At Carnival time, in the sixth
year of Sergius's life at the
hermitage, a merry company of
rich people, men and women from
a neighbouring town, made up
a troyka-party, after a meal
of carnival-pancakes and wine.
The company consisted of two
lawyers, a wealthy landowner,
an officer, and four ladies.
One lady was the officer's wife,
another the wife of the landowner,
the third his sister--a young
girl--and the fourth a divorcee,
beautiful, rich, and eccentric,
who amazed and shocked the town
by her escapades.
The weather was excellent and
the snow-covered road smooth
as a floor. They drove some seven
miles out of town, and then stopped
and consulted as to whether they
should turn back or drive farther.
'But where does this road lead
to?' asked Makovkina, the beautiful
divorcee.
'To Tambov, eight miles from
here,' replied one of the lawyers,
who was having a flirtation with
her.
'And then where?'
'Then on to L----, past the
Monastery.'
'Where that Father Sergius
lives?'
'Yes.'
'Kasatsky, the handsome hermit?'
'Yes.'
'Mesdames et messieurs, let
us drive on and see Kasatsky!
We can stop at Tambov and have
something to eat.'
'But we shouldn't get home
to-night!'
'Never mind, we will stay at
Kasatsky's.'
'Well, there is a very good
hostelry at the Monastery. I
stayed there when I was defending
Makhin.'
'No, I shall spend the night
at Kasatsky's!'
'Impossible! Even your omnipotence
could not accomplish that!'
'Impossible? Will you bet?'
'All right! If you spend the
night with him, the stake shall
be whatever you like.'
'A DISCRETION!'
'But on your side too!'
'Yes, of course. Let us drive
on.'
Vodka was handed to the drivers,
and the party got out a box of
pies, wine, and sweets for themselves.
The ladies wrapped up in their
white dogskins. The drivers disputed
as to whose troyka should go
ahead, and the youngest, seating
himself sideways with a dashing
air, swung his long knout and
shouted to the horses. The troyka-bells
tinkled and the sledge-runners
squeaked over the snow.
The sledge swayed hardly at
all. The shaft-horse, with his
tightly bound tail under his
decorated breechband, galloped
smoothly and briskly; the smooth
road seemed to run rapidly backwards,
while the driver dashingly shook
the reins. One of the lawyers
and the officer sitting opposite
talked nonsense to Makovkina's
neighbour, but Makovkina herself
sat motionless and in thought,
tightly wrapped in her fur. 'Always
the same and always nasty! The
same red shiny faces smelling
of wine and cigars! The same
talk, the same thoughts, and
always about the same things!
And they are all satisfied and
confident that it should be so,
and will go on living like that
till they die. But I can't. It
bores me. I want something that
would upset it all and turn it
upside down. Suppose it happened
to us as to those people--at
Saratov was it?--who kept on
driving and froze to death. .
. . What would our people do?
How would they behave? Basely,
for certain. Each for himself.
And I too should act badly. But
I at any rate have beauty. They
all know it. And how about that
monk? Is it possible that he
has become indifferent to it?
No! That is the one thing they
all care for--like that cadet
last autumn. What a fool he was!'
'Ivan Nikolaevich!' she said
aloud.
'What are your commands?'
'How old is he?'
'Who?'
'Kasatsky.'
'Over forty, I should think.'
'And does he receive all visitors?'
'Yes, everybody, but not always.'
'Cover up my feet. Not like
that--how clumsy you are! No!
More, more--like that! But you
need not squeeze them!'
So they came to the forest
where the cell was.
Makovkina got out of the sledge,
and told them to drive on. They
tried to dissuade her, but she
grew irritable and ordered them
to go on.
When the sledges had gone she
went up the path in her white
dogskin coat. The lawyer got
out and stopped to watch her.
It was Father Sergius's sixth
year as a recluse, and he was
now forty-nine. His life in solitude
was hard--not on account of the
fasts and the prayers (they were
no hardship to him) but on account
of an inner conflict he had not
at all anticipated. The sources
of that conflict were two: doubts,
and the lust of the flesh. And
these two enemies always appeared
together. It seemed to him that
they were two foes, but in reality
they were one and the same. As
soon as doubt was gone so was
the lustful desire. But thinking
them to be two different fiends
he fought them separately.
