Between the two broad columns on the right, where the chapel of Varvara the Martyr begins, those who are going to confess stand beside the screen, awaiting their turn.  And Mitka is there too—­ a ragged boy with his head hideously cropped, with ears that jut out, and little spiteful eyes.  He is the son of Nastasya the charwoman, and is a bully and a ruffian who snatches apples from the women’s baskets, and has more than once carried off my knuckle-bones.  He looks at me angrily, and I fancy takes a spiteful pleasure in the fact that he, not I, will first go behind the screen.  I feel boiling over with resentment, I try not to look at him, and, at the bottom of my heart, I am vexed that this wretched boy’s sins will soon be forgiven.

In front of him stands a grandly dressed, beautiful lady, wearing a hat with a white feather.  She is noticeably agitated, is waiting in strained suspense, and one of her cheeks is flushed red with excitement.

I wait for five minutes, for ten. . . .  A well-dressed young man with a long thin neck, and rubber goloshes, comes out from behind the screen.  I begin dreaming how, when I am grown up, I will buy goloshes exactly like them.  I certainly will!  The lady shudders and goes behind the screen.  It is her turn.

In the crack, between the two panels of the screen, I can see the lady go up to the lectern and bow down to the ground, then get up, and, without looking at the priest, bow her head in anticipation.  The priest stands with his back to the screen, and so I can only see his grey curly head, the chain of the cross on his chest, and his broad back.  His face is not visible.  Heaving a sigh, and not looking at the lady, he begins speaking rapidly, shaking his head, alternately raising and dropping his whispering voice.  The lady listens meekly as though conscious of guilt, answers meekly, and looks at the floor.

“In what way can she be sinful?” I wonder, looking reverently at her gentle, beautiful face.  “God forgive her sins, God send her happiness.”  But now the priest covers her head with the stole.  “And I, unworthy priest . . .”  I hear his voice, “. . . by His power given unto me, do forgive and absolve thee from all thy sins. . . .”

The lady bows down to the ground, kisses the cross, and comes back.  Both her cheeks are flushed now, but her face is calm and serene and cheerful.

“She is happy now,” I think to myself, looking first at her and then at the priest who had forgiven her sins.  “But how happy the man must be who has the right to forgive sins!”

Now it is Mitka’s turn, but a feeling of hatred for that young ruffian suddenly boils up in me.  I want to go behind the screen before him, I want to be the first.  Noticing my movement he hits me on the head with his candle, I respond by doing the same, and, for half a minute, there is a sound of panting, and, as it were, of someone breaking candles. . . .  We are separated.  My foe goes timidly up to the lectern, and bows down to the floor without bending his knees, but I do not see what happens after that; the thought that my turn is coming after Mitka’s makes everything grow blurred and confused before my eyes; Mitka’s protruding ears grow large, and melt into his dark head, the priest sways, the floor seems to be undulating. . . .