family), and there was also a lady visitor sitting there, a great dreamer, and some little monk from Athos, [59] rather a funny man in my opinion. And just think, Shatushka, that same monk had brought Mother Praskovya a letter from her daughter in Turkey that same morning—there's the knave of diamonds for you— unexpected news! So we're having tea there, and this monk from Athos says to the mother superior: 'Most of all, blessed Mother Superior, the Lord has blessed your convent because you keep such a precious treasure in its depths.' 'What treasure?' the mother superior asked. 'Mother Lizaveta the blessed.' Now, this blessed Lizaveta was set into our convent wall, in a cage seven feet long and five feet high, and for seventeen years she's been sitting there behind the iron bars, winter and summer, in nothing but a hempen shift, and she keeps poking at the shift, at the hempen cloth, all the time, with a straw or some twig, whatever she finds, and she says nothing, and she hasn't combed her hair or washed for seventeen years. In winter they'd push in a sheepskin coat for her, and every day a cup of water and a crust of bread. Pilgrims look, say 'Ahh,' sigh, give money. 'A nice treasure for you,' the mother superior replied (she was angry; she disliked Lizaveta terribly). 'Lizaveta sits there only out of spite, only out of stubbornness, and it is all a sham.' I didn't like that; I myself was thinking then about shutting myself away. 'And in my opinion,' I said, 'God and nature are all the same.' And they all said to me in one voice: 'There now!' The mother superior laughed, whispered something to the lady, called me to her, was ever so nice, and the lady gave me a pink bow, want me to show it to you? And the little monk right away began reading me a lesson, and he spoke so tenderly and humbly, and, it must be, with such intelligence. I sat and listened. 'Did you understand?' he asked. 'No,' I said, 'I didn't understand a thing, and just leave me completely in peace,' I said. So since then they've left me completely in peace, Shatushka. And meanwhile one of our old women, who lived with us under penance for prophesying,[60] whispered to me on the way out of church: 'What is the Mother of God, in your view?' 'The great mother,' I answered, 'the hope of the human race.' 'Yes,' she said, 'the Mother of God is our great mother the moist earth, and therein lies a great joy for man. And every earthly sorrow and every earthly tear is a joy for us; and when you have watered the earth under you a foot deep with your tears, then you will at once rejoice over everything. And there will be no more, no more of your grief from then on,' she said, 'and such,' she said, 'is the prophecy.' And this word sank into me then. After that I began to kiss the earth when I prayed, each time I bowed to the ground, I kissed it and wept. And I'll tell you this, Shatushka: there's no harm, no harm in these tears; and even if you have no grief, your tears will flow all the same from joy alone. The tears flow by themselves, that's the truth. I used to go away to the shore of the lake—on the one side is our convent, on the other our Pointed Mountain, for so they've named it—Pointed Mountain. I would go up this mountain, turn my face to the east, fall and press myself to the ground, and weep and weep, and I wouldn't remember how long I'd been weeping, and I wouldn't remember or know anything then. After that I'd get up, turn around, and the sun would be setting, so big, so splendid, so fair—do you like looking at the sun, Shatushka? It's nice, but sad. I'd turn back to the east, and the shadow from our mountain would run like an arrow far out on the lake, thin and long, so long, half a mile out, to the very island in the lake, and it would cut right across that stone island, and as soon as it cut across it, the sun would set altogether, and everything would suddenly die out. Now I, too, would be filled with sorrow, now my memory would come back, I'm afraid of the dark, Shatushka. And most of all I weep for my baby...'
'Was there one?' Shatov, who had been listening all the while with extreme attention, nudged me with his elbow.
'But, of course: little, pink, with such tiny fingernails, only my whole sorrow is that I don't remember whether it was a boy or a girl. One time I remember a boy, and another time a girl. And as soon as I gave birth to it then, I wrapped it in cambric and lace, tied it round with pink ribbons, strewed flowers, made it ready, prayed over it, and took it unbaptized, and as I was carrying it through the forest, I'd get frightened of the forest, and I'd be afraid and weeping most of all because I gave birth to it and did not know a husband.'
'And might there have been one?' Shatov asked cautiously.
'You make me laugh, Shatushka, with your reasoning. There might have been one, but what of it, if it's the same as if there wasn't? There's an easy riddle for you—try and guess!' she smiled.
'Where did you take your baby?'
'To the pond,' she sighed.
Shatov nudged me with his elbow again.
'And what if you never had any baby and all this is just raving, eh?'
'That's a hard question you're asking me, Shatushka,' she replied pensively, and without being the least surprised at such a question. 'I'll tell you nothing on that account, maybe there wasn't any; I think it's just your curiosity; but anyway I won't stop weeping over him, I didn't just see it in a dream, did I?' And big tears shone in her eyes. 'Shatushka, Shatushka, is it true that your wife ran away from you?' She suddenly put both hands on his shoulders and looked at him with pity. 'Don't be angry, I feel wretched myself. You know, Shatushka, I had such a dream: he comes to me again, beckons to me, calls me. 'Kitty,' he says, 'here, kitty, come out to me!' I was glad of that 'kitty' most of all: he loves me, I thought.'[61]
'Maybe he really will come,' Shatov muttered under his breath.
'No, Shatushka, it's a dream ... he won't really come. Do you know the song:
I need no high new house, I'll keep to this little cell. Saving my soul I'll be, And praying to God for thee. [62]
'Ah, Shatushka, Shatushka, my dear, why do you never ask me about anything?'
'But you won't tell, that's why I don't ask.'
'I won't tell, I won't tell, put a knife into me, but I won't tell,' she chimed in quickly, 'burn me, but I won't tell. And however much I suffer, I won't say anything, people will never find out!'
'So you see, to each his own,' Shatov said even more softly, bowing his head more and more.
'But if you asked, maybe I'd tell you; maybe I'd tell you!' she repeated rapturously. 'Why won't you ask? Ask me, ask me well, Shatushka, and maybe I'll tell you; beg me, Shatushka, so that I myself consent... Shatushka, Shatushka!'
But Shatushka was silent; the general silence lasted for about a minute. Tears quietly flowed down her white made-up cheeks; she sat with both hands forgotten on Shatov's shoulders, but no longer looking at him.
'Eh, what do I care about you, it's even sinful,' Shatov suddenly got up from the bench. 'Get yourself up!' he angrily jerked the bench out from under me, took it and put it back where it had been.
'So that he won't guess when he comes back; and it's time we left.'
'Ah, you're still talking about my lackey!' Marya Timofeevna suddenly laughed. 'You're afraid! Well, good-bye, dear guests; only listen for a moment to what I'm going to tell you. Today this Nilych came here with Filippov, the landlord, the big red-beard, just as my man was flying at me. The landlord, he grabbed him, he dragged him across the room, and my man was shouting: 'It's not my fault, I'm suffering for someone else's fault!' And would you
