VI
Pashenka had already long ceased to be Pashenka and had become
old, withered, wrinkled Praskovya Mikhaylovna, mother-in-law of
that failure, the drunken official Mavrikyev. She was living in
the country town where he had had his last appointment, and there
she was supporting the family: her daughter, her ailing
neurasthenic son-in-law, and her five grandchildren. She did
this by giving music lessons to tradesmen's daughters, giving
four and sometimes five lessons a day of an hour each, and
earning in this way some sixty rubles (6 pounds) a month. So
they lived for the present, in expectation of another
appointment. She had sent letters to all her relations and
acquaintances asking them to obtain a post for her son-in-law,
and among the rest she had written to Sergius, but that letter
had not reached him.
It was a Saturday, and Praskovya Mikhaylovna was herself mixing
dough for currant bread such as the serf-cook on her father's
estate used to make so well. She wished to give her
grandchildren a treat on the Sunday.
Masha, her daughter, was nursing her youngest child, the eldest
boy and girl were at school, and her son-in-law was asleep, not
having slept during the night. Praskovya Mikhaylovna had
remained awake too for a great part of the night, trying to
soften her daughter's anger against her husband.
She saw that it was impossible for her son-in-law, a weak
creature, to be other than he was, and realized that his wife's
reproaches could do no good--so she used all her efforts to
soften those reproaches and to avoid recrimination and anger.
Unkindly relations between people caused her actual 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. Don't speak about me, or say who I
am. I have revealed myself only to you. No one knows where I
have gone to. It must be so.'
'Oh, but I have told my daughter.'
'Well, ask her not to mention it.'
And Sergius took off his boots, lay down, and at once fell asleep
after a sleepless night and a walk of nearly thirty miles.
When Praskovya Mikhaylovna returned, Sergius was sitting in the
little room waiting for her. He did not come out for dinner, but
had some soup and gruel which Lukerya brought him.
'How is it that you have come back earlier than you said?' asked
Sergius. 'Can I speak to you now?'
'How is it that I have the happiness to receive such a guest? I
have missed one of my lessons. That can wait . . . I had always
been planning to go to see you. I wrote to you, and now this
good fortune has come.'
'Pashenka, please listen to what I am going to tell you as to a
confession made to God at my last hour. Pashenka, I am not a
holy man, I am not even as good as a simple ordinary man; I am a
loathsome, vile, and proud sinner who has gone astray, and who,
if not worse than everyone else, is at least worse than most very
bad people.'
Pashenka looked at him at first with staring eyes. But she
believed what he said, and when she had quite grasped it she
touched his hand, smiling pityingly, and said:
'Perhaps you exaggerate, Stiva?'
'No, Pashenka. I am an adulterer, a murderer, a blasphemer, and
a deceiver.'
'My God! How is that?' exclaimed Praskovya Mikhaylovna.
'But I must go on living. And I, who thought I knew everything,
who taught others how to live--I know nothing and ask you to
teach me.'
'What are you saying, Stiva? You are laughing at me. Why do you
always make fun of me?'
'Well, if you think I am jesting you must have it as you please.
But tell me all the same how you live, and how you have lived
your life.'
'I? I have lived a very nasty, horrible life, and now God is
punishing me as I deserve. I live so wretchedly, so wretchedly .
. .'
'How was it with your marriage? How did you live with your
husband?'
'It was all bad. I married because I fell in love in the
nastiest way. Papa did not approve. But I would not listen to
anything and just got married. Then instead of helping my
husband I tormented him by my jealousy, which I could not
restrain.'
'I heard that he drank . . .'
'Yes, but I did not give him any peace. I always reproached him,
though you know it is a disease! He could not refrain from it.
I now remember how I tried to prevent his having it, and the
frightful scenes we had!'
And she looked at Kasatsky with beautiful eyes, suffering from
the remembrance.
Kasatsky remembered how he had been told that Pashenka's husband
used to beat her, and now, looking at her thin withered neck with
prominent veins behind her ears, and her scanty coil of hair,
half grey half auburn, he seemed to see just how it had occurred.
