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“They complain about the decline of religious feeling among people…,” he sighed. “What else! Why don’t they stick us with more priests like this one!”

Kunin went into the church three more times after that, and each time was strongly drawn back out into the open air. Having waited for the end of the service, he went off to Father Yakov’s. The priest’s house from the outside was no different from the peasant cottages, only the thatching on the roof was more evenly laid and there were white curtains in the windows. Father Yakov led Kunin into a small, bright room with a clay floor and walls hung with cheap wallpaper. Despite some attempts at luxury, like framed photographs and a clock with scissors tied to its weights, the setting was striking in its penury. Looking at the furniture, you might think that Father Yakov had gone around the courtyards and collected it piecemeal. In one place they gave him a round table on three legs, in another a stool, in a third a chair with a back sharply tilted backwards, in a fourth a chair with a straight back but a sagging seat, and in a fifth they generously gave him some semblance of a divan with a flat back and a latticework seat. This semblance had been painted a dark red and smelled strongly of the paint. Kunin first wanted to sit on one of the chairs, but thought better of it and sat on the stool.

“Is this the first time you’ve been to our church?” Father Yakov asked, hanging his hat on a big, ugly nail.

“Yes, the first. I tell you what, Father…Before we get down to business, give me some tea, my soul is completely dry.”

Father Yakov blinked, grunted, and went behind the partition. There was some whispering…

“Must be with his wife…,” Kunin thought. “I’d be interested to see what sort of wife the redhead’s got…”

A little later Father Yakov came from behind the partition, red-faced, sweaty, and, forcing a smile, sat facing Kunin on the edge of the divan.

“The samovar will be started presently,” he said, without looking at his guest.

“My God, they haven’t started the samovar yet!” Kunin was inwardly horrified. “I must kindly wait now!”

“I’ve brought you the draft of the letter I’ve written to the bishop,” he said. “I’ll read it after tea…Maybe you’ll find something to add…”

“Very well, sir.”

Silence ensued. Father Yakov cast a frightened glance at the partition, smoothed his hair, and blew his nose.

“Wonderful weather, sir…,” he said.

“Yes. Incidentally, I read something interesting yesterday…The district council of Volsk has decreed the handing over of all the schools to the care of the clergy. That’s just like them.”

Kunin got up, started pacing the clay floor and voicing his reflections.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said, “if only the clergy is up to its calling and clearly understands its responsibilities. To my misfortune, I know priests who in their development and moral qualities aren’t fit to be army clerks, to say nothing of priests. You must agree that a bad teacher does much less harm to a school than a bad priest.”

Kunin glanced at Father Yakov. He sat hunched over, thinking hard about something, and was apparently not listening to his guest.

“Yasha, come here!” A woman’s voice was heard from behind the partition.

Father Yakov roused himself and went behind the partition. There was more whispering.

Kunin longed desperately for tea.

“No, I won’t get any tea here!” he thought, glancing at his watch. “It seems I’m not entirely a welcome guest. The host hasn’t deigned to say a single word to me, he just sits and blinks.”

Kunin took his hat, waited for Father Yakov, and said goodbye to him.

“I just wasted the whole morning!” he fumed on the way back. “A blockhead! A dolt! He’s as interested in the school as I am in last year’s snow. No, I can’t get anywhere with him! Nothing will come of it! If the marshal knew what sort of priest we’ve got here, he’d be in no hurry to bother with a school. First we have to see about a good priest, and then about the school!”

Kunin almost hated Father Yakov now. The man, his pathetic caricature of a figure in its long, wrinkled vestment, his peasant woman’s face, his manner of serving, his style of life and clerkish, timid deference offended that small bit of religious feeling that still remained in Kunin’s breast and quietly flickered there along with other old wives’ tales. And it was hard for his vanity to bear the coldness and inattention with which the priest met Kunin’s sincere, fervent concern for his own cause…

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