, what a mess!”

II

On the following day, Palm Sunday, the Bishop took the service in the cathedral in the town. Afterward he paid a visit to the archbishop, called upon the widow of a general who was very ill, and then drove home. Around two o’clock he entertained two beloved guests for lunch—his aged mother and his niece Katya, who was eight years old. All through lunch the spring sunshine streamed through the windows from the courtyard, shining sweetly on the white tablecloth and on Katya’s red hair. Through the double windowpanes there could be heard the cawing of rooks and the singing of starlings in the garden.

“It’s all of nine years since we saw one another,” the old woman was saying, “but when I caught sight of you at the convent yesterday, dear Lord, you hadn’t changed even a little bit, though maybe you’re a bit thinner and your beard is longer! Oh, Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven! Why, yesterday at the evening service there wasn’t anybody who could hold back his tears—they all wept, and as soon as I saw you, I wept too, though God knows what I was weeping for. It’s God’s holy will!”

Yet in spite of the affectionate tone in which she spoke to him, it was clear that she was not at her ease, did not know whether to address him with the familiar “thou” or the more formal “you,” or whether she should laugh or not, and she seemed to feel more like the widow of a deacon than his mother, while Katya sat there with her eyes glued on her uncle the Bishop, as though trying to make out what manner of man he was. Her hair had escaped from the comb and the velvet ribbon, and stood around her head like a halo; she had a turned-up nose, and her eyes were shifty, a little sly. Before they sat down to dinner she had broken a wineglass, and while talking her grandmother kept moving glasses and tumblers away from her. The Bishop listened to his mother, remembering how many, many years before, she had taken him and his brothers and sisters to visit relatives who were reputed to be rich. In those days she was busy with her own children, and now she was busy with her grandchildren, and she had brought Katya to see him.…

“Your sister Varenka has four children now,” she was saying. “Katya is the oldest. Your brother-in-law, Father Ivan, fell ill—God knows why these things happen—and he died three days before the Feast of the Assumption, and so my poor Varenka was thrown out into a cold world …”

“How is Nikanor?” The Bishop asked about his oldest brother.

“Pretty well, thank God. Well enough, praise the Lord, to have some breath in his body. There’s one thing though: his son Nikolasha—that’s my grandson—didn’t want to enter the Church and he’s gone to the university instead to study medicine. He thinks it’s the best thing, but who really knows? It’s all God’s holy will!”

“Nikolasha cuts up dead people,” Katya said, spilling water over her lap.

“Sit still, child,” her grandmother said gently, and she removed the glass from the child’s hand. “Say a prayer, and eat!”

“It’s such a long time since we met!” the Bishop said, tenderly stroking his mother’s hand and shoulder. “I missed you when I was abroad, Mother. I missed you dreadfully.”

“Thank you.”

“In the evenings I used to sit by the open window, and I was terribly alone, and the band was playing, and suddenly I would be overcome with homesickness, and I would have given everything in the world to be home again, and seeing you.…”

His mother smiled and beamed, and then her face assumed a serious expression, and she said: “Thank you.”

Abruptly the Bishop’s mood changed. He gazed at his mother and could not understand how she had come by that timid, deferential expression of face and voice, and he could not understand what lay behind it, and he did not recognize her. He felt sad and hurt. He was still suffering from the headache of the day before, and his legs were aching horribly, and the fish he was eating seemed stale and insipid, and all the time he was very thirsty.

After dinner two rich ladies, landowners, came and sat for an hour and a half, pulling long faces, never uttering a word. Then the archimandrite, a gloomy, taciturn man, came on business. Then they rang the bells for vespers, and the sun set behind the woods, and the day was over. Returning from church, the Bishop said his prayers hurriedly, went to bed, and drew up the covers to keep as warm as possible.

It disturbed him to remember the fish he had eaten at dinner. The moonlight too disturbed him, and the sound of voices came to his ears. In a nearby room, probably the guest room, Father Sisoi was talking politics.

“They’re fighting in Japan now,” he was saying. “The Japanese are just like the Montenegrins, you know, they’re the same race. They were both under the Turkish yoke, don’t you know?”

