Father Vassily slowly turned his haggard face to him:
“And who helpeth thee?”
“Who helps me?” repeated Mossyagin. “Nobody. It’s a scant fare for us villagers, you know that yourself. Still Ivan Porfyritch helped me out once,” the peasant winked slyly at the priest: “he gave me three poods of flour, and promised four more towards fall.”
“And God?”
Semen sighed and his face grew sad.
“God? I daresay I’m undeserving.”
The priest’s superfluous questions were beginning to annoy Mossyagin. He glanced back over his shoulder at the empty church, carefully counted the hairs in the priest’s sparse beard, surveyed his half-rotted teeth and it occurred to him that the priest might have spoilt them by eating too much sugar. And he heaved a sigh.
“What art thou waiting for?”
“What I am waiting for? What should I be waiting for?”
And silence again. It was dark and cold in the church, and the chilly air was stealing under the peasant’s blouse.