'Then I was left with two children and no means at all.'
'But you had an estate!'
'Oh, we sold that while Vasya was still alive, and the money was
all spent. We had to live, and like all our young ladies I did
not know how to earn anything. I was particularly useless and
helpless. So we spent all we had. I taught the children and
improved my own education a little. And then Mitya fell ill when
he was already in the fourth form, and God took him. Masha fell
in love with Vanya, my son-in-law. And--well, he is well-meaning
but unfortunate. He is ill.'
'Mamma!'--her daughter's voice interrupted her--'Take Mitya! I
can't be in two places at once.'
Praskovya Mikhaylovna shuddered, but rose and went out of the
room, stepping quickly in her patched shoes. She soon came back
with a boy of two in her arms, who threw himself backwards and
grabbed at her shawl with his little hands.
'Where was I? Oh yes, he had a good appointment here, and his
chief was a kind man too. But Vanya could not go on, and had to
give up his position.'
'What is the matter with him?'
'Neurasthenia--it is a dreadful complaint. We consulted a
doctor, who told us he ought to go away, but we had no means. . .
. I always hope it will pass of itself. He has no particular
pain, but . . .'
'Lukerya!' cried an angry and feeble voice. 'She is always sent
away when I want her. Mamma . . .'
'I'm coming!' Praskovya Mikhaylovna again interrupted herself.
'He has not had his dinner yet. He can't eat with us.'
She went out and arranged something, and came back wiping her
thin dark hands.
'So that is how I live. I always complain and am always
dissatisfied, but thank God the grandchildren are all nice and
healthy, and we can still live. But why talk about me?'
'But what do you live on?'
'Well, I earn a little. How I used to dislike music, but how
useful it is to me now!' Her small hand lay on the chest of
drawers beside which she was sitting, and she drummed an exercise
with her thin fingers.
'How much do you get for a lesson?'
'Sometimes a ruble, sometimes fifty kopeks, or sometimes thirty.
They are all so kind to me.'
'And do your pupils get on well?' asked Kasatsky with a slight
smile.
Praskovya Mikhaylovna did not at first believe that he was asking
seriously, and looked inquiringly into his eyes.
'Some of them do. One of them is a splendid girl--the butcher's
daughter--such a good kind girl! If I were a clever woman I
ought, of course, with the connexions Papa had, to be able to get
an appointment for my son-in-law. But as it is I have not been
able to do anything, and have brought them all to this--as you
see.'
'Yes, yes,' said Kasatsky, lowering his head. 'And how is it,
Pashenka--do you take part in Church life?'
'Oh, don't speak of it. I am so bad that way, and have neglected
it so! I keep the fasts with the children and sometimes go to
church, and then again sometimes I don't go for months. I only
send the children.'
'But why don't you go yourself?'
'To tell the truth' (she blushed) 'I am ashamed, for my
daughter's sake and the children's, to go there in tattered
clothes, and I haven't anything else. Besides, I am just lazy.'
'And do you pray at home?'
'I do. But what sort of prayer is it? Only mechanical. I know
it should not be like that, but I lack real religious feeling.
The only thing is that I know how bad I am . . .'
'Yes, yes, that's right!' said Kasatsky, as if approvingly.
'I'm coming! I'm coming!' she replied to a call from her
son-in-law, and tidying her scanty plait she left the room.
But this time it was long before she returned. When she came
back, Kasatsky was sitting in the same position, his elbows
resting on his knees and his head bowed. But his wallet was
strapped on his back.
When she came in, carrying a small tin lamp without a shade, he
raised his fine weary eyes and sighed very deeply.
'I did not tell them who you are,' she began timidly. 'I only
said that you are a pilgrim, a nobleman, and that I used to know
you. Come into the dining-room for tea.'
'No . . .'
'Well then, I'll bring some to you here.'
'No, I don't want anything. God bless you, Pashenka! I am going
now. If you pity me, don't tell anyone that you have seen me.
