“There are festivals that have a special fragrance:  at Easter, Trinity and Christmas there is a peculiar scent in the air.  Even unbelievers are fond of those festivals.  My brother, for instance, argues that there is no God, but he is the first to hurry to Matins at Easter.”

Liharev raised his eyes to Mlle. Ilovaisky and laughed.

“They argue that there is no God,” she went on, laughing too, “but why is it, tell me, all the celebrated writers, the learned men, clever people generally, in fact, believe towards the end of their life?”

“If a man does not know how to believe when he is young, Madam, he won’t believe in his old age if he is ever so much of a writer.”

Judging from Liharev’s cough he had a bass voice, but, probably from being afraid to speak aloud, or from exaggerated shyness, he spoke in a tenor.  After a brief pause he heaved a sign and said: 

“The way I look at it is that faith is a faculty of the spirit.  It is just the same as a talent, one must be born with it.  So far as I can judge by myself, by the people I have seen in my time, and by all that is done around us, this faculty is present in Russians in its highest degree.  Russian life presents us with an uninterrupted succession of convictions and aspirations, and if you care to know, it has not yet the faintest notion of lack of faith or scepticism.  If a Russian does not believe in God, it means he believes in something else.”

Liharev took a cup of tea from Mlle. Ilovaisky, drank off half in one gulp, and went on: 

“I will tell you about myself.  Nature has implanted in my breast an extraordinary faculty for belief.  Whisper it not to the night, but half my life I was in the ranks of the Atheists and Nihilists, but there was not one hour in my life in which I ceased to believe.  All talents, as a rule, show themselves in early childhood, and so my faculty showed itself when I could still walk upright under the table.  My mother liked her children to eat a great deal, and when she gave me food she used to say:  ’Eat!  Soup is the great thing in life!’ I believed, and ate the soup ten times a day, ate like a shark, ate till I was disgusted and stupefied.  My nurse used to tell me fairy tales, and I believed in house-spirits, in wood-elves, and in goblins of all kinds.  I used sometimes to steal corrosive sublimate from my father, sprinkle it on cakes, and carry them up to the attic that the house-spirits, you see, might eat them and be killed.  And when I was taught to read and understand what I read, then there was a fine to-do.  I ran away to America and went off to join the brigands, and wanted to go into a monastery, and hired boys to torture me for being a Christian.  And note that my faith was always active, never dead.  If I was running away to America I was not alone, but seduced someone else, as great a fool as I was, to go with me, and was delighted when I was nearly