“It may be so,” returned Pope Yefim, “but, whosoever goes, sorrow and death remain.”
“Remain!” cried Ivan. “It is their carnival.”
“Well, then, may not one of God’s humblest ministers remain also, to pray beside the sorrowful and to bury the dead?”
“My dear pope, the part you have chosen is noble, but most perilous.”
“I scarcely think so. All civilized nations respect Religion and her ministers. I have heard that Napoleon said to one of our popes, who bravely presented himself before him to plead for his flock, ‘You have done well. Your “Bog” is the same as our “Dieu.”’”
“Whose altars the French have cast down, and whose worship they have forsaken; therefore they shall not prosper,” said Petrovitch. He added after a pause: “My friends, I am solitary now. Stay with me for a little while. And if Prince Ivan will forget his worldly rank in the presence of great Death, who makes all men equal, I pray you both to partake with me of what may be to all of us our last meal upon earth.”
Ivan readily consented; and the attendants left in the house, who watched carefully over their aged master, served a comfortable repast. One of them informed Ivan that his servant was in their quarters, awaiting his orders. Michael had been a deeply-moved spectator of the parting between Petrovitch and his family. He had been seen coming out of the hall with a sobbing child in his arms, a little great-grandson of Petrovitch, whom he was trying to comfort. Afterwards he fraternized with the attendants, who were mujiks, like himself, and to whose inquiries he answered simply and briefly that he was Prince Ivan’s servant.
The hours wore on. At last Ivan and Yefim were obliged to depart—Ivan to his work in the city, the priest to one of the numerous services of his Church.
Then for the first time Petrovitch knew himself indeed alone. To darkness he was accustomed now, but the strange unwonted stillness “ached round him like a strong disease and new.” No kindred voice would break the silence ever again upon earth. Such had been his deliberate choice, and he must bear it. But his strong heart sank lower and lower yet, even to the very depths—those deepest depths of all, which only strong hearts know how to sound.
“Out of the depths have I cried unto thee,” said one of old, uttering the experience of ten thousand tried and sorrowful hearts. Very earnest was the cry that went up that bitter hour from the soul of Petrovitch. It was not his first cry to God; for the hand that had drawn a veil over the eyes of his body had been gradually and gently opening the eye of his soul to another and holier light. What though, at the best, that light was dim and clouded? It was enough for his needs; and in this hour of lonely anguish it shone out with greater clearness than ever before. “I am a sinful man,” thought Feodor Petrovitch; “and now the last hour of my long day of life has struck. I am going into the presence of God. But there is the dear Bog Sūn,[27] and the cross, of which Pope Yefim talks. I hope to be forgiven for the sake of what He suffered there, and to see His face with joy in the resurrection.”