The Tales of Chekhov, vol 7 | Page 2

moon. The carriage
drove in at the gate, crunching over the sand; here and there in the
moonlight there were glimpses of dark monastic figures, and there was
the sound of footsteps on the flag-stones. . . .
"You know, your holiness, your mamma arrived while you were away,"
the lay brother informed the bishop as he went into his cell.
"My mother? When did she come?"
"Before the evening service. She asked first where you were and then
she went to the convent."
"Then it was her I saw in the church, just now! Oh, Lord!"
And the bishop laughed with joy.
"She bade me tell your holiness," the lay brother went on, "that she
would come to-morrow. She had a little girl with her--her grandchild, I
suppose. They are staying at Ovsyannikov's inn."
"What time is it now?"
"A little after eleven."

"Oh, how vexing!"
The bishop sat for a little while in the parlour, hesitating, and as it were
refusing to believe it was so late. His arms and legs were stiff, his head
ached. He was hot and uncomfortable. After resting a little he went into
his bedroom, and there, too, he sat a little, still thinking of his mother;
he could hear the lay brother going away, and Father Sisoy coughing
the other side of the wall. The monastery clock struck a quarter.
The bishop changed his clothes and began reading the prayers before
sleep. He read attentively those old, long familiar prayers, and at the
same time thought about his mother. She had nine children and about
forty grandchildren. At one time, she had lived with her husband, the
deacon, in a poor village; she had lived there a very long time from the
age of seventeen to sixty. The bishop remembered her from early
childhood, almost from the age of three, and--how he had loved her!
Sweet, precious childhood, always fondly remembered! Why did it,
that long-past time that could never return, why did it seem brighter,
fuller, and more festive than it had really been? When in his childhood
or youth he had been ill, how tender and sympathetic his mother had
been! And now his prayers mingled with the memories, which gleamed
more and more brightly like a flame, and the prayers did not hinder his
thinking of his mother.
When he had finished his prayers he undressed and lay down, and at
once, as soon as it was dark, there rose before his mind his dead father,
his mother, his native village Lesopolye . . . the creak of wheels, the
bleat of sheep, the church bells on bright summer mornings, the gypsies
under the window--oh, how sweet to think of it! He remembered the
priest of Lesopolye, Father Simeon--mild, gentle, kindly; he was a lean
little man, while his son, a divinity student, was a huge fellow and
talked in a roaring bass voice. The priest's son had flown into a rage
with the cook and abused her: "Ah, you Jehud's ass!" and Father
Simeon overhearing it, said not a word, and was only ashamed because
he could not remember where such an ass was mentioned in the Bible.
After him the priest at Lesopolye had been Father Demyan, who used
to drink heavily, and at times drank till he saw green snakes, and was
even nicknamed Demyan Snakeseer. The schoolmaster at Lesopolye
was Matvey Nikolaitch, who had been a divinity student, a kind and
intelligent man, but he, too, was a drunkard; he never beat the

schoolchildren, but for some reason he always had hanging on his wall
a bunch of birch-twigs, and below it an utterly meaningless inscription
in Latin: "Betula kinderbalsamica secuta." He had a shaggy black dog
whom he called Syntax.
And his holiness laughed. Six miles from Lesopolye was the village
Obnino with a wonder-working ikon. In the summer they used to carry
the ikon in procession about the neighbouring villages and ring the
bells the whole day long; first in one village and then in another, and it
used to seem to the bishop then that joy was quivering in the air, and he
(in those days his name was Pavlusha) used to follow the ikon,
bareheaded and barefoot, with naïve faith, with a naïve smile, infinitely
happy. In Obnino, he remembered now, there were always a lot of
people, and the priest there, Father Alexey, to save time during mass,
used to make his deaf nephew Ilarion read the names of those for
whose health or whose souls' peace prayers were asked. Ilarion used to
read them, now and then getting a five or ten kopeck piece for the
service, and only when he was grey and bald, when life was nearly over,
he suddenly saw written on one of the pieces of paper: