The Tales of Chekhov, vol 7 | Page 6

He had to go to church.
In the evening the monks sang harmoniously, with inspiration. A young
priest with a black beard conducted the service; and the bishop, hearing
of the Bridegroom who comes at midnight and of the Heavenly
Mansion adorned for the festival, felt no repentance for his sins, no
tribulation, but peace at heart and tranquillity. And he was carried back
in thought to the distant past, to his childhood and youth, when, too,
they used to sing of the Bridegroom and of the Heavenly Mansion; and
now that past rose up before him--living, fair, and joyful as in all
likelihood it never had been. And perhaps in the other world, in the life
to come, we shall think of the distant past, of our life here, with the
same feeling. Who knows? The bishop was sitting near the altar. It was
dark; tears flowed down his face. He thought that here he had attained
everything a man in his position could attain; he had faith and yet
everything was not clear, something was lacking still. He did not want
to die; and he still felt that he had missed what was most important,
something of which he had dimly dreamed in the past; and he was
troubled by the same hopes for the future as he had felt in childhood, at
the academy and abroad.
"How well they sing to-day!" he thought, listening to the singing. "How
nice it is!"
IV
On Thursday he celebrated mass in the cathedral; it was the Washing of
Feet. When the service was over and the people were going home, it
was sunny, warm; the water gurgled in the gutters, and the unceasing
trilling of the larks, tender, telling of peace, rose from the fields outside
the town. The trees were already awakening and smiling a welcome,
while above them the infinite, fathomless blue sky stretched into the
distance, God knows whither.
On reaching home his holiness drank some tea, then changed his
clothes, lay down on his bed, and told the lay brother to close the
shutters on the windows. The bedroom was darkened. But what

weariness, what pain in his legs and his back, a chill heavy pain, what a
noise in his ears! He had not slept for a long time--for a very long time,
as it seemed to him now, and some trifling detail which haunted his
brain as soon as his eyes were closed prevented him from sleeping. As
on the day before, sounds reached him from the adjoining rooms
through the walls, voices, the jingle of glasses and teaspoons. . . .
Marya Timofyevna was gaily telling Father Sisoy some story with
quaint turns of speech, while the latter answered in a grumpy,
ill-humoured voice: "Bother them! Not likely! What next!" And the
bishop again felt vexed and then hurt that with other people his old
mother behaved in a simple, ordinary way, while with him, her son, she
was shy, spoke little, and did not say what she meant, and even, as he
fancied, had during all those three days kept trying in his presence to
find an excuse for standing up, because she was embarrassed at sitting
before him. And his father? He, too, probably, if he had been living,
would not have been able to utter a word in the bishop's presence. . . .
Something fell down on the floor in the adjoining room and was broken;
Katya must have dropped a cup or a saucer, for Father Sisoy suddenly
spat and said angrily:
"What a regular nuisance the child is! Lord forgive my transgressions!
One can't provide enough for her."
Then all was quiet, the only sounds came from outside. And when the
bishop opened his eyes he saw Katya in his room, standing motionless,
staring at him. Her red hair, as usual, stood up from under the comb
like a halo.
"Is that you, Katya?" he asked. "Who is it downstairs who keeps
opening and shutting a door?"
"I don't hear it," answered Katya; and she listened.
"There, someone has just passed by."
"But that was a noise in your stomach, uncle."
He laughed and stroked her on the head.
"So you say Cousin Nikolasha cuts up dead people?" he asked after a
pause.
"Yes, he is studying."
"And is he kind?"
"Oh, yes, he's kind. But he drinks vodka awfully."
"And what was it your father died of?"

"Papa was weak and very, very thin, and all at once his throat was bad.
I was ill then, too, and brother Fedya; we all had bad throats. Papa died,
uncle, and we got well."
Her chin began quivering, and tears gleamed in her eyes and trickled
down her cheeks.
"Your holiness," she said in a shrill voice, by now weeping