'O my God, my God!' thought
he. 'Why dost thou not grant
me faith? There is lust, of course:
even the saints had to fight
that--Saint Anthony and others.
But they had faith, while I have
moments, hours, and days, when
it is absent. Why does the whole
world, with all its delights,
exist if it is sinful and must
be renounced? Why hast Thou created
this temptation? Temptation?
Is it not rather a temptation
that I wish to abandon all the
joys of earth and prepare something
for myself there where perhaps
there is nothing?' And he became
horrified and filled with disgust
at himself. 'Vile creature! And
it is you who wish to become
a saint!' he upbraided himself,
and he began to pray. But as
soon as he started to pray he
saw himself vividly as he had
been at the Monastery, in a majestic
post in biretta and mantle, and
he shook his head. 'No, that
is not right. It is deception.
I may deceive others, but not
myself or God. I am not a majestic
man, but a pitiable and ridiculous
one!' And he threw back the folds
of his cassock and smiled as
he looked at his thin legs in
their underclothing.
Then he dropped the folds of
the cassock again and began reading
the prayers, making the sign
of the cross and prostrating
himself. 'Can it be that this
couch will be my bier?' he read.
And it seemed as if a devil whispered
to him: 'A solitary couch is
itself a bier. Falsehood!' And
in imagination he saw the shoulders
of a widow with whom he had lived.
He shook himself, and went on
reading. Having read the precepts
he took up the Gospels, opened
the book, and happened on a passage
he often repeated and knew by
heart: 'Lord, I believe. Help
thou my unbelief!'--and he put
away all the doubts that had
arisen. As one replaces an object
of insecure equilibrium, so he
carefully replaced his belief
on its shaky pedestal and carefully
stepped back from it so as not
to shake or upset it. The blinkers
were adjusted again and he felt
tranquillized, and repeating
his childhood's prayer: 'Lord,
receive me, receive me!' he felt
not merely at ease, but thrilled
and joyful. He crossed himself
and lay down on the bedding on
his narrow bench, tucking his
summer cassock under his head.
He fell asleep at once, and in
his light slumber he seemed to
hear the tinkling of sledge bells.
He did not know whether he was
dreaming or awake, but a knock
at the door aroused him. He sat
up, distrusting his senses, but
the knock was repeated. Yes,
it was a knock close at hand,
at his door, and with it the
sound of a woman's voice.
'My God! Can it be true, as
I have read in the Lives of the
Saints, that the devil takes
on the form of a woman? Yes--it
is a woman's voice. And a tender,
timid, pleasant voice. Phui!'
And he spat to exorcise the devil.
'No, it was only my imagination,'
he assured himself, and he went
to the corner where his lectern
stood, falling on his knees in
the regular and habitual manner
which of itself gave him consolation
and satisfaction. He sank down,
his hair hanging over his face,
and pressed his head, already
going bald in front, to the cold
damp strip of drugget on the
draughty floor. He read the psalm
old Father Pimon had told him
warded off temptation. He easily
raised his light and emaciated
body on his strong sinewy legs
and tried to continue saying
his prayers, but instead of doing
so he involuntarily strained
his hearing. He wished to hear
more. All was quiet. From the
corner of the roof regular drops
continued to fall into the tub
below. Outside was a mist and
fog eating into the snow that
lay on the ground. It was still,
very still. And suddenly there
was a rustling at the window
and a voice--that same tender,
timid voice, which could only
belong to an attractive woman--said:
'Let me in, for Christ's sake!'
It seemed as though his blood
had all rushed to his heart and
settled there. He could hardly
breathe. 'Let God arise and let
his enemies be scattered . .
.'
'But I am not a devil!' It
was obvious that the lips that
uttered this were smiling. 'I
am not a devil, but only a sinful
woman who has lost her way, not
figuratively but literally!'
She laughed. 'I am frozen and
beg for shelter.'
