“Whether I’ve been or not, every one knows that you must pray to God.”
“No one has ever seen God at any time. The only begotten Son who is in the bosom of the Father he hath declared him,” said the old man in the same rapid manner, and with a severe frown on his brow.
“It’s clear you are not a Christian, but a hole worshipper. You pray to a hole,” said the driver, shoving the handle of his whip into his girdle, pulling straight the harness on one of the horses.
Some one laughed.
“What is your faith, Dad?” asked a middle-aged man, who stood by his cart on the same side of the raft.
“I have no kind of faith, because I believe no one—no one but myself,” said the old man as quickly and decidedly as before.
“How can you believe yourself?” Nekhludoff asked, entering into a conversation with him. “You might make a mistake.”
“Never in your life,” the old man said decidedly, with a toss of his head.
“Then why are there different faiths?” Nekhludoff asked.
“It’s just because men believe others and do not believe themselves that there are different faiths. I also believed others, and lost myself as in a swamp,—lost myself so that I had no hope of finding my way out. Old believers and new believers and Judaisers and Khlysty and Popovitzy, and Bespopovitzy and Avstriaks and Molokans and Skoptzy—every faith praises itself only, and so they all creep about like blind puppies. There are many faiths, but the spirit is one—in me and in you and in him. So that if every one believes himself all will be united. Every one be himself, and all will be as one.”