IV

It was a quiet, starless night. The horizon could still be traced as an

indistinct line beneath the clouds, but still lower hung a thick mist,

endless, shapeless, without form or details.

We walked on quite a while in silence. The wanderer panted timidly and

tried to smother his cough.

“I don’t see Avtonomov,” he kept saying, and he gazed helplessly in the

blackness of the night.

“We can’t see him.... But he sees us, by heavens,” said Andrey Ivanovich,

spitefully and ominously.

The road seemed to be a confused streak, like a bridge across an

abyss.... Everything around was black and indistinct. Was there or was

there not a light streak on the horizon? There was not a trace of it now.

Was it so short a time, since we were in that noisy hut with the laughter

and conversation?... Will there be any end to this night, to this field?

Were we moving ahead or was the road like an endless ribbon slipping by

under our feet while we remained treading in the same spot, in the same

enchanted patch of darkness? An involuntary, timid joy sprang up in my

soul when an unseen brook began to babble ahead of us, when this murmur

increased and then died away behind us, or when a sudden breath of wind

stirred the scarcely visible clumps of willows beside the road and then

died away, a sign that we had passed them....

“It’s night now all right,” said Andrey Ivanovich quietly, and this was

very unusual for him. “A man’s a fool to walk the roads a night like

this. And what are we after, I’d like to know. We worked during the day,

rested, drank our tea, prayed—for sleep. No, I don’t like it—and then we

started along the roads. It’s better for us. Here it’s midnight and we

haven’t crossed ourselves yet. We certainly pray!...”

I made no answer. Thoughts of repentance seemed still to be running

through the head of Andrey Ivanovich.

“Women can teach us a little,” he said sternly. “We don’t stay at home.

What do we want?...”

“Why, I can’t see Avtonomov,” interrupted the plaintive voice of the

young wanderer.

“Neither can I,” grunted Andrey Ivanovich.

“What a misfortune!” said the young wanderer sorrowfully. “I’ve been

abandoned by my protector....”

His voice was so filled with despair that we both looked ahead

involuntarily in search of the lost Avtonomov. Suddenly, rather to one

side, we heard a dull sound as if some one had stepped upon an old bridge.

“There he is!” said Andrey Ivanovich. “He went to the left.”

“The road must have turned.”

In truth the road soon forked. We also turned to the left. Ivan Ivanovich

sighed from relief.

“What are you grieving so over?” asked Andrey Ivanovich. “Is he your

brother or who is he? He’s a freak, begging your pardon.”

“He’s closer than a brother. I’d be lost without him; I can’t beg myself.

And in our condition not to—is absolute ruin....”

“Why do you wander around?”

The stranger was silent as if it were hard for him to answer this

question.

“I’m looking for a shelter. In some monastery.... Since my youth I have

been destined for the monastic life.”

“You should live in a monastery.”

“I have a weakness,” said Ivan Ivanovich, almost inaudibly and bashfully.

“You like drink.”

“Yes, that’s it. I was spoiled as a child.”

“Too bad!... The devil’s to blame for it.”

“Yes, the devil.... Of course.... Formerly, when the people were serfs,

_he_ had a lot of work: he wrestled with the monotonous life, we’ll

say.... They all saw him.... And, just think, they struggled just the

same.... Now it’s our weakness.... The people are all inclined to it.”

“Y-yes,” assented Andrey Ivanovich. “It’s much easier now for the

impure.... He lives with us, by heavens. Lie, dear, on the stove....

We’ll come to see you and bring one another.... Only entertain us.”

The stranger heaved a deep sigh.

“That is the truth!” he said sadly. “I’ll tell you about myself,” he

whispered, as if he did not wish his words to be heard by any one in the

blackness along the road. “Do you know who ruined me? My own mother and

my father superior!”

“Wh-what?” queried Andrey Ivanovich, also in a low tone.

“Yes!... I know it’s sinful to blame my dead mother,—may she rest

in peace!” He took off his hat and crossed himself. “And yet I keep

thinking: if she had had me taught a trade, I might have been a man like

the others.... No, she wanted her child to have an easy life, the Lord

forgive her....”

“Go on, go on!” urged Andrey Ivanovich.

“You know,” continued Ivan Ivanovich sadly, “in old times, as the books

say, parents always objected and children went secretly to the monastic

cell to devote themselves.... But my mother took me herself to the

monastery; she wanted me to become a clerk.”

“Yes, yes!”

“And before that, I must tell you, they used to make them psalmists and

so on, ... but they had changed by my time!”

“That’s the rank!”

“Yes!... And mother again! stay there in the monastery.... That’s an

easy life. And the superior loves you.... That’s the truth: the father

superior did love me and took me as a novice under his own charge. But if

a man is doomed, fortune will become misfortune. I’ll tell you the truth:

I fell because of an angel ... not because of the devil....”

“What are you telling us?” said Andrey Ivanovich in surprise.

