FullReads

And then the Mother of God would say to Her Son:

“Son, pray see the fearfulness of Thy people on earth, and their estrangement from joy! Oh Son, is that well?”

And He would make answer to Her–

He would make answer to Her, and say I know not what.

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And suddenly, so I fancied, a voice answered mine out of the brooding hush, as though it too were reciting a prayer. Yet so complete, so profound, was the stillness, that the voice seemed far away, submerged, unreal–a mere phantom of an echo, of the echo of my own voice. Until, on my desisting from my recital, and straining my cars yet more, the sound seemed to approach and grow clearer as shuffling footsteps also advanced in my direction, and there came a mutter of:

“Nay, it CANNOT be so!”

“Why is it that the dogs have failed to bark?” I reflected, rubbing my eyes, and fancying as I did so that the dead man’s eyebrows twitched, and his moustache stirred in a grim smile.

Presently a deep, hoarse, rasping voice vociferated in the forecourt:

“What do you say, old woman? Yes, that he must die– I knew all along,–so you can cease your chattering? Men like him keep up to the last, then lay them down to rise to more… WHO is with him? A stranger? A-ah!”

And, the next moment, a bulk so large and shapeless that it might well have been the darkness of the night embodied, stumbled against the outer side of the door, grunted, hiccuped, and lurching head foremost into the hut, grew wellnigh to the ceiling. Then it waved a gigantic hand, crossed itself in the direction of the candle, and, bending forward until its forehead almost touched the feet of the corpse, queried under its breath:

“How now, Vasil?”

Thereafter, the figure vented a sob whilst a strong smell of vodka arose in the room, and from the doorway the old woman said in an appealing voice:

“Pray give HIM the book, Father Demid.”

“No indeed! Why should I? I intend to do the reading myself.”

And a heavy hand laid itself upon my shoulder, while a great hairy face bent over mine, and inquired:

“A young man, are you not? A member of the clergy, too, I suppose?”

So covered with tufts of auburn hair was the enormous head above me–tufts the sheen of which even the semi-obscurity of the pale candlelight failed to render inconspicuous–that the mass, as a whole, resembled a mop. And as its owner lurched to and fro, he made me lurch responsively by now drawing me towards himself, now thrusting me away. Meanwhile he continued to suffuse my face with the hot, thick odour of spirituous liquor.

“Father Demid!” again essayed the old woman with an imploring wail, but he cut her short with the menacing admonition:

“How often have I told you that you must not address a deacon as ‘Father’? Go to bed! Yes, be off with you, and let me mind my affairs myself! GO, I say! But first light me another candle, for I cannot see a single thing in front of me.”

With which, throwing himself upon a bench, the deacon slapped his knee with a book which he had in his hands, and put to me the query:

“Should you care to have a dram of gorielka? [Another name for vodka.]

“No,” I replied. “At all events, not here.”

“Indeed?” the deacon cried, unabashed. “But come, a bottle of the stuff is here, in my very pocket.”

“This is no place in which to be drinking.”

For a moment the deacon said nothing. Then he muttered:

“True, true. So let us adjourn to the forecourt. . . . Yes, what you say is no more than the truth.”

“Had you not better remain seated where you are, and begin the reading? “

“No, I am going to do no such thing. YOU shall do the reading. Tonight I, I–well I am not very well, for I have been drinking a little.”