“So that’s what you make of it!” cried Father Grigory, clasping his hands.  “But you see God has forgiven her—­do you understand?  He has forgiven, but you judge her, you slander her, call her by an unseemly name, and whom!  Your own deceased daughter!  Not only in Holy Scripture, but even in worldly literature you won’t read of such a sin!  I tell you again, Andrey, you mustn’t be over-subtle!  No, no, you mustn’t be over-subtle, brother!  If God has given you an inquiring mind, and if you cannot direct it, better not go into things....  Don’t go into things, and hold your peace!”

“But you know, she,... excuse my mentioning it, was an actress!” articulated Andrey Andreyitch, overwhelmed.

“An actress!  But whatever she was, you ought to forget it all now she is dead, instead of writing it on the note.”

“Just so,...” the shopkeeper assented.

“You ought to do penance,” boomed the deacon from the depths of the altar, looking contemptuously at Andrey Andreyitch’s embarrassed face, “that would teach you to leave off being so clever!  Your daughter was a well-known actress.  There were even notices of her death in the newspapers....  Philosopher!”

“To be sure,... certainly,” muttered the shopkeeper, “the word is not a seemly one; but I did not say it to judge her, Father Grigory, I only meant to speak spiritually,... that it might be clearer to you for whom you were praying.  They write in the memorial notes the various callings, such as the infant John, the drowned woman Pelagea, the warrior Yegor, the murdered Pavel, and so on....  I meant to do the same.”

“It was foolish, Andrey!  God will forgive you, but beware another time.  Above all, don’t be subtle, but think like other people.  Make ten bows and go your way.”

“I obey,” said the shopkeeper, relieved that the lecture was over, and allowing his face to resume its expression of importance and dignity.  “Ten bows?  Very good, I understand.  But now, Father, allow me to ask you a favor....  Seeing that I am, anyway, her father,... you know yourself, whatever she was, she was still my daughter, so I was,... excuse me, meaning to ask you to sing the requiem today.  And allow me to ask you, Father Deacon!”

“Well, that’s good,” said Father Grigory, taking off his vestments.  “That I commend.  I can approve of that!  Well, go your way.  We will come out immediately.”

Andrey Andreyitch walked with dignity from the altar, and with a solemn, requiem-like expression on his red face took his stand in the middle of the church.  The verger Matvey set before him a little table with the memorial food upon it, and a little later the requiem service began.