In the evening of that same day, Kunin paced his room for a long time and thought, then resolutely sat down at his desk and wrote a letter to the bishop. Having requested money for the school and his blessing, he candidly explained, among other things, as a spiritual son should, his opinion about the Sinkovo priest. “He is young,” he wrote, “not sufficiently developed, seems to be leading a drunken life, and generally does not satisfy the requirements which over the centuries have developed among the Russian people regarding their pastors.” Having written this letter, Kunin sighed with relief and went to bed with the consciousness that he had done a good deed.
On Monday morning, while he was still lying in bed, he was told that Father Yakov had come. He did not feel like getting up, and he told them to say he was not at home. On Tuesday he left for the assembly and, returning on Saturday, he learned from the servants that during his absence Father Yakov had come every day.
“Well, so he really liked my cookies!” thought Kunin.
On Sunday, towards evening, Father Yakov came. This time not only the hem of his cassock, but even his hat was spattered with mud. Just as on his first visit, he was red-faced and sweaty, and he sat, as then, on the edge of the armchair. Kunin decided not to start discussing the school, not to cast pearls.
“I’ve come, Pavel Mikhailovich, to bring you a little list of school manuals…” Father Yakov began.
“Thank you.”
But by all tokens it could be seen that Father Yakov had not come for the sake of the little list. His whole figure expressed deep embarrassment, but at the same time resolution was written on his face, as on a man upon whom an idea has suddenly dawned. He was struggling to say something important, extremely necessary, and was now trying to overcome his timidity.
“Why is he silent?” Kunin thought angrily. “Sitting around here! As if I have time to bother about him!”
In order to smooth over the awkwardness of his silence somehow and conceal the struggle that was going on in him, the priest began to force a smile, and this smile, prolonged, squeezed out through the sweat and redness of his face, conflicting with the fixed gaze of his gray-blue eyes, made Kunin turn away. He was disgusted.
“Excuse me, Father, I have to leave…,” he said.
Father Yakov roused himself, like a sleepy man who has just been punched, and, without ceasing to smile, began in his embarrassment to wrap the skirts of his cassock around him. Despite all his revulsion at this man, Kunin suddenly felt sorry for him, and he wanted to soften his cruelty.
“Please, Father, another time…,” he said, “and before you go I have a request to make of you…I recently felt inspired, you know, and wrote two sermons…I give them to you for your consideration…If they’re suitable, deliver them.”
“Very well, sir…,” Father Yakov said, covering Kunin’s sermons, which lay on the table, with his palm. “I’ll take them, sir…”
He stood for a moment, hesitated, still trying to close his cassock, and then suddenly stopped forcing a smile and resolutely raised his head.
“Pavel Mikhailovich,” he said, obviously trying to speak loudly and clearly.
“What can I do for you?”
“I’ve heard that you were pleased…sort of…to fire your clerk and…and are now looking for a new one…”
“Yes…Do you have someone you can recommend?”
“You see, I…I…Couldn’t you give this post to…me?”
“So you’re abandoning the priesthood?” Kunin was amazed.
“No, no,” Father Yakov said quickly, turning pale for some reason and trembling all over. “God save me from that! If you doubt me, then never mind, never mind. I meant it sort of in my spare time…to increase my dividends…”
“Hm…dividends!…But I pay my clerk only twenty roubles a month!”
“Lord, and I’d take ten!” Father Yakov whispered, glancing over his shoulder. “Ten’s enough! You’re…you’re amazed…and everybody’s amazed. Greedy, money-grubbing priest, what does he do with all his money? I myself feel I’m greedy…I accuse myself, condemn myself…I’m ashamed to look people in the eye…To you, Pavel Mikhailovich, in all conscience…I call the true God as my witness…”
Father Yakov paused to catch his breath and went on:
“On the way here I prepared a whole confession for you, but…I forgot it all, I can’t find the right words now. I get a hundred and fifty roubles a year from the parish, and everybody…wonders what I do with this money…But I’ll explain it all to you honestly…I pay forty roubles a year to the seminary for my brother Pyotr. He gets room and board, but paper and pens are on me…”
“Ah, I believe you, I believe you! Well, why all this?” Kunin waved his hand, feeling terribly oppressed by his guest’s candor and not knowing where to hide from the tearful glistening of his eyes.
“And then, sir, I have yet to pay off my debt to the chancery. They charged me two hundred roubles for this post, to be paid off ten roubles a month…Judge for yourself now, what’s left? And besides that I have to give Father Avramy at least three roubles a month!”
“What Father Avramy?”
“Father Avramy who was the priest in Sinkovo before me. He was removed from the position on account of…weakness, but he lives in Sinkovo even now! Where can he go? Who will feed him? He’s old, but still he needs a corner, and bread, and some clothes! I can’t allow that he, with his holy order, should go begging! It would be my sin if something happened! My sin! He…owes money to everybody, but it’s my sin if I don’t pay for him.”
Father Yakov tore from his place and, staring madly at the floor, began pacing from corner to corner.
“My God! My God!” he muttered, now raising his arms, now lowering them. “Lord, save us and have mercy! And why did you take such an order upon yourself, if you’re of little faith and have no strength? There’s no end to my despair! Queen of Heaven, save me.”
“Calm down, Father,” said Kunin.
“We’re starving, Pavel Mikhailovich!” Father Yakov went on. “Kindly forgive me, but it’s beyond my strength…I know if I ask, if I bow my head, everyone will help me, but…I can’t! I’m ashamed! How am I going to ask from peasants? You work here, you know…How can I hold out my hand and ask from beggars? And I can’t ask from those who are richer, from the landowners! Pride! I’m ashamed!”
Father Yakov waved his arm and scratched his head nervously with both hands.
“Ashamed! God, how ashamed! I’m proud, I can’t stand it that people see my poverty. When you visited us, we simply had no tea, Pavel Mikhailovich! Not a speck of tea, but my pride kept me from telling you! I’m ashamed of my clothes, of these patches…Ashamed of my vestments, of my hunger…And is pride a proper thing for a priest?”
Father Yakov stopped in the middle of the study and, as if not noticing Kunin’s presence, began reasoning with himself.
“Well, let’s say I can bear with the hunger and the shame, but, Lord, I also have a wife! I took her from a good family! She’s not used to hard work, she’s sensitive, she’s used to tea, and white bread, and bedsheets…She played the piano in her parents’ house…She’s young, not yet twenty…No doubt she would like to dress up, and frolic a bit, and go visiting…And with me…she’s worse off than any kitchen maid, she’s ashamed to show herself outside. My God, my God! The only pleasure she has is when I come home from my visits with an apple or a little cookie…”
Father Yakov again began to scratch his head with both hands.
“And as a result what we have isn’t love, it’s pity…I can’t see her without compassion! And, Lord, what’s going on in the world. If somebody writes about it in the newspapers, people won’t believe it…And when will there be an end to it all!”