It had happened, during painful periods in his life, that he whispered to himself, not in prayer, without being definitely conscious of it, these words: “The joy of all the afflicted”—and suddenly he would feel relieved and a desire would come over him to go to some dear friend and question gently: “Our life—is this life? Eh, my dearest, is this life?” And then suddenly it would appear laughable to him and he would feel like mussing up his hair, putting forth his knee and thrusting out his chest as though to receive heavy blows; saying: “Here, strike!” He did not tell anybody, not even his nearest comrades, about his “joy of all the afflicted” and it was as though he himself did not know about it,—so deeply was it hidden in his soul. He recalled it but rarely and cautiously. Now when the terror of the insoluble mystery, which appeared so plainly before him, enveloped him completely, even as the water in high-flood covers the willow twigs on the shore,—a desire came upon him to pray. He felt like kneeling, but he was ashamed of the soldier and, folding his arms on his chest, he whispered softly: “The joy of all the afflicted!” And he repeated tenderly, in anguish: “Joy of all the afflicted, come to me, help Vaska Kashirin.” “Long ago, while he was yet in his first term at the university and used to go off on a spree sometimes, before he had made the acquaintance of Werner and before he had entered the organization, he used then to call himself half-boastingly, half-pityingly, “Vaska Kashirin,”—and now for some reason or other he suddenly felt like calling himself by the same name again. But the words had a dead and toneless sound. “The joy of all the afflicted!” Something stirred. It was as though some one’s calm and mournful image had flashed up in the distance and died out quietly, without illuminating the deathly gloom. The wound-up clock in the steeple struck. The soldier in the corridor made a noise with his gun or with his saber and he yawned, slowly, at intervals. “Joy of all the afflicted! You are silent! Will you not say anything to Vaska Kashirin?” He smiled patiently and waited. All was empty within his soul and about him. And the calm, mournful image did not reappear. He recalled, painfully and unnecessarily, wax candles burning; the priest in his vestments; the _ikon_ painted on the wall. He recalled his father, bending and stretching himself, praying and bowing to the ground, while looking sidewise to see whether Vaska was praying, or whether he was planning some mischief. And a feeling of still greater terror came over Vasily than before the prayer. Everything now disappeared.