The old man now seemed to Father Fyodor not guilty or depraved, but humiliated, insulted, wretched; the dean remembered his wife, his nine children, the dirty, beggarly beds in Zyavkin’s inn, remembered, for some reason, those who are glad to see drunken priests and exposed superiors, and he thought that the best thing Father Anastasy could do now was die as soon as possible and leave this world forever.
There was the sound of footsteps.
“Father Fyodor, are you resting?” a bass voice asked in the entryway.
“No, deacon, come in.”
Orlov’s colleague, the deacon Liubimov, came into the drawing room, an old man with a big bald spot on the top of his head, but still sturdy, dark-haired, and with thick black eyebrows, like a Georgian’s. He bowed to Father Anastasy and sat down.
“What’s the good word?” asked the dean.
“Is there any?” the deacon replied and, after a pause, went on with a smile: “Little children, little grief; big children, big grief. Such things are going on, Father Fyodor, that I can’t come to my senses. A comedy, that’s all.”
He paused again briefly, smiled more broadly, and said:
“Today Nikolai Matveich came back from Kharkov. He told me about my Pyotr. Went to see him twice, he said.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Got me worried, God help him. He wanted to give me joy, but when I thought it over, it turned out there wasn’t much joy in it. More cause for grief than joy…‘Your Petrushka,’ he says, ‘lives a high life, he’s way beyond reach now.’ ‘Well, thank God for that,’ I say. ‘I had dinner with him,’ he says, ‘and saw his whole way of life. He lives grandly,’ he says, ‘couldn’t be better.’ I’m curious, of course, so I ask: ‘And what did they serve at his dinner?’ ‘First,’ he says, ‘a fish dish, something like a soup, then tongue with peas, then,’ he says, ‘a roast turkey.’ ‘Turkey during Lent? A fine treat!’ I say. Turkey during the Great Lent. Eh?”
“That’s not so surprising,” said the dean, narrowing his eyes mockingly.
And, tucking both thumbs behind his belt, he straightened up and said in the tone in which he usually delivered sermons or taught catechism in the district high schooclass="underline"
“People who don’t observe the fasts can be divided into two different categories: those who don’t observe out of light-mindedness, and those who don’t out of unbelief. Your Pyotr doesn’t observe the fasts out of unbelief. Yes.”
The deacon looked timidly at Father Fyodor’s stern face and said:
“That’s not the worst of it…We talked and talked, about this and that, and it also turned out that my unbelieving boy lives with some madame, another man’s wife. She’s there in his quarters in place of a wife and hostess: pours tea, receives guests, and all the rest, as if they were married. It’s already the third year he’s been carrying on with this viper. A comedy, that’s all. Three years together, and no children.”
“Meaning they live in chastity!” Father Anastasy giggled, with a wheezing cough. “There are children, Father Deacon, there are, but they don’t keep them at home! They send them to foster care! Ha-ha-ha…” (Anastasy had a coughing fit.)
“Don’t butt in, Father Anastasy,” the dean said sternly.
“So Nikolai Matveich asked him, ‘Who is this madame who serves soup at your table?’ ” the deacon went on, looking darkly at Anastasy’s bent body. “And he says to him, ‘She’s my wife,’ he says. And the other asks, ‘Have you been pleased to be married long?’ And Pyotr replies, ‘We were married in Kulikov’s pastry shop.’ ”
The dean’s eyes lit up wrathfully, and his temples turned red. Apart from his sinfulness, he found Pyotr unsympathetic in general as a human being. Father Fyodor had what is known as a bone to pick with him. He remembered him when he was still a high school boy, and remembered him distinctly, because even then he had seemed abnormal to him. The schoolboy Petrusha was embarrassed to assist at the altar, was offended when addressed informally, did not cross himself on entering a room, and, most memorably of all, liked to talk much and heatedly, and, in Father Fyodor’s opinion, garrulousness in children was improper and harmful; besides that, Petrusha had a scornful and critical attitude towards fishing, of which the dean and the deacon were great enthusiasts. As a student Pyotr did not go to church at all, slept until noon, looked down his nose at people, and, with a sort of special defiance, liked to raise ticklish, unanswerable questions.
“What do you want?” the dean asked, going up to the deacon and looking at him crossly. “What do you want? This was to be expected! I aways knew and was sure that nothing good would come of your Pyotr! I told you and I’m telling you. You’re now reaping what you sowed! Reap, then!”
“What did I sow, Father Fyodor?” the deacon asked softly, looking up at the dean.
“And whose fault is it, if not yours? You are the parent, he is your child! It was for you to instruct him, to instill the fear of God in him. You had to teach him! Begot him, yes, you begot him, but instruct him—no, you did not. That’s a sin! Bad! Shameful!”
The dean forgot about his weariness, paced about, and went on talking. On the deacon’s bare crown and forehead small drops appeared. He raised guilty eyes to the dean and said:
“So I didn’t instruct him, Father Fyodor? Lord have mercy, am I not the father of my child? You yourself know I spared nothing for him, all my life I strove and prayed to God to give him a proper education. I sent him to school, and I hired private tutors for him, and he finished university. And if I couldn’t guide his mind, Father Fyodor, then, judge for yourself, I simply had no ability for it! He used to come here when he was a student, and I would tell him what I thought, but he didn’t listen. I tell him, ‘Go to church,’ and he says, ‘Why should I?’ I’d explain, and he says, ‘Why? What for?’ Or else he pats me on the shoulder and says, ‘Everything in this world is relative, approximate, and conventional. I don’t know anything, and you don’t know a blessed thing either, Papa.’ ”
Father Anastasy burst into wheezy laughter, had a coughing fit, and waved his fingers in the air as if he was about to say something. The dean glanced at him and said sternly:
“Don’t butt in, Father Anastasy.”
The old man laughed, beamed, and evidently enjoyed listening to the deacon, as if he was glad there were other sinful people in this world besides himself. The deacon spoke sincerely, with a contrite heart, and tears even came to his eyes. Father Fyodor felt sorry for him.
“It’s your fault, Deacon, your fault,” he said, but not so sternly and heatedly now. “If you know how to beget, you should know how to instruct. You should have instructed him while he was still a child, but now that he’s a student, just try putting him right!”
Silence ensued. The deacon clasped his hands and said with a sigh:
“And I’m the one who must answer for him!”
“There you have it!”
After a brief pause, the dean yawned and sighed at the same time, and asked:
“Who is reading the Acts?”5
“Evstrat. Evstrat always reads the Acts.”
The deacon got up and, looking imploringly at the dean, asked:
“Father Fyodor, what am I to do now?”
“Do whatever you like. I’m not his father, you are. You know best.”
“I know nothing, Father Fyodor! Be so kind as to teach me! Believe me, I’m sick at heart! I can’t sleep now, or sit quietly, and the holiday isn’t a holiday for me! Tell me what to do, Father Fyodor!”
“Write him a letter.”
“What am I going to write to him?”
“Write that he mustn’t do this. Write briefly but sternly and specifically, without softening or diminishing his guilt. It’s your parental obligation. You’ll write, fulfill your duty, and calm down.”