THE MASS FOR THE DEAD - Horror Stories

The Letter

 


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THE LETTER 

By Chekhov, Anton Pavlovich, 1860-1904; Garnett, Constance Black, 1862-1946


The clerical superintendent of the district, his Reverence Father Fyodor Orlov, a handsome, well-nourished man 

of fifty, grave and Important as he always 

was, with a habitual expression of dlj^nlty that never 

left his face, was walking to and fro In his little 

drawing-room, extremely exhausted, and thinking in- 

tensely about the same thing: "When would his 

visitor go? " The thought worried him and did not 

leave him for a minute. The visitor, Father Anastasy, 

the priest of one of the villages near the town, 

had come to him three hours before on some very 

unpleasant and dreary business of his own, had stayed 

on and on, was now sitting In the corner at a little 

round table with his elbow on a thick account book, 

and apparently had no thought of going, though It 

was getting on for nine o'clock in the evening. 


Not everyone knows when to be silent and when to 

go. It not infrequently happens that even diplomatic 

persons of good worldly breeding fail to observe that 

their presence is arousing a feeling akin to hatred In 

their exhausted or busy host, and that this feeling is 

being concealed with an effort and disguised with a 

lie. But Father Anastasy perceived it clearly, and 

realized that his presence was burdensome and in- 

appropriate, that his Reverence, who had taken an 

early morning service In the night and a long mass 

at midday, was exhausted and longing for repose; 

every minute he was meaning to get up and go, but 

he did not get up, he sat on as though he were 

waiting for something. He was an old man of sixty- 

live, prematurely aged, with a bent and bony figure, 

with a sunken face and the darlc skin of old age, with 

red eyelids and a long narrow back like a fish's; he 

was dressed in a smart cassock of a light lilac colour, 

but too big for him (presented to him by the widow 

of a young priest lately deceased), a full cloth coat 

with a broad leather belt, and clumsy high boots the 

size and hue of which showed clearly that Father 

Anastasy dispensed with goloshes. In spite of his 

position and his venerable age, there was something 

pitiful, crushed and humiliated in his lustreless red 

eyes, in the strands of grey hair with a shade of 

green in it on the nape of his neck, and in the big 

shoulder-blades on his lean back. . . . He sat with- 

out speaking or moving, and coughed with circum- 

spection, as though afraid that the sound of his 

coughing might make his presence more noticeable. 

The old man had come to see his Reverence on 

business. Two months before he had been pro- 

hibited from ofliciating till further notice, and his 

case was being inquired into. His shortcomings 

were numerous. He was intemperate in his habits, 

fell out with the other clergy and the commune, kept 

the church records and accounts carelessly — these 

were the formal charges against him; but besides 

all that, there had been rumours for a long time past 

that he celebrated unlawful marriages for money and 

sold certificates of having fasted and taken the sacra- 

ment to officials and officers who came to him from 

the town. These rumours were maintained the more 

persistently that he was poor and had nine children 

to keep, who were as incompetent and unsuccessful 

as himself. The sons were spoilt and uneducated, 

and stayed at home doing nothing, while the daugh- 

ters were ugly and did not get married. 


Not having the moral force to be open, his Rever- 

ence walked up and down the room and said nothing 

or spoke in hints. 


" So you are not going home to-night? " he asked, 

stopping near the dark window and poking with his 

little finger into the cage where a canary was asleep 

with its feathers puffed out. 


Father Anastasy started, coughed cautiously and 

said rapidly: 


" Home? I don't care to, Fyodor Ilyitch. I can- 

not officiate, as you know, so what am I to do there? 

I came away on purpose that I might not have to 

look the people in the face. One is ashamed not 

to officiate, as you know. Besides, I have business 

here, Fyodor Ilyitch. To-morrow after breaking 

the fast I want to talk things over thoroughly with 

the Father charged with the inquiry." 


" Ah ! . . ." yawned his Reverence, " and where 

are you staying? " 


" At Zyavkin's." 


Father Anastasy suddenly remembered that within 

two hours his Reverence had to take the Easter-night 

service, and he felt so ashamed of his unwelcome 

burdensome presence that he made up his mind to 

go away at once and let the exhausted man rest. 

And the old man got up to go. But before he began 

saying good-bye he stood clearing his throat for a 

minute and looking searchingly at his Reverence's 

back, still with the same expression of vague expecta- 

tion in his whole figure; his face was working with 

shame, timidity, and a pitiful forced laugh such as 

one sees in people who do not respect themselves. 

