Sometimes I imagined that the church was sunk deep in a lake in which it lived, concealed, a life peculiar to itself, quite different from any other form of life. I have no doubt now that this idea had its source in grandmother's stories of the town of Kitej, and I often found myself dreamily swaying, keeping time, as it were, with the movement around me. Lulled into somnolence by the singing of the choir, the murmur of prayers, the breath of the congregation, I concentrated myself upon the melodious, melancholy story: "They are closing upon us, the accursed Tatars. Yes, these unclean beasts are closing in upon Kite; The glorious; yea, at the holy hour of matins. O Lord, our God! Holy Mother of God! Save Thy servants To sing their morning praises, To listen to the holy chants! _Oi,_ let not the Tatars Jeer at holy church; Let them not put to shame Our women and maidens; Seize the little maids to be their toys, And the old men to be put to a cruel death! And the God of Sabaoth heard, The Holy Mother heard, These human sighs, These Christians' plaints. And He said, the Lord of Sabaoth, To the Holy Angel Michael, 'Go thou, Michael, Make the earth shake under Kite;; Let Kite; sink into the lake!' And there to this day The people do pray, Never resting, and never weary From matins to vespers, Through all the holy offices, Forever and evermore!" At that time my head was full of grandmother's poetry, as full as a beehive of honey. I used even to think in verse. I did not pray in church. I felt ashamed to utter the angry prayers and psalms of lamentation of grandfather's God in the presence of grandmother's God, Who, I felt sure, could take no more pleasure in them than I did myself, for the simple reason that they were all printed in books, and of course He knew them all by heart, as did all people of education. And this is why, when my heart was oppressed by a gentle grief or irritated by the petty grievances of every day, I tried to make up prayers for myself. And when I began to think about my uncongenial work, the words seemed to form themselves into a complaint without any effort on my part: "Lord, Lord! I am very miserable! Oh, let me grow up quickly, For this life I can't endure. O Lord, forgive! From my studies I get no benefit, For that devil's puppet, Granny Matrena, Howls at me like a wolf, And my life is very bitter!" To this day I can remember some of these prayers. The workings of the brain in childhood leave a very deep impression; often they influence one's whole life.