And then came the voice of Maria Timofeyevna: “We said our prayers and had a cup of tea, and then we went off to see Father Yegor at Novokhatnoye, and then we …”

She kept saying: “We had a cup of tea” or “We drank tea,” until it seemed that her whole life was devoted to tea drinking. Slowly, drowsily, the Bishop found himself surrendering to recollections of the seminary where he had studied. For three years he had taught Greek in the seminary, until he could no longer read without glasses; he became a monk, and later was made school inspector. Then he took the examination for a degree. At thirty-two he became rector of a seminary and was consecrated archimandrite. In those days his life flowed so peacefully and pleasantly, and seemed to stretch far into the future with no end in sight. Then his health began to fail, he became very thin and nearly blind, and his doctors advised him to give up everything and live abroad.

“And what did you do then?” Father Sisoi was saying in the next room.

“Then we had a cup of tea,” Maria Timofeyevna answered.

“Oh, Father, look, your beard is green!” Katya exclaimed suddenly in surprise, and she burst out laughing.

The Bishop remembered that old gray-haired Father Sisoi’s beard really did have a touch of green, and he, too, laughed.

“God have mercy on us, what a nuisance the girl is!” Father Sisoi shouted in an angry voice. “You’re a spoiled brat! Sit still, will you?”

New recollections came to the Bishop—he remembered the white church, all perfectly new, in which he held services when he went abroad, and the roaring of the warm sea. His apartment there contained five lofty rooms, well lit, with a brand-new writing table in his study and a whole library of books. He read a great deal and wrote a lot. He remembered how homesick he had been for his native land, and he remembered a blind beggar woman playing on a guitar underneath his window and singing about love, and whenever he listened to her, he always found himself for some reason meditating on the past. Eight years slipped away before he was recalled to Russia, and now he was a suffragan bishop, and the past was already fading into the far-off mists, as though it were a dream.

Father Sisoi came into the bedroom with a candle in his hand.

“Well, well,” he said, surprised. “So you went to sleep early, Your Eminence.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s still very early, only ten o’clock! I bought a candle this evening. I want to rub you with tallow!”

“I have a fever,” the Bishop said, sitting up. “I really should do something about it. My head feels queer.…”

Father Sisoi removed the Bishop’s shirt and began rubbing his chest and back with tallow.

“There … there,” he said. “Oh, Lord Jesus Christ! There! I went to the town today and met—what’s his name?—yes, Archpresbyter Sidonsky. I had a cup of tea with him. I don’t like him. Oh, Lord Jesus Christ! There! I don’t like him one little bit!”

III

The archbishop was an old man, very fat, and for more than a month he had kept to his bed, suffering from rheumatism or gout. Bishop Peter went to see him almost every day, and he also saw all those who had been going to the archbishop as suppliants. Now that he was unwell, he was troubled by the triviality and emptiness of everything they asked for, everything that made them weep, and he was distressed by their ignorance and cowardice. And all these useless, trivial requests oppressed him by their sheer weight, and now at last he felt he understood the man who wrote in his early days a treatise on the freedom of the will, and now seemed to be absorbed in trivialities, to have forgotten everything, and to have put thoughts of God aside. It occurred to the Bishop that he must have grown out of touch with Russian life while abroad; it was no longer easy for him; the people seemed coarse, the women who came for guidance seemed dull and stupid, the seminarians and their teachers uncultured and sometimes savage. And the documents which came in and went out could be counted in the tens of thousands! What documents they were! The ecclesiastical superintendents were giving marks to all the priests in the diocese; the young and old priests, and their wives and children, all were given marks according to their behavior—five, four, sometimes three—and he was obliged to talk and read and write serious reports on the subject. There was not a moment he could call his own, his soul was troubled all day, and he was at peace with himself only in church.

He could not grow accustomed to the terror he inspired unwittingly among people in spite of his quiet and modest ways. Everyone in the province seemed to shrivel and show demonstrable signs of guilt and fear the moment he glanced at them. Everyone, even the old archpresbyters, trembled in his presence; they all threw themselves at his feet, and not long ago an old lady, the wife of a village priest, came to him and was so overcome with awe that she was unable to utter a word, and went away without asking for anything. And he, who was incapable of uttering a harsh word against people in his sermons, and who never blamed people because he pitied them so, was moved to fury by these suppliants; he lost his temper and hurled their petitions to the floor. In all the time he had been there not one single person had spoken to him genuinely, simply, humanly. Even his old mother had changed—had in fact changed more than most! Why did she chatter incessantly with Father Sisoi, and laugh so much with him, while maintaining a strange seriousness and reserve and constraint in the presence of her son? It was not like her. The only person who behaved naturally and said whatever came into his head was old Father Sisoi, who had lived with bishops all his life and had outlasted eleven of them. And so Bishop Peter was at ease with him, although, of course, he was a horrible and empty-headed little man.

