Steps were heard.
"Father Fyodor, you are not resting?" a bass voice came from the anteroom.
"No, deacon, come in."
Into the room walked Father Orlov's colleague, dea- con Lubimov, an old man with a bald patch extending over the entire top of his head, but still vigorous, with a fringe of black hair and with bushy black eyebrows like a Georgian's. He bowed to Father Anastasy and sat down.
"What good news have you brought us?"
"What good news?" replied the deaacon, and after a pause continued with a smile: "Smaall children—small troubles; big children—big troubles. Here's such a kettle of fish, Father Fyodor, that I don't know where I'm at. A regular farce, that's what it is."
He paused again, smiled even more broadly and said:
"Nikolay Matveich has just come back from Kharkov. He was telling me about my Pyotr. He went to see him once or twice, he said."
"What has he been telling you, then?"
"He has upset me, God forgive him. He meant to give me joy, but when I thought it over, I found there wasn't much to rejoice over. There is more cause for grief than for joy. 'Your Petrushka,' says he, 1ives in style, he's way beyond our reach,' says he. 'WeU, thank God for that,' says I. 'I had dinner with him,' says he, 'and saw the way he lives. He lives like the gentry. You couldn't want any- thing better.' Of course, I'm curious and I ask him: 'And what did they serve for dinner?' 'First of all, there was a fish course, something like a chowder, then tongue with peas, and then,' says he, 'roast turkey.' 'Roast turkey in Lent? That's something to rejoice mel' says I. Turkey in Lent, eh?"
"There's little surprising about that," said the arch- deacon, narrowing his eyes sarcastically.
And inserting both thumbs in his belt, he drew him- self up and declaimed in the tone in which he preached sermons or gave lessons in religion at the high schooclass="underline"
"People who do not keep the fasts fall into two dif- ferent categories: some fail to keep them out of laxity, others through unbelief. Your Pyotr fails to keep them through unbelief. Yes."
The deacon looked timidly at Father Fyodor's stem face and said:
"That isn't the worst of it ... We talked about this and that and it turned out that my infidel of a son is liv- ing with some sort of a lady, another man's wife. There she is in his lodgings, taking the place of a wife and a hostess, she pours out the tea, receives guests and aU that sort of thing, like a wedded wife. It is the third year now that he has been making merry with this viper. A regular farce, that's what it is. Three years together and no children."
"So they must be living in chastity!" giggled Father Anastasy, coughing hoarsely. "There are children, Father Deacon, there are, but they are not kept at home! They're packed off to the Foundling Hospital! Hee-hee- hee . . ." (Here Father Anastasy had a coughing fit.)
"Don't meddle, Father Anastasy," the archdeacon said sternly.
"Nikolay Matveich asks him: 'Who's this lady who dishes out the soup at your table?' " the deacon con- tinued, gloomily examining Father Anastasy's stooped body. " 'She is my wife,' says he. 'And how long ago were you married?' Nikolay Matveich inquires. 'We were married in Kulikov's pastry shop,' Pyotr answers."
The archdeacon's eyes flashed angrily and there were red spots on his temples. He disliked Pyotr not only be- cause of his sins but because he found him personally repellent. In fact, Father Fyodor had a grudge against him. He remembered him as a schoolboy, remembered him distinctly, because even then the boy had seemed to him abnormal. He had been ashamed to help at the altar, had taken offense at being addressed familiarly, had not crossed himself on entering the house, and what was most memorable, had liked to talk a great deal and heatedly, and in Father Fyodor's ODinion loquacity was unseemly in and harmful to children. Furthermore, Petrushka had assumed a critical and contemptuous at- titude toward fishing, to which both the archdeacon and the deacon were much addicted. As a student Pyotr had not gone to church at all, had slept until noon, had looked down on people, and had taken pleasure in rais- ing ticklish and insoluble questions with an air of bra- vado.
"What do you want?" the archdeacon said, going up to the deacon and looking at him angrily. "What do you want? This was to be expected! I always knew that noth- ing good would come of your Pyotr, was certain of it! I told you so and I am telling you so again. What you sowed, now you must reap! Reap!"
"But what have I sown, Father Fyodor?" the deacon asked quietly, looking up at the archdeacon.
'Who but you is to blame? You are the parent, he is your offspring! You should have instructed him, instilled the fear of God in him. You must teach them! You bring them into the world, but you don't instruct them. It's a sin! It is wrong! It's a disgrace!"
The archdeacon forgot his fatigue, paced the room and continued to talk. Fine drops of sweat came out on the deacon's forehead and bare pate. He looked guiltily at the archdeacon and said:
"But didn't I instruct him, Father Fyodor? Lord have mercy, haven't I been a father to my child? You know yourself I refused him nothing, and all my life I prayed to God and I did my best to give him a good education. He went to high school and had tutors and graduated from the university. As for my failing to direct his mind the right way, Father Fyodor, why, that is because I haven't the ability, as you well know! When he used to come home as a student, I would begin to instruct him in my own way, but he wouldn't listen. I would say to him: 'Go to church,' and he would snap back: 'Why?' I would start explaining, and he'd say: 'Why? What for?' Or he would clap me on the shoulder and say: 'Everything in this world is relative, approximate, and conditional. Neither I nor you know anything, papasha.'" Father Anastasy laughed huskily, had another cough- ing spell and wagged his fingers in the air as though getting ready to say something. The archdeacon glanced at him and said severely:
"Don't meddle, Father Anastasy." The old man laughed, beamed, and listeneC: to the deacon with apparent pleasure, as though glad that there were other sinners in this world besides himself. The deacon spoke sincerely, out of a contrite heart, and tears even came into his eyes. Father Fyodor felt sorry for him.
"You're to blame, deacon, you're to blame," he said, but not so sternly and vehemently. "You knew how to bring him into the world, you should know how to in- struct him. You should have taught him in his child- hood; who's to reform a student?"
Silence fell. The deacon struck his hands together and said with a sigh:
"But I shall have to answer for him, you know." "True enough."
After a short pause the archdeacon gave a ya^wn that turned into a sigh and asked: "Who reads The Acts?" "Yevstrat. Yevstrat always reads that." The deacon got up and, looking imploringly at the archdeacon, asked:
"So, Father Fyodor, what am I to do now?" "Do as you please. You are the father, not I. You ought to know best."
"I don't know anything, Father Fyodorl Tell me what
I am to do, for pity's sake! Would you believe me, I am heartsick! I am in a state now where I can neither sleep nor sit quietly, and the holiday is no holiday for me. Tell me what to do, Father Fyodor!"