"Go along, they are ringing already; and mind, don't be naughty in
church or God will punish you."
My mother thrusts a few copper coins upon me, and, instantly
forgetting about me, runs into the kitchen with an iron that needs
reheating. I know well that after confession I shall not be allowed
to eat or drink, and so, before leaving the house, I force myself
to eat a crust of white bread, and to drink two glasses of water.
It is quite spring in the street. The roads are all covered with
brownish slush, in which future paths are already beginning to show;
the roofs and side-walks are dry; the fresh young green is piercing
through the rotting grass of last year, under the fences. In the
gutters there is the merry gurgling and foaming of dirty water, in
which the sunbeams do not disdain to bathe. Chips, straws, the husks
of sunflower seeds are carried rapidly along in the water, whirling
round and sticking in the dirty foam. Where, where are those chips
swimming to? It may well be that from the gutter they may pass into
the river, from the river into the sea, and from the sea into the
ocean. I try to imagine to myself that long terrible journey, but
my fancy stops short before reaching the sea.
A cabman drives by. He clicks to his horse, tugs at the reins, and
does not see that two street urchins are hanging on the back of his
cab. I should like to join them, but think of confession, and the
street urchins begin to seem to me great sinners.
"They will be asked on the day of judgment: 'Why did you play pranks
and deceive the poor cabman?'" I think. "They will begin to defend
themselves, but evil spirits will seize them, and drag them to fire
everlasting. But if they obey their parents, and give the beggars
a kopeck each, or a roll, God will have pity on them, and will let
them into Paradise."
The church porch is dry and bathed in sunshine. There is not a soul
in it. I open the door irresolutely and go into the church. Here,
in the twilight which seems to me thick and gloomy as at no other
time, I am overcome by the sense of sinfulness and insignificance.
What strikes the eye first of all is a huge crucifix, and on one
side of it the Mother of God, and on the other, St. John the Divine.
The candelabra and the candlestands are draped in black mourning
covers, the lamps glimmer dimly and faintly, and the sun seems
intentionally to pass by the church windows. The Mother of God and
the beloved disciple of Jesus Christ, depicted in profile, gaze in
silence at the insufferable agony and do not observe my presence;
I feel that to them I am alien, superfluous, unnoticed, that I can
be no help to them by word or deed, that I am a loathsome, dishonest
boy, only capable of mischief, rudeness, and tale-bearing. I think
of all the people I know, and they all seem to me petty, stupid,
and wicked, and incapable of bringing one drop of relief to that
intolerable sorrow which I now behold.
The twilight of the church grows darker and more gloomy. And the
Mother of God and St. John look lonely and forlorn to me.
Prokofy Ignatitch, a veteran soldier, the church verger's assistant,
is standing behind the candle cupboard. Raising his eyebrows and
stroking his beard he explains in a half-whisper to an old woman:
"Matins will be in the evening to-day, directly after vespers. And
they will ring for the 'hours' to-morrow between seven and eight.
Do you understand? Between seven and eight."
Between the two broad columns on the right, where the chapel of
Varvara the Martyr begins, those who are going to confess stand
beside the screen, awaiting their turn. And Mitka is there too--
a ragged boy with his head hideously cropped, with ears that jut
out, and little spiteful eyes. He is the son of Nastasya the
charwoman, and is a bully and a ruffian who snatches apples from
the women's baskets, and has more than once carried off my
knuckle-bones. He looks at me angrily, and I fancy takes a spiteful
pleasure in the fact that he, not I, will first go behind the screen.
I feel boiling over with resentment, I try not to look at him, and,
at the bottom of my heart, I am vexed that this wretched boy's sins
will soon be forgiven.
In front of him stands a grandly dressed, beautiful lady, wearing
a hat with a white feather. She is noticeably agitated, is waiting
in strained suspense, and one of her cheeks is flushed red with
excitement.
I wait for five minutes, for ten. . . . A well-dressed young man
with a long thin neck, and rubber goloshes, comes out from behind
the screen. I begin dreaming how, when I am grown up, I will buy
goloshes exactly like them. I certainly will! The lady shudders and
goes behind the screen. It is her turn.
In the crack, between the two panels of the screen, I can see the
lady go up to the lectern and bow down to the ground, then get up,
and, without looking at the priest, bow her head in anticipation.
The priest stands with his back to the screen, and so I can only
see his grey curly head, the chain of the cross on his chest, and
his broad back. His face is not visible. Heaving a sigh, and not
looking at the lady, he begins speaking rapidly, shaking his head,
alternately raising and dropping his whispering voice. The lady
listens meekly as though conscious of guilt, answers meekly, and
looks at the floor.
"In what way can she be sinful?" I wonder, looking reverently at
her gentle, beautiful face. "God forgive her sins, God send her
happiness." But now the priest covers her head with the stole. "And
I, unworthy priest . . ." I hear his voice, ". . . by His power
given unto me, do forgive and absolve thee from all thy sins. . . ."
The lady bows down to the ground, kisses the cross, and comes back.
Both her cheeks are flushed now, but her face is calm and serene
and cheerful.
"She is happy now," I think to myself, looking first at her and
then at the priest who had forgiven her sins. "But how happy the
man must be who has the right to forgive sins!"
Now it is Mitka's turn, but a feeling of hatred for that young
ruffian suddenly boils up in me. I want to go behind the screen
before him, I want to be the first. Noticing my movement he hits
me on the head with his candle, I respond by doing the same, and,
for half a minute, there is a sound of panting, and, as it were,
of someone breaking candles. . . . We are separated. My foe goes
timidly up to the lectern, and bows down to the floor without bending
his knees, but I do not see what happens after that; the thought
that my turn is coming after Mitka's makes everything grow blurred
and confused before my eyes; Mitka's protruding ears grow large,
and melt into his dark head, the priest sways, the floor seems to
be undulating. . . .