ed face of the priest. But after that I
see nothing but his sleeve with its blue lining, the cross, and the
edge of the lectern. I am conscious of the close proximity of the
priest, the smell of his cassock; I hear his stern voice, and my
cheek turned towards him begins to burn. . . . I am so troubled
that I miss a great deal that he says, but I answer his questions
sincerely in an unnatural voice, not my own. I think of the forlorn
figures of the Holy Mother and St. John the Divine, the crucifix,
my mother, and I want to cry and beg forgiveness.

"What is your name?" the priest asks me, covering my head with the
soft stole.

How light-hearted I am now, with joy in my soul!

I have no sins now, I am holy, I have the right to enter Paradise!
I fancy that I already smell like the cassock. I go from behind the
screen to the deacon to enter my name, and sniff at my sleeves. The
dusk of the church no longer seems gloomy, and I look indifferently,
without malice, at Mitka.

"What is your name?" the deacon asks.

"Fedya."

"And your name from your father?"

"I don't know."

"What is your papa's name?"

"Ivan Petrovitch."

"And your surname?"

I make no answer.

"How old are you?"

"Nearly nine."

When I get home I go to bed quickly, that I may not see them eating
supper; and, shutting my eyes, dream of how fine it would be to
endure martyrdom at the hands of some Herod or Dioskorus, to live
in the desert, and, like St. Serafim, feed the bears, live in a
cell, and eat nothing but holy bread, give my property to the poor,
go on a pilgrimage to Kiev. I hear them laying the table in the
dining-room--they are going to have supper, they will eat salad,
cabbage pies, fried and baked fish. How hungry I am! I would consent
to endure any martyrdom, to live in the desert without my mother,
to feed bears out of my own hands, if only I might first eat just
one cabbage pie!

"Lord, purify me a sinner," I pray, covering my head over. "Guardian
angel, save me from the unclean spirit."

The next day, Thursday, I wake up with my heart as pure and clean
as a fine spring day. I go gaily and boldly into the church, feeling
that I am a communicant, that I have a splendid and expensive shirt
on, made out of a silk dress left by my grandmother. In the church
everything has an air of joy, happiness, and spring. The faces of
the Mother of God and St. John the Divine are not so sorrowful as
yesterday. The faces of the communican