“Yes, but, you know, she . . . excuse my using the word, she was an actress,” protested the shopkeeper.
“An actress! No matter what her career, it is your duty, once she's dead, to forget it, and not to write it on paper!”
“I understand . . .” consented the shopkeeper.
“You should be forced to do penance,” growled the deacon from behind the altar, looking derisively at Andrei Andreitch's guilty face. “Then you'd soon drop your clever words. Your daughter was a well-known actress. Even in the newspapers they mentioned her death. . . . Philosopher!”
“I understand, of course . . . really,” stammered the shopkeeper. “It was an unsuitable word, but I used it not in condemnation, Father Grigori; I wished to express myself scripturally . . . in short, to make you understand who it was you were to pray for. People always hand in some description, for instance: the infant John, the drowned woman Pelageya, the soldier Yegor, murdered Paul, and so on. . . . That is all I wanted.”
“You are wrong, Andrei! God will forgive you, but take care the next time! And the chief thing is this; don't be too clever, and think like others. Abase yourself ten times and begone!”
“Yes,” said the shopkeeper, rejoiced that the ordeal was over. His face again resumed its expression of
