The diocesan bishop was very old and very fat, and had been ill in bed
with gout for a month. So his Reverence Peter had been visiting him
almost every day, and had received his suppliants for him. And now that
he was ill he was appalled to think of the futilities and trifles they
asked for and wept over. He felt annoyed at their ignorance and
cowardice. The very number of all those useless trivialities oppressed
him, and he felt as if he could understand the diocesan bishop who had
written “Lessons in Free Will” when he was young, and now seemed so
absorbed in details that the memory of everything else, even of God, had
forsaken him. Peter must have grown out of touch with Russian life while
he was abroad, for it was hard for him to grow used to it now. The
people seemed rough, the women stupid and tiresome, the novices and
their teachers uneducated and often disorderly. And then the documents
that passed through his hands by the hundreds of thousands! The provosts
gave all the priests in the diocese, young and old, and their wives and
children marks for good behaviour, and he was obliged to talk about all
this, and read about it, and write serious articles on it. His Reverence
never had a moment which he could call his own; all day his nerves were
on edge, and he only grew calm when he found himself in church.
He could not grow accustomed to the terror which he involuntarily
inspired in every breast in spite of his quiet and modest ways. Every
one in the district seemed to shrivel and quake and apologise as soon as
he looked at them. Every one trembled in his presence; even the old
archpresbyters fell down at his feet, and not long ago one suppliant,
the old wife of a village priest, had been prevented by terror from
uttering a word, and had gone away without asking for anything. And he,
who had never been able to say a harsh word in his sermons, and who
never blamed people because he pitied them so, would grow exasperated
with these suppliants, and hurl their petitions to the ground. Not a
soul had spoken sincerely and naturally to him since he had been here;
even his old mother had changed, yes, she had changed very much! Why did
she talk so freely to Sisoi when all the while she was so serious and
ill at ease with him, her own son? It was not like her at all! The only
person who behaved naturally in his presence, and who said whatever came
into his head was old man Sisoi, who had lived with bishops all his
life, and had outlasted eleven of them. And therefore his Reverence felt
at ease with Sisoi, even though he was, without doubt, a rough and
quarrelsome person.
After morning prayers on Tuesday the bishop received his suppliants, and
lost his temper with them. He felt ill, as usual, and longed to go to
bed, but he had hardly entered his room before he was told that the
young merchant Erakin, a benefactor of the monastery, had called on very
important business. The bishop was obliged to receive him. Erakin stayed
about an hour talking in a very loud voice, and it was hard to
understand what he was trying to say.
After he had gone there came an abbess from a distant convent, and by
the time she had gone the bells were tolling for vespers; it was time
for the bishop to go to church.
The monks sang melodiously and rapturously that evening; a young,
black-bearded priest officiated. His Reverence listened as they sang of
the Bridegroom and of the chamber swept and garnished, and felt neither
repentance nor sorrow, but only a deep peace of mind. He sat by the
altar where the shadows were deepest, and was swept in imagination back
into the days of his childhood and youth, when he had first heard these
words sung. The tears trickled down his cheeks, and he meditated on how
he had attained everything in life that it was possible for a man in his
position to attain; his faith was unsullied, and yet all was not clear
to him; something was lacking, and he did not want to die. It still
seemed to him that he was leaving unfound the most important thing of
all. Something of which he had dimly dreamed in the past, hopes that had
thrilled his heart as a child, a schoolboy, and a traveller in foreign
lands, troubled him still.
“How beautifully they are singing to-day!” he thought. “Oh, how
beautifully!”