"Go on, they've already started ringing the bell. And mind that you don't
fool around in church, or God will punish you."
Mother shoves several small coins into my hands – spending money – and,
right away, having forgotten all about me, she hurries into the kitchen with
her cold clothing-iron. I know full-well that after confession I will get
nothing either to eat or to drink; therefore, before leaving the house, I
force myself to have a hunk of white bread and to drink two glasses of water.
The weather outside is really spring-like. The streets are covered with
a brown mash, on which future tracks are already starting to form. Rooftops
and sidewalks are dry. Under the fences, delicate, young, green shoots are
sprouting through the decaying grass of yesteryear. Foaming and gurgling
merrily through roadside ditches, run dirty streams of water, in which the
rays of the sun are not loath to bathe. Chips and splinters of wood, bits
of straw, sunflower-seed shells, are all being borne swiftly by upon the surface
of the water, swirling and snagging on the dirty foam. Whither... whither
are they being borne along by the water, these chips and splinters? Very
possibly, they will find their way to a river from the ditch, plunge into
the sea from the river, into the ocean from the sea... I want to imagine
this long, frightful journey, but my powers of imagination break off without
reaching the sea.
An izvozchik [cab-man] drives by. He smacks his lips, tugs at
the reins, and cannot see that two street urchins have suspended themselves
from the back of his prolyetka [droshki]. I want to join
them, but recall the confession, and the boys start to seem great sinners
to me.
"And they will be asked at the Dread Judgment: why did you tease and deceive
a poor izvozchik?" think I. "And they will begin to make excuses,
but the impure spirits will grab them and drag them into eternal fire.
But if they obey their parents and give the poor a kopeika ["penny"]
or a bublik [bagel], then God will take pity upon them and let them
go to heaven."
The church-porch is dry and bathed in sunlight. Not a soul is on it.
Hesitantly, I open the door and enter the church. Here, in the dim light,
which seems to me to be thicker and gloomier than ever, I am overpowered
by a sense of sinfulness and unworthiness. The first thing to strike my
eye is a huge crucifix, with the Mother of God and Ioann the Theologian on
either side of it. The large chandeliers suspended from the vault and the
huge candle-stands are all draped in dolorous black coverings; the little
lampadki [vigil-lamps] glimmer dimly and timidly, and the sun seems
intent upon deliberately avoiding the windows of the church. The Bogoroditsa
[Deipara (L.); Theotokos (Gr.)] and the beloved disciple of
Jesus Christ, depicted in profile, gaze upon the unbearable suffering and
do not notice my presence. I feel that I am a stranger to them, superfluous,
unnoticeable; that I cannot help them either by word or deed; that I am a
disgusting, dishonourable mal'chishka [a pejorative form of "boy"],
capable only of pranks, ill-manners, and tale-bearing. I recall all those
people whom I know, and they all seem to me to be petty, stupid, evil and
incapable of diminishing, even by a single, little drop, that fearsome grief
which I now see. The twilight in the church becomes thicker and gloomier,
and the Mother of God and Ioann the Theologian appear lonely to me.
Standing behind the candle cupboard is Prokofii Ignatyich, an old retired
soldier, assistant to the church starosta [warden]. Lifting his
eyebrows and smoothing his beard, in a hushed whisper, he explains to some
old woman:
"The utrenya [Mattins] will be this evening, immediately after the
vechernya [Vespers]. And tomorrow they will ring the bell for the
reading of the Hours after seven in the morning. Understand? On towards
about eight...
And between the two wide columns to the right, there where the side-chapel
for Great-martyr Varvara begins, near the screen, awaiting their turn, are
those going to confession... Mit'ka [a pejorative form of "Dimitrii"] is
here, as well – a ragged, unattractively shorn little boy with protruding
ears and tiny, very wicked eyes. He's the son of the widowed charwoman,
Nastasya. He's a bully, a squabbler, – a thief, who grabs apples from the
market-women's hawker-stands, and who would often take away my knucklebones.
He looks me over with that angry gaze and, so it seems to me, appears to
take evil delight in that fact that it will be he who will be first to go
behind the screen, and not I. Wrath begins to well-up and churn within me.
I try not to look at him and am annoyed to the depths of my soul by the
fact that this boy will now have his sins forgiven him.
In front of him stands a beautiful, sumptuously dressed lady, in a small
hat with a white feather. She is noticeably upset, waits intently, and
one of her cheeks has grown feverishly red with anxiety.
I wait for five minutes, for ten... From behind the screens, a well-dressed
young man comes out, with a long, skinny neck and wearing high rubber galoshes.
I begin to dream of how, when I am grown-up, I will buy myself exactly
the same kind of galoshes – for sure, I will! The lady shudders and goes
behind the screens. It is her turn.
It is possible to see, through the crack between the two halves of the
screen, how the lady goes up to the analoi [an icon-stand built like
a lectern] and makes a full prostration; then she rises up and, without
looking at the priest, droops her head in anticipation. The priest stands
with his back to the screens, and so I see only his greying, curly hair,
the chain of his priest's-cross, and his broad back. I cannot see his face.
Sighing, and not looking at the lady, he begins to speak swiftly, shaking
his head and either elevating or subduing his whisper. The lady listens
submissively, as one who is guilty; her responses are brief and her gaze
is fixed on the ground.
"What is her sin?" I wonder, looking adoringly at her short, beautiful
face. "O God, forgive her her sins! Send her happiness!"
