Sergeevich asked in surprise. “And not in God? This is a fine holy sister.”
“I think that there is genius hidden in everyone, a little hole through which God is visible,” Pelagia began to explain. “But it is rare for anyone to discover this opening in themselves. Everybody gropes for it like blind kittens, but they keep missing. If a miracle occurs, then someone realizes straightaway that this is what he came into the world for, and after that he lives with a calm confidence and cannot be distracted by anybody else, and that is genius. But talents are encountered far more frequently. They are people who have not found that little magic window, but are close to it and are nourished by the reflected glow of its miraculous light.”
To add conviction to her words, she swept her hand through the air to point up at the heavens, but so clumsily that her wide sleeve caught on a cup, spilling tea all over the leg of Kirill Nifontovich’s trousers.
The poor man leapt up on one foot, it was so hot. He hopped about, gasping and misquoting Pushkin’s Golden Cockerel as he intoned,
“Then this maiden lost to shame,
Black, but nun in only name,
Said to that king, ‘You shall not thrive,
I’ll boil you while you’re still alive.’”
Pelagia felt so ashamed that she wished the earth would open and swallow her up—she almost burst into tears. And now she could not finish what she had been saying about talent, everybody was laughing so hard.
Stepan Trofimovich, certainly, did try to continue the conversation, looking closely at the nun and asking: “And what do you think of genius?”
But Marya Afanasievna, who had become very bored in the course of this theoretical discussion, broke into the conversation unceremoniously.
“Instead of discoursing on high matters and scalding people with boiling water, holy mother, you would do better to get on with solving the mystery of who poisoned Zagulyai and Zakusai for me.”
Just then Gerasim carried in a bowl of apples, pears, and plums from the orchard. The gardener’s appearance had an unexpectedly rousing effect on Miss Wrigley, who had so far been sitting there indifferently, smoking a cigarette.
“You’ve all gone crazy over those bulldogs of yours! Nothing but gluttonous beasts, always running around in the orchard, and they’ve taught the little puppy to do the same. But there’s all sorts of filthy garbage in the garden. Yesterday with my own eyes, I saw a dead raven, on my word of honor! The best thing you could do, dear holy sister, would be to investigate who trampled my lawn.”
A sound halfway between a sigh and a groan ran around the table, and Pelagia realized that Miss Wrigley’s lawn must be proverbial among the natives of Drozdovka.
“But then, I can tell you myself the name of the person who trampled it,” the Englishwoman said, raising one finger in a bellicose gesture. “You just help me to find the clues, because everyone here refuses to believe what is perfectly obvious.”
“What would we want with her ladyship’s lousy lawn?” Gerasim said, speaking to one side as he arranged the fruits to look their best. “Why would we want to go trampling on it?”
“This is an ancient jihad between him and Miss Wrigley,” Pyotr Georgievich explained to the nun, wrinkling up his reddish nose merrily. “She accuses Gerasim of laziness and for educational purposes she has laid out nine square yards of genuine English lawn over there, beside the cliff. She is trying to show him how the grass in a park ought to look. But Gerasim doesn’t want to learn, and he has apparently even resorted to sabotage. In any case, two days ago, someone gave the precious lawn a thorough trampling.”
“You’re the last one I’d expect that from, Pyotr Georgievich,” Gerasim said in an offended tone. “It would make me sick to step on that shaven stubble—I wouldn’t even spit on it. Nature shouldn’t be defiled like that; let all the green things
“I think that there is genius hidden in everyone, a little hole through which God is visible,” Pelagia began to explain. “But it is rare for anyone to discover this opening in themselves. Everybody gropes for it like blind kittens, but they keep missing. If a miracle occurs, then someone realizes straightaway that this is what he came into the world for, and after that he lives with a calm confidence and cannot be distracted by anybody else, and that is genius. But talents are encountered far more frequently. They are people who have not found that little magic window, but are close to it and are nourished by the reflected glow of its miraculous light.”
To add conviction to her words, she swept her hand through the air to point up at the heavens, but so clumsily that her wide sleeve caught on a cup, spilling tea all over the leg of Kirill Nifontovich’s trousers.
The poor man leapt up on one foot, it was so hot. He hopped about, gasping and misquoting Pushkin’s Golden Cockerel as he intoned,
“Then this maiden lost to shame,
Black, but nun in only name,
Said to that king, ‘You shall not thrive,
I’ll boil you while you’re still alive.’”
Pelagia felt so ashamed that she wished the earth would open and swallow her up—she almost burst into tears. And now she could not finish what she had been saying about talent, everybody was laughing so hard.
Stepan Trofimovich, certainly, did try to continue the conversation, looking closely at the nun and asking: “And what do you think of genius?”
But Marya Afanasievna, who had become very bored in the course of this theoretical discussion, broke into the conversation unceremoniously.
“Instead of discoursing on high matters and scalding people with boiling water, holy mother, you would do better to get on with solving the mystery of who poisoned Zagulyai and Zakusai for me.”
Just then Gerasim carried in a bowl of apples, pears, and plums from the orchard. The gardener’s appearance had an unexpectedly rousing effect on Miss Wrigley, who had so far been sitting there indifferently, smoking a cigarette.
“You’ve all gone crazy over those bulldogs of yours! Nothing but gluttonous beasts, always running around in the orchard, and they’ve taught the little puppy to do the same. But there’s all sorts of filthy garbage in the garden. Yesterday with my own eyes, I saw a dead raven, on my word of honor! The best thing you could do, dear holy sister, would be to investigate who trampled my lawn.”
A sound halfway between a sigh and a groan ran around the table, and Pelagia realized that Miss Wrigley’s lawn must be proverbial among the natives of Drozdovka.
“But then, I can tell you myself the name of the person who trampled it,” the Englishwoman said, raising one finger in a bellicose gesture. “You just help me to find the clues, because everyone here refuses to believe what is perfectly obvious.”
“What would we want with her ladyship’s lousy lawn?” Gerasim said, speaking to one side as he arranged the fruits to look their best. “Why would we want to go trampling on it?”
“This is an ancient jihad between him and Miss Wrigley,” Pyotr Georgievich explained to the nun, wrinkling up his reddish nose merrily. “She accuses Gerasim of laziness and for educational purposes she has laid out nine square yards of genuine English lawn over there, beside the cliff. She is trying to show him how the grass in a park ought to look. But Gerasim doesn’t want to learn, and he has apparently even resorted to sabotage. In any case, two days ago, someone gave the precious lawn a thorough trampling.”
“You’re the last one I’d expect that from, Pyotr Georgievich,” Gerasim said in an offended tone. “It would make me sick to step on that shaven stubble—I wouldn’t even spit on it. Nature shouldn’t be defiled like that; let all the green things
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