"Of course, we've never been to the theatre, but I am sure many things happen there. Father and I have often been speaking about you, madam. We are sorry for you, very sorry, indeed." Anninka was silent. The priest tugged at his beard as if he, too, had finally gathered up enough courage to say something. "Of course, it must be admitted, madam, that every calling has its agreeable and disagreeable sides," he at last delivered himself, "but we humans in our failings extol the former and try to forget the latter. And why do we try to forget? Because, madam, we want as far as possible to avoid even the remembrance of duty and of the virtuous life we formerly led." He heaved a sigh and added, "And above all, madam, you must guard your treasure." The priest glanced at Anninka admonishingly, and his wife shook her head sadly, as much as to say, "Not much chance of that." "And it is very doubtful whether you can preserve your treasure while an actress," he continued. Anninka was at a loss what answer to make to these warnings. Little by little she began to see that the talk of these simple-minded folk about her "treasure" was of the same value as the pointed remarks of the officers of the regiments stationed in the various towns about _la chose._ Now it became quite clear to her that both at her uncle's and at the priest's she was considered a peculiar individual to whom one may condescend, but from a distance, so as not to soil oneself. "Father, why is your church so poor?" she asked to change the subject. "There is nothing here to make it rich--that's why it's poor. The landlords are all away in the government service, and the peasants haven't much to thrive on. In all there are a little over two hundred parishioners." "Our bell, you see, is a very poor one," sighed the priest's wife. "Yes, the bell and everything. Our bell, madam, weighs only five hundred pounds, and to make matters worse, it is cracked. It does not ring, it coughs. To be so poor is even sinful. The late Arina Petrovna promised to erect a new bell and, if she were alive we would most likely have a new bell by now." "Why don't you tell uncle that grandmother promised you one?" "I did tell him, madam, and I must admit he listened very kindly to my grievance, but he could not give me a satisfactory answer. He said he had heard nothing about it from mother; that his late dear mother had never spoken about the matter. He would gladly carry out her wishes, he said, if he had only heard mother express them." "He could not help hearing them," said the priest's wife. "It was known throughout the district." "So we live on in this wise. At first we had hopes, at least, now we have no hopes left. Not to mention our own personal needs, there is nothing to perform the service with sometimes--neither host nor red wine."