“How old are you?”
“Nine years old.”
On reaching home I went straight to bed to avoid seeing my family at
supper. Shutting my eyes, I lay thinking of how glorious it would be to
be martyred by Herod or some one; to live in a desert feeding bears like
the hermit Seraphim; to pass one’s life in a cell with nothing to eat
but wafers; to give away all one possessed to the poor; to make a
pilgrimage to Kief. I could hear them laying the table in the
dining-room; supper would soon be ready! There would be pickles and
cabbage pasties and baked fish—oh, how hungry I was! I now felt willing
to endure any torture whatsoever, to live in the desert without my
mother, feeding bears out of my own hands, if only I could have just one
little cabbage pasty first!
“Purify my heart, O God!” I prayed, pulling the bedclothes up over my
head. “O guardian angels, save me from sin!”
Next morning, Thursday, I woke with a heart as serene and joyful as a
spring day. I walked gaily and manfully to church, conscious that I was
now a communicant and that I was wearing a beautiful and expensive shirt
made from a silk dress left me by my grandmamma. Everything in church
spoke of joy and happiness and springtime. The Mother of God and John
the Baptist looked less sad than they had the evening before, and the
faces of the communicants were radiant with anticipation. The past, it
seemed, was all forgiven and forgotten. Mitka was there, washed and
dressed in his Sunday best. I looked cheerfully at his protruding ears,
and, to show that I bore him no malice, I said:
“You look fine to-day. If your hair didn’t stick up so and you weren’t
so poorly dressed one might almost think your mother was a lady instead
of a washerwoman. Come and play knuckle-bones with me on Easter Day!”
Mitka looked suspiciously at me and secretly threatened me with his
fist.
The lady of yesterday was radiantly beautiful. She wore a light blue
dress fastened with a large, flashing brooch shaped like a horseshoe.
I stood and admired her, thinking that when I grew to be a man I should
certainly marry a woman like her, but, remembering suddenly that to
think of marriage was shameful, I stopped, and moved toward the choir
where the deacon was already reading the prayers that concluded the
service.