What struck the poor monk most was that Father Ferapont, with his undoubtedly great fasting, and though he was of such an advanced age, still looked to be a vigorous old man. He was tall, held himself erect, without stooping, and had a fresh face, thin but healthy. He also undoubtedly still preserved considerable strength. And he was of athletic build. Despite his great age, he was not even completely gray yet, and his hair and beard, formerly quite black, were still very thick. His eyes were gray, large, luminous, but extremely bulging, even strikingly so. He spoke with a strong northern accent. He was dressed in a long, reddish peasant coat made from coarse convict broadcloth, as it used to be called, with a thick rope for a belt. His neck and chest were bare. An almost completely blackened shirt of the thickest canvas, which had not been taken off for months, stuck out from under the coat. It was said that underneath he wore thirty pounds of chain. On his bare feet he wore a pair of old shoes, which were almost in pieces.
“From the small Obdorsk monastery of St. Selivester,” the visiting monk replied humbly, watching the hermit with his quick, curious, though somewhat frightened eyes.
“I was at your Selivester’s. Used to live there. How’s Selivester’s health?”
The monk faltered.
“Eh, what muddleheads you peoples are! How do you keep Lent?”
“This is the refectory rule, according to the ancient order of the monastery: for all forty days of Lent there are no meals on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesdays and Thursdays we have white bread, stewed fruit with honey, cloudberries or salt cabbage and oatmeal gruel, and on Saturdays white cabbage soup, noodles with peas, and hot kasha, all made with oil. On Sundays we have cabbage soup, dried fish, and kasha. During Holy Week,[112]from Monday until Saturday evening, for six days, we eat only bread and water and uncooked vegetables, and that with restraint; eating is permitted, but not every day, just as in the first week. On Great and Holy Friday we eat nothing, and on Great Saturday, too, we fast until the third hour and then have a little bread and water and one cup of wine. On Great and Holy Thursday we eat uncooked food or boiled food without oil, and drink wine. For the rule of the Council of Laodicea[113] says of Great Thursday: ‘It is not worthy during the Great Lent to relax on the Thursday of the last week and so dishonor all forty days.’[114] That’s how it is with us. But what’s that compared to you, great father,” the little monk added, taking courage, “for all year round, and even on Holy Easter, you eat just bread and water, and as much bread as we’d eat in two days lasts you a whole week. Truly marvelous is your great abstinence!”
“And mushrooms?” Father Ferapont suddenly asked.
“Mushrooms?” the surprised monk repeated.
“Right. I can do without their bread, I don’t need it at all, I can go to the forest and live on mushrooms and berries, but they can’t do without their bread here, that’s why they’re in bondage to the devil. Nowadays these unclean ones say there’s no need to fast so much. Arrogant and unclean is their reasoning.”
“Ah, true,” sighed the little monk.
“Did you see all the devils around there?” asked Father Ferapont.
“Around where?” the monk timidly inquired.
“I was up at the Superior’s last year, at Pentecost,[115] and haven’t been back since. I saw one sitting on one monk’s chest, hiding under his cassock, with only his little horns sticking out; another monk had one peeking out of his pocket, looking shifty-eyed, because he was afraid of me; another had one living in his stomach, his unclean belly; and there was one who had one hanging on his neck, clinging to him, and he was carrying him around without even seeing him.”
“And you ... could see?” the monk inquired. “I’m telling you—I see, I see throughout. As I was leaving the Superior’s, I looked—there was one hiding from me behind the door, a real beefy one, a yard and a half tall or more, with a thick tail, brown, long, and he happened to stick the tip of it into the doorjamb, and me being no fool, I suddenly slammed the door shut and pinched his tail. He started squealing, struggling, and I crossed him to death with the sign of the Cross, the triple one. He dropped dead on the spot, like a squashed spider. He must be rotten and stinking in that corner now, and they don’t see, they don’t smell a thing. I haven’t gone back for a year. I reveal it to you only because you’re a foreigner. “
“Terrible are your words! And tell me, great and blessed father,” the monk took more and more heart, “is it true, this great fame that has spread even to faraway lands, that you are in constant communication with the Holy Spirit? “
“He flies down. He does.”
“How does he fly down? In what form?”
“As a bird.”
“The Holy Spirit in the form of a dove?”[116]
