proximity of the priest, the smell of his cassock; I hear his stern voice, and my cheek turned towards him begins to burn. . . . I am so troubled that I miss a great deal that he says, but I answer his questions sincerely in an unnatural voice, not my own. I think of the forlorn figures of the Holy Mother and St. John the Divine, the crucifix, my mother, and I want to cry and beg forgiveness.
"What is your name?" the priest asks me, covering my head with the soft stole.
How light-hearted I am now, what joy in my soul!
I have no sins now, I am holy, I have the right to enter Paradise! I fancy that I already smell like the cassock. I go from behind the screen to the deacon to enter my name, and sniff at my sleeves. The dusk of the church no longer seems gloomy, and I look indifferently, without malice, at Mitka.
"What is your name?" the deacon asks.
"Fedya."
"And your name from your father?"
"I don't know."
"What is your papa's name?"
"Ivan Petrovitch."
"And your surname?"
I make no answer.
"How old are you?"
"Nearly nine."
When I get home I go to bed quickly, that I may not see them eating supper; and, shutting my eyes, dream of how fine it would be to endure
