"Go, prepare the samovar and read this," he said, in a tone of command.
I opened the book, and on the very first page I found a picture—a woman naked to her knees and a man in front of her, also naked.
"I will not read this," I said.
Then he turned to me and said sternly:
"And if your spiritual superior orders you to? How do you know why this is necessary? Go."
In the annex where my room was I sat down on my bed, overcome by fear and sadness. I felt as if I had been poisoned; I was weak and trembling. I did not know what to think; I could not understand. From where did the thought come that he was my father? It was a strange idea.
I remembered his words about the soul: "The soul is made of blood." And about man: "That he is an accident on earth." All this was so plainly heretical. I remembered his drawn face at my question.
I opened the book again. It was a story about some French cavalier and about women. What did I want with it?
He rang for me and called. I came in, and he met me in a friendly manner.
"Where is the samovar?"