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 Reverence 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