forgive
you for your kindness to him."

"But he is my son, isn't he? Ought I not to teach him?"

"Teach him? Of course--why not? You can teach him, but why call
him a heathen? It will hurt his feelings, you know, deacon. . . ."

The deacon was a widower, and lived in a little house with three
windows. His elder sister, an old maid, looked after his house for
him, though she had three years before lost the use of her legs and
was confined to her bed; he was afraid of her, obeyed her, and did
nothing without her advice. Father Anastasy went in with him. Seeing
his table already laid with Easter cakes and red eggs, he began
weeping for some reason, probably thinking of his own home, and to
turn these tears into a jest, he at once laughed huskily.

"Yes, we shall soon be breaking the fast," he said. "Yes . . . it
wouldn't come amiss, deacon, to have a little glass now. Can we?
I'll drink it so that the old lady does not hear," he whispered,
glancing sideways towards the door.

Without a word the deacon moved a decanter and wineglass towards
him. He unfolded the letter and began reading it aloud. And now the
letter pleased him just as much as when his Reverence had dictated
it to him. He beamed with pleasure and wagged his head, as though
he had been tasting something very sweet.

"A-ah, what a letter!" he said. "Petrushka has never dreamt of such
a letter. It's just what he wants, something to throw him into a
fever. . ."

"Do you know, deacon, don't send it!" said Anastasy, pouring himself
out a second glass of vodka as though unconsciously. "Forgive him,
let him alone! I am telling you . . . what I really think. If his
own father can't forgive him, who will forgive him? And so he'll
live without forgiveness. Think, deacon: there will be plenty to
chastise him without you, but you should look out for some who will
show mercy to your son! I'll . . . I'll . . . have just one more.
The last, old man. . . . Just sit down and write straight off to
him, 'I forgive you Pyotr!' He will under-sta-and! He will fe-el
it! I understand it from myself, you see old man . . . deacon, I
mean. When I lived like other people, I hadn't much to trouble
about, but now since I lost the image and semblance, there is only
one thing I care about, that good people should forgive me. And
remember, too, it's not the righteous but sinners we must forgive.
Why should you forgive your old woman if she is not sinful? No, you
must forgive a man w