I
It was autumn. Before daybreak a cart rattled over the road, which was in bad repair, and drove up to Father Vasily’s double-fronted thatched house. A peasant in a cap, with the collar of his kaftan turned up, jumped out of the cart, and, turning his horse round, knocked with his big whip at the window of the room which he knew to be that of the priest’s cook.
“Who’s there?”
“I want the priest.”
“What for?”
“For someone who is sick.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From Vozdrevo.”
A man struck a light, and, coming out into the yard, opened the gate for the peasant.
The priest’s wife—a short, stout woman, dressed in a quilted jacket, with a shawl over her head and felt boots on her feet—came out and began to speak in an angry, hoarse voice.
“What evil spirit has brought you here?”
“I have come for the priest.”
“What are you servants thinking about? You haven’t lit the fire yet.”
“Is it time yet?”
“If it were not time I shouldn’t say anything.”
The peasant from Vozdrevo went to the kitchen, crossed himself before the icon, and, making a low bow to the priest’s wife, sat down on a bench near the door.
The peasant’s wife had been suffering a long time; and, having given birth to a stillborn child, was now at the point of death.
While gazing at what was going on in the hut he sat busily thinking how he should carry off the priest. Should he drive him across the Kossoe, as he had come, or should he go round another way? The road was bad near the village. The river was frozen over, but was not strong enough to bear. He had hardly been able to get across.
A labourer came in and threw down an armful of birch logs near the stove, asking the peasant to break up some of it to light the fire, whereupon the peasant took off his coat and set to work.
The priest awoke, as he always did, full of life and spirits. While still in bed, he crossed himself and said his favourite prayer, “To the King of Heaven,” and repeated “Lord have mercy on us” several times. Getting up, he washed, brushed his long hair, put on his boots and an old cassock, and then, standing before the icons, began his morning prayers. When be reached the middle of the Lord’s Prayer, and had come to the words, “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us,” he stopped, remembering the deacon who was drunk the day before, and who on meeting him muttered audibly, “Hypocrite, Pharisee.” These words, Pharisee and hypocrite, pained Father Vasily particularly because, although conscious of having many faults, he did not believe hypocrisy to be one of them. He was angry with the deacon. “Yes, I forgive,” he said to himself; “God be with him,” and he continued his prayers. The words, “Lead us not into temptation,” reminded him how he had felt when hot tea with rum had been handed to him the night before after vespers in the house of a rich landowner.
Having said his prayers he glanced at himself in a little mirror which distorted everything, and passed his hands over his smooth, fair hair, which grew in a circle round a moderately large bald patch, and then he looked with pleasure at bis broad, kind face, with its thin beard, which looked young in spite of his forty-two years. After this he went into the sitting-room, where he found his wife hurriedly and with difficulty bringing in the samovar, which was on the point of boiling over.
“Why do you do that yourself? Where’s Thekla?”
“Why do you do it yourself?” mocked his wife. “Who else is to do it?”
“But why so early?”
“A man from Vozdrevo has come to fetch you. His wife is dying.”
“Has he been here long?”
“Yes, some time.”
“Why was I not called before?”
Father Vasily drank his tea without milk (it was Friday); and then, taking the sacred elements, put on his fur coat and cap and went out into the porch with a resolute air. The peasant was awaiting for him there. “Good morning, Mitri,” said Father Vastly, and turning up his sleeve, made the sign of the cross, after which he stretched out his small strong hand with its short-cut nails for him to kiss, and walked out on to the steps. The sun had risen, but was not yet visible behind the overhanging clouds. The peasant brought the cart out from the yard, and drove up to the front door. Father Vasily stepped quickly on the axle of the back wheel and sat down on the seat, which was bound round with hay. Mitri getting in beside him, whipped up the big-barrelled mare with its drooping ears, and the cart rattled over the frozen mud. A fine snow was falling.