“Who is it he is winking at?  God bless him!” thought the shopkeeper.  “And he is beckoning with his finger!  And he stamped his foot!  What next!  What’s the matter, Holy Queen and Mother!  Whom does he mean it for?”

Andrey Andreyitch looked round and saw the church completely deserted.  There were some ten people standing at the door, but they had their backs to the altar.

“Do come when you are called!  Why do you stand like a graven image?” he heard Father Grigory’s angry voice.  “I am calling you.”

The shopkeeper looked at Father Grigory’s red and wrathful face, and only then realized that the twitching eyebrows and beckoning finger might refer to him.  He started, left the railing, and hesitatingly walked towards the altar, tramping with his heavy goloshes.

“Andrey Andreyitch, was it you asked for prayers for the rest of Mariya’s soul?” asked the priest, his eyes angrily transfixing the shopkeeper’s fat, perspiring face.

“Yes, Father.”

“Then it was you wrote this?  You?” And Father Grigory angrily thrust before his eyes the little note.

And on this little note, handed in by Andrey Andreyitch before mass, was written in big, as it were staggering, letters: 

“For the rest of the soul of the servant of God, the harlot Mariya.”

“Yes, certainly I wrote it,...” answered the shopkeeper.

“How dared you write it?” whispered the priest, and in his husky whisper there was a note of wrath and alarm.

The shopkeeper looked at him in blank amazement; he was perplexed, and he, too, was alarmed.  Father Grigory had never in his life spoken in such a tone to a leading resident of Verhny Zaprudy.  Both were silent for a minute, staring into each other’s face.  The shopkeeper’s amazement was so great that his fat face spread in all directions like spilt dough.

“How dared you?” repeated the priest.

“Wha... what?” asked Andrey Andreyitch in bewilderment.

“You don’t understand?” whispered Father Grigory, stepping back in astonishment and clasping his hands.  “What have you got on your shoulders, a head or some other object?  You send a note up to the altar, and write a word in it which it would be unseemly even to utter in the street!  Why are you rolling your eyes?  Surely you know the meaning of the word?”

“Are you referring to the word harlot?” muttered the shopkeeper, flushing crimson and blinking.  “But you know, the Lord in His mercy... forgave this very thing,... forgave a harlot....  He has prepared a place for her, and indeed from the life of the holy saint, Mariya of Egypt, one may see in what sense the word is used—­excuse me...”

The shopkeeper wanted to bring forward some other argument in his justification, but took fright and wiped his lips with his sleeve.