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Updated: May 2, 2025
After writing this letter Kunin heaved a deep sigh, and went to bed with the consciousness that he had done a good deed. On Monday morning, while he was still in bed, he was informed that Father Yakov had arrived. He did not want to get up, and instructed the servant to say he was not at home.
Father Yakov took off his hat and slowly blessed Andrey, then blessed the boy and stroked his head. Kunin passed his hand over his eyes, and it seemed to him that his hand was moist. He walked away from the window and with dim eyes looked round the room in which he still seemed to hear the timid droning voice. He glanced at the table.
But after he had stood there a little and looked more attentively at the aged-looking faces, Kunin saw that he had mistaken young people for old. He did not, however, attach any significance to this little optical illusion. The church was as cold and grey inside as outside. There was not one spot on the ikons nor on the dark brown walls which was not begrimed and defaced by time.
"Very glad to make your acquaintance," said Kunin, meeting him in the entry. "I've been living and serving here for a year; it seems as though we ought to have been acquainted before. You are very welcome! But . . . how young you are!" Kunin added in surprise. "What is your age?"
It seemed to me that Ieronim was looking in the woman's face for the soft and tender features of his dead friend. Kunin, a young man of thirty, who was a permanent member of the Rural Board, on returning from Petersburg to his district, Borisovo, immediately sent a mounted messenger to Sinkino, for the priest there, Father Yakov Smirnov. Five hours later Father Yakov appeared.
"If I were a priest, for instance. . . . An educated priest fond of his work might do a great deal. . . . I should have had the school opened long ago. And the sermons? If the priest is sincere and is inspired by love for his work, what wonderful rousing sermons he might give!" Kunin shut his eyes and began mentally composing a sermon.
When he had drunk it to the very last drop, he put his glass on the table, then took his glass back again, looked at the bottom of it, then put it back again. The expression of pleasure faded from his face. . . . Then Kunin saw his visitor take a biscuit from the cake-basket, nibble a little bit off it, then turn it over in his hand and hurriedly stick it in his pocket.
"Yes, I am. . . . Why, have you someone to recommend?" "I. . . er . . . you see . . . I . . . Could you not give the post to me?" "Why, are you giving up the Church?" said Kunin in amazement. "No, no," Father Yakov brought out quickly, for some reason turning pale and trembling all over. "God forbid! If you feel doubtful, then never mind, never mind.
The old man had a sickly hollow voice and an asthmatic quavering lisp. . . . The complete lack of dignity and decorum was emphasized by a very small boy who seconded the sacristan and whose head was hardly visible over the railing of the choir. The boy sang in a shrill falsetto and seemed to be trying to avoid singing in tune. Kunin stayed a little while, listened and went out for a smoke.
My soul is parched." Father Yakov blinked, gasped, and went behind the partition wall. There was a sound of whispering. "With his wife, I suppose," thought Kunin; "it would be interesting to see what the red-headed fellow's wife is like." A little later Father Yakov came back, red and perspiring and with an effort to smile, sat down on the edge of the sofa.
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