“Just the truth.... Our superior was a wonderfully kind soul, not evil,

and strict.... But he had a secret weakness; at times he’d drink.

Quietly, nobly. He’d shut himself up and drink for three or four days. No

more than that. Then he’d all at once stop it.... He was a strong man....

But once, in that condition, he got bored. And he called me and said:

‘Dear boy, mortify yourself. Vanya, obey me and do something you don’t

want to. An innocent boy, stay with me, a hardened sinner.’ Well, I did

it, and sat and listened how he talked with some one and wept over that

weakness of his.... I wasn’t strong, and when I got tired I fell asleep.

He said: ‘Vanya, take a drop to brace you up.’ And I drank a glass of

brandy.... ‘But swear to me,’ he said, ‘that you’ll never drink a drop

alone without me.’”

“So that’s it,” drawled Andrey Ivanovich meaningly.

“Of course I swore. And he gave me another glass.... And so it went. At

first a little, then—— The father superior was a strong man. No matter

how much he drank, he was still steady. But, you know, after three or

four glasses, my feet went.... He remembered himself and forbade me

solemnly. It was too late. I didn’t drink with him and I had the keys to

the chest.... I began to take a nip secretly.... Another and a larger

one.... A second time I couldn’t walk. He thought at first that it was

from that first drunkenness, because of my weakness. Then he looked at

me steadily and said: ‘Vanyushka, do you want a glass?’ I trembled all

over from my longing for it. He guessed the truth. He took his staff,

caught it in my hair, and reasoned with me.... He was strong and afraid

of hurting me.... It did no good. Again and again.... He saw that his

weakness was ruining me. He said to me: ‘Forgive me, Vanyushka, but you

must pass through temptation or you’ll be ruined.... Go and wander....

When you meet sorrow you can be healed. I will pray for you. Come back

in a year,’ he said, ‘on this same date. I will receive you like the

prodigal son.’ He blessed me. Began to weep. Called the rufalny, that

is, the monk who had charge of the habits, and ordered him to get me

ready to wander.... He himself said the prayers for a brother who is

going on a journey.... And forth I went, the servant of the Lord, on the

twenty-ninth of August, the day of the Beheading of St. John Baptist, for

a period of wandering....”

The narrator again stopped, drew his breath, and coughed. Andrey

Ivanovich sympathetically stopped walking and the three of us stood in

the dark road. Finally Ivan Ivanovich was rested and we started on

again....

“So I traveled summer and winter. It was hard work and I had many

sorrows. Yes! I went to various monasteries. Some places I didn’t get

into the courtyard,—others I didn’t like. Our monastery was supported

by the state and rich and I’d gotten accustomed to an easy life. And I

couldn’t get into another state monastery, but they took me into one

where all the monks lived together, that of St. Cyril of Novoye Ozero,

and it was awful: we got little tea and not a bit of tobacco; the monks

were all peasants.... A hard rule and a lot of work....”

“I bet you didn’t like that after your easy life,” said Andrey Ivanovich.

“To tell the truth, I wasn’t strong enough,” sighed Ivan Ivanovich

humbly. “The burden was too great.... And sanctity looked unpleasant in

that garb. There was no splendor.... A lot of people and no choir....

They did make an awful noise....”

“That’s sanctity!” said Andrey Ivanovich with conviction.

“No, let me tell you,” answered Ivan Ivanovich no less emphatically....

“You’re wrong.... That doesn’t determine the kind of monastery. A monk

must be trained and have a head like a blade of grass ... and hold

himself up.... That makes a fine monk and there’s mighty few of them. And

the simple monk is smooth and clean with a velvety voice. Benefactors and

women go wild over them. But a peasant, let me tell you, is no account

even there....”

“All right.... What next?” said Andrey Ivanovich, a little surprised at

the decided opinion of the expert.

“What next?” answered the wanderer sadly. “I wandered for a year. I

fasted and wandered.... The worst was that my conscience bothered me;

I didn’t know how to beg. I waited and waited for that year to end,—to

go home, home, to my poor cell. I thought of the father superior as

if he were my own father; I loved him so. Finally August twenty-ninth

came. I went into the courtyard, you know, and somehow I felt badly. Our

attendants came to the gate.... They knew me. ‘Wanderer Ivan, have you

returned?’ ‘I have,’ was my reply. ‘Is my benefactor alive?’ ‘Too late,’

was the answer. ‘He was buried some time ago. He was deemed worthy; he

went away with the collect of the Resurrection. He remembered you ... and

wept.... He wanted to reward you.... We’ve got a new superior, ... a

barbarian. Don’t let him see you?’ But,” he added, plaintively, “I can’t

see Avtonomov.”

His voice betrayed his terror and sorrow.

V

Andrey Ivanovich stared into the darkness and suddenly he caught hold of

my hand, exclaiming:

“Stop! We shouldn’t have come.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I told the truth. Don’t chase on after them! Wait for me.... I’ll run

and see....”

