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Updated: May 5, 2025
The coldness and lack of attention with which Father Yakov had met Kunin's warm and sincere interest in what was the priest's own work was hard for the former's vanity to endure. . . . On the evening of the same day Kunin spent a long time walking about his rooms and thinking. Then he sat down to the table resolutely and wrote a letter to the bishop.
"Twenty-eight, . . ." said Father Yakov, faintly pressing Kunin's outstretched hand, and for some reason turning crimson. Kunin led his visitor into his study and began looking at him more attentively. "What an uncouth womanish face!" he thought.
I was somehow inspired to write two sermons the other day. . . . I will give them to you to look at. If they are suitable, use them." "Very good," said Father Yakov, laying his open hand on Kunin's sermons which were lying on the table. "I will take them."
The man, his pitiful, grotesque figure in the long crumpled robe, his womanish face, his manner of officiating, his way of life and his formal restrained respectfulness, wounded the tiny relic of religious feeling which was stored away in a warm corner of Kunin's heart together with his nurse's other fairy tales.
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.
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