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Anton Chekhov
- The Bishop
I
II
III IV
III
The bishop of the diocese, a very fat old
man, was ill with rheumatism or gout, and had been in bed for
over a month. Bishop Pyotr went to see him almost every day, and
saw all who came to ask his help. And now that he was unwell he
was struck by the emptiness, the triviality of everything which
they asked and for which they wept; he was vexed at their
ignorance, their timidity; and all this useless, petty business
oppressed him by the mass of it, and it seemed to him that now
he understood the diocesan bishop, who had once in his young
days written on "The Doctrines of the Freedom of the Will," and
now seemed to be all lost in trivialities, to have forgotten
everything, and to have no thoughts of religion. The bishop must
have lost touch with Russian life while he was abroad; he did
not find it easy; the peasants seemed to him coarse, the women
who sought his help dull and stupid, the seminarists and their
teachers uncultivated and at times savage. And the documents
coming in and going out were reckoned by tens of thousands; and
what documents they were! The higher clergy in the whole diocese
gave the priests, young and old, and even their wives and
children, marks for their behaviour -- a five, a four, and
sometimes even a three; and about this he had to talk and to
read and write serious reports. And there was positively not one
minute to spare; his soul was troubled all day long, and the
bishop was only at peace when he was in church.
He could not get used, either, to the awe which, through no wish
of his own, he inspired in people in spite of his quiet, modest
disposition. All the people in the province seemed to him
little, scared, and guilty when he looked at them. Everyone was
timid in his presence, even the old chief priests; everyone
"flopped" at his feet, and not long previously an old lady, a
village priest's wife who had come to consult him, was so
overcome by awe that she could not utter a single word, and went
empty away. And he, who could never in his sermons bring himself
to speak ill of people, never reproached anyone because he was
so sorry for them, was moved to fury with the people who came to
consult him, lost his temper and flung their petitions on the
floor. The whole time he had been here, not one person had
spoken to him genuinely, simply, as to a human being; even his
old mother seemed now not the same! And why, he wondered, did
she chatter away to Sisoy and laugh so much; while with him, her
son, she was grave and usually silent and constrained, which did
not suit her at all. The only person who behaved freely with him
and said what he meant was old Sisoy, who had spent his whole
life in the presence of bishops and had outlived eleven of them.
And so the bishop was at ease with him, although, of course, he
was a tedious and nonsensical man.
After the service on Tuesday, his holiness Pyotr was in the
diocesan bishop's house receiving petitions there; he got
excited and angry, and then drove home. He was as unwell as
before; he longed to be in bed, but he had hardly reached home
when he was informed that a young merchant called Erakin, who
subscribed liberally to charities, had come to see him about a
very important matter. The bishop had to see him. Erakin stayed
about an hour, talked very loud, almost shouted, and it was
difficult to understand what he said.
"God grant it may," he said as he went away. "Most essential!
According to circumstances, your holiness! I trust it may!"
After him came the Mother Superior from a distant convent. And
when she had gone they began ringing for vespers. He had to go
to church.
In the evening the monks sang harmoniously, with inspiration. A
young priest with a black beard conducted the service; and the
bishop, hearing of the Bridegroom who comes at midnight and of
the Heavenly Mansion adorned for the festival, felt no
repentance for his sins, no tribulation, but peace at heart and
tranquillity. And he was carried back in thought to the distant
past, to his childhood and youth, when, too, they used to sing
of the Bridegroom and of the Heavenly Mansion; and now that past
rose up before him -- living, fair, and joyful as in all
likelihood it never had been. And perhaps in the other world, in
the life to come, we shall think of the distant past, of our
life here, with the same feeling. Who knows? The bishop was
sitting near the altar. It was dark; tears flowed down his face.
He thought that here he had attained everything a man in his
position could attain; he had faith and yet everything was not
clear, something was lacking still. He did not want to die; and
he still felt that he had missed what was most important,
something of which he had dimly dreamed in the past; and he was
troubled by the same hopes for the future as he had felt in
childhood, at the academy and abroad.
"How well they sing to-day!" he thought, listening to the
singing. "How nice it is!"
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