After the service on Tuesday, Bishop Peter went to the archbishop’s house and received petitions; he grew excited, lost his temper, and drove home. He felt as unwell as before, and longed for his bed, but he was hardly in the house when he was informed that the young merchant Yerakin, a benefactor of the church, had come to see him on important business. The Bishop was obliged to receive him. Yerakin stayed about an hour, talking in a loud voice, almost screaming, and it was difficult to understand what he said.

“May God grant it!” the merchant said as he went away. “It’s absolutely necessary, too! According to the circumstances, Your Eminence! Oh, I do hope it comes to pass!”

After him came the mother superior of a distant convent. And when she had gone, the bells were ringing for vespers and he had to go to the church.

That evening the monks sang in harmony and as though inspired, while a young black-bearded priest officiated; and the Bishop, listening as they sang of the Bridegroom who entered at midnight into the chamber adorned for Him, felt no sorrow over his sins, nor any grief, only a great sense of peace and tranquillity, and in his imagination he was being swept back into the distant past, to the days of his childhood and youth, when they also sang of the Bridegroom entering the chamber, and now the past rose up before him, vivid, beautiful, and joyful, as in all likelihood it had never been. And perhaps in the other world, in the life to come, we shall remember the distant past, our life on earth, with the same feeling. Who knows? The Bishop sat near the altar, where the shadows were deepest, while tears trickled down his cheeks, and he thought of how he had attained everything a man of his position could attain; he had faith, but not everything was clear to him. Something was lacking, and he did not want to die. He felt he had failed to discover the most important thing of all, something which he had glimpsed obscurely in dreams in the past, and he was still troubled by the same hopes for the future he had felt as a child, and at the seminary, and when he was abroad.

“How beautifully they are singing today,” he thought, listening to the hymns. “Oh, how beautifully!”

IV

On Thursday he celebrated mass in the cathedral. It was the Washing of the Feet. When the service was over and the people had gone home, the warm sun was shining merrily, the water was streaming noisily in the gutters, and the perpetual trilling of larks came floating in from the fields outside the city, speaking of peace and tenderness. The trees were already awakening and smiling a welcome, and over them stretched the unfathomable, the immeasurable blue sky.

As soon as he reached home Bishop Peter drank some tea, changed his clothes, lay down on the bed, and told the lay brother to close the shutters. The bedroom grew dark. But what weariness he suffered, what pain there was in his legs and back, a heavy chilling pain, what noises in his ears! For a long time he had not slept—it seemed to him now a very long time indeed—and there was something completely nonsensical which tickled his brain as soon as he closed his eyes, preventing him from sleeping. As on the previous day, there came to him from the next room the sound of voices, the ringing sound of glasses and teaspoons.… Maria Timofeyevna was gaily recounting an anecdote to Father Sisoi, with many a quaint turn of phrase, and sometimes the old man would answer in a gruff, ill-tempered voice: “Well, and what then? Did they do that? And what next?” And once more the Bishop felt first annoyed and then hurt that in the presence of others his old mother should behave so naturally and simply, while with him, her son, she was awkward, spoke little, and did not say what she intended to say, and during all those days he was sure she had been trying to find some pretext for standing, as though embarrassed to be seated in his presence. And his father? He, too, if he had been alive, would probably have been incapable of uttering a word.…

Something in the next room crashed to the floor. Katya must have dropped a cup or saucer, for Father Sisoi suddenly rumbled and shouted angrily: “The child is an awful nuisance. Lord, forgive me my sins, but you can’t put anything in her hands!”

Then it was quiet, the only sounds coming from outside. When at last the Bishop opened his eyes, he saw Katya standing motionless in the room, gazing at him.

“Is that you, Katya?” he asked. “Who’s opening and shutting doors downstairs?”

“I can’t hear anything,” Katya said, listening.

