Father Sergius [20]
physical suffering. It was so clear to her that bitter feelings do not make anything better, but only make everything worse. She did not in fact think about this: she simply suffered at the sight of anger as she would from a bad smell, a harsh noise, or from blows on her body.
She had--with a feeling of self-satisfaction--just taught Lukerya how to mix the dough, when her six-year-old grandson Misha, wearing an apron and with darned stockings on his crooked little legs, ran into the kitchen with a frightened face.
'Grandma, a dreadful old man wants to see you.'
Lukerya looked out at the door.
'There is a pilgrim of some kind, a man . . .'
Praskovya Mikhaylovna rubbed her thin elbows against one another, wiped her hands on her apron and went upstairs to get a five-kopek piece [about a penny] out of her purse for him, but remembering that she had nothing less than a ten-kopek piece she decided to give him some bread instead. She returned to the cupboard, but suddenly blushed at the thought of having grudged the ten-kopek piece, and telling Lukerya to cut a slice of bread, went upstairs again to fetch it. 'It serves you right,' she said to herself. 'You must now give twice over.'
She gave both the bread and the money to the pilgrim, and when doing so--far from being proud of her generosity--she excused herself for giving so little. The man had such an imposing appearance.
Though he had tramped two hundred versts as a beggar, though he was tattered and had grown thin and weatherbeaten, though he had cropped his long hair and was wearing a peasant's cap and boots, and though he bowed very humbly, Sergius still had the impressive appearance that made him so attractive. But Praskovya Mikhaylovna did not recognize him. She could hardly do so, not having seen him for almost twenty years.
'Don't think ill of me, Father. Perhaps you want something to eat?'
He took the bread and the money, and Praskovya Mikhaylovna was surprised that he did not go, but stood looking at her.
'Pashenka, I have come to you! Take me in . . .'
His beautiful black eyes, shining with the tears that started in them, were fixed on her with imploring insistence. And under his greyish moustache his lips quivered piteously.
Praskovya Mikhaylovna pressed her hands to her withered breast, opened her mouth, and stood petrified, staring at the pilgrim with dilated eyes.
'It can't be! Stepa! Sergey! Father Sergius!'
'Yes, it is I,' said Sergius in a low voice. 'Only not Sergius, or Father Sergius, but a great sinner, Stepan Kasatsky--a great and lost sinner. Take me in and help me!'
'It's impossible! How have you so humbled yourself? But come in.'
She reached out her hand, but he did not take it and only followed her in.
But where was she to take him? The lodging was a small one. Formerly she had had a tiny room, almost a closet, for herself, but later she had given it up to her daughter, and Masha was now sitting there rocking the baby.
'Sit here for the present,' she said to Sergius, pointing to a bench in the kitchen.
He sat down at once, and with an evidently accustomed movement slipped the straps of his wallet first off one shoulder and then off the other.
'My God, my God! How you have humbled yourself, Father! Such great fame, and now like this . . .'
Sergius did not reply, but only smiled meekly, placing his wallet under the bench on which he sat.
'Masha, do you know who this is?'--And in a whisper Praskovya Mikhaylovna told her daughter who he was, and together they then carried the bed and the cradle out of the tiny room and cleared it for Sergius.
Praskovya Mikhaylovna led him into it.
'Here you can rest. Don't take offence . . . but I must go out.'
'Where to?'
'I have to go to a lesson. I am ashamed to tell you, but I teach music!'
'Music? But that is good. Only just one thing, Praskovya Mikhaylovna, I have come to you with a definite object. When can I have a talk with you?'
'I shall be very glad. Will this evening do?'
'Yes. But one thing more.
She had--with a feeling of self-satisfaction--just taught Lukerya how to mix the dough, when her six-year-old grandson Misha, wearing an apron and with darned stockings on his crooked little legs, ran into the kitchen with a frightened face.
'Grandma, a dreadful old man wants to see you.'
Lukerya looked out at the door.
'There is a pilgrim of some kind, a man . . .'
Praskovya Mikhaylovna rubbed her thin elbows against one another, wiped her hands on her apron and went upstairs to get a five-kopek piece [about a penny] out of her purse for him, but remembering that she had nothing less than a ten-kopek piece she decided to give him some bread instead. She returned to the cupboard, but suddenly blushed at the thought of having grudged the ten-kopek piece, and telling Lukerya to cut a slice of bread, went upstairs again to fetch it. 'It serves you right,' she said to herself. 'You must now give twice over.'
She gave both the bread and the money to the pilgrim, and when doing so--far from being proud of her generosity--she excused herself for giving so little. The man had such an imposing appearance.
Though he had tramped two hundred versts as a beggar, though he was tattered and had grown thin and weatherbeaten, though he had cropped his long hair and was wearing a peasant's cap and boots, and though he bowed very humbly, Sergius still had the impressive appearance that made him so attractive. But Praskovya Mikhaylovna did not recognize him. She could hardly do so, not having seen him for almost twenty years.
'Don't think ill of me, Father. Perhaps you want something to eat?'
He took the bread and the money, and Praskovya Mikhaylovna was surprised that he did not go, but stood looking at her.
'Pashenka, I have come to you! Take me in . . .'
His beautiful black eyes, shining with the tears that started in them, were fixed on her with imploring insistence. And under his greyish moustache his lips quivered piteously.
Praskovya Mikhaylovna pressed her hands to her withered breast, opened her mouth, and stood petrified, staring at the pilgrim with dilated eyes.
'It can't be! Stepa! Sergey! Father Sergius!'
'Yes, it is I,' said Sergius in a low voice. 'Only not Sergius, or Father Sergius, but a great sinner, Stepan Kasatsky--a great and lost sinner. Take me in and help me!'
'It's impossible! How have you so humbled yourself? But come in.'
She reached out her hand, but he did not take it and only followed her in.
But where was she to take him? The lodging was a small one. Formerly she had had a tiny room, almost a closet, for herself, but later she had given it up to her daughter, and Masha was now sitting there rocking the baby.
'Sit here for the present,' she said to Sergius, pointing to a bench in the kitchen.
He sat down at once, and with an evidently accustomed movement slipped the straps of his wallet first off one shoulder and then off the other.
'My God, my God! How you have humbled yourself, Father! Such great fame, and now like this . . .'
Sergius did not reply, but only smiled meekly, placing his wallet under the bench on which he sat.
'Masha, do you know who this is?'--And in a whisper Praskovya Mikhaylovna told her daughter who he was, and together they then carried the bed and the cradle out of the tiny room and cleared it for Sergius.
Praskovya Mikhaylovna led him into it.
'Here you can rest. Don't take offence . . . but I must go out.'
'Where to?'
'I have to go to a lesson. I am ashamed to tell you, but I teach music!'
'Music? But that is good. Only just one thing, Praskovya Mikhaylovna, I have come to you with a definite object. When can I have a talk with you?'
'I shall be very glad. Will this evening do?'
'Yes. But one thing more.