Anathema.
By Alexander Kuprin.
Translated for "The Russian Review."
"Father Deacon, stop burning that candle. You won't get far at this rate," said the archdeacon's wife. "It's time to get up."
This little, thin, sallow-faced woman treated her husband very sternly. When she was still at school, the prevalent opinion there was that all men are rascals, cheats, and tyrants. But the deacon was not a tyrant at all. He was really afraid of his hysterical wife, who was subject to fits. They had no children, as the wife was barren. The archdeacon was of immense stature, weighing over three hundred pounds, with a chest that reminded one of the body of an automobile. He was possessed of a powerful voice, and at the same time, of that gentle condescension, which is so peculiar to exceedingly strong men when they are dealing with very weak persons.
It took the archdeacon a long time to get his voice into proper shape. He had to go through the whole of that painfully long and unpleasant process which is so familiar to all public singers. He, too, had to make local application with cocaine, and with caustic, and gargle his throat with a solution of boric acid. While still in bed, Father Olympy began to try out his voice:
"Via. . . hmm!. . . Via-a-a!. . . Halleluja, halleluja. . . maa-ma. . ."
"Don't seem to sound well, God bless me. Hm. . .," thought he to himself.
Just like famous singers, he never trusted his own powers. It is a well-known fact that actors become pale and make the sign of the cross just before coming out. Father Olympy was the same way. And yet, there was not another man in the city, perhaps not in all Russia, who could make the dark, ancient church with its gilt mosaics, resound to his low notes. He alone could fill every nook and corner of the old building with his mighty voice, and make the cut-glass ornaments on the incense bowls tinkle in unison.
His wife brought him a glass of weak tea with lemon, and, as usual on Sundays, a small glass of vodka. Olympy tested his voice again. "Mi, mi, fa. . ."
"Strike that D, mother," said he.
His wife struck a prolonged, melancholy note.
"Hm. . . Pharoah, driving his chariot. . . No; doesn't work. The devil take that writer, what's his name?"
Father Olympy was a great lover of books. He read them one after another, in any order, never interesting himself much in the writer's name. His education in the seminary, based mostly on learning things "by heart," and consisting almost ex-