“There, someone just walked by.”

“Uncle, that was a noise from your stomach!”

He laughed and stroked her head.

“So brother Nikolasha cuts up dead people?” he said after a while.

“Yes, he’s studying.”

“Is he good to you?”

“He’s very good, Uncle, but he drinks a terrible lot of vodka.”

“What did your father die of?”

“He felt poorly and got awful thin, and then suddenly there was something wrong with his throat. I was ill, too, and so was my brother Fedya. We all had sore throats. Papa died, but we got well.”

Her chin quivered, and tears filled her eyes and went trickling down her cheeks.

“Your Eminence!” she cried in a shrill voice, weeping bitterly. “Uncle dear, we’re all so unhappy—our mother and all of us.… Do give us a little money.… Do be good to us, Uncle dear!”

Then he too began weeping, and for a long time he was too moved to speak. He caressed her hair and patted her shoulders and said: “Very good, my child. Wait till Easter comes, and then we’ll talk about it. I’ll help you. I’ll help.…”

His mother came quietly and timidly into the room, and prayed before the icon. Seeing that he was not sleeping, she said: “Wouldn’t you like some soup?”

“No, thank you,” he answered. “I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t look well to me. You mustn’t fall ill, you know. All day on your legs, all day—God knows it makes my heart ache just to look at you. Well, Easter isn’t on the other side of the hills, as they say, and then you’ll rest, and then, God willing, we’ll have time for a talk, but now I’m not going to keep you awake with my chatter. Come along, Katenka! Let His Eminence have a bit of sleep!”

And he remembered how long ago, when he was a boy, he had spoken to high dignitaries of the Church in exactly the same way, playfully and respectfully. Only by noticing her strangely tender eyes and the troubled glance she shot at him as she left the room could anyone have guessed that she was his mother. He closed his eyes and seemed to sleep, but he could hear Father Sisoi coughing on the other side of the wall, and he heard the clock strike twice. His mother came in again, and for a long moment she gazed at him timidly. Then he heard someone driving up to the front steps either in a carriage or an open cart. Suddenly there came a knock, a door banged, the lay brother entered the bedroom.

“Your Eminence!”

“Yes, what is it?”

“The horses have come. It’s time to go to Our Lord’s Passion.”

“What time is it?”

“A quarter past seven.”

He dressed and drove to the cathedral. During the reading of the Twelve Gospels he had to stand motionless in the middle of the church, and the first gospel, which is the longest and most beautiful, he read himself. A mood of confidence and courage took hold of him. That first gospel—“Now is the Son of Man glorified”—he knew by heart, and as he read he sometimes raised his eyes and saw a perfect sea of lights all round him, and he heard the spluttering of the candles, but as happened in the past he was unable to see the people. It occurred to him that they were perhaps the same people who had been around him in the days of his childhood and youth, and they would always be there year after year until such time as God provided.

His father had been a deacon, his grandfather a priest, his great-grandfather a deacon, and perhaps his whole family from the days when Christianity first entered Russia had belonged to the Church, and his love for the holy services, for the priesthood, and for the sound of church bells was ineradicably born in him. In church, especially when he was conducting the service, he felt vividly alive, vigorous, and happy. So it was with him now. Only when the eighth gospel had been read, he felt his voice had grown weak, even his coughing had become inaudible. His head was aching horribly, and he was overwhelmed by the fear of a sudden collapse. His legs had grown quite numb, all the feeling gradually going out of them, and he could not imagine how he was able to stand or what he was standing on, and why he did not fall down.…

It was a quarter to twelve when the service came to an end. As soon as he reached home the Bishop undressed and went to bed without even saying his prayers. He could not speak, and he was sure he could not stand. When he pulled the blanket over him, he felt a sudden longing to be abroad, a deep and passionate longing. He imagined he would give his whole life not to see those cheap pitiful shutters, the low ceilings, not to breathe the overwhelming smell of the monastery. If only there was one person he could talk to, and to whom he could unburden his soul!

For a long time he heard footsteps in the next room, and could not tell whose they were. At last the door opened and Father Sisoi came in with a teacup in one hand and a candle in the other.

