As I have said, I did not believe in the devil, and I knew that it was written that the devil was strong in his pride; that he fought continually; that his passion and his skill lay in tempting people. But Father Anthony in no way tempted me. He clothed life in gray, showed it to me as something insane, and people for him were only a herd of crazy swine who were dashing to the abyss with varying rapidity. "But you have said that life is beautiful," I said. "Yes, if it recognizes me it is beautiful," he answered. Only his laugh remained with me. He seemed to me to gaze upon everything from his corner as if he had been driven away from everywhere and was not even hurt at being driven away. His thoughts were sharp and penetrating, subtle like a snake, but powerless to conquer me, for I did not believe them, although often I was ravished by their cleverness and by the great leaps of the human mind. At times, though this happened seldom, he became angry with me. "I am a nobleman!" he shouted. "A descendant of a great race of people! My fathers founded Russia! They are historical figures, and this lout--this dirty lout dares to interrupt me! The beautiful dies, only the worms remain, and only one man of a distinguished family among them." His expressions did not interest me. I, too, perhaps, came from a distinguished family. But surely strength did not lie in ancestry, but in truth, and though the evening will surely not come again, the morrow comes. He sat in his armchair and talked, his face bloodless. "Again the monks have won from me, Matvei. What is a monk? A man who wishes to hide from his fellow men his own vileness and who is afraid of its power over him. Or, perhaps, a man who is overcome by his weakness, and flees from the world in fear, that the world may not devour him. Such monks are the better and more interesting; but the others are only homeless men, dust of the earth, or still-born children." "What are you among them?" I asked. I might have asked this ten times or more straight to his face, but he answered me always in this way: "Man is a child of accident on this earth, everywhere and forever." His God, too, was a mystery to me. I tried to ask him about God when he was sober, but he only laughed and answered with some well-known quotation. But God was higher to me than anything that was ever written about Him. I asked him when he was drunk how he saw God then. But even drunk, Anthony was firm. "Ah, you are cunning, Matvei," he answered. "Cunning and obstinate. I am sorry for you." I, too, was sorry for him, for I saw his solitude and I valued the abundance of his thoughts, and I was sorry that they were being sown at random in his cell. But though I was sorry for him, still I persisted firmly in my questions, and once he said, unwillingly: "I no more see God than you, Matvei."