"The Abbot has assigned you some test work. Go to the bakery. This worthy brother here will take you there. He will be your superior in the future. Here, take your cloistral robes."
I put on a monk's garb. They fitted me well, but were worn and dirty and the sole from one boot was loose.
I looked at my superior. He was broad-shouldered and awkward, with his forehead and cheeks full of pimples and pockmarks, from which sprouted little bunches of gray hair; his whole face looked as if it were covered with sheep's wool; he would have been laughable were it not for the deep folds on his forehead, his compressed lip and his little, dark, blinking eyes.
"Hurry up!" he said to me.
His voice was harsh and cracked, like a broken bell.
"This is Brother Misha." Father Nifont introduced him, smiling. "Well, go, and God be with you."
We walked out into the court. It was dark. Misha stumbled over something and swore horribly. Then he asked me:
"Can you knead dough?"
"I have seen the women knead," I answered.
"Women!" he muttered. "You're always thinking about women! Always women! On account of them the world is accursed, don't you forget that!"