The stranger was silent as if it were hard for him to answer this question.
“I’m looking for a shelter. In some monastery.... Since my youth I have been destined for the monastic life.”
“You should live in a monastery.”
“I have a weakness,” said Ivan Ivanovich, almost inaudibly and bashfully.
“You like drink.”
“Yes, that’s it. I was spoiled as a child.”
“Too bad!... The devil’s to blame for it.”
“Yes, the devil.... Of course.... Formerly, when the people were serfs, he had a lot of work: he wrestled with the monotonous life, we’ll say.... They all saw him.... And, just think, they struggled just the same.... Now it’s our weakness.... The people are all inclined to it.”
“Y-yes,” assented Andrey Ivanovich. “It’s much easier now for the impure.... He lives with us, by heavens. Lie, dear, on the stove.... We’ll come to see you and bring one another.... Only entertain us.”