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Updated: June 2, 2025
"Scarcely any. . . . The peasants settled at their meeting that they would pay, every man of them, thirty kopecks a year; but that's only a promise, you know! And for the first beginning we should need at least two hundred roubles. . . ." "M'yes. . . . Unhappily, I have not that sum now," said Kunin with a sigh. "I spent all I had on my tour and got into debt, too.
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.
Father Yakov threw furtive glances at the partition wall, smoothed his hair, and blew his nose. "It's wonderful weather, . . ." he said. "Yes. I read an interesting thing yesterday. . . . the Volsky Zemstvo have decided to give their schools to the clergy, that's typical." Kunin got up, and pacing up and down the clay floor, began to give expression to his reflections.
Luckily, Father Yakov, in his haste, had forgotten to take the sermons. Kunin rushed up to them, tore them into pieces, and with loathing thrust them under the table. "And I did not know!" he moaned, sinking on to the sofa. "After being here over a year as member of the Rural Board, Honorary Justice of the Peace, member of the School Committee! Blind puppet, egregious idiot!
He was disappointed, and looked at the grey church almost with dislike. "They complain of the decline of religious feeling among the people . . ." he sighed. "I should rather think so! They'd better foist a few more priests like this one on them!" Kunin went back into the church three times, and each time he felt a great temptation to get out into the open air again.
There is no end to my despair! Save me, Queen of Heaven!" "Calm yourself, Father," said Kunin. "I am worn out with hunger, Pavel Mihailovitch," Father Yakov went on. "Generously forgive me, but I am at the end of my strength . . . . I know if I were to beg and to bow down, everyone would help, but . . . I cannot! I am ashamed. How can I beg of the peasants?
This semblance had been painted dark red and smelt strongly of paint. Kunin meant at first to sit down on one of the chairs, but on second thoughts he sat down on the stool. "This is the first time you have been to our church?" asked Father Yakov, hanging his hat on a huge misshapen nail. "Yes it is. I tell you what, Father, before we begin on business, will you give me some tea?
"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.
Has whole figure was expressive of extreme embarrassment, and at the same time there was a look of determination upon his face, as on the face of a man suddenly inspired by an idea. He struggled to say something important, absolutely necessary, and strove to overcome his timidity. "Why is he dumb?" Kunin thought wrathfully. "He's settled himself comfortably!
The latter could never have imagined that there were such undignified and pitiful-looking priests in Russia; and in Father Yakov's attitude, in the way he held his hands on his knees and sat on the very edge of his chair, he saw a lack of dignity and even a shade of servility. "I have invited you on business, Father. . . ." Kunin began, sinking back in his low chair.
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