Father Yakov took breath and went on: 

“On the way here I prepared a regular confession to make you, but . . .  I’ve forgotten it all; I cannot find a word now.  I get a hundred and fifty roubles a year from my parish, and everyone wonders what I do with the money. . . .  But I’ll explain it all truly. . . .  I pay forty roubles a year to the clerical school for my brother Pyotr.  He has everything found there, except that I have to provide pens and paper.”

“Oh, I believe you; I believe you!  But what’s the object of all this?” said Kunin, with a wave of the hand, feeling terribly oppressed by this outburst of confidence on the part of his visitor, and not knowing how to get away from the tearful gleam in his eyes.

“Then I have not yet paid up all that I owe to the consistory for my place here.  They charged me two hundred roubles for the living, and I was to pay ten roubles a month. . . .  You can judge what is left!  And, besides, I must allow Father Avraamy at least three roubles a month.”

“What Father Avraamy?”

“Father Avraamy who was priest at Sinkino before I came.  He was deprived of the living on account of . . . his failing, but you know, he is still living at Sinkino!  He has nowhere to go.  There is no one to keep him.  Though he is old, he must have a corner, and food and clothing—­I can’t let him go begging on the roads in his position!  It would be on my conscience if anything happened!  It would be my fault!  He is. . . in debt all round; but, you see, I am to blame for not paying for him.”

Father Yakov started up from his seat and, looking frantically at the floor, strode up and down the room.

“My God, my God!” he muttered, raising his hands and dropping them again.  “Lord, save us and have mercy upon us!  Why did you take such a calling on yourself if you have so little faith and no strength?  There is no end to my despair!  Save me, Queen of Heaven!”

“Calm yourself, Father,” said Kunin.

“I am worn out with hunger, Pavel Mihailovitch,” Father Yakov went on.  “Generously forgive me, but I am at the end of my strength . . . .  I know if I were to beg and to bow down, everyone would help, but . . .  I cannot!  I am ashamed.  How can I beg of the peasants?  You are on the Board here, so you know. . . .  How can one beg of a beggar?  And to beg of richer people, of landowners, I cannot!  I have pride!  I am ashamed!”

Father Yakov waved his hand, and nervously scratched his head with both hands.

“I am ashamed!  My God, I am ashamed!  I am proud and can’t bear 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.