Waving his hand as it were resolutely, he said with 

a husky quavering laugh : 


" Father Fyodor, do me one more kindness : bid 

them give me at leave-taking . . . one little glass of 

vodka." 


*' It's not the time to drink vodka now," said his 

Reverence sternly. " One must have some regard 

for decency." 


Father Anastasy was still more overwhelmed by 

confusion; he laughed, and, forgetting his resolution 

to go away, dropped back on his chair. His Rever- 

ence looked at his helpless, embarrassed face and his 

bent figure and he felt sorry for the old man. 


" Please God, we will have a drink to-morrow," 

he said, wishing to soften his stern refusal. " Every- 

thing is good in due season." 


His Reverence believed in people's reforming, 

but now when a feeling of pity had been kindled in 

him it seemed to him that this disgraced, worn-out 

old man, entangled in a network of sins and weak- 

nesses, was hopelessly wrecked, that there was no 

power on earth that could straighten out his spine, 

give brightness to his eyes and restrain the unpleasant 

timid laugh which he laughed on purpose to smooth 

over to some slight extent the repulsive impression 

he made on people. 


The old man seemed now to Father Fyodor not 

guilty and not vicious, but humiliated, insulted, un- 

fortunate; his Reverence thought of his wife, his nine 

children, the dirty beggarly shelter at Zyavkin's; he 

thought for some reason of the people who are glad 

to see priests drunk and persons in authority detected 

in crimes ; and thought that the very best thing Father 

Anastasy could do now would be to die as soon as 

possible and to depart from this world for ever. 


There was a sound of footsteps. 


" Father Fyodor, you are not resting? " a bass 

voice asked from the passage. 


" No, deacon; come in." 


Orlov's colleague, the deacon Liubimov, an elderly 

man with a big bald patch on the top of his head, 

though his hair was still black and he was still vig- 

orous-looking with thick black eyebrows like a 

Georgian's, walked in. He bowed to Father Anas- 

tasy and sat down. 


" What good news have you? " asked his Rever- 

ence. 


"What good news?" answered the deacon, and 

after a pause he went on with a smile : " When 

your children are little, your trouble is small; when 

your children are big, your trouble is great. Such 

goings on, Father Fyodor, that I don't know what 

to think of it. It's a regular farce, that's what it 

is." 


He paused again for a little, smiled still more 

broadly and said: 


" Nikolay Matveyitch came back from Harkov 

to-day. He has been telling me about my Pyotr. 

He has been to see him twice, he tells me." 


" What has he been telling you, then? " 


" He has upset me, God bless him. He meant 

to please me, but when I came to think it over, it 

seems there Is not much to be pleased at. I ought 

to grieve rather than be pleased. . . . ' Your Pe- 

trushka,' said he, ' lives in fine style. He is far 

above us now,' said he. ' Well, thank God for that,' 

said I. * I dined with him,' said he, ' and saw his 

whole manner of life. He lives like a gentleman,' 

he said; 'you couldn't wish to live better.' I was 

naturally interested and I asked, ' And what did you 

have for dinner?' 'First,' he said, 'a fish course 

something like fish soup, then tongue and peas,' and 

then he said, ' roast turkey.' ' Turkey in Lent? that 

is something to please me,' said I. ' Turkey in 

Lent? Eh?'" 


" Nothing marvellous in that," said his Reverence, 

screwing up his eyes ironically. And sticking both 

thumbs in his belt, he drew himself up and said in 

the tone in which he usually delivered discourses or 

gave his Scripture lessons to the pupils in the district 

school: "People who do not keep the fasts are 

divided into two different categories: some do not 

keep them through laxity, others through infidelity. 

Your Pyotr does not keep them through infidelity. 

Yes." 


The deacon looked timidly at Father Fyodor's 

stern face and said: 


" There is worse to follow. . . . We talked and 

discussed one thing and another, and it turned out 

that my infidel of a son is living with some madame, 

another man's wife. She takes the place of wife and 

hostess in his flat, pours out the tea, receives visitors 

and all the rest of It, as though she were his lawful 

wife. For over two years he has been keeping up 

this dance with this viper. It's a regular farce. 


They have been living together three years and no 

children." 


"I suppose they have been living in chastity!" 

chuckled Father Anastasy, coughing huskily. 

" There are children, Father Deacon — there are, 

but they don't keep them at home ! They send them 

to the Foundling! He-he-he! . . ." Anastasy 

went on coughing till he choked. 


