My Childhood - Maxim Gorky [44]
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost."
After these words it always seemed to me that the room became extraordinarily quiet; the very flies seemed to buzz cautiously.
There he stood, with his head thrown back, his eyebrows raised and bristling, his golden beard sticking out horizontally, and recited the prayers, in a firm tone, as if he were repeating a lesson, and with a voice which was very distinct and very imperious.
"It will be useless when the Judge comes, and every action is laid bare--"
Striking himself lightly on the breast, he prayed fervently:
"To Thee alone can sinners come. Oh, turn Thy face away from my misdeeds."
He recited the "I believe," using the prescribed words only; and all the while his right leg quivered, as if it were noiselessly keeping time with his prayers, and his whole form, straining towards the icon, seemed to become taller, leaner, and drier--so clean he was, so neat, and so persistent in his demands.
"Heavenly Physician, heal my soul of its long-lived passions. To thee, Holy Virgin, I cry from my heart; to thee I offer myself with fervor."
And with his green eyes full of tears he wailed loudly:
"Impute to me, my God, faith instead of works, and be not mindful of deeds which can by no means justify
Here he crossed himself frequently at intervals, tossing his head as if he were about to butt at something, and his voice became squeaky and cracked. Later, when I happened to enter a synagogue, I realized that grandfather prayed like a Jew.
By this time the samovar would have been snorting on the table for some minutes, and a hot smell of rye-cakes would be floating through the room. Grandmother, frowning, strolled about, with her eyes on the floor; the sun looked cheerfully in at the window from the garden, the dew glistened like pearls on the trees, the morning air was deliciously perfumed by the smell of dill, and currant-bushes, and ripening apples, but grandfather went on with his prayers--quavering and squeaking.
"Extinguish in me the flame of passion, for I am in misery and accursed."
I knew all the morning prayers by heart, and even in my dreams I could say what was to come next, and I followed with intense interest to hear if he made a mistake or missed out a word--which very seldom happened; but when it did, it aroused a feeling of malicious glee in me.
When he had finished his prayers, grandfather used to say "Good morning!" to grandmother and me, and we returned his greeting and sat down to table. Then I used to say to him:
"You left out a word this morning."
"Not really?" grandfather would say with an uneasy air of incredulity.
"Yes. You should have said, 'This, my Faith, reigns supreme,' but you did not say 'reigns.'"
"There now!" he would exclaim, much perturbed, and blinking guiltily.
Afterwards he would take a cruel revenge on me for pointing out his mistake to him; but for the moment, seeing how disturbed he was, I was able to enjoy my triumph.
One day grandmother said to him jokingly:
"God must get tired of listening to your prayers, Father. You do nothing but insist on the same things over and over again."
"What's that?" he drawled in an ominous voice. "What are you nagging about now?"
"I say that you do not offer God so much as one little word from your own heart, so far as I can hear."
He turned livid, and quivering with rage, jumped up on his chair and threw a dish at her head, yelping with a sound like that made by a saw on a piece of wood:
"Take that,