Chapter 1

Father Pavel was sitting on the deck of the steamer and drinking... The bottle of vodka standing on the table in front of him was already drunk almost to the bottom. Father Pavel drank without a snack, swallowing glass after glass, at more or less significant intervals. He drank with bitterness and as if emphasized his pastime: "Come on, they say, Orthodox, admire your pastor..." Father Pavel referred to all the ship's passengers as Orthodox, many of whom had already begun to look warily at the priest and prudently sought out the captain of the steamer with their eyes. Some mothers took their children in their arms, frolicking on the deck, and under a delicate pretext took them away from the table at which the priest was sitting. Father Pavel noticed the attitude of the public towards him, but did not think of resigning, on the contrary, he tried in every possible way to show his complete indifference to them. Father Pavel especially wanted to express his contempt for one spiritual person, who was calmly walking along the deck among the other passengers and, apparently, admiring the pictures of the Volga banks. The majestic posture, confident step, and beautiful movements of this person were downright repugnant to Father Pavel. Father Pavel did not have time to examine the face of that priest. Father kept at a distance and only once or twice glanced at Father Pavel in a half-turn. "And what is a man proud of," thought Father Pavel, "after all, a priest like me, just in the city, perhaps, serves and receives a state salary of two thousand. With such a life, we will be able to force ... If I had put you in my place, then I would have looked at you, but come: as if you were some kind of bishop." Father Pavel felt even more bitter from these thoughts. Annoyance at the "majestic father" flared up. He grabbed a glass, poured it into his throat in one gulp, and spat it on the floor like a peasant so vigorously that his hat, which was already barely on his head, fell to his feet. Father Pavel did not even think of lifting her, he leaned heavily on the table with his elbows and stared at the audience with blistered eyes. At this time, the "father" turned and quietly walked in the direction of Father Pavel. For some reason, it seemed to Father Pavel that the priest was coming straight to him. Without turning his head, he began to listen to the approaching steps of the priest, to the quiet rustle of his silk cassock. Here he is very close to him. Father Pavel wanted to make some trouble for this priest, to say some barb, to put him in an awkward position.

-Father! Ah, father! He turned to the priest who had caught up with him and stared at him mockingly. "Would you like some vodka?"

The priest stopped, looked at the half-drunk Father Pavel and smiled.

- Thank you, dear, I don't drink. Then glancing at the floor, the priest bent down, picked up Father Pavel's hat that was lying around, carefully straightened it and, putting it on the table, sat down next to Father Pavel.

Father Pavel did not expect this. He thought that the clean priest would respond to his trick with a contemptuous look and quickly try to pass him by, and he, Father Pavel, would laugh after him. The father's act disarmed him. Father Pavel felt embarrassed. The thought that he had insulted a good man confused him. Wishing somehow to get rid of the feeling of awkwardness and smooth out the harshness of his trick, Father Pavel considered it best to continue the conversation, switching from the mocking to the cheeky tone of a half-drunk man:

"Where are you going to come from?" - he asked the priest who sat down next to him and looked at him from under his brow.

"Father" straightened the hem of his cassock, sat down more comfortably and, turning to face Father Pavel, began in a calm, even voice:

"I'm from afar... I am driving, so I admire Mother Volga. What grace you have here, what space. And life, how much life, is in full swing! How many people, how many goods of all kinds, what traffic: it is impossible to count how many passenger steamers alone. Yes, when you see everything with your own eyes, only then will you understand why our people called her Volgupoilitsa and nurse, why they love her so much, sing about her in their songs and are sad for her, thrown in a foreign direction. A great river indeed.

"Yes, we know," Father Pavel agreed. Born and raised on the banks of the Volga, Father Pavel loved his native river and, like a true Volga resident, was proud of it. The praise of the Volga of the stranger father pleased him. He had no trace of his former groundless annoyance at this father, and he began to listen to his words with greater eagerness.

"You have a lot of wealth here," the father continued, "but a lot of sorrow..." many tears and hopeless need. But this is not yet a great need. I happened to observe the life of a certain people on the outskirts of our fatherland. He lives much poorer than many of our peasants. He walks almost in rags, eats only barley or corn bread at home, and even then he is not full, and when you look at him, well done to man: everything is like a match. A slender gait and such a proud look, as if he was not wearing rags, but at least a general's uniform. You will think that he has neither sorrow nor worries, and no need is known to him. So, the trouble is not in poverty and not in sorrow. The trouble is that our Russian people do not know how to fight grief, with misfortune. If trouble comes upon him, he will either be forced to be patient with it, and then sometimes he will show a really iron patience, or he will rebel, also without any boundaries, and most often he only tries to get rid of his grief somehow, to extinguish it, to drown it out, to drown it out. Just like you. Grief befell you, and instead of fighting it, you became annoyed and drank... And you want to add another to one sorrow.

Father Pavel looked at the priest in surprise. "How does he know that I drink out of grief," flashed through his mind.

"And yet," the priest put his hand on Father Pavel's shoulder and jokingly tapped on him, "look at your power... such broad, heroic shoulders... And with such forces, not only your own grief, but also as much as someone else's can be carried...