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. |