the pendulum, all spoke to me
intimately of some new life hitherto unknown to me--a life of unity and
prayer, of calm, restful happiness.

"The months, the years, may pass," I thought to myself, "but he remains
alone--always at peace, always knowing that his conscience is pure
before God, that his prayer will be heard by Him." For fully half
an hour I sat on that chair, trying not to move, not even to breathe
loudly, for fear I should mar the harmony of the sounds which were
telling me so much, and ever the pendulum continued to beat the
same--now a little louder to the right, now a little softer to the left.

VIII. THE SECOND CONFESSION

Suddenly the sound of the priest's footsteps roused me from this
reverie.

"Good morning to you," he said as he smoothed his grey hair with his
hand. "What can I do for you?"

I besought him to give me his blessing, and then kissed his small,
wizened hand with great fervour. After I had explained to him my errand
he said nothing, but moved away towards the ikons, and began to read the
exhortation: whereupon I overcame my shame, and told him all that was in
my heart. Finally he laid his hands upon my head, and pronounced in
his even, resonant voice the words: "My son, may the blessing of
Our Heavenly Father be upon thee, and may He always preserve thee in
faithfulness, loving-kindness, and meekness. Amen."

I was entirely happy. Tears of joy coursed down my face as I kissed the
hem of his cassock and then raised my head again. The face of the
priest expressed perfect tranquillity. So keenly did I feel the joy of
reconciliation that, fearing in any way to dispel it, I took hasty leave
of him, and, without looking to one side of me or the other (in order
that my attention might not be distracted), left the grounds and
re-entered the rickety, battered drozhki. Yet the joltings of the
vehicle and the variety of objects which flitted past my eyes soon
dissipated that feeling, and I became filled with nothing but the idea
that the priest must have thought me the finest-spirited young man he
had ever met, or ever would meet, in the whole of his life. Indeed, I
reflected, there could not be many such as myself--of that I felt sure,
and the conviction produced in me the kind of complacency which craves
for self-communication to another. I had a great desire to unbosom
myself to some one, and as there was no one else to speak to, I
addressed myself to the cabman.

"Was I very long