" Don't interfere, Father Anastasy," said his Rev- 

erence sternly. 


" Nikolay Matveyitch asked him, ' What madame 

is this helping the soup at your table? ' " the deacon 

went on, gloomily scanning Anastasy's bent figure. 

" ' That is my wife,' said he. ' When was your 

wedding? ' Nikolay Matveyitch asked him, and 

Pyotr answered, ' We were married at Kulikov's 

restaurant.' " 


His Reverence's eyes flashed wrathfully and the 

colour came into his temples. Apart from his sin- 

fulness, Pyotr was not a person he liked. Father 

Fyodor had, as they say, a grudge against him. He 

remembered him a boy at school — he remembered 

him distinctly, because even then the boy had seemed 

to him not normal. As a schoolboy, Petrusha had 

been ashamed to serve at the altar, had been offended 

at being addressed without ceremony, had not 

crossed himself on entering the room, and what was 

still more noteworthy, was fond of talking a great 

deal and with heat — and, in Father Fyodor's 

opinion, much talking was unseemly in children and 

pernicious to them; moreover Petrusha had taken up 

a contemptuous and critical attitude to fishing, a pur- 

suit to which both his Reverence and the deacon were 

greatly addicted. As a student Pyotr had not gone 

to church at all, had slept till midday, had looked 

down on people, and had been given to raising deli- 

cate and insoluble questions with a peculiarly pro- 

voking zest. 


"What would you have?" his Reverence asked, 

going up to the deacon and looking at him angrily. 

" What would you have? This was to be expected! 

I always knew and was convinced that nothing good 

would come of your Pyotr! I told you so, and I 

tell you so now. What you have sown, that now you 

must reap! Reap it! " 


"But what have I sown. Father Fyodor? " the 

deacon asked softly, looking up at his Reverence. 


" Why, who is to blame if not you? You're his 

father, he is your offspring! You ought to have ad- 

monished him, have instilled the fear of God into 

him. A child must be taught! You have brought 

him into the world, but you haven't trained him up 

In the right way. It's a sin! It's wrong! It's a 

shame ! " 


His Reverence forgot his exhaustion, paced to and 

fro and went on talking. Drops of perspiration 

came out on the deacon's bald head and forehead. 

He raised his eyes to his Reverence with a look of 

guilt, and said: 


" But didn't I train him. Father Fyodor? Lord 

have mercy on us, haven't I been a father to my 

children? You know yourself I spared nothing for 

his good; I have prayed and done my best all my 

life to give him a thorough education. He went to 

the high school and I got him tutors, and he took 

his degree at the University. And as to my not be- 

ing able to influence his mind, Father Fyodor, why, 

you can judge for yourself that I am not qualified 

to do so! Sometimes when he used to come here as 

a student, I would begin admonishing him in my way, 

and he wouldn't heed me. I'd say to him, ' Go to 

church,' and he would answer, 'What for?' I 

would begin explaining, and he would say, 'Why? 

what for? ' Or he would slap me on the shoulder 

and say, ' Everything in this world is relative, ap- 

proximate and conditional. I don't know anything, 

and you don't know anything either, dad.' " 


Father Anastasy laughed huskily, cleared his 

throat and waved his fingers in the air as though 

preparing to say something. His Reverence glanced 

at him and said sternly: 


" Don't interfere, Father Anastasy." 


The old man laughed, beamed, and evidently 

listened with pleasure to the deacon as though he 

were glad there were other sinful persons In this 

world besides himself. The deacon spoke sincerely, 

with an aching heart, and tears actually came Into his 

eyes. Father Fyodor felt sorry for him. 


" You are to blame, deacon, you are to blame," 

he said, but not so sternly and heatedly as before. 

" If you could beget him, you ought to know how to 

Instruct him. You ought to have trained him In his 

childhood; it's no good trying to correct a student." 


A silence followed; the deacon clasped his hands 

and said with a sigh : 


" But you know I shall have to answer for him I " 


" To be sure you will ! " 


After a brief silence his Reverence yawned and 

sighed at the same moment and asked: 


" Who is reading the ' Acts '? " 


" Yevstrat. Yevstrat always reads them." 


The deacon got up and, looking imploringly at 

his Reverence, asked : 


" Father Fyodor, what am I to do now? " 


"Do as you please; you are his father, not I. 

You ought to know best." 


"I don't know anything, Father Fyodor! Tell 

me what to do, for goodness' sake ! Would you 

believe it, I am sick at heart! I can't sleep now, 

nor keep quiet, and the holiday will be no holiday to 

me. Tell me what to do. Father Fyodor! " 


" Write him a letter." 


