His words shook me like a storm and ravaged me. He spoke for a long time, and though I did not understand everything, I felt that in this man was no sorrow or joy or fear, or sensitiveness, or pride. He was like an old church-yard priest, reading the mass for the dead, near a tomb. He knew the words well, but they did not touch his soul. His words were frightful to me at first, but later I understood that the doubt in them was without force, for they were dead. It was May, the window was open, and the night in the garden was filled with a warm perfume of flowers. The apple trees were like young girls going to communion--a delicate blue in the silver moonlight. The watchman beat the hours, and in the stillness the bronze resounded lugubriously. Before me sat a man with a face of stone, calmly emitting bloodless words--words which vanished and were gray like ashes. They were offensive and painful to me, for I saw brass where I had expected gold. "Go now," said Anthony to me. I went into the garden, and when early mass was rung I entered the church, went into a dark corner and stood there, thinking, what need of God had a man who was half dead? The brothers assembled. One would say it was the moonlight which broke the shadows of night into a thousand fragments and which noiselessly crawled into the temple to hide. From this time something incomprehensible happened. Anthony began speaking to me in the tone of a gentleman, dry and crossly, and he never called me to him in a friendly way. All the books which he had given me to read he took away. One of them was a Russian history which had many surprises for me, but I got no chance to finish it. I tried to fathom in what way I had offended this gentleman of mine, but I could not. The beginning of his speech was engraven in my memory and lived uppermost in my mind, though not troubling my other thoughts: "God is the dream of your soul," I repeated to myself. But I did not feel the necessity of debating this; it was an easy thought. Soon a woman came to him. It was late at night. Anthony rang for me and cried: "Quick--the samovar!" When I brought it in I saw a woman sitting on the divan, in a wide pink dress, blonde disheveled curls hanging over her shoulders, and a little pink face, like a doll's, with light-blue eyes. She seemed to me modest and sad. I placed the dishes on the table, and Anthony hurried me all the while. "Do it quicker--hurry." "He is aflame," I said to myself. I liked his love affairs, for it was pleasant to see how skilful Anthony was even in love--a thing which is not very difficult. As for myself, love left me cold at this time, and the looseness of the monks kept me away from it. But what kind of a monk was Father Anthony? The woman was pretty in her way, a delicate little thing, like a new toy.