of last year, under the fences.  In the gutters there is the merry gurgling and foaming of dirty water, in which the sunbeams do not disdain to bathe.  Chips, straws, the husks of sunflower seeds are carried rapidly along in the water, whirling round and sticking in the dirty foam.  Where, where are those chips swimming to?  It may well be that from the gutter they may pass into the river, from the river into the sea, and from the sea into the ocean.  I try to imagine to myself that long terrible journey, but my fancy stops short before reaching the sea.

A cabman drives by.  He clicks to his horse, tugs at the reins, and does not see that two street urchins are hanging on the back of his cab.  I should like to join them, but think of confession, and the street urchins begin to seem to me great sinners.

“They will be asked on the day of judgment:  ’Why did you play pranks and deceive the poor cabman?’” I think.  “They will begin to defend themselves, but evil spirits will seize them, and drag them to fire everlasting.  But if they obey their parents, and give the beggars a kopeck each, or a roll, God will have pity on them, and will let them into Paradise.”

The church porch is dry and bathed in sunshine.  There is not a soul in it.  I open the door irresolutely and go into the church.  Here, in the twilight which seems to me thick and gloomy as at no other time, I am overcome by the sense of sinfulness and insignificance.  What strikes the eye first of all is a huge crucifix, and on one side of it the Mother of God, and on the other, St. John the Divine.  The candelabra and the candlestands are draped in black mourning covers, the lamps glimmer dimly and faintly, and the sun seems intentionally to pass by the church windows.  The Mother of God and the beloved disciple of Jesus Christ, depicted in profile, gaze in silence at the insufferable agony and do not observe my presence; I feel that to them I am alien, superfluous, unnoticed, that I can be no help to them by word or deed, that I am a loathsome, dishonest boy, only capable of mischief, rudeness, and tale-bearing.  I think of all the people I know, and they all seem to me petty, stupid, and wicked, and incapable of bringing one drop of relief to that intolerable sorrow which I now behold.

The twilight of the church grows darker and more gloomy.  And the Mother of God and St. John look lonely and forlorn to me.

Prokofy Ignatitch, a veteran soldier, the church verger’s assistant, is standing behind the candle cupboard.  Raising his eyebrows and stroking his beard he explains in a half-whisper to an old woman:  “Matins will be in the evening to-day, directly after vespers.  And they will ring for the ‘hours’ to-morrow between seven and eight.  Do you understand?  Between seven and eight.”