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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