"Write him a letter."
"What shall I write to him?"
'Write him that this must come to an end. Write briefly, but severely, and take due note of everything, without minimizing or extenuating his guilt. It is your parental duty. Once you've written, you will have done your duty and you will be at peace."
"That's true, but what shall I write to him? In what terms? I will write to him, and he will come back at me: 'Why? What for? Why is it a sin?'"
Father Anastasy again laughed huskily and wagged his fingers.
'Why? What for? Why is it a sin?" he wheezed. "I was once confessing a gentleman and I told him that excessive reliance on Divine mercy is a sin, and he asked: 'Why?' I wanted to answer him, but—" Father Anastasy slapped himself on the forehead, "there wan nothing here! Hee-hee-hee—"
Father Anastasy's words, his husky, quivering laugh- ter at something that was not laughable, made a dis- agreeable impression on the archdeacon and the deacon. The archdeacon was on the point of cutting the old man short with a "don't meddle," but did not do so, and merely frowned.
"I cannot write to him!" sighed the deacon.
"If you can't, who can?"
"Father Fyodorl" said the deacon, putting his head to one side and pressing his hand to his heart. "I am an uneducated man, with a poor mind, but you the Lord has endowed with intelligence and wisdom. You know and understand everything, you have a mind that can
fathom anything, while I'm not able to put two words
together. Be charitable, instruct me as to how I am to go
about ^riting. Tell me how to phrase it and just what to
, »
Say . . •
'What is there to instruct you in? There is no ques- tion of instruction. You simply sit down and write."
"No, do me the favor, Father! I implore you. I know, your letter will put the fear of God in him and com- mand his obedience, because you, too, are an educated man. Be so kind! I'll sit down and you dictate to me. To- morrow it will be a sin to write, but now is just the time, and then my mind would be at peace?"
The archdeacon looked at the deacon's beseeching face, recalled the refractory Pyotr and agreed to dictate. He seated the deacon at his desk and began:
"Well, write . . . 'Christ is risen, my dear son . . .' exclamation mark. 'Rumors have reached your father's ear . . .' then in parentheses: 'from what source they came to me does not concern you . . .' close paren- theses . . . Have you written? '. . . that you are lead- ing a life incompatible with the laws of both God and man. Neither the creature comforts, nor the worldly magnificence, nor again the show of culture with which you cover yourself outwardly can conceal your heathen- ishness. You call yourself a Christian, but in essence you are a heathen, as wretched and miserable as all other heathens, nay, more wretched, for those other heathens, not knowing Christ, go to perdition out of ignorance. whereas you go to perdition because, possessing a treas- ure, you neglect it. I shall not enumerate your vices here, these being well known to you; I shall only say that I see the cause of your perdition in your unbelief. You consider yourself to be wise, you boast of your knowledge of the sciences, but you do not wish to un- derstand that science without faith not only fails to ele- vate man, but in fact degrades him to the level of a low animal, forasmuch • . .'"
The whole letter was couched in these terms. Having finished writing, the deacon read it aloud, beamed, and jumped to his feet.
"A gift, verily a gift!" he exclaimed, looking raptur- ously at the archdeacon and striking his hands together. "To think that the Lord bestows such a talent on man! Eh? Holy Mother and Queen of Heavenl I believe that I could not have written a letter like that in a hundred years! May the Lord preserve you!"
Father Anastasy, too, was enraptured.
"It's a gift to be able to write like that!" he said, getting up and wagging his fingers.
"To write like that! There is such rhetoric here as would stump any philosopher, and would make him see stars! A mind! A brilliant mind! If you hadn't married, Father Fyodor, you would have been a bishop long ago, verily you would!"
Having poured out his wrath in the letter, the arch- deacon felt relieved. Fatigue, the feeling of being fagged out came back. The deacon was an intimate and so Father Fyodor did not scruple to say to him:
"Well, deacon, go now, and God be with you. I'll nap for half an hour, I must have a rest."
The deacon went away and took Anastasy with him. As always happens on Easter eve, the street was dark, but the entire sky was sparkling with bright, shining stars. The soundless, motionless air was redolent of spring and holiday.
"How long did he dictate?" the deacon continued to voice his admiration. "Some ten minutes, no more! An- other person wouldn't have composed a letter like that in a month. Eh? What an intellectl I have no words for such an intellect! A marvell Verily, a marvel!"
"Education!" sighed Anastasy as he crossed the muddy street, lifting his cassock up to his belt. "We are not to be compared with him. We come of the lowest order of the clergy, while he is a man of learning. Yes. He's a real man, there's no gainsaying it."
"And you ought to hear how he reads the Gospel in Latin at Mass! He knows Latin and he knows Greek. . • . Ah, Petruha, Petruha!" the deacon exclaimed, sud- denly brought back to his problem. "Well, now he'll scratch his head! He'll shut his mouth! He'll find out what's what! Now he won't ask: 'Why?' He has met his match, he has indeed! Ha-ha-hal"
The deacon burst out into gay, loud laughter. As soon as the letter was written his spirits had risen and he had grown serene. The consciousness of having done his parental duty and his faith in the efficacy of the letter had restored his gaiety and good-nature.
"Pyotr in translation means 'a stone,' " he said, as they were approaching his house. "But my Pyotr is not a stone, he is a rag. The viper has laid hold of him, and he pets her and hasn't the strength to cast her off. Fie! To think that there should be such women, God forgive me for mentioning them! Eh? Has she no shame? She has got hold of the boy, she won't let go of him and keeps him trailing after her. . . . To the dickens with her!"
"Maybe, though, it isn't she who holds on to him, but he to her?"
"Still, it means she's a Jezebel! I am not defending Pyotr. He'll get what's coming to him. He'll read the letter, and he'll scratch the back of his neck! He'll bum up with shame!"
"It's a fine letter, only . • • maybe you shouldn't send it off, Father Deacon. Let Pyotr be!" '^^at's that?" asked the deacon, scared.
"Just sol Don't send it, deacon! What's the good of it? You'll send it, he'll read it, and then what? You'll only upset him. Forgive him, let him be!"
The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy's dark face, at his open cassock which looked like wings in the night, and shrugged his shoulders.
"How can I forgive him just like that?" he asked. "I shall have to answer for him to God, you know."
"Even so, you forgive him, all the same. Really! And because of your loving kindness God will forgive you, too."
"But isn't he my son? Is it my duty to teach him, or not?"
"Teach him? Why not? You may teach him; but why call him a heathen? That will hurt his feelings, deacon, you know—"
The deacon was a widower and lived in a small house with three windows. His housekeeping was done by his sister, a spinster who had lost the use of her legs three years previously and was bedridden. He was afraid of her, complied wholly with her wishes, and did nothing without her advice. Father Anastasy went into the house with the deacon. Seeing the table already set with the tall Easter cakes and Easter eggs, and perhaps remem- bering his own home, he began to weep and, to cover his tears, at once started laughing huskily.
"Yes, it will soon be time to break fast," he said. "Yes . . . It would not come amiss . . . to take a wee glass even now. May I? I'll down it," he whispered, stealing a glance at the door, "so that the old one in there . . • won't hear a thing . . . no, no . . ."