He quickly disappeared in the darkness. I stayed with Ivan Ivanovich in

the road. When the steps of the bootmaker died away, we heard merely the

quiet noises of the night. The grass rustled gently; at times a rail

whistled as it ran nervously from place to place. In the vague distance

the frogs were croaking dreamily and playing in the swamp. Hardly visible

clouds were rising.

“That’s just like him.... My comrade loves to walk at night,” complained

Ivan Ivanovich. “What’s the use of it? Why not by day?”

“Was he in a monastery too?”

“Yes,” answered Ivan Ivanovich. Then, with a sigh, “He’s from a good

family. His father was a deacon in the city of N. You may have heard

of him.... His brother is a secretary in a police office. He was

betrothed....”

“Why didn’t he marry?”

“Don’t you see, he’d already gone wrong.... He ran away ... but he wasn’t

a wanderer yet. He had the outfit but he didn’t wander.... He passed as

a suitor. He was accepted. The girl loved him, and her father didn’t

object.... Oh!... Oh!... Of course, it was sinful, ... he deceived them.

Sometimes, when he tells about it, you’ll cry, and then again it’s really

funny.”

Ivan Ivanovich acted strangely. He laughed and then began to choke and

put his hand over his mouth. At first you could hardly tell he was

laughing. But he really was,—an hysterical, bashful, rather explosive

laugh, which ended like a cough. When he quieted down, Ivan Ivanovich

said, half-pityingly:

“Only he tells it different every time.... You can’t tell whether it’s

the truth or not.”

“He wouldn’t lie?”

“Not exactly, ... but he’s not always accurate. You see, the truth——”

“Just what does he say?”

“You know, the clerk, he says, was clever. He saw the young man wasting

his time, really doing nothing. He pretended to go to a bazaar,—so he

went to the city, left the old woman in the house, and gave her strict

orders to keep an eye on him. Avtonomov, you see, didn’t live with them,

but in the village with the woman who baked the bread for the church....

He kept visiting them.... Every day.... They’d sit by the river bank....

And the old woman was there, too. And, of course, she watched them....

One time, my dear little Avtonomov saw two men coming from the city in

a cart—and both drunk. They came up and turned out to be the clerk and

his older brother, the secretary. He hadn’t even looked around—when they

landed on him and licked him. The reason why: his brother, because he ran

away from the seminary; the clerk, for deceiving and disgracing him....”

Ivan Ivanovich sighed.

“He hardly got off alive, he says.... They were both angry and drunk....

He ran to the house where he was living, grabbed his wallet, and off into

the woods.... Since then, he says, he’s been wandering.... But, another

time, he really ... tells something else.”

He came nearer to me and wanted to tell me something very confidentially.

But suddenly out of the darkness near us came the figure of Andrey

Ivanovich. He walked rapidly with a deliberately menacing scowl.

“Come here, if you please.” He took me aside and whispered:

“You and I are in a nice mess!”

“How?”

“This Avtonomov, the monk, seems to have gone off to steal.... We’ll get

into trouble over him yet....”

“That’s enough, Andrey Ivanovich.”

“Yes, for you. Did you hear what he asked in the village? Of the

soldier’s wife? About a certain clerk? Is the clerk actually at home or

not?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Do you remember where that clerk lived?”

“Yes, by a cemetery.”

“There it is!” said Andrey Ivanovich maliciously, pointing ahead in the

darkness.

“What of it?”

“Just this.... The old woman, you heard, is alone.... And he went

right there.... He walked around the yard and looked. You’ll see for

yourself.... That’s the sort of a fellow you wanted to drop an old

companion for.... If he’d crossed the bridge without a board creaking,

we’d have gone straight along the road.... I turned aside.... Let’s go

ahead quietly.”

Behind us some one coughed plaintively. Andrey Ivanovich looked around

and said:

“Come with us, novice.... What can we do with you? You love your comrade.”

We crossed the bridge, followed the road and came to the cemetery. On the

hill a little light shone through the trees. I saw the whitish walls of

a small house, perched on the edge of a hill, and behind it was the dark

outline of a bell-tower. Below on the right it was easier to imagine than

to see the little stream.

“There he is,” said Andrey Ivanovich. “Do you see him?”

Not far from us, between the wall and the slope, near an arbor covered

with foliage, was a figure. A man seemed to be crowded against and

fastened to the fence and looking through the bushes. By the light of the

window, I saw the pointed cap, the long neck, and the familiar profile of

Avtonomov. The light streamed out through the trees and lilac blossoms.

When I went nearer, I saw in the window the head of an old woman in a

cap and with horn spectacles. Her head nodded like that of a man who is

working when he is terribly sleepy, and the needles moved rapidly in her

hands. The old woman was evidently waiting for her husband to return.

Suddenly she listened.... An irresolute call came out of the darkness:

“Olimpiada Nikolayevna!”

The old woman looked out of the window but saw no one.

A moment of silence, and then the same call was repeated:

“Olimpiada Nikolayevna!”