Athos, almost stayed there—a fine place! But after a while—I decided I did not like it. The sea roars and rolls the stones about, the Abkhazians come and go, the ground is uneven, mountains all around, and the nights as black as though you’d been drowned in pitch. And the heat! So I came here and here I’ve been for nine years and they haven’t been wasted. I’ve built all this, planted a birch the first year, after three years a maple, then a lime—see them? And I’m a great consoler to the people round here, my friend—you come and watch me on Sunday!”

He hardly ever mentioned God’s name—while as a rule it is always on the lips of people of his kind. I asked whether he prayed a lot.

“No, not too much,” he said thoughtfully, shutting his naked eyes. “I did so at first, a lot; for hours would I kneel down and keep on crossing myself. My arms were used to a saw, and so they didn’t get tired, or my back either. I can bow down a thousand times without a murmur, but the bones in my knees can’t stand it: they ache. And then I thought to myself: what am I praying for, and why? I’ve got all I want, people respect me—why bother God? He’s got His own job to do, why trouble Him? Human rubbish should be kept away from Him. He takes care of us and do we take care of Him? No. And also: He is there for people of importance; where will He get time for small fry like me? So now I just come out of the cave on sleepless nights, sit down somewhere or other, and, gazing into God’s heaven, wonder to myself: ‘And how is He getting along, up there?’ This, friend, is a pleasant occupation; I can’t tell you how fine; it’s like dreaming awake. And one doesn’t grow weary as at prayer. I don’t ask Him for anything and I never advise others to do so, but when I see they need it, I tell them: ‘Have pity on God!’ You come along and see how helpful I can be to Him and to people.…”

He did not boast, but spoke with the calm assurance of a craftsman confident of his skill. His naked eyes smiled gaily, toning down the ugliness of his disfigured face.

“How I live in winter? It’s all right, my cave is warm even in winter. It’s only that in wintertime people find it hard to come because of the snow; sometimes for two or three days I have to go without bread. Once it so happened that I hadn’t had a crumb in my mouth for over eight days. I felt so weak that even my memory went. Then a young girl came and helped me out. She was a novice in a convent, but she has got married to a teacher since. It was I who advised her to do so; I said: ‘What are you fooling about like this for, Lenka? What good is it to you?’—‘I’m an orphan,’ she said.—‘Well, go and get married and that will be the end of the orphan.’ And to the teacher, Pevtzov, a good, kind man, I said: ‘Have a good look at that girl, Misha.’ Yes. So very soon they got together. And they’re getting along fine. Well, in wintertime, I also go the Sarov or Optina or the Diveyev monastery—there are many of them hereabouts. But the monks don’t like me, they all urge me to take the hood—it would be a profit for them, of course, and serve as bait to people, but I have no wish for that. I’m alive, it does not suit me. As though I were a saint! I’m just a quiet man, friend.”

Laughing and rubbing his thighs with his hands, he said with exultation:

“But with nuns, I’m always welcome. They just love me, they certainly do! That is no boast, it’s the truth. I know women through and through, friend, any sort, whether a lady or a merchant’s wife, and as for a peasant woman, she’s as clear to me as my own soul. I just look into her eyes and I know everything, all that troubles her. I could tell you such tales about them.…”

And again he invited persuasively: “Come and see how I talk to them. And now, let’s have another little go.”

He drank. Closing his eyes tightly and shaking his head, he said with fresh rapture:

“It does one good, that drink!”

The short spring night was visibly melting away; the air grew cool. I suggested that we light a fire.