“Praying.”
Raisky went to the chapel, wondering to himself how she had come to take refuge in prayer. On the left there lay in the meadow between the park and the road, a lonely, weather-beaten, half-ruined wooden chapel, adorned with a picture of the Christ, a Byzantine painting in a bronze frame. The ikon had grown dark with age, the paint had been cracked in many places, so that the Christ face was hardly recognisable, but the eyelids were still plainly discernible, and the eyes looked out dreamily on the worshippers; the folded hands were also preserved.
Raisky advanced noiselessly over the grass. Vera was standing with her back to him, her face turned towards the ikon, unconscious of his approach. On the grass by the chapel lay her straw hat and sunshade. Her hands did not make the sign of the Cross, her lips uttered no prayers, her whole body appeared motionless, as if she hardly breathed; her whole being was at prayer.
Involuntarily Raisky too held his breath. Is she begging for happiness, or is she confiding her sorrow to the Crucified?
Suddenly she awoke from her prayer, turned and started when she caught sight of Raisky.
“What are you doing here?” she said severely.
“Yakob met me and said you were here; so I came. Grandmother....”
“Since you mention Grandmother, I will point out that she has been watching me for some time. Do you know the reason?” she asked, looking straight into his eyes.
“I think she always does.”
“No, it was not her idea to watch me. Tell me without concealing anything, have you communicated to her your suppositions about love and a letter written on blue paper?”