“I never met such a man. I don’t remember, I never met him,” said he, thoughtfully. “So you wished to inquire about him?”
“Yes.”
“No, I never met Mikhail Shchurov. Well, pardon me for Christ’s sake!” and rising from the lounge, the pilgrim bowed to Foma and went toward the door.
“But wait awhile, sit down, let’s talk a little!” exclaimed Foma, rushing at him uneasily. The pilgrim looked at him searchingly and sank down on the lounge. From the distance came a dull sound, like a deep groan, and immediately after it the signal whistle of the steamer drawled out as in a frightened manner over Foma’s and his guest’s heads. From the distance came a more distant reply, and the whistle overhead again gave out abrupt, timorous sounds. Foma opened the window. Through the fog, not far from their steamer, something was moving along with deep noise; specks of fantastic lights floated by, the fog was agitated and again sank into dead immobility.
“How terrible!” exclaimed Foma, shutting the window.
“What is there to be afraid of?” asked the pilgrim. “You see! It is neither day nor night, neither darkness nor light! We can see nothing, we are sailing we know not whither, we are straying on the river.”
“Have inward fire within you, have light within your soul, and you shall see everything,” said the pilgrim, sternly and instructively.
Foma was displeased with these cold words and looked at the pilgrim askance. The latter sat with drooping head, motionless, as though petrified in thought and prayer. The beads of his rosary were softly rustling in his hands.
The pilgrim’s attitude gave birth to easy courage in Foma’s breast, and he said:
“Tell me, Father Miron, is it good to live, having full freedom, without work, without relatives, a wanderer, like yourself?”