"The Abbot has assigned you some test work. Go to the bakery. This worthy brother here will take you there. He will be your superior in the future. Here, take your cloistral robes." I put on a monk's garb. They fitted me well, but were worn and dirty and the sole from one boot was loose. I looked at my superior. He was broad-shouldered and awkward, with his forehead and cheeks full of pimples and pockmarks, from which sprouted little bunches of gray hair; his whole face looked as if it were covered with sheep's wool; he would have been laughable were it not for the deep folds on his forehead, his compressed lip and his little, dark, blinking eyes. "Hurry up!" he said to me. His voice was harsh and cracked, like a broken bell. "This is Brother Misha." Father Nifont introduced him, smiling. "Well, go, and God be with you." We walked out into the court. It was dark. Misha stumbled over something and swore horribly. Then he asked me: "Can you knead dough?" "I have seen the women knead," I answered. "Women!" he muttered. "You're always thinking about women! Always women! On account of them the world is accursed, don't you forget that!" "The mother of God was a woman," I said. "Well?" "And also there are very many virtuous women." "If you speak like that the devil will surely drag you to hell." "Anyway, he is a serious man," I thought to myself. We arrived at the bakery and he made the fire. There were two large kneading troughs covered with sacks, a large flour bin nearby, a big sack of rye and a bag of wheat. Everything was dirty and filthy, and cobwebs and gray dust lay over all. Misha tore the sack off from one of the troughs, threw it on the earth, and commanded: "Well, come and learn! Here is the dough. Do you see those bubbles? That means it is ready--it has already risen." He took a sack of flour as if it were a three-year-old youngster, bent it over the edge of the trough, cut it open with his knife and cried as though at a fire: "Pour four pails of water here and then knead!" He was white like a tree with hoarfrost. I threw off my cassock and rolled up my sleeves. He shouted: "Not that way! Take off your trousers! With your feet!" "I haven't taken a bath for a long time," I said. "Who asked you about that?" "How can I, then, with dirty feet?" "Am I your pupil," he roared, "or are you mine?" He had a large mouth, and strong, broad teeth, and long arms, which he waved angrily in the air. "Well," I thought, "the devil take you; I don't care." I wiped my feet with a wet cloth, stepped into the kneading trough and began to work the dough, while my teacher ran here and there, grumbling. "I will teach you to bend, my little mother's son. I will teach you humility and obedience!"