He pressed his face to the
window, but the little icon-lamp
was reflected by it and shone
on the whole pane. He put his
hands to both sides of his face
and peered between them. Fog,
mist, a tree, and--just opposite
him--she herself. Yes, there,
a few inches from him, was the
sweet, kindly frightened face
of a woman in a cap and a coat
of long white fur, leaning towards
him. Their eyes met with instant
recognition: not that they had
ever known one another, they
had never met before, but by
the look they exchanged they--and
he particularly--felt that they
knew and understood one another.
After that glance to imagine
her to be a devil and not a simple,
kindly, sweet, timid woman, was
impossible.
'Who are you? Why have you
come?' he asked.
'Do please open the door!'
she replied, with capricious
authority. 'I am frozen. I tell
you I have lost my way.'
'But I am a monk--a hermit.'
'Oh, do please open the door--or
do you wish me to freeze under
your window while you say your
prayers?'
'But how have you . . .'
'I shan't eat you. For God's
sake let me in! I am quite frozen.'
She really did feel afraid,
and said this in an almost tearful
voice.
He stepped back from the window
and looked at an icon of the
Saviour in His crown of thorns.
'Lord, help me! Lord, help me!'
he exclaimed, crossing himself
and bowing low. Then he went
to the door, and opening it into
the tiny porch, felt for the
hook that fastened the outer
door and began to lift it. He
heard steps outside. She was
coming from the window to the
door. 'Ah!' she suddenly exclaimed,
and he understood that she had
stepped into the puddle that
the dripping from the roof had
formed at the threshold. His
hands trembled, and he could
not raise the hook of the tightly
closed door.
'Oh, what are you doing? Let
me in! I am all wet. I am frozen!
You are thinking about saving
your soul and are letting me
freeze to death . . .'
He jerked the door towards
him, raised the hook, and without
considering what he was doing,
pushed it open with such force
that it struck her.
'Oh--PARDON!' he suddenly exclaimed,
reverting completely to his old
manner with ladies.
She smiled on hearing that
PARDON. 'He is not quite so terrible,
after all,' she thought. 'It's
all right. It is you who must
pardon me,' she said, stepping
past him. 'I should never have
ventured, but such an extraordinary
circumstance . . .'
'If you please!' he uttered,
and stood aside to let her pass
him. A strong smell of fine scent,
which he had long not encountered,
struck him. She went through
the little porch into the cell
where he lived. He closed the
outer door without fastening
the hook, and stepped in after
her.
'Lord Jesus Christ, Son of
God, have mercy on me a sinner!
Lord, have mercy on me a sinner!'
he prayed unceasingly, not merely
to himself but involuntarily
moving his lips. 'If you please!'
he said to her again. She stood
in the middle of the room, moisture
dripping from her to the floor
as she looked him over. Her eyes
were laughing.
'Forgive me for having disturbed
your solitude. But you see what
a position I am in. It all came
about from our starting from
town for a sledge-drive, and
my making a bet that I would
walk back by myself from the
Vorobevka to the town. But then
I lost my way, and if I had not
happened to come upon your cell
. . .' She began lying, but his
face confused her so that she
could not continue, but became
silent. She had not expected
him to be at all such as he was.
He was not as handsome as she
had imagined, but was nevertheless
beautiful in her eyes: his greyish
hair and beard, slightly curling,
his fine, regular nose, and his
eyes like glowing coal when he
looked at her, made a strong
impression on her.
He saw that she was lying.
'Yes . . . so,' said he, looking
at her and again lowering his
eyes. 'I will go in there, and
this place is at your disposal.'
And taking down the little
lamp, he lit a candle, and bowing
low to her went into the small
cell beyond the partition, and
she heard him begin to move something
about there. 'Probably he is
barricading himself in from me!'
she thought with a smile, and
throwing off her white dogskin
cloak she tried to take off her
cap, which had become entangled
in her hair and in the woven
kerchief she was wearing under
it. She had not got at all wet
when standing under the window,
and had said so only as a pretext
to get him to let her in. But
she really had stepped into the
puddle at the door, and her left
foot was wet up to the ankle
and her overshoe full of water.
