My carefree childhood was gone, together with the warm, life-giving faith I had had in all the many things in which I had so secretly and hopefully placed my trust.

‘I smell Russians! Where are our dear guests from?’ cried Father Vavila, suddenly emerging from around the corner of the cabin in such a manner that I had completely failed to notice his approach.

I recognized him at once. All that was different about him now was that his hair had gone completely white; he still had the same childish gaze and the same merry features.

‘Have you come far?’ he inquired.

I mentioned a village some forty versts distant.

‘Aren’t you Afanasy Pavlovich’s son?’ he asked me.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Oh well, it doesn’t matter: come on, step inside my humble cell, or you’ll get rained on.’

It had indeed begun to rain, and the lake’s surface was beginning to be ruffled, even though there was hardly ever any wind in this hollow. There was nowhere for it to move around with any freedom. That was how quiet a place it was.

‘What’s your name?’ Father Vavila asked me once we were inside his cabin.

I told him my name. Father Vavila looked at me, and a smile appeared on his shrewd, good-natured lips. I found myself smiling, too, in spite of myself. My attempt at mystification had failed: he had recognized me. I embraced the old man, and we exchanged several kisses in a row, the tears filling our eyes for no very good reason in particular.

‘Let me take a closer look at you,’ Father Vavila said, continuing to smile, and leading me over to the hearth. ‘My, how you’ve grown!’

‘And you’ve grown a little older, Father Vavila.’

Father Prokhor laughed.

‘And there’s him forever trying to make himself look younger,’ Father Prokhor said. ‘And that’s an understatement.’

‘That’s just the way you see it,’ Father Vavila retorted, summoning up some boldness, but almost immediately sitting down on a chair, and adding: ‘No, Brother! The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. It’s time I was off to join Father Sergius. I have terrible pains in my back today – I’ll soon not be much good for anything any more.’

‘Is it long since Father Sergius died?’

‘It’ll be two years come St Spiridon’s day since he left us.’

‘He was a good old man,’ I said, remembering Father Sergius with his wooden sticks and his knife.

‘Take a look over there, in the corner. The whole of his workshop’s still there. Light a candle, Father Prokhor.’

‘And is Captain still alive?’

‘Oh, the cat, you mean … So you remember our cat Captain, do you?’

‘Of course!’

‘He crawled under our kneading-tub; its lid banged down on top of him one time when we were out. When we came back we searched for him high and low, but we couldn’t find him. Then a couple of days later someone picked up the kneading-tub – we looked inside: he was there. We’ve got another cat now … you ought to see him: Vaska! Vaska!’ Father Vavila began to call.

A large grey tom-cat emerged from underneath the stove and began to butt its head against Father Vavila’s legs.

‘How do you like that? The artful rascal.’

Father Vavila picked the cat up, placed it on his knees, belly up, and tickled its throat. It was just like a painting by Teniers:2 the hoary old man with the fat, grey cat on his knees, the other, halfway to becoming an old man, fussing about in the corner; various domestic utensils, and the whole scene lit up by the warm, red glow of a burning hearth.

‘Come on, light a candle, Father Prokhor!’ Father Vavila said again.

‘In a moment. I can’t for the life of me find one.’

Father Vavila meanwhile made excuses for Father Prokhor, and told me:

‘To tell you the truth we don’t bother much with candles nowadays. We go to bed early.’

A candle was lit. The interior of the cabin appeared much the same as it had done twelve years earlier. The only difference was that Father Sergius’s place by the stove had been taken by Father Prokhor, and that Father Vavila was amusing himself with the grey Vaska instead of the marmalade Captain. Even the knife and the stumpy wooden sticks which had been made by Father Sergius hung where the deceased monk had hung them, having fashioned them to meet some requirement or other.

‘Well, the eggs are hard-boiled and the fish is ready, but there’s no sign of Vasily Petrovich,’ said Father Prokhor.

‘Which Vasily Petrovich is that?’

‘Vasily Petrovich the Wayward,’ Father Prokhor replied.

‘You didn’t come here with him, did you?’

‘Er, yes,’ I said, guessing that the nickname referred to my Musk-Ox.

‘Who on earth sent you here with him?’

‘Oh, we’re old friends,’ I said. ‘But tell me, why do you call him the Wayward?’

‘He’s wayward, my dear fellow. My, how he’s wayward!’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘Oh, I would never say he was bad; it’s simply that that waywardness of his has taken possession of him. He’s turned into a ne’er-do-well: any sort of order displeases him.’

It was by now ten o’clock at night.

‘Come on, let’s have supper. I expect he’ll turn up,’ Father Vavila commanded, as he washed his hands. ‘We’ll have supper, and then sing a small liturgy … Agreed? Shall we sing a liturgy in memory of Father Sergius?’

Supper got under way. When it was over, we sang ‘May he rest with the saints’ for Father Sergius; but still Vasily Petrovich did not return.

Father Prokhor cleared the table of the dirty dishes, but left out a frying-pan with some fish in, a plate, the salt, the bread and five eggs. Then he went out of the cabin and, coming back in again, said:

‘No, there’s no sign of him.’

‘Who is there no sign of?’ asked Father Vavila.

‘Vasily Petrovich.’

‘If he were here, he wouldn’t stand about outside the door.