For the love of God don't tell anyone. Thank you. I would bow to
your feet but I know it would make you feel awkward. Thank you,
and forgive me for Christ's sake!'
'Give me your blessing.'
'God bless you! Forgive me for Christ's sake!'
He rose, but she would not let him go until she had given him
bread and butter and rusks. He took it all and went away.
It was dark, and before he had passed the second house he was
lost to sight. She only knew he was there because the dog at the
priest's house was barking.
'So that is what my dream meant! Pashenka is what I ought to
have been but failed to be. I lived for men on the pretext of
living for God, while she lived for God imagining that she lives
for men. Yes, one good deed--a cup of water given without
thought of reward--is worth more than any benefit I imagined I
was bestowing on people. But after all was there not some share
of sincere desire to serve God?' he asked himself, and the answer
was: 'Yes, there was, but it was all soiled and overgrown by
desire for human praise. Yes, there is no God for the man who
lives, as I did, for human praise. I will now seek Him!'
And he walked from village to village as he had done on his way
to Pashenka, meeting and parting from other pilgrims, men and
women, and asking for bread and a night's rest in Christ's name.
Occasionally some angry housewife scolded him, or a drunken
peasant reviled him, but for the most part he was given food and
drink and even something to take with him. His noble bearing
disposed some people in his favour, while others on the contrary
seemed pleased at the sight of a gentleman who had come to
beggary.
But his gentleness prevailed with everyone.
Often, finding a copy of the Gospels in a hut he would read it
aloud, and when they heard him the people were always touched and
surprised, as at something new yet familiar.
When he succeeded in helping people, either by advice, or by his
knowledge of reading and writing, or by settling some quarrel, he
did not wait to see their gratitude but went away directly
afterwards. And little by little God began to reveal Himself
within him.
Once he was walking along with two old women and a soldier. They
were stopped by a party consisting of a lady and gentleman in a
gig and another lady and gentleman on horseback. The husband was
on horseback with his daughter, while in the gig his wife was
driving with a Frenchman, evidently a traveller.
The party stopped to let the Frenchman see the pilgrims who, in
accord with a popular Russian superstition, tramped about from
place to place instead of working.
They spoke French, thinking that the others would not understand
them.
'Demandez-leur,' said the Frenchman, 's'ils sont bien sur de ce
que leur pelerinage est agreable a Dieu.'
The question was asked, and one old woman replied:
'As God takes it. Our feet have reached the holy places, but our
hearts may not have done so.'
They asked the soldier. He said that he was alone in the world
and had nowhere else to go.
They asked Kasatsky who he was.
'A servant of God.'
'Qu'est-ce qu'il dit? Il ne repond pas.'
'Il dit qu'il est un serviteur de Dieu. Cela doit etre un fils
de preetre. Il a de la race. Avez-vous de la petite monnaie?'
The Frenchman found some small change and gave twenty kopeks to
each of the pilgrims.
'Mais dites-leur que ce n'est pas pour les cierges que je leur
donne, mais pour qu'ils se regalent de the. Chay, chay pour
vous, mon vieux!' he said with a smile. And he patted Kasatsky
on the shoulder with his gloved hand.
'May Christ bless you,' replied Kasatsky without replacing his
cap and bowing his bald head.
He rejoiced particularly at this meeting, because he had
disregarded the opinion of men and had done the simplest, easiest
thing--humbly accepted twenty kopeks and given them to his
comrade, a blind beggar. The less importance he attached to the
opinion of men the more did he feel the presence of God within
him.
For eight months Kasatsky tramped on in this manner, and in the
ninth month he was arrested for not having a passport. This
happened at a night-refuge in a provincial town where he had
passed the night with some pilgrims. He was taken to the
police-station, and when asked who he was and where was his
passport, he replied that he had no passport and that he was a
servant of God. He was classed as a tramp, sentenced, and sent
to live in Siberia.
In Siberia he has settled down as the hired man of a well-to-do
peasant, in which capacity he works in the kitchen-garden,
teaches children, and attends to the sick.
