“Say, ‘I have sinned.’
What did you steal for? Was it for something to eat?”
“Sometimes and sometimes it was because I had lost money at play, and, as I had to take home some blessed bread, I stole it.”
Father Dorimedont whispered something indistinctly and wearily, and then, after a few more ques — tions, suddenly inquired sternly:
“Have you been reading forbidden books?”
Naturally I did not understand this question, and I asked: ’
“What books do you mean?”
“Forbidden books. Have you been reading any?”
“No; not one.”
“Your sins are remitted.
Stand up!”
I glanced at his face in amazement. He looked thoughtful and kind.
I felt uneasy, conscience-stricken. In sending me to confession, my employers had spoken about its terrors, impressing on me to confess honestly even my slightest sins.
“I have thrown stones at your summer-house,” I deposed.
The priest raised his head and, looking past me, said:
“That was very wrong.
Now go!”
“And at your dog.”
“Next!” called out Father Dorimedont, still looking past me.
I came away feeling deceived and offended. To be put to all that anxiety about the terrors of confession, and to find, after all, that it was not only far from terrible, but also uninteresting!
The only interesting thing about it was the question about the forbidden books, of which I knew nothing. I remembered the schoolboy reading to the women in that basement room, and “Good Business,” who also had many black, thick books, with unintelligible illustrations.
The next day they gave me fifteen copecks and sent me to communion.
Easter was late. The snow had been melted a long time, the streets were dry, the roadways sent up a cloud of dust, and the day was sunny and cheerful.
Near the church was a group of workmen gambling with hucklebones. I decided that there was plenty of time to go to communion, and asked if I might join in.
“Let me play.”
“The entrance-fee is one copeck,” said a pock-marked, ruddy-faced man, proudly.
Not less proudly I replied:
“I put three on the second pair to the left.”
“The stakes are on!”
And the game began.
I changed the fifteen-copeck piece and placed my three copecks on the pair of hucklebones. Whoever hit that pair would receive that money, but if he failed to hit them, he had to give me three copecks.
I was in luck. Two of them took aim and lost. I had won six copecks from grown-up men.
My spirits rose greatly.
But one of the players remarked:
“You had better look out for that youngster or he will be running away with his winnings.”
This I regarded as an insult, and I said hotly:
“Nine copecks on the pair at the extreme left.”
However, this did not make much impression on the players. Only one lad of my own age cried:
“See how lucky he is, that little devil from the Zvezdrinki; I know him.”
A thin workman who smelt like a furrier said maliciously:
“He is a little devil, is he Goo-oo-ood!”
Taking a sudden aim, he coolly knocked over my stake, and, bending down to me, said:
“Will that make you howl?’
“Three copecks on the pair to the right!”
“I shall have another three,” he said, but he lost.
One could not put money on the same “horse” more than three times running, so I chose other nucklebones and won four more copecks. I had a heap of nucklebones.
But when my turn came again, I placed money — three times, and lost it all. Simultaneously mass was finished, the bell rang, and the people came out of church.
“Are you married?” inquired the furrier, intending to seize me by the hair; but I eluded him, and overtaking a lad in his Sunday clothes I inquired politely:
“Have you been to communion?”
“Well, and suppose I have; what then?” he answered, looking at me contemptuously.