“Press the thumb against the little finger and the ring finger. That is to signify the Holy Trinity. Three Persons united. Raise two fingers: that’s for deity and humanity—two natures. Theodoret teaches again that the middle finger is to be bent a little. That symbolizes humanity reverencing deity. See!”
“Wait!” interrupted one of the merchants who had forced his way to the front. “St. Cyril says something else.”
“St. Cyril says the same thing. Only he bids you keep both fingers straight.”
“That must make a difference.”
“Wait, my good man, that’s wrong. … Don’t interrupt. …” The speakers stopped. “Let him finish. … What about the fist, merchant?”
“Yes … that’s the main thing.”
“It’s like this: if he lost his fingers he wasn’t to blame. That means: God allowed it. It was His will! But a man can’t live without making the sign of the cross. Without the sign of the cross he’s worse than this heathen Tatar. He’s bound to cross himself … with his right hand. …”
“Well?”
“And his fingers,” concluded Dmitry Parfentyevich after a pause: “His fingers he must place in thought, as he is ordered by the holy fathers and patriarchs. …”
The crowd heaved a sigh of relief and joy.
“Merchant, we thank you!”
“He decided. …”
“That’s it: he just chewed it up and explained it.”
“With thought! That’s true!”
“Of course! … With thought, nothing else!”
“That will work all right. …”
Dmitry Parfentyevich looked at his daughter. … What did he care for this applause, these praises from strange, ignorant people! She, his daughter, kept looking straight ahead with a look of indifference upon her face, as if her father had said something which she had long known and which had lost all power to touch her confused and weary soul. …
The old man frowned and his voice became menacing.
“If he joins his imaginary thumb with the two imaginary fingers beside it—he is wrong. … A man who crosses himself that way will be condemned to eternal damnation. … Cursed be he in this life and he will have no lot in the next.”
These violent and harsh words, suddenly falling upon the crowd which had just quieted down, changed its mood.
It became excited, began to murmur, separate into smaller groups. A black-eyed, black-haired merchant, who had maintained hitherto an obstinate silence, now struck his fist on the table and said with a flash of his deepset and enthusiastic eyes:
“True! The Devil Kuka and his whole crew are in that cursed cross with the thumb and the fingers next to it.”
“No, stop!” shouted the Orthodox, “don’t insult the true cross! Why do you separate the Three Persons, c-curses on you? … This is the Trinity in these three fingers. …”
“Where are your first fingers?”
“Merchant, have you read the hundred and fifth article?”
“Yes, it’s on the end of the world.”
Dmitry Parfentyevich remained the centre of the group. He was still composed and calm, but each time when he answered any of his opponents, he transfixed him with a stubborn and unfriendly glance.
With splashing wheels, the steamboat steadily ascended the river and cleft the blue surface of the stream; it carried with it this group of violently quarreling people and the clay slopes of the steep bank reechoed their confused voices.
A steep mountain, which had concealed a bend in the river, now receded to the rear and a broad sweep of the river appeared in front. The sun hung like a red ball above the water and from the east, darkness spread over the meadows as if on the soft wingbeats of the evening shadows, overtaking the boat and falling more and more noticeably over the Volga.
IV
The silent group of Tatars suddenly rose from their places in the stern and with even step moved to the paddle box at the edge of the upper deck. They took off their coats and spread them on the deck. Then they took off their slippers and reverently stepped upon their coats. The glow of the sunset fell upon the rough faces of the Tatars. Their thickset figures were sharply outlined against the light and cooling heavens.
“They’re praying,” one man whispered and several left the quarreling group and walked to the railing.
Others followed. The argument quieted down.
The Tatars stood with their eyes closed, their brows were raised and their thoughts were apparently lifted up to that place where the last rays of daylight were fading on the heights. At times they unlocked their arms which were crossed on their breasts and placed them on their knees, and then they bowed their heads with their sheepskin caps, low, so low. They arose again and stretched their hands with the fingers extended toward the light.
The lips of the Muslims were whispering the words of an unknown and unintelligible prayer. …
“Look there,” said one peasant, and he stopped hesitatingly, without expressing his thought.
“They are fulfilling the rites of their religion,” asserted another.
“Yes, they’re praying too. …”
The Tatars suddenly knelt, touched their foreheads to the deck, and at once rose again. The three young men took their coats and slippers and went back to their former seats on the stern. The old man was left alone. He sat with his feet crossed under him. His lips moved and over his beautiful face with its gray beard passed a strange and touching expression of deep sorrow softened by reverence before the will of the Most High. His hands quickly fingered his beads.
“See. … He has beads too.”
“A zealous man. …”
“Yes, it’s for his son. … He died in Astrakhan,” explained the merchant who had gone down the river with the Tatars.
“Oh, oh, oh!” sighed one of them philosophically. “Every man wishes to be saved. No one wishes to perish, whoever he is, even if he’s a Tatar. …”
It was too dark to tell who was speaking. The group melted together but the isolated figure of the old man still at his devotions could be seen at the edge of the paddle box above the water. He was silently swaying backwards and forwards.
“Papa!” suddenly came a soft voice.
It was Grunya calling her father.
“What is it, daughter?”
The girl was silent for a moment; she kept looking
