And again all became ordinary and common place.
Tichon, too, had risen, but all at once, as if impelled by some power, he fell on his knees, pale and trembling, stretched out his hand and cried:—
“Friends, have compassion on me! I can endure it no longer. My soul has worn itself out with longing for the courts of the Lord! Accept me into your holy communion, unveil to me your great mystery!”
“See, see, how impatient the lad is!” Yemelian looked at him with his cunning smile, “You are too hasty, my friend. The Father has first to be asked. Perhaps you will be found worthy, but meanwhile remain silent.”
They all went to supper, as if nothing had happened. Neither on the morrow nor on the following days was there any mention made of mysteries. Whenever Tichon ventured to allude to what had happened, the others remained silent and looked at him with suspicion. It was as if a curtain had been drawn up for a moment and then suddenly dropped again. Yet he could not forget what he had seen. He went about no longer his old self. What was said to him he did not understand; he answered wrongly and made mistakes in his accounts. The master scolded him. Tichon feared he would be dismissed.
The next Saturday, late at night, he was sitting alone in his room, when in came Mitka.
“Come,” said he, in a hurried voice.
“Whither?”
“To see the Father.”
Afraid to question, Tichon hurriedly dressed and came down. He saw his master’s sleigh waiting at the door. In it sat Yemelian and Parfen Paramonitch, the latter wrapped in a fur coat. Tichon cowered at their feet, Mitka seated himself on the box and away they sped through the dark, deserted streets. The night was calm and bright. Pellucid, pearly cloudlets covered the moon. They crossed the river on the ice and for some time wound their way along the dark narrow lanes about Samoskvosetchia. At last the dull pink walls of the Donskoi Monastery, surmounted by white pinnacles and towers, appeared through the luminous gloom.