"To the joy of our earth, to the ornament and the flower of our life, to the true co-militant and servant of Christ, to the boyard Leo . . .
He became silent for a second. There was not a whisper, not a cough, not a sound in the crowded church. It was that awful moment of silence when a large crowd is mute, obedient to one will, seized by one feeling. And now, the archdeacon's eyes reddened and became suffused with tears, his face suddenly became radiant with that beauty which can transform the face of a man when in the ecstasy of inspiration. He coughed again, and suddenly, filling the whole edifice with his terrible voice, roared:
"Lo-o-ong li-i-ife."
And, instead of lowering his candle, as is done in the rite of anathematization, he raised it high above his head.
It was in vain that the regent hissed at his choir-boys, struck them on the heads with his tuning-fork, closed their mouths with his hand. Joyfully, like the silvery sounds of the archangels, trumpets, their voices rang out through the church, "Long life! Long life!"
In the meantime, Father Prior, Father Provost, an official of the Consistory, the psalm-reader, and the archdeacon's wife had mounted on the platform.
"Let me alone . . . Let me alone . . ." said Father Olympy in a wrathful, hissing whisper, contemptuously brushing aside Father Provost. "I've spoiled my voice, but it was for the glory of the Lord. Go away."
He took off the surplice embroidered with gold, reverently kissed the stole, made the sign of the cross, and came down. He went out through the aisle, towering over the crowd, immense, majestic, and sad, and people involuntarily moved away, experiencing strange fear. As if made of stone, he walked past the archbishop's place without even glancing at it.
It was only in the church yard that his wife caught up with him. Crying and pulling him by the sleeve, she began to shriek:
"What have you done, you crazy idiot? Got drunk in the morning, and started up . . . It'll be lucky if they only send you to some monastery to clean cesspools. How much trouble I'm going to have now, and all on account of you, you blockhead!"
"Doesn't make any difference," said the archdeacon, looking at the ground. "I'll go as a common laborer, become a switchman or a janitor, but I won't serve in the church any more. I'll go to-morrow. Don't want it any more. My soul can't stand it. I believe truly, according to the symbol of the faith, yes, I believe in Christ and the apostolic church. Yet I feel no wrath."
And then again, the familiar, beautiful words rushed through his mind,
Everything that God has made is for man's joy.
"Idiot! Blockhead!" shrieked his wife. "I'll send you to the insane asylum . . . I'll go to the Governor, to the . . . Got drunk out of his senses, the blockhead."
