“Well, supposing I endure hunger and disgrace—­but, my God, I have a wife!  I took her from a good home!  She is not used to hard work; she is soft; she is used to tea and white bread and sheets on her bed. . . .  At home she used to play the piano. . . .  She is young, not twenty yet. . . .  She would like, to be sure, to be smart, to have fun, go out to see people. . . .  And she is worse off with me than any cook; she is ashamed to show herself in the street.  My God, my God!  Her only treat is when I bring an apple or some biscuit from a visit. . . .”

Father Yakov scratched his head again with both hands.

“And it makes us feel not love but pity for each other. . . .  I cannot look at her without compassion!  And the things that happen in this life, O Lord!  Such things that people would not believe them if they saw them in the newspaper. . . .  And when will there be an end to it all!”

“Hush, Father!” Kunin almost shouted, frightened at his tone.  “Why take such a gloomy view of life?”

“Generously forgive me, Pavel Mihailovitch . . .” muttered Father Yakov as though he were drunk, “Forgive me, all this . . . doesn’t matter, and don’t take any notice of it. . . .  Only I do blame myself, and always shall blame myself . . . always.”

Father Yakov looked about him and began whispering: 

“One morning early I was going from Sinkino to Lutchkovo; I saw a woman standing on the river bank, doing something. . . .  I went up close and could not believe my eyes. . . .  It was horrible!  The wife of the doctor, Ivan Sergeitch, was sitting there washing her linen. . . .  A doctor’s wife, brought up at a select boarding-school!  She had got up you see, early and gone half a mile from the village that people should not see her. . . .  She couldn’t get over her pride!  When she saw that I was near her and noticed her poverty, she turned red all over. . . .  I was flustered—­I was frightened, and ran up to help her, but she hid her linen from me; she was afraid I should see her ragged chemises. . . .”

“All this is positively incredible,” said Kunin, sitting down and looking almost with horror at Father Yakov’s pale face.

“Incredible it is!  It’s a thing that has never been!  Pavel Mihailovitch, that a doctor’s wife should be rinsing the linen in the river!  Such a thing does not happen in any country!  As her pastor and spiritual father, I ought not to allow it, but what can I do?  What?  Why, I am always trying to get treated by her husband for nothing myself!  It is true that, as you say, it is all incredible!  One can hardly believe one’s eyes.  During Mass, you know, when I look out from the altar and see my congregation, Avraamy starving, and my wife, and think of the doctor’s wife—­how blue her hands were from the cold water—­would you believe it, I forget myself and stand senseless like a fool, until the sacristan calls to me. . . .  It’s awful!”

Father Yakov began walking about again.