21

NEKHLYUDOV stood at the edge of the raft, gazing at the broad fast-flowing river. Two images in turn kept rising in his mind: the jolting head of angry, dying Kryltsov, and Katusha vigorously stepping out at the side of the road with Simonson. The one impression, that of Kryltsov dying and unprepared for death, was distressing and sad. But the other – of Katusha, hale and hearty, who had found the love of a man like Simonson and was now set on the firm straight path of virtue – should have been pleasant. But for Nekhlyudov it, too, was a painful one, and he could not shake off a feeling of depression.

The boom and metallic tremor of a large brass bell was borne across the water from the town. The driver standing beside Nekhlyudov and all the other drivers one after another took off their caps and crossed themselves. Only a short shaggy-haired old man who was standing nearest to the rail, and whom Nekhlyudov had not noticed before, did not cross himself but, raising his head, stared at Nekhlyudov. The old man wore a patched coat, cloth trousers and patched, down-at-heel shoes. A small wallet was slung over his shoulder and on his head he had a tall fur cap much the worse for wear.

‘Why ain’t you saying your prayers, old man?’ asked Nekhlyudov’s driver, as he replaced and straightened his cap. ‘Or bain’t you a baptized Christian?’

‘Who is there to pray to?’ riposted the tattered old man in a determinedly aggressive tone, pronouncing each word distinctly.

‘’Oo? God, a’ course,’ the driver retorted witheringly.

‘An’ you just show me where He be, that God of yours.’

There was something so earnest and unhesitating in the old man’s expression that the driver, feeling he had a hard customer to deal with, was a bit abashed, but did not show it, and, trying not to be silenced and put to shame before the crowd that was listening to them, he replied quickly:

‘Where ’E be? Everyone knows that – in ’eaven.’

‘You been there?’

‘Whether I ’ave or not, we all knows we got to pray to God.’

‘But no one has seen God anywhere. The only begotten Son, in the bosom of the Father, He hath declared Him,’ said the old man in the same rapid manner, and with a severe frown on his face.

‘I see you bain’t no Christian. You be one of them as prays to an empty ’ole,’ said the driver, thrusting his whip into his belt and adjusting the trace-horse’s breech-band.

Someone laughed.

‘What is your faith, grandad?’ asked a middle-aged man standing by his cart near the edge of the raft.

‘I haven’t got a faith. On account of I don’t believe in no one, no one but meself,’ replied the old man as quickly and decidedly as before.

‘But how can one believe in oneself?’ said Nekhlyudov, entering into the conversation. ‘One might be mistaken.’

‘Not on your life,’ the old man replied firmly, with a shake of his head.

‘Then why is it there are different religions?’ asked Nekhlyudov.

‘There be different religions just because people believe in other people, and don’t believe in themselves. When I used to believe in other men I wandered about like I was in a swamp. I got so lost, I never thought I’d find me way out. There be Old Believers, an’ New Believers, an’ Sabbatarians, an’ Sectarians, an’ them as ’as parsons an’ them as don’t, an’ Austrians, an’ Malakans, an’ them as castrates themselves. Every faith praises itself up only. An’ so they all crawl about in different directions like blind puppies. Many faiths there be, but the Spirit is one. In you, an’ in me, an’ in ’im. That means, if every man of us believes in the Spirit within ’im, us’ll all be united. Let everyone be ’imself, and us’ll all be as one.’

The old man spoke in a loud voice and kept looking round, evidently wishing to be heard by as many people as possible.

‘And have you thought like this for a long time?’ Nekhlyudov asked him.

‘Me? Aye, a goodish while now. Been persecuting me nigh on twenty-three years, they ’ave.’

‘In what way?’

‘Like they persecuted Christ, so they persecute me, too. Grab me an’ take me to court, an’ drag me before the priests – before the scribes and Pharisees. ’Ad me in the madhouse, they did. But they can’t do nought to me because I be a free man. “What’s your name?” they ask. They thinks I’m going to call meself by a name of me own. But I don’t give meself no name. Renounced everything, I ’ave: got no name, no home, no country – no nothing. I am just me. “What do they call you?” – “Man.” – “And how old are you?” I tell ’em I don’t count the years, and anyway ’twould be impossible, on account of I always was an’ I always shall be. “Who be your father and mother?” says they. “Ain’t got no father nor mother, ’cept God an’ Mother Earth,” I says. “God is me father, an’ the earth me mother.” – “And the Tsar? Do you recognize the Tsar?” — “Why shouldn’t I recognize ’im? ’E’s a Tsar unto ’imself, an’ I be a Tsar unto meself.” – “Oh, what’s the good of talking to you!” they says, and I reply, “I never asked you to talk to me, did I?” That’s the way they plague me.’

‘And where are you going now?’ asked Nekhlyudov.

‘Where God leads me. I works when I can, and when there ain’t no work, I begs,’ concluded the old man, noticing that the raft was nearing the other bank and casting a victorious glance on all those who had been listening to him.

The ferryboat fastened up on the other bank. Nekhlyudov got out his purse and offered the old man some coins. The old man refused them.

‘I don’t take money. Bread I do take,’ he said.

‘Then forgive me.’

‘Bain’t nothing to forgive. You ’aven’t offended me. Nobody can offend me,’ said the old man, hoisting the wallet back on to his shoulder. Meanwhile the post-cart had been landed and the horses put in.

‘I wonder you talked to the likes of’im, sir,’ said the driver when Nekhlyudov, having tipped the brawny ferrymen, climbed into the cart again. ‘A good-for-nothing old tramp like that.’