Short Fiction Leo Tolstoy (interesting books to read for teens txt) 📖

with Ványa, my son-in-law. And⁠—well, he is well-meaning but unfortunate. He is ill.”

“Mamma!”⁠—her daughter’s voice interrupted her⁠—“Take Mítya! I can’t be in two places at once.”

Praskóvya Mikháylovna shuddered, but rose and went out of the room, stepping quickly in her patched shoes. She soon came back with a boy of two in her arms, who threw himself backwards and grabbed at her shawl with his little hands.

“Where was I? Oh yes, he had a good appointment here, and his chief was a kind man too. But Ványa could not go on, and had to give up his position.”

“What is the matter with him?”

“Neurasthenia⁠—it is a dreadful complaint. We consulted a doctor, who told us he ought to go away, but we had no means.⁠ ⁠… I always hope it will pass of itself. He has no particular pain, but⁠ ⁠…”

“Lukérya!” cried an angry and feeble voice. “She is always sent away when I want her. Mamma⁠ ⁠…”

“I’m coming!” Praskóvya Mikháylovna again interrupted herself. “He has not had his dinner yet. He can’t eat with us.”

She went out and arranged something, and came back wiping her thin dark hands.

“So that is how I live. I always complain and am always dissatisfied, but thank God the grandchildren are all nice and healthy, and we can still live. But why talk about me?”

“But what do you live on?”

“Well, I earn a little. How I used to dislike music, but how useful it is to me now!” Her small hand lay on the chest of drawers beside which she was sitting, and she drummed an exercise with her thin fingers.

“How much do you get for a lesson?”

“Sometimes a ruble, sometimes fifty kopecks, or sometimes thirty.300 They are all so kind to me.”

“And do your pupils get on well?” asked Kasátsky with a slight smile.

Praskóvya Mikháylovna did not at first believe that he was asking seriously, and looked inquiringly into his eyes.

“Some of them do. One of them is a splendid girl⁠—the butcher’s daughter⁠—such a good kind girl! If I were a clever woman I ought, of course, with the connections Papa had, to be able to get an appointment for my son-in-law. But as it is I have not been able to do anything, and have brought them all to this⁠—as you see.”

“Yes, yes,” said Kasátsky, lowering his head. “And how is it, Páshenka⁠—do you take part in Church life?”

“Oh, don’t speak of it. I am so bad that way, and have neglected it so! I keep the fasts with the children and sometimes go to church, and then again sometimes I don’t go for months. I only send the children.”

“But why don’t you go yourself?”

“To tell the truth” (she blushed) “I am ashamed, for my daughter’s sake and the children’s, to go there in tattered clothes, and I haven’t anything else. Besides, I am just lazy.”

“And do you pray at home?”

“I do. But what sort of prayer is it? Only mechanical. I know it should not be like that, but I lack real religious feeling. The only thing is that I know how bad I am⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, yes, that’s right!” said Kasátsky, as if approvingly.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” she replied to a call from her son-in-law, and tidying her scanty plait she left the room.

But this time it was long before she returned. When she came back, Kasátsky was sitting in the same position, his elbows resting on his knees and his head bowed. But his wallet was strapped on his back.

When she came in, carrying a small tin lamp without a shade, he raised his fine weary eyes and sighed very deeply.

“I did not tell them who you are,” she began timidly. “I only said that you are a pilgrim, a nobleman, and that I used to know you. Come into the dining-room for tea.”

“No⁠ ⁠…”

“Well then, I’ll bring some to you here.”

“No, I don’t want anything. God bless you, Páshenka! I am going now. If you pity me, don’t tell anyone that you have seen me. For the love of God don’t tell anyone. Thank you. I would bow to your feet but I know it would make you feel awkward. Thank you, and forgive me for Christ’s sake!”

“Give me your blessing.”

“God bless you! Forgive me for Christ’s sake!”

He rose, but she would not let him go until she had given him bread and butter and rusks. He took it all and went away.

It was dark, and before he had passed the second house he was lost to sight. She only knew he was there because the dog at the priest’s house was barking.

“So that is what my dream meant! Páshenka is what I ought to have been but failed to be. I lived for men on the pretext of living for God, while she lived for God imagining that she lives for men. Yes, one good deed⁠—a cup of water given without thought of reward⁠—is worth more than any benefit I imagined I was bestowing on people. But after all was there not some share of sincere desire to serve God?” he asked himself, and the answer was: “Yes, there was, but it was all soiled and overgrown by desire for human praise. Yes, there is no God for the man who lives, as I did, for human praise. I will now seek Him!”

And he walked from village to village as he had done on his way to Páshenka, meeting and parting from other pilgrims, men and women, and asking for bread and a night’s rest in Christ’s name. Occasionally some angry housewife scolded him, or a drunken peasant reviled him, but for the most part he was given food and drink and even something to take with him. His noble bearing disposed some people in his favour, while others on the contrary seemed pleased at the sight of a gentleman who had come to beggary.

But his gentleness prevailed with everyone.

Often, finding a copy of the Gospels in a hut he would read it aloud, and when they heard him the people