ignificance.
What strikes the eye first of all is a huge crucifix, and on one
side of it the Mother of God, and on the other, St. John the Divine.
The candelabra and the candlestands are draped in black mourning
covers, the lamps glimmer dimly and faintly, and the sun seems
intentionally to pass by the church windows. The Mother of God and
the beloved disciple of Jesus Christ, depicted in profile, gaze in
silence at the insufferable agony and do not observe my presence;
I feel that to them I am alien, superfluous, unnoticed, that I can
be no help to them by word or deed, that I am a loathsome, dishonest
boy, only capable of mischief, rudeness, and tale-bearing. I think
of all the people I know, and they all seem to me petty, stupid,
and wicked, and incapable of bringing one drop of relief to that
intolerable sorrow which I now behold.

The twilight of the church grows darker and more gloomy. And the
Mother of God and St. John look lonely and forlorn to me.

Prokofy Ignatitch, a veteran soldier, the church verger's assistant,
is standing behind the candle cupboard. Raising his eyebrows and
stroking his beard he explains in a half-whisper to an old woman:
"Matins will be in the evening to-day, directly after vespers. And
they will ring for the 'hours' to-morrow between seven and eight.
Do you understand? Between seven and eight."

Between the two broad columns on the right, where the chapel of
Varvara the Martyr begins, those who are going to confess stand
beside the screen, awaiting their turn. And Mitka is there too--
a ragged boy with his head hideously cropped, with ears that jut
out, and little spiteful eyes. He is the son of Nastasya the
charwoman, and is a bully and a ruffian who snatches apples from
the women's baskets, and has more than once carried off my
knuckle-bones. He looks at me angrily, and I fancy takes a spiteful
pleasure in the fact that he, not I, will first go behind the screen.
I feel boiling over with resentment, I try not to look at him, and,
at the bottom of my heart, I am vexed that this wretched boy's sins
will soon be forgiven.

In front of him stands a grandly dressed, beautiful lady, wearing
a hat with a white feather. She is noticeably agitated, is waiting
in strained suspense, and one of her cheeks is flushed red with
excitement.

I wait for five minutes, for ten. . . . A well-dressed young man
with a long thin neck, and rubber goloshes, comes out from behind
the screen. I begin dr