You gave yourself to him?'
She was silent.
'His mistress?'
She did not answer.
He sprang up and stood before her with trembling jaws, pale as death.
He now remembered how the Emperor, meeting him on the Nevsky, had amiably congratulated him.
'O God, what have I done! Stiva!'
'Don't touch me! Don't touch me!
Oh, how it pains!'
He turned away and went to the house.
There he met her mother.
'What is the matter, Prince?
I...' She became silent on seeing his face.
The blood had suddenly rushed to his head.
'You knew it, and used me to shield them!
If you weren't a woman...!' he cried, lifting his enormous fist, and turning aside he ran away.
Had his fiancee's lover been a private person he would have killed him, but it was his beloved Tsar.
Next day he applied both for furlough and his discharge, and professing to be ill, so as to see no one, he went away to the country.
He spent the summer at his village arranging his affairs.
When summer was over he did not return to Petersburg, but entered a monastery and there became a monk.
His mother wrote to try to dissuade him from this decisive step, but he replied that he felt God's call which transcended all other considerations.
Only his sister, who was as proud and ambitious as he, understood him.
She understood that he had become a monk in order to be above those who considered themselves his superiors.
And she understood him correctly.
By becoming a monk he showed contempt for all that seemed most important to others and had seemed so to him while he was in the service, and he now ascended a height from which he could look down on those he had formerly envied....
But it was not this alone, as his sister Varvara supposed, that influenced him.
There was also in him something else—a sincere religious feeling which Varvara did not know, which intertwined itself with the feeling of pride and the desire for pre-eminence, and guided him.
His disillusionment with Mary, whom he had thought of angelic purity, and his sense of injury, were so strong that they brought him to despair, and the despair led him—to what?
To God, to his childhood's faith which had never been destroyed in him.
II
Kasatsky entered the monastery on the feast of the Intercession of the Blessed Virgin.
The Abbot of that monastery was a gentleman by birth, a learned writer and a starets, that is, he belonged to that succession of monks originating in Walachia who each choose a director and teacher whom they implicitly obey.
This Superior had been a disciple of the starets Ambrose, who was a disciple of Makarius, who was a disciple of the starets Leonid, who was a disciple of Paussy Velichkovsky.
To this Abbot Kasatsky submitted himself as to his chosen director.
Here in the monastery, besides the feeling of ascendency over others that such a life gave him, he felt much as he had done in the world: he found satisfaction in attaining the greatest possible perfection outwardly as well as inwardly.
As in the regiment he had been not merely an irreproachable officer but had even exceeded his duties and widened the borders of perfection, so also as a monk he tried to be perfect, and was always industrious, abstemious, submissive, and meek, as well as pure both in deed and in thought, and obedient.
This last quality in particular made life far easier for him.
If many of the demands of life in the monastery, which was near the capital and much frequented, did not please him and were temptations to him, they were all nullified by obedience: 'It is not for me to reason; my business is to do the task set me, whether it be standing beside the relics, singing in the choir, or making up accounts in the monastery guest-house.'
All possibility of doubt about anything was silenced by obedience to the starets.
Had it not been for this, he would have been oppressed by the length and monotony of the church services, the bustle of the many visitors, and the bad qualities of the other monks. As it was, he not only bore it all joyfully but found in it solace and support.
'I don't know why it is necessary to hear the same prayers several times a day, but I know that it is necessary; and knowing this I find joy in them.'
His director told him that as material food is necessary for the maintenance of the life of the body, so spiritual food—the church prayers—is necessary for the maintenance of the spiritual life.
He believed this, and though the church services, for which he had to get up early in the morning, were a difficulty, they certainly calmed him and gave him joy.
This was the result of his consciousness of humility, and the certainty that whatever he had to do, being fixed by the starets, was right.
The interest of his life consisted not only in an ever greater and greater subjugation of his will, but in the attainment of all the Christian virtues, which at first seemed to him easily attainable.
He had given his whole estate to his sister and did not regret it, he had no personal claims, humility towards his inferiors was not merely easy for him but afforded him pleasure.
Even victory over the sins of the flesh, greed and lust, was easily attained.
His director had specially warned him against the latter sin, but Kasatsky felt free from it and was glad.
One thing only tormented him—the remembrance of his fiancee; and not merely the remembrance but the vivid image of what might have been.
Involuntarily he recalled a lady he knew who had been a favourite of the Emperor's, but had afterwards married and become an admirable wife and mother.