friendly smile—and said, “That’s a shame. We could have made our deductions together. And it is even more of a shame, my little Sister, that you do not work in the detective department. We don’t have many women agents, but every one of them is worth ten men. With your abilities you would be worth a hundred. Very well, I’ll leave you in peace. I believe you were saying a prayer?”
He walked away to the campfire, and from that moment his behavior changed, he became the old Sergei Sergeevich—an intelligent conversation partner whose mildly sardonic manner made the time pass faster and more pleasantly.
Now Dolinin preferred to ride beside the wagon rather than up ahead. Sometimes he drove the Zytyak off the box and took the reins himself. There were times when he even dismounted and walked, leading the horse by the reins. Once he actually suggested that Pelagia should ride on the horse, but she refused, citing her calling as a nun, although she wanted very much to sit in the saddle like a man, the way she used to do in times long before, press her knees against the horses strong, hot flanks, half stand in the stirrups and go flying across the soft, squelchy ground …
The nun found Sergei Sergeevichs sardonic tone impressive rather than irritating, because it was absolutely free of the cynicism that was so widespread in the educated sectors of society. She sensed that not only was he a man with convictions and ideals, but also—something altogether amazing for the present times—a man of profound faith, untainted by superstition.
In the presence of their dismal cargo, the conversation at first centered on the victim, and the nun learned certain details of the sinful life of the “fisher of souls” from Dolinin.
The latter-day messiah had apparently only begun preaching quite recently—two years earlier, in fact—although he had managed to make his way on foot around almost half the provinces in the country and had acquired a substantial number of followers, for the most part of the very lowest social standing. No crowds of Foundlings had gathered, no mass demonstrations had been organized, yet even so they had drawn a great deal of attention to themselves with their white and blue robes and their emphatic rejection of Christianity, together with the Orthodox Church. At the same time, as is usually the case with perturbers of souls who have risen up out of the darkest depths of the people, the meaning of Manuila’s preaching was obscure and resistant to logical exposition. Vague imprecations against Sunday, priests, icons, the chiming of bells, military service, and the eating of pork, and an incomprehensible glorification of Jewishness (although Manuila, if he really had come from a remote corner of the province of Zavolzhie, could not possibly have seen any actual Jews there), together with all sorts of other nonsense.
Eventually, as Dolinin related, the wandering preacher had come to the attention of Chief Procurator Pobedin, whose professional duty included keeping a watchful eye on heresy of all kinds. The high official had summoned the uncouth peasant and engaged him in spiritual discussion. (“Konstantin Petrovich loves spiritual combat with heretics, simply for the sake of his own inevitable victory,” Dolinin laughed as he narrated this incident in a comical tone, but without the slightest trace of acrimony.) And Manuila, always ready to take his chance, had waited until the Chief Procurator turned toward an image of the Savior in order to cross himself, and then pinched a gold and diamond clock—a present to Pobedin from the sovereign himself—off the desk. He had been caught in the act and led away to the police station. Konstantin Petrovich, however, had taken pity on the vagabond and set him free to go on his way. “They didn’t even have time to photograph him or take physical measurements for a bertillonage, and that would have made my job so much easier now!” Dolinin sighed
He walked away to the campfire, and from that moment his behavior changed, he became the old Sergei Sergeevich—an intelligent conversation partner whose mildly sardonic manner made the time pass faster and more pleasantly.
Now Dolinin preferred to ride beside the wagon rather than up ahead. Sometimes he drove the Zytyak off the box and took the reins himself. There were times when he even dismounted and walked, leading the horse by the reins. Once he actually suggested that Pelagia should ride on the horse, but she refused, citing her calling as a nun, although she wanted very much to sit in the saddle like a man, the way she used to do in times long before, press her knees against the horses strong, hot flanks, half stand in the stirrups and go flying across the soft, squelchy ground …
The nun found Sergei Sergeevichs sardonic tone impressive rather than irritating, because it was absolutely free of the cynicism that was so widespread in the educated sectors of society. She sensed that not only was he a man with convictions and ideals, but also—something altogether amazing for the present times—a man of profound faith, untainted by superstition.
In the presence of their dismal cargo, the conversation at first centered on the victim, and the nun learned certain details of the sinful life of the “fisher of souls” from Dolinin.
The latter-day messiah had apparently only begun preaching quite recently—two years earlier, in fact—although he had managed to make his way on foot around almost half the provinces in the country and had acquired a substantial number of followers, for the most part of the very lowest social standing. No crowds of Foundlings had gathered, no mass demonstrations had been organized, yet even so they had drawn a great deal of attention to themselves with their white and blue robes and their emphatic rejection of Christianity, together with the Orthodox Church. At the same time, as is usually the case with perturbers of souls who have risen up out of the darkest depths of the people, the meaning of Manuila’s preaching was obscure and resistant to logical exposition. Vague imprecations against Sunday, priests, icons, the chiming of bells, military service, and the eating of pork, and an incomprehensible glorification of Jewishness (although Manuila, if he really had come from a remote corner of the province of Zavolzhie, could not possibly have seen any actual Jews there), together with all sorts of other nonsense.
Eventually, as Dolinin related, the wandering preacher had come to the attention of Chief Procurator Pobedin, whose professional duty included keeping a watchful eye on heresy of all kinds. The high official had summoned the uncouth peasant and engaged him in spiritual discussion. (“Konstantin Petrovich loves spiritual combat with heretics, simply for the sake of his own inevitable victory,” Dolinin laughed as he narrated this incident in a comical tone, but without the slightest trace of acrimony.) And Manuila, always ready to take his chance, had waited until the Chief Procurator turned toward an image of the Savior in order to cross himself, and then pinched a gold and diamond clock—a present to Pobedin from the sovereign himself—off the desk. He had been caught in the act and led away to the police station. Konstantin Petrovich, however, had taken pity on the vagabond and set him free to go on his way. “They didn’t even have time to photograph him or take physical measurements for a bertillonage, and that would have made my job so much easier now!” Dolinin sighed
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