But then the priest covers her head with his epitrakhil' ["Greek
stole"].
"And I, an unworthy priest..." I hear his voice. "...by His authority,
given me, forgive and absolve thee of all thy sins..."
The lady makes a full prostration, kisses the cross, and goes back. Now
both her cheeks are crimson, but her face is composed, bright, happy.
"She is happy now," I think, gazing first at her, then at the priest who
forgave her her sins. "But how happy must be the man who has been given
the power to forgive sins."
Now it is Mit'ka's turn, but a feeling of hatred for this bandit begins
to well up inside me. I want to pass behind the screen before he does. I
want to be first... Noticing my movement, he begins to beat me over the head
with his candle. I respond in kind, and for half-a-minute one can hear puffing
and panting, and sounds such as if someone is breaking candles... We are
pulled apart. My foe meekly goes up to the analoi and bows to the
ground without bending his knees. What happens next, I cannot see. Everything
begins to get confused and things seem to blur from the thought that now,
following Mit'ka, it will be my turn; Mit'ka's protruding ears begin to grow
and blend with his dark pate, the priest begins to sway, the floor appears
to undulate and roll...
The priest's voice resounds:
"And I, an unworthy priest..."
Now I move behind the screens. I feel nothing beneath my feet, as if I
were walking on air... I approach the analoi, which is taller than
I am. For an instant, the priest's indifferent, wearied face flashes before
my eyes, but after that I see only his sleeve with its light-blue lining,
the cross, and the edge of the analoi. I sense the priest's immediate
nearness to me, the scent of his riasa [cassock]; I hear his strict
voice and my cheek, turned to him, begins to burn... There is much that
I do not hear, on account of my anxiety, but I answer his questions sincerely,
with some sort of strange voice that does not seem to be my own. I remember
the lonely Bogoroditsa and Ioann the Theologian, the crucifix, my
own mother, and I want to cry, to ask for forgiveness.
"What's your name?" the priest asks, covering my head with his soft
epitrakhil'.
How easy and light it all is now; what joy there is in my soul!
There are no more sins. I'm holy! I have the right to go to heaven!
It seems to me that I smell just like the priest's riasa. I come
out from behind the screens and go to register with the deacon, and I sniff
at my sleeves as I do so. The twilight in the church no longer seems to
me to be so gloomy, and I look at Mit'ka with equanimity, without anger.
"What's your name?" the deacon asks.
"Fedya" [a diminutive form of Fyodor]
"And your patronymic?"
"Don't know."
"What's your pappy's name?"
"Ivan Petrovich."
"Surname?"
I am mum.
"How old are you?"
"Going on nine."
Coming home, in order that I might not see those having supper, I hasten
quickly to my bed and, closing my eyes, dream of how wonderful it would
be to experience torments at the hands of some Herod or Dioskorus, or other
such; to live in the wilderness and, like starets [elder] Serafim,
to feed bears, to live in a keliya [monastic "cell"] and eat but a
single prosfora [a small liturgical bread loaf]; to give away all
I possess to the poor, to go to Kiev. I hear how they are going about setting
the table in the dining room – they're getting ready for supper; they'll
be eating vinaigrette, pirozhki [little pies (pl.)] stuffed with cabbage
and roast perch. How hungry I am! I'm prepared to undergo all sorts of torments,
to live in the wilderness without my mother, to feed bears out of my own
hands, only first – if I could have at least a single cabbage-stuffed pirozhok
[(sing.)] to eat!
"O God, cleanse me, a sinner," I pray, covering my head with the
blanket. "O Guardian-Angel, protect me from the impure spirit."
The next day, Thursday, I awaken with a soul as clear and pure as a nice
spring day. I go merrily, boldly, to church, feeling that I am a communicant,
that I have on a splendid and precious garment sewn from the silk dress
that had been left after babushka [granny] had died. In church,
everything respires with joy, happiness and spring; the faces of the
Bogoroditsa and of Ioann the Theologian are not as sorrowful as
they were yesterday. The faces of the communicants are bathed in hope and,
it seems, everything of the past is given over to oblivion, everything is
forgiven. Mit'ka, too, is kempt and dressed in holiday style. I gaze happily
at his protruding ears and, in order to show him that I have nothing against
him, I say:
"You look so handsome today, and if your hair didn't stick out, and if
you were not so poorly dressed, then everyone would think that your mother
was a noblewoman, and not a laundress. Come on over to my place for Pascha,
and we'll play at knucklebones."
Mit'ka throws a suspicious glance at me and threatens me with his fist
from under his shirt-tails.
And yesterday's lady seems wondrously beautiful to me. She is wearing
a light-blue dress and a large, glittering brooch, shaped like a horseshoe.
I gaze at her admiringly and think that when I grow up big, then, without
a doubt, I will marry a woman just like her. But remembering that it's
a sissy-thing to get married, I stop thinking of this and go to the kliros
[choir-area], where the dyachok [chanter] is already reading the
Hours.
(1885)
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Translated into English by G. Spruksts from the Russian text of
«Êëÿóçíèê: Ñöåíêà - Íà ñòðàñòíîé íåäåëå» ["Kliauznik: S'tsenka – Na strastnoi
nyedele" ("The Prankster: A Little Scene – During Passion Week")]
by Anton Chekhov. English-language translation copyright © 1995 by The Russian
Cultural Heritage Society and the Translator. All rights reserved.