Forty Stories - Anton Chekhov [151]
“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!