people to see my poverty! When you visited me, Pavel Mihailovitch,
I had no tea in the house! There wasn't a pinch of it, and you know
it was pride prevented me from telling you! I am ashamed of my
clothes, of these patches here. . . . I am ashamed of my vestments,
of being hungry. . . . And is it seemly for a priest to be proud?"

Father Yakov stood still in the middle of the study, and, as though
he did not notice Kunin's presence, began reasoning with himself.

"Well, supposing I endure hunger and disgrace--but, my God, I
have a wife! I took her from a good home! She is not used to hard
work; she is soft; she is used to tea and white bread and sheets
on her bed. . . . At home she used to play the piano. . . . She is
young, not twenty yet. . . . She would like, to be sure, to be
smart, to have fun, go out to see people. . . . And she is worse
off with me than any cook; she is ashamed to show herself in the
street. My God, my God! Her only treat is when I bring an apple or
some biscuit from a visit. . . ."

Father Yakov scratched his head again with both hands.

"And it makes us feel not love but pity for each other. . . . I
cannot look at her without compassion! And the things that happen
in this life, O Lord! Such things that people would not believe
them if they saw them in the newspaper. . . . And when will there
be an end to it all!"

"Hush, Father!" Kunin almost shouted, frightened at his tone. "Why
take such a gloomy view of life?"