Left alone, Father Theodore thought for a moment, muttered,
"It's no joke for women, either," and pulled out a small tin trunk from under the bed.
This type of trunk is mostly found among Red Army soldiers.
It is usually lined with striped paper, on top of which is a picture of Budyonny, or the lid of a Bathing Beach cigarette box depicting three lovelies on the pebbly shore at Batumi.
The Vostrikovs' trunk was also lined with photographs, but, to Father Theodore's annoyance, they were not of Budyonny or Batumi beauties.
His wife had covered the inside of the trunk with photographs cut out of the magazine Chronicle of the 1914 War.
They included
"The Capture of Peremyshl",
"The Distribution of Comforts to Other Ranks in the Trenches", and all sorts of other things.
Removing the books that were lying at the top (a set of the Russian Pilgrim for 1913; a fat tome, History of the Schism, and a brochure entitled A Russian in Italy, the cover of which showed a smoking Vesuvius), Father Theodore reached down into the very bottom of the trunk and drew out an old shabby hat belonging to his wife.
Wincing at the smell of moth-balls which suddenly assailed him from the trunk, he tore apart the lace and trimmings and took from the hat a heavy sausage-shaped object wrapped in linen.
The sausage-shaped object contained twenty ten-rouble gold coins, all that was left of Father Theodore's business ventures.
With a habitual movement of the hand, he lifted his cassock and stuffed the sausage into the pocket of his striped trousers.
He then went over to the chest of drawers and took twenty roubles in three- and five-rouble notes from a sweet-box.
There were twenty roubles left in the box.
"That will do for the housekeeping," he decided.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE MUSE OF TRAVEL
An hour before the evening mail-train was due in, Father Theodore, dressed in a short coat which came just below the knee, and carrying a wicker basket, stood in line in front of the booking-office and kept looking apprehensively at the station entrance.
He was afraid that in spite of his insistence, his wife might come to see him off, and then Prusis, the stall-owner, who was sitting in the buffet treating the income-tax collector to a glass of beer, would immediately recognize him.
Father Theodore stared with shame and surprise at his striped trousers, now exposed to the view of the entire laity.
The process of boarding a train without reserved seats took its normal and scandalous course.
Staggering under the weight of enormous sacks, passengers ran from the front of the train to the back, and then to the front again.
Father Theodore followed them in a daze.
Like everyone else, he spoke to the conductors in an ingratiating tone, like everyone else he was afraid he had been given the "wrong" ticket, and it was only when he was finally allowed into a coach that his customary calm returned and he even became happy.
The locomotive hooted at the top of its voice and the train moved off, carrying Father Theodore into the unknown on business that was mysterious, yet promised great things.
An interesting thing, the permanent way.
Once he gets on to it the most ordinary man in the street feels a certain animation in himself and soon turns into a passenger, a consignee, or simply a trouble-maker without a ticket, who makes life difficult for the teams of conductors and platform ticket-inspectors.
The moment a passenger approaches the right of way, which he amateurishly calls a railway station, his life is completely changed.
He is immediately surrounded by predatory porters with white aprons and nickel badges on their chests, and his luggage is obsequiously picked up.
From that moment, the citizen no longer is his own master.
He is a passenger and begins to perform all the duties of one.
These duties are many, though they are not unpleasant.
Passengers eat a lot.
Ordinary mortals do not eat during the night, but passengers do.
They eat fried chicken, which is expensive, hard-boiled eggs, which are bad for the stomach, and olives.
Whenever the train passes over the points, numerous teapots in the rack clatter together, and legless chickens (the legs have been torn out by the roots by passengers) jump up and down in their newspaper wrapping.
The passengers, however, are oblivious of all this.
They tell each other jokes.
Every three minutes the whole compartment rocks with laughter; then there is a silence and a soft-spoken voice tells the following story:
"An old Jew lay dying.
Around him were his wife and children.
'Is Monya here?' asks the Jew with difficulty.
'Yes, she's here.'
'Has Auntie Brana come?'
'Yes.'
'And where's Grandma? I don't see her.'
'She's over here.'
'And Isaac?'
'He's here, too.'