“Yes, we shall soon be breaking the fast,” he said.  “Yes . . . it wouldn’t come amiss, deacon, to have a little glass now.  Can we?  I’ll drink it so that the old lady does not hear,” he whispered, glancing sideways towards the door.

Without a word the deacon moved a decanter and wineglass towards him.  He unfolded the letter and began reading it aloud.  And now the letter pleased him just as much as when his Reverence had dictated it to him.  He beamed with pleasure and wagged his head, as though he had been tasting something very sweet.

“A-ah, what a letter!” he said.  “Petrushka has never dreamt of such a letter.  It’s just what he wants, something to throw him into a fever. . .”

“Do you know, deacon, don’t send it!” said Anastasy, pouring himself out a second glass of vodka as though unconsciously.  “Forgive him, let him alone!  I am telling you . . . what I really think.  If his own father can’t forgive him, who will forgive him?  And so he’ll live without forgiveness.  Think, deacon:  there will be plenty to chastise him without you, but you should look out for some who will show mercy to your son!  I’ll . . .  I’ll . . . have just one more.  The last, old man. . . .  Just sit down and write straight off to him, ‘I forgive you Pyotr!’ He will under-sta-and!  He will fe-el it!  I understand it from myself, you see old man . . . deacon, I mean.  When I lived like other people, I hadn’t much to trouble about, but now since I lost the image and semblance, there is only one thing I care about, that good people should forgive me.  And remember, too, it’s not the righteous but sinners we must forgive.  Why should you forgive your old woman if she is not sinful?  No, you must forgive a man when he is a sad sight to look at . . . yes!”

Anastasy leaned his head on his fist and sank into thought.

“It’s a terrible thing, deacon,” he sighed, evidently struggling with the desire to take another glass—­“a terrible thing!  In sin my mother bore me, in sin I have lived, in sin I shall die. . . .  God forgive me, a sinner!  I have gone astray, deacon!  There is no salvation for me!  And it’s not as though I had gone astray in my life, but in old age—­at death’s door . . .  I . . .”

The old man, with a hopeless gesture, drank off another glass, then got up and moved to another seat.  The deacon, still keeping the letter in his hand, was walking up and down the room.  He was thinking of his son.  Displeasure, distress and anxiety no longer troubled him; all that had gone into the letter.  Now he was simply picturing Pyotr; he imagined his face, he thought of the past years when his son used to come to stay with him for the holidays.  His thoughts were only of what was good, warm, touching, of which one might think for a whole lifetime without wearying.  Longing for his son, he read the letter through once more and looked questioningly at Anastasy.

“Don’t send it,” said the latter, with a wave of his hand.