The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy/Childhood/Chapter 12
XII.
Grísha
We felt ill at ease in the darkness. We pressed close to each other, and did not say a word. Almost right after us Grísha entered with slow steps. In one hand he held his staff, in the other a tallow dip in a brass candlestick. We did not dare to breathe.
"Lord Jesus Christ! Holy Mother of God! To the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost," repeated he, breathing heavily, with all kinds of intonations and abbreviations which are peculiar only to those who often repeat these words.
Having, with a prayer, placed his staff in the corner, and surveying his bed, he began to undress. Ungirding his old black belt, he slowly took off his torn nankeen frock, carefully folded it, and hung it over the back of the chair. His face did not now express, as usually, dulness and haste; on the contrary, he was quiet, pensive, and even majestic. His motions were slow and thoughtful.
When he was left in the linen, he softly let himself down on his bed, made the sign of the cross over it on all sides, and, as could easily be seen, with an effort (he was frowning) rearranged the chains under his shirt. Having remained for a minute in a sitting posture, and carefully examining the linen which had been torn in places, he arose, with a prayer raised the candle on a level with the holy shrine, in which were a few images, made the sign of the cross toward them, and turned the candle upside down. It went out with a crackling sound.
The almost full moon burst through the windows that looked out upon the forest. The long, white figure of the fool was, on the one side, illuminated by the pale, silvery beams of the moon, and, on the other, it fell as a black shadow, together with the shadows from the frames, upon the floor and the walls, and reached up to the ceiling. In the yard the watchman was beating his brass plate.
Crossing his enormous hands on his breast, dropping his head, and continually drawing deep breaths, Grísha stood silently before the images, then with difficulty let himself down on his knees and began to pray.
At first he softly said familiar prayers, accentuating certain words, then he repeated them, but louder and with more animation, He began to use his own words, with perceptible effort trying to express himself in Church-Slavic. His words were incorrect, but touching. He prayed for all his benefactors (thus he called all who received him), among them for any mother, and for us; he prayed for himself, and asked the Lord to forgive him his heavy sins, and repeated, "O Lord, forgive mine enemies!" He arose with groans, still repeating the same words, prostrated himself upon the ground, and again arose, in spite of the weight of the chains that emitted a grating, penetrating sound as they struck the ground.
Volódya pinched my leg very painfully, but I did not even turn round. I only rubbed the place with my hand and continued, with a feeling of childish wonder, pity, and awe, to follow all the movements and words of Grísha.
Instead of merriment and laughter, which I had expected upon entering the lumber-room, I now experienced a chill and anguish of soul.
Grísha was for a long time in that attitude of religious ecstasy, and he improvised prayers. Now he repeated several times in succession, "The Lord have mercy upon me," but every time with new strength and expression; now, again, he said, "Forgive me, O Lord, instruct me what to do, instruct me what to do, O Lord!" with an expression, as if he expected an immediate answer to his prayer; now, again, were heard only pitiful sobs. He rose on his knees, crossed his arms on his breast, and grew silent.
I softly put my head out of the door, and did not breathe. Grísha did not move; deep sighs escaped from his breast; in the dim pupil of his blind eye, which was illuminated by the moon, stopped a tear.
"Thy will be done!" he suddenly exclaimed with an inimitable expression, knocked his brow against the floor, and began to sob like an infant.
Much water has flowed since then, many memories of the past have lost all meaning for me and have become dim recollections, and pilgrim Grísha has long ago ended his last pilgrimage; but the impression which he produced on me, and the feeling which he evoked, will never die in my memory.
О great Christian Grísha! Your faith was so strong that you felt the nearness of God; your love was so great that words flowed of their own will from your lips, and you did not verify them by reason. And what high praise you gave to His majesty, when, not finding any words, you prostrated yourself on the ground!
The feeling of contrition with which I listened to Grísha could not last long; in the first place, because my curiosity was satisfied, and, in the second, because my feet had fallen asleep from sitting so long in one posture, and I wanted to join in the general whispering and consultation which was taking place behind me in the dark lumber-room. Somebody touched my hand, and said in a whisper, "Whose hand is it?" It was very dark in the lumber-room, but, by the mere touch and by the voice that was whispering right over my ear, I immediately recognized Kátenka.
Quite unconsciously I seized her short-gloved arm at the elbow, and pressed my lips against it. Katenka, it seems, was surprised at this action, and drew her hand back; in doing so, she knocked down a broken chair which was standing in the lumber-room. Grísha raised his head, quietly looked around and, saying his prayer, began to make the sign of the cross in all the corners. We ran out of the lumber-room noisily.