Save me, Queen of Heaven!”
“Calm yourself, Father,” said Kunin.
“I am worn out with hunger, Pavel Mihailovitch,” Father Yakov went on.
“Generously forgive me, but I am at the end of my strength . . . .
I know if I were to beg and to bow down, everyone would help, but . . . I cannot!
I am ashamed.
How can I beg of the peasants?
You are on the Board here, so you know. . . .
How can one beg of a beggar?
And to beg of richer people, of landowners, I cannot!
I have pride!
I am ashamed!”
Father Yakov waved his hand, and nervously scratched his head with both hands.
“I am ashamed!
My God, I am ashamed!
I am proud and can’t bear people to see my poverty!
When you visited me, Pavel Mihailovitch, I had no tea in the house!
There wasn’t a pinch of it, and you know it was pride prevented me from telling you!
I am ashamed of my clothes, of these patches here. . . . I am ashamed of my vestments, of being hungry. . . .
And is it seemly for a priest to be proud?”
Father Yakov stood still in the middle of the study, and, as though he did not notice Kunin’s presence, began reasoning with himself.
“Well, supposing I endure hunger and disgrace—but, my God, I have a wife!
I took her from a good home!
She is not used to hard work; she is soft; she is used to tea and white bread and sheets on her bed. . . .
At home she used to play the piano. . . .
She is young, not twenty yet. . . .
She would like, to be sure, to be smart, to have fun, go out to see people. . . .
And she is worse off with me than any cook; she is ashamed to show herself in the street.
My God, my God!
Her only treat is when I bring an apple or some biscuit from a visit . . . .”
Father Yakov scratched his head again with both hands.
“And it makes us feel not love but pity for each other. . . .
I cannot look at her without compassion!
And the things that happen in this life, O Lord!
Such things that people would not believe them if they saw them in the newspaper . . . .
And when will there be an end to it all!”
“Hush, Father!” Kunin almost shouted, frightened at his tone.
“Why take such a gloomy view of life?”
“Generously forgive me, Pavel Mihailovitch . . .” muttered Father Yakov as though he were drunk,
“Forgive me, all this . . . doesn’t matter, and don’t take any notice of it. . . .
Only I do blame myself, and always shall blame myself . . . always.”
Father Yakov looked about him and began whispering:
“One morning early I was going from Sinkino to Lutchkovo; I saw a woman standing on the river bank, doing something. . . .
I went up close and could not believe my eyes. . . .
It was horrible!
The wife of the doctor, Ivan Sergeitch, was sitting there washing her linen. . . .
A doctor’s wife, brought up at a select boarding-school!
She had got up you see, early and gone half a mile from the village that people should not see her. . . .
She couldn’t get over her pride!
When she saw that I was near her and noticed her poverty, she turned red all over. . . .