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 bitterly,
"uncle, mother and all of us are left very wretched. . . . Give us
a little money . . . do be kind . . . uncle darling. . . ."
He, too, was moved to tears, and for a long time was too much touched
to speak. Then he stroked her on the head, patted her on the shoulder
and said:
"Very good, very good, my child. When the holy Easter comes, we
will talk it over. . . . I will help you. . . . I will help you. . . ."
His mother came in quietly, timidly, and prayed before the ikon.
Noticing that he was not sleeping, she said:
"Won't you have a drop of soup?"
"No, thank you," he answered, "I am not hungry."
"You seem to be unwell, now I look at you. I should think so; you
may well be ill! The whole day on your legs, the whole day. . . .
And, my goodness, it makes one's heart ache even to look at you!
Well, Easter is not far off; you will rest then, please God. Then
we will have a talk, too, but now I'm not going to disturb you with
my chatter. Come along, Katya; let his holiness sleep a little."
And he remembered how once very long ago, when he was a boy, she
had spoken exactly like that, in the same jestingly respectful tone,
with a Church dignitary. . . . Only from her extraordinarily kind
eyes and the timid, anxious glance she stole at him as she went out
of the room could one have guessed that this was his mother. He
shut his eyes and seemed to sleep, but twice heard the clock strike
and Father Sisoy coughing the other side of the wall. And once more
his mother came in and looked timidly at him for a minute. Someone
drove up to the steps, as he could hear, in a coach or in a chaise.
Suddenly a knock, the door slammed, the lay brother came into the
bedroom.
"Your holiness," he called.
"Well?"
"The horses are here; it's time for the evening service."
"What o'clock is it?"
"A quarter past seven."
He dressed and drove to the cathedral. During all the "Twelve
Gospels" he had to stand in the middle of the church without moving,
and the first gospel, the longest and the most beautiful, he read
himself. A mood of confidence and courage came over him. That first
gospel, "Now is the Son of Man glorified," he knew by heart; and
as he read he raised his eyes from time to time, and saw on both
sides a perfect sea of lights and heard the splutter of candles,
but, as in past years, he could not see the people, and it seemed
as though these were all the same people as had been round him in
those days, in his childhood and his youth; that they would always
be the same every year and till such time as God only knew.
His father had been a deacon, his grandfather a priest, his
great-grandfather a deacon, and his whole family, perhaps from the
days when Christianity had been accepted in Russia, had belonged
to the priesthood; and his love for the Church services, for the
priesthood, for the peal of the bells, was deep in him, ineradicable,
innate. In church, particularly when he took part in the service,
he felt vigorous, of good cheer, happy. So it was now. Only when
the eighth gospel had been read, he felt that his voice had grown
weak, even his cough was inaudible. His head had begun to ache
intensely, and he was troubled by a fear that he might fall down.
And his legs were indeed quite numb, so that by degrees he ceased
to feel them and could not understand how or on what he was standing,
and why he did not fall. . . .
It was a quarter to twelve when the service was over. When he reached
home, the bishop undressed and went to bed at once without even
saying his prayers. He could not speak and felt that he could not
have stood up. When he had covered his head with the quilt he felt
a sudden longing to be abroad, an insufferable longing! He felt
that he would give his life not to see those pitiful cheap shutters,
those low ceilings, not to smell that heavy monastery smell. If
only there were one person to whom he could have talked, have opened
his heart!
For a long while he heard footsteps in the next room and could not
tell whose they were. At last the door opened, and Sisoy came in
with a candle and a tea-cup in his hand.
"You are in bed already, your holiness?" he asked. "Here I have
come to rub you with spirit and vinegar. A thorough rubbing does a
great deal of good. Lord Jesus Christ! . . . That's the way . . .
that's the way. . . . I've just been in our monastery. . . . I don't
like it. I'm going away from here to-morrow, your holiness; I don't
want to stay longer. Lord Jesus Christ. . . . That's the way. . . ."