She sat down on his bed--a bench
only covered by a bit of carpet--and
began to take off her boots.
The little cell seemed to her
charming. The narrow little room,
some seven feet by nine, was
as clean as glass. There was
nothing in it but the bench on
which she was sitting, the book-shelf
above it, and a lectern in the
corner. A sheepskin coat and
a cassock hung on nails by the
door. Above the lectern was the
little lamp and an icon of Christ
in His crown of thorns. The room
smelt strangely of perspiration
and of earth. It all pleased
her--even that smell. Her wet
feet, especially one of them,
were uncomfortable, and she quickly
began to take off her boots and
stockings without ceasing to
smile, pleased not so much at
having achieved her object as
because she perceived that she
had abashed that charming, strange,
striking, and attractive man.
'He did not respond, but what
of that?' she said to herself.
'Father Sergius! Father Sergius!
Or how does one call you?'
'What do you want?' replied
a quiet voice.
'Please forgive me for disturbing
your solitude, but really I could
not help it. I should simply
have fallen ill. And I don't
know that I shan't now. I am
all wet and my feet are like
ice.'
'Pardon me,' replied the quiet
voice. 'I cannot be of any assistance
to you.'
'I would not have disturbed
you if I could have helped it.
I am only here till daybreak.'
He did not reply and she heard
him muttering something, probably
his prayers.
'You will not be coming in
here?' she asked, smiling. 'For
I must undress to dry myself.'
He did not reply, but continued
to read his prayers.
'Yes, that is a man!' thought
she, getting her dripping boot
off with difficulty. She tugged
at it, but could not get it off.
The absurdity of it struck her
and she began to laugh almost
inaudibly. But knowing that he
would hear her laughter and would
be moved by it just as she wished
him to be, she laughed louder,
and her laughter--gay, natural,
and kindly--really acted on him
just in the way she wished.
'Yes, I could love a man like
that--such eyes and such a simple
noble face, and passionate too
despite all the prayers he mutters!'
thought she. 'You can't deceive
a woman in these things. As soon
as he put his face to the window
and saw me, he understood and
knew. The glimmer of it was in
his eyes and remained there.
He began to love me and desired
me. Yes--desired!' said she,
getting her overshoe and her
boot off at last and starting
to take off her stockings. To
remove those long stockings fastened
with elastic it was necessary
to raise her skirts. She felt
embarrassed and said:
'Don't come in!'
But there was no reply from
the other side of the wall. The
steady muttering continued and
also a sound of moving.
'He is prostrating himself
to the ground, no doubt,' thought
she. 'But he won't bow himself
out of it. He is thinking of
me just as I am thinking of him.
He is thinking of these feet
of mine with the same feeling
that I have!' And she pulled
off her wet stockings and put
her feet up on the bench, pressing
them under her. She sat a while
like that with her arms round
her knees and looking pensively
before her. 'But it is a desert,
here in this silence. No one
would ever know. . . .'
She rose, took her stockings
over to the stove, and hung them
on the damper. It was a queer
damper, and she turned it about,
and then, stepping lightly on
her bare feet, returned to the
bench and sat down there again
with her feet up.
There was complete silence
on the other side of the partition.
She looked at the tiny watch
that hung round her neck. It
was two o'clock. 'Our party should
return about three!' She had
not more than an hour before
her. 'Well, am I to sit like
this all alone? What nonsense!
I don't want to. I will call
him at once.'
'Father Sergius, Father Sergius!
Sergey Dmitrich! Prince Kasatsky!'
Beyond the partition all was
silent.
'Listen! This is cruel. I would
not call you if it were not necessary.
I am ill. I don't know what is
the matter with me!' she exclaimed
in a tone of suffering. 'Oh!
Oh!' she groaned, falling back
on the bench. And strange to
say she really felt that her
strength was failing, that she
was becoming faint, that everything
in her ached, and that she was
shivering with fever.
'Listen! Help me! I don't know
what is the matter with me. Oh!
Oh!' She unfastened her dress,
exposing her breast, and lifted
her arms, bare to the elbow.
'Oh! Oh!'