“So you’re in bed already, Your Eminence?” Father Sisoi said. “I’ve come to rub you down with vodka and vinegar. A thorough rubbing will do you good! Lord Jesus Christ! There! There! I’ve just come from our monastery.… I don’t like it a bit!… I’ll be leaving tomorrow, Your Eminence, because I’ve had enough of it. Lord Jesus Christ! Well, that’s how it is!…”

Father Sisoi could never stay long in one place, and he felt as though he had been a whole year in the Pankratievsky Monastery. It was hard to tell from what he said where his home was, whether there was anyone or anything he loved, whether he believed in God. He did not know himself why he had become a monk, but he never thought about it, and the time when he took his vows had long since faded from his memory. Perhaps he had been born into the monastery.

“I’m leaving them tomorrow, and may God have them!” Father Sisoi said.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” the Bishop said. “I never seem to have the time.” His voice came in whispers, and he was making a great effort. “I don’t know anyone or anything here.”

“Then I’ll stay till Sunday if you like. So be it, but no longer. I have to leave that place.…”

“What sort of bishop am I?” the Bishop went on in a very faint voice. “I should have been a village priest or a deacon or just a simple monk. All this is choking me—choking me …”

“What? Oh, Lord Jesus Christ! There, go to sleep now, Your Eminence. What’s up with you? What’s it all about, eh? Well, good night!”

All night the Bishop lay awake. In the morning at eight o’clock he began to hemorrhage from the bowels. The lay brother was alarmed and ran first to the archimandrite and then to Ivan Andreyich, the monastery doctor, who lived in the town. The doctor, a stout old man with a long gray beard, gazed for a long while at the Bishop, shook his head, frowned, and said: “Do you know, Your Eminence, you are suffering from typhus?”

For about an hour the Bishop continued to hemorrhage. He grew paler, thinner, was visibly wasting away. His face was covered with wrinkles and his eyes were enormous: it was as though he was grown old and shriveled. He felt that he was becoming thinner and weaker and more insignificant than anyone in the world, and it seemed to him that everything that had ever happened in the past was vanishing into the distance and would never come back again.

“How good!” he thought. “Oh, how good!”

His old mother came into the room. Seeing his wrinkled face and enormous eyes, she was frightened and fell on her knees by the bed and began to kiss his face, his shoulders, and his hands. And to her it seemed that he had grown thinner, weaker, and more insignificant than he had ever been, and she forgot he was a bishop, and she kissed him as though he were a child very close and dear to her.

“Little Paul, my dearest,” she said. “How dear you are to me! My son, my son!… What has happened? Pavlusha, talk to me!”

Katya, pale and serious, stood beside her, and she could not understand what was happening to her uncle or why there was such a look of suffering on her grandmother’s face or why she said such heart-rending things. The Bishop could no longer formulate words, and no longer understood what was happening around him. He imagined he was a simple, ordinary fellow striding joyfully across the fields, swinging his cane, free as a bird to wander wherever he pleased under the broad spaces of the sunlit sky.

“Pavlusha, my darling, talk to me!” the old woman was saying. “What has happened? My dear boy, my son …”

“You shouldn’t disturb His Eminence,” Father Sisoi exclaimed angrily, striding up and down the room. “Let him sleep! There’s nothing we can do now.…”

Three doctors came, went into consultation, and took their leave. The day grew unbelievably long, and was followed by an excruciatingly long night. Toward dawn on Saturday the lay brother went up to the old woman, who was lying on a couch in the sitting room, and bade her go into the bedroom. The Bishop was dead.

The next day was Easter. There are forty-two churches and two monasteries in the town; and from morning to evening the deep, happy notes of the church bells hovered over the town, never silent, quivering in the spring air. Birds were singing, and the bright sun was shining. The great market square was full of noise: seesaws were swinging, barrel organs were playing, concertinas were screaming, and there was a roar of drunken voices. In a word, everything was lighthearted and frolicsome, just as it had been during the previous year and as it doubtless would be in the years to come.

A month later a new bishop was installed, and no one gave a thought to Bishop Peter. Soon he was completely forgotten. His old mother, who is living today in a remote little country town with her son-in-law the deacon, goes out toward evening to bring her cow in, and sometimes she will pause and talk with the other women in the fields about her children and grandchildren and her son who became a bishop, and she speaks very softly and shyly, afraid that no one will believe her.

And indeed there are some who do not believe her.

April 1902