Sisoy could never stay long in the same place, and he felt as though
he had been a whole year in the Pankratievsky Monastery. Above all,
listening to him it was difficult to understand where his home was,
whether he cared for anyone or anything, whether he believed in
God. . . . He did not know himself why he was a monk, and, indeed,
he did not think about it, and the time when he had become a monk
had long passed out of his memory; it seemed as though he had been
born a monk.
"I'm going away to-morrow; God be with them all."
"I should like to talk to you. . . . I can't find the time," said
the bishop softly with an effort. "I don't know anything or anybody
here. . . ."
"I'll stay till Sunday if you like; so be it, but I don't want to
stay longer. I am sick of them!"
"I ought not to be a bishop," said the bishop softly. "I ought to
have been a village priest, a deacon . . . or simply a monk. . . .
All this oppresses me . . . oppresses me."
"What? Lord Jesus Christ. . . . That's the way. Come, sleep well,
your holiness! . . . What's the good of talking? It's no use.
Good-night!"
The bishop did not sleep all night. And at eight o'clock in the
morning he began to have hemorrhage from the bowels. The lay brother
was alarmed, and ran first to the archimandrite, then for the
monastery doctor, Ivan Andreyitch, who lived in the town. The doctor,
a stout old man with a long grey beard, made a prolonged examination
of the bishop, and kept shaking his head and frowning, then said:
"Do you know, your holiness, you have got typhoid?"
After an hour or so of hemorrhage the bishop looked much thinner,
paler, and wasted; his face looked wrinkled, his eyes looked bigger,
and he seemed older, shorter, and it seemed to him that he was
thinner, weaker, more insignificant than any one, that everything
that had been had retreated far, far away and would never go on
again or be repeated.
"How good," he thought, "how good!"
His old mother came. Seeing his wrinkled face and his big eyes, she
was frightened, she fell on her knees by the bed and began kissing
his face, his shoulders, his hands. And to her, too, it seemed that
he was thinner, weaker, and more insignificant than anyone, and now
she forgot that he was a bishop, and kissed him as though he were
a child very near and very dear to her.
"Pavlusha, darling," she said; "my own, my darling son! . . . Why
are you like this? Pavlusha, answer me!"
Katya, pale and severe, stood beside her, unable to understand what
was the matter with her uncle, why there was such a look of suffering
on her grandmother's face, why she was saying such sad and touching
things. By now he could not utter a word, he could understand
nothing, and he imagined he was a simple ordinary man, that he was
walking quickly, cheerfully through the fields, tapping with his
stick, while above him was the open sky bathed in sunshine, and
that he was free now as a bird and could go where he liked!
"Pavlusha, my darling son, answer me," the old woman was saying.
"What is it? My own!"
"Don't disturb his holiness," Sisoy said angrily, walking about the
room. "Let him sleep . . . what's the use . . . it's no good. . . ."
Three doctors arrived, consulted together, and went away again. The
day was long, incredibly long, then the night came on and passed
slowly, slowly, and towards morning on Saturday the lay brother
went in to the old mother who was lying on the sofa in the parlour,
and asked her to go into the bedroom: the bishop had just breathed
his last.
Next day was Easter Sunday. There were forty-two churches and six
monasteries in the town; the sonorous, joyful clang of the bells
hung over the town from morning till night unceasingly, setting the
spring air aquiver; the birds were singing, the sun was shining
brightly. The big market square was noisy, swings were going, barrel
organs were playing, accordions were squeaking, drunken voices were
shouting. After midday people began driving up and down the principal
street.
In short, all was merriment, everything was satisfactory, just as
it had been the year before, and as it will be in all likelihood
next year.
A month later a new suffragan bishop was appointed, and no one
thought anything more of Bishop Pyotr, and afterwards he was
completely forgotten. And only the dead man's old mother, who is
living to-day with her son-in-law the deacon in a remote little
district town, when she goes out at night to bring her cow in and
meets other women at the pasture, begins talking of her children
and her grandchildren, and says that she had a son a bishop, and
this she says timidly, afraid that she may not be believed. . . .
And, indeed, there are some who do not believe her.