All this time he stood on the
other side of the partition and
prayed. Having finished all the
evening prayers, he now stood
motionless, his eyes looking
at the end of his nose, and mentally
repeated with all his soul: 'Lord
Jesus Christ, Son of God, have
mercy upon me!'
But he had heard everything.
He had heard how the silk rustled
when she took off her dress,
how she stepped with bare feet
on the floor, and had heard how
she rubbed her feet with her
hand. He felt his own weakness,
and that he might be lost at
any moment. That was why he prayed
unceasingly. He felt rather as
the hero in the fairy-tale must
have felt when he had to go on
and on without looking round.
So Sergius heard and felt that
danger and destruction were there,
hovering above and around him,
and that he could only save himself
by not looking in that direction
for an instant. But suddenly
the desire to look seized him.
At the same instant she said:
'This is inhuman. I may die.
. . .'
'Yes, I will go to her, but
like the Saint who laid one hand
on the adulteress and thrust
his other into the brazier. But
there is no brazier here.' He
looked round. The lamp! He put
his finger over the flame and
frowned, preparing himself to
suffer. And for a rather long
time, as it seemed to him, there
was no sensation, but suddenly--he
had not yet decided whether it
was painful enough--he writhed
all over, jerked his hand away,
and waved it in the air. 'No,
I can't stand that!'
'For God's sake come to me!
I am dying! Oh!'
'Well--shall I perish? No,
not so!'
'I will come to you directly,'
he said, and having opened his
door, he went without looking
at her through the cell into
the porch where he used to chop
wood. There he felt for the block
and for an axe which leant against
the wall.
'Immediately!' he said, and
taking up the axe with his right
hand he laid the forefinger of
his left hand on the block, swung
the axe, and struck with it below
the second joint. The finger
flew off more lightly than a
stick of similar thickness, and
bounding up, turned over on the
edge of the block and then fell
to the floor.
He heard it fall before he
felt any pain, but before he
had time to be surprised he felt
a burning pain and the warmth
of flowing blood. He hastily
wrapped the stump in the skirt
of his cassock, and pressing
it to his hip went back into
the room, and standing in front
of the woman, lowered his eyes
and asked in a low voice: 'What
do you want?'
She looked at his pale face
and his quivering left cheek,
and suddenly felt ashamed. She
jumped up, seized her fur cloak,
and throwing it round her shoulders,
wrapped herself up in it.
'I was in pain . . . I have
caught cold . . . I . . . Father
Sergius . . . I . . .'
He let his eyes, shining with
a quiet light of joy, rest upon
her, and said:
'Dear sister, why did you wish
to ruin your immortal soul? Temptations
must come into the world, but
woe to him by whom temptation
comes. Pray that God may forgive
us!'
She listened and looked at
him. Suddenly she heard the sound
of something dripping. She looked
down and saw that blood was flowing
from his hand and down his cassock.
'What have you done to your
hand?' She remembered the sound
she had heard, and seizing the
little lamp ran out into the
porch. There on the floor she
saw the bloody finger. She returned
with her face paler than his
and was about to speak to him,
but he silently passed into the
back cell and fastened the door.
'Forgive me!' she said. 'How
can I atone for my sin?'
'Go away.'
'Let me tie up your hand.'
'Go away from here.'
She dressed hurriedly and silently,
and when ready sat waiting in
her furs. The sledge-bells were
heard outside.
'Father Sergius, forgive me!'
'Go away. God will forgive.'
'Father Sergius! I will change
my life. Do not forsake me!'
'Go away.'
'Forgive me--and give me your
blessing!'
'In the name of the Father
and of the Son and of the Holy
Ghost!'--she heard his voice
from behind the partition. 'Go!'
She burst into sobs and left
the cell. The lawyer came forward
to meet her.
'Well, I see I have lost the
bet. It can't be helped. Where
will you sit?'
'It is all the same to me.'
She took a seat in the sledge,
and did not utter a word all
the way home.
A year later she entered a
convent as a novice, and lived
a strict life under the direction
of the hermit Arseny, who wrote
letters to her at long intervals.
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