" What am I to write to him? " 


" Write that he mustn't go on like that. Write 

shortly, but sternly and circumstantially, without soft- 

ening or smoothing away his guilt. It is your pa- 

rental duty; if you write, you will have done your 

duty and will be at peace." 


" That's true. But what am I to write to him, to 

what effect? If I write to him, he will answer, 

' Why? what for? Why is it a sin? ' " 


Father Anastasy laughed hoarsely again, and 

brandished his fingers. 


"Why? what for? why is it a sin?" he began 

shrilly. " I was once confessing a gentleman, and I 

told him that excessive confidence in the Divine 

Mercy is a sin; and he asked, 'Why?' I tried to 


answer him, but " Anastasy slapped himself 


on the forehead. " I had nothing here. He-he-he- 

he !. . ." 


Anastasy's words, his hoarse jangling laugh at 

what was not laughable, had an unpleasant effect 

on his Reverence and on the deacon. The former 

was on the point of saying, " Don't interfere " again, 

but he did not say it, he only frowned. 


" I can't write to him," sighed the deacon. 


" If you can't, who can? " 


"Father Fyodor ! " said the deacon, putting his 

head on one side and pressing his hand to his heart. 

" I am an uneducated slow-witted man, while the 

Lord has vouchsafed you judgment and wisdom. 

You know everything and understand everything. 

You can master anything, while I don't know how 

to put my words together sensibly. Be generous. 

Instruct me how to write the letter. Teach me what 

to say and how to say it. . . ." 


"What is there to teach? There Is nothing to 

teach. Sit down and write." 


"Oh, do me the favour. Father Fyodor! I be- 

seech you ! I know he will be frightened and will 

attend to your letter, because, you see, you are a 

cultivated man too. Do be so good! I'll sit down, 

and you'll dictate to me. It will be a sin to write 

to-morrow, but now would be the very time; my 

mind would be set at rest." 


His Reverence looked at the deacon's imploring 

face, thought of the disagreeable Pyotr, and con- 

sented to dictate. He made the deacon sit down to 

his table and began. 


" Well, write . . . ' Christ is risen, dear son 

. . .' exclamation mark. ' Rumours have reached 

me, your father,' then in parenthesis, ' from what 

source is no concern of yours . . .' close the paren- 

thesis. . . . Have you written it? ' that you are lead- 

ing a life inconsistent with the laws both of God 

and of man. Neither the luxurious comfort, nor the 

worldly splendour, nor the culture with which you 

seek outwardly to disguise it, can hide your heathen 

manner of life. In name you are a Christian, but in 

your real nature a heathen as pitiful and wretched 

as all other heathens — more wretched, indeed, see- 

ing that those heathens who know not Christ are lost 

from ignorance, while you are lost in that, possessing 

a treasure, you neglect it. I will not enumerate here 

your vices, which you know well enough; I will say 

that I see the cause of your ruin in your infidelity. 

You imagine yourself to be wise, boast of your 

knowledge of science, but refuse to see that science 

without faith, far from elevating a man, actually de- 

grades him to the level of a lower animal, inasmuch 

as . . .' " The whole letter was in this strain. 


When he had finished writing it the deacon read It 

aloud, beamed all over and jumped up. 


" It's a gift, it's really a gift! " he said, clasping 

his hands and looking enthusiastically a-t his Rever- 

ence. " To think of the Lord's bestowing a gift 

like that! Eh? Holy Mother! I do believe I 

couldn't write a letter like that In a hundred years. 

Lord save you ! " 


Father Anastasy was enthusiastic too. 


" One couldn't write like that without a gift,'* 

he said, getting up and wagging his fingers — " that 

one couldn't ! His rhetoric would trip any philoso- 

pher and shut him up. Intellect! Brilliant intel- 

lect! If you weren't married. Father Fyodor, you 

would have been a bishop long ago, you would 

really!" 


Having vented his wrath in a letter, his Rever- 

ence felt relieved; his fatigue and exhaustion came 

back to him. The deacon was an old friend, and his 

Reverence did not hesitate to say to him: 


" Well, deacon, go, and God bless you, I'll have 

half an hour's nap on the sofa; I must rest." 


The deacon went away and took Anastasy with 

him. As is always the case on Easter Eve, it was 

dark in the street, but the whole sky was sparkling 

with bright luminous stars. There was a scent of 

spring and holiday in the soft still air. 


