g?' And he became horrified and filled with
disgust at himself. 'Vile creature! And it is you who wish to become a
saint!' he upbraided himself, and he began to pray. But as soon as he
started to pray he saw himself vividly as he had been at the Monastery,
in a majestic post in biretta and mantle, and he shook his head. 'No,
that is not right. It is deception. I may deceive others, but not myself
or God. I am not a majestic man, but a pitiable and ridiculous one!' And
he threw back the folds of his cassock and smiled as he looked at his
thin legs in their underclothing.

Then he dropped the folds of the cassock again and began reading the
prayers, making the sign of the cross and prostrating himself. 'Can
it be that this couch will be my bier?' he read. And it seemed as if a
devil whispered to him: 'A solitary couch is itself a bier. Falsehood!'
And in imagination he saw the shoulders of a widow with whom he had
lived. He shook himself, and went on reading. Having read the precepts
he took up the Gospels, opened the book, and happened on a passage
he often repeated and knew by heart: 'Lord, I believe. Help thou my
unbelief!'--and he put away all the doubts that had arisen. As one
replaces an object of insecure equilibrium, so he carefully replaced his
belief on its shaky pedestal and carefully stepped back from it so as
not to shake or upset it. The blinkers were adjusted again and he felt
tranquillized, and repeating his childhood's prayer: 'Lord, receive me,
receive me!' he felt not merely at ease, but thrilled and joyful. He
crossed himself and lay down on the bedding on his narrow bench, tucking
his summer cassock under his head. He fell asleep at once, and in his
light slumber he seemed to hear the tinkling of sledge bells. He did not
know whether he was dreaming or awake, but a knock at the door aroused
him. He sat up, distrusting his senses, but the knock was repeated. Yes,
it was a knock close at hand, at his door, and with it the sound of a
woman's voice.

'My God! Can it be true, as I have read in the Lives of the Saints, that
the devil takes on the form of a woman? Yes--it is a woman's voice.
And a tender, timid, pleasant voice. Phui!' And he spat to exorcise the
devil. 'No, it was only my imagination,' he assured himself, and he
went to the corner where his lectern stood, falling on his knees in the
regular and habitual manner which of itself gave him consolation and
satisfaction. He sank down, his hair han