Now I too move behind the screen. I do not feel the ground under
my feet, it is as though I were walking on air. . . . I go up to
the lectern which is taller than I am. For a minute I have a glimpse
of the indifferent, exhausted face of the priest. But after that I
see nothing but his sleeve with its blue lining, the cross, and the
edge of the lectern. I am conscious of the close proximity of the
priest, the smell of his cassock; I hear his stern voice, and my
cheek turned towards him begins to burn. . . . I am so troubled
that I miss a great deal that he says, but I answer his questions
sincerely in an unnatural voice, not my own. I think of the forlorn
figures of the Holy Mother and St. John the Divine, the crucifix,
my mother, and I want to cry and beg forgiveness.
"What is your name?" the priest asks me, covering my head with the
soft stole.
How light-hearted I am now, with joy in my soul!
I have no sins now, I am holy, I have the right to enter Paradise!
I fancy that I already smell like the cassock. I go from behind the
screen to the deacon to enter my name, and sniff at my sleeves. The
dusk of the church no longer seems gloomy, and I look indifferently,
without malice, at Mitka.
"What is your name?" the deacon asks.
"Fedya."
"And your name from your father?"
"I don't know."
"What is your papa's name?"
"Ivan Petrovitch."
"And your surname?"