" How long was he dictating? " the deacon said 

admiringly. " Ten minutes, not more ! It would 

have taken someone else a month to compose such 

a letter. Eh!, What a mind! Such a mind that 

I don't know what to call it! It's a marvel! It's 

really a marvel! " 


" Education! " sighed Anastasy as he crossed the 

muddy street, holding up his cassock to his waist. 

" It's not for us to compare ourselves with him. 

We come of the sacristan class, while he has had a 

learned education. Yes, he's a real man, there is no 

denying that." 


" And you listen how he'll read the Gospel in 

Latin at mass to-day! He knows Latin and he 

knows Greek. . . . Ah, Petrushka, Petrushka ! " the 

deacon said, suddenly remembering. " Now that 

will make him scratch his head! That will shut his 

mouth, that will bring it home to him ! Now he 

won't ask ' Why.' It is a case of one wit to outwit 

another ! Ha-ha-ha ! " 


The deacon laughed gaily and loudly. Since the 

letter had been written to Pyotr he had become serene 

and more cheerful. The consciousness of having 

performed his duty as a father and his faith in the 

power of the letter had brought back his mirthfulness 

and good-humour. 


" Pyotr means a stone," said he, as he went into 

his house. " My Pyotr is not a stone, but a rag. 

A viper has fastened upon him and he pampers her, 

and hasn't the pluck to kick her out. Tfoo ! To 

think there should be women like that, God forgive 

me! Eh? Has she no shame? She has fastened 

upon the lad, sticking to him, and keeps him tied to 

her apron-strings. . . . Fie upon her! " 


" Perhaps it's not she keeps hold of him, but he 

of her?" 


"She is a shameless one anyway! Not that I 

am defending Pyotr. . . . He'll catch it. He'll 

read the letter and scratch his head! He'll burn 

with shame ! " 


" It's a splendid letter, only you know I wouldn't 

send it, Father Deacon. Let him alone." 


" What! " said the deacon, disconcerted. 


"Why. . . . Don't send it, deacon! What's the 

sense of it? Suppose you send it; he reads it, and 

. . . and what then? You'll only upset him. For- 

give him. Let him alone ! " 


The deacon looked in surprise at Anastasy's dark 

face, at his unbuttoned cassock, which looked in the 

dusk like wings, and shrugged his shoulders. 


"How can I forgive him like that?" he asked. 

" Why, I shall have to answer for him to God! " 


"Even so, forgive him all the same. Really! 

And God will 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 the table already 

laid with Easter cakes and red eggs, he began weep- 

ing 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 forgive- 

ness. 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 f e-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 when he is a sad sight to look at . . . 

yes!" 


Anastasy leaned his head on his fist and sank into 

thought. 


" It's a terrible thing, deacon," he sighed, evi- 

dently struggling with the desire to take another 

glass — " a terrible thing! In sin my mother bore 

me, in sin I have lived, in sin I shall die. . . . God 

forgive me, a sinner ! I have gone astray, deacon 1 

There is no salvation for me ! And it's not as 

though I had gone astray in my life, but in old age — 

at death's door . . . I . . ." 


The old man, with a hopeless gesture, drank off 

another glass, then got up and moved to another 

seat. The deacon, still keeping the letter in his 

hand, was walking up and down the room. He 

was thinking of his son. Displeasure, distress and 

anxiety no longer troubled him; all that had gone 

into the letter. Now he was simply picturing Pyotr; 

he imagined his face, he thought of past years when 

his son used to come to stay with him for the holi- 

days. His thoughts were only of what was good, 

warm, touching, of which one might think for a 

whole lifetime without wearying. Longing for his 

son, he read the letter through once more and looked 

questioningly at Anastasy. 


" Don't send it," said the latter, with a wave of 

his hand. 


" No, I must send it anyway; I must . . . bring 

him to his senses a little, all the same. It's just as 

well. . . ." 


The deacon took an envelope from the table, but 

before putting the letter into it he sat down to the 

table, smiled and added on his own account at the 

bottom of the letter: 


" They have sent us a new inspector. He's much 

friskier than the old one. He's a great one for 

dancing and talking, and there's nothing he can't 

do, so that all the Govorovsky girls are crazy over 

him. Our military chief, Kostyrev, will soon get 

the sack too, they say. High time he did! " And 

very well pleased, without the faintest idea that with 

this postscript he had completely spoiled the stern 

letter, the deacon addressed the envelope and laid it 

in the most conspicuous place on the table. 


Finish

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