In Passion Week

"In Passion Week" is a poignant short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that explores themes of faith, despair, and the complexity of human emotions. Set during the holy week leading up to Easter, the narrative follows the experiences of a character who grapples with feelings of loneliness and disillusionment amidst the backdrop of religious observance. Chekhov's masterful prose captures the internal struggles of the protagonist, highlighting the contrasts between sacred traditions and the often harsh realities of life. Through this exploration, the story invites readers to reflect on the nature of belief and the search for meaning in the human experience.

								
"Go along, they are ringing already; and mind, don't be naughty in
church or God will punish you."

My mother thrusts a few copper coins upon me, and, instantly forgetting
about me, runs into the kitchen with an iron that needs reheating. I
know well that after confession I shall not be allowed to eat or drink,
and so, before leaving the house, I force myself to eat a crust of white
bread, and to drink two glasses of water. It is quite spring in the
street. The roads are all covered with brownish slush, in which future
paths are already beginning to show; the roofs and side-walks are dry;
the fresh young green is piercing through the rotting grass of last
year, under the fences. In the gutters there is the merry gurgling and
foaming of dirty water, in which the sunbeams do not disdain to bathe.
Chips, straws, the husks of sunflower seeds are carried rapidly along in
the water, whirling round and sticking in the dirty foam. Where, where
are those chips swimming to? It may well be that from the gutter they
may pass into the river, from the river into the sea, and from the sea
into the ocean. I try to imagine to myself that long terrible journey,
but my fancy stops short before reaching the sea.

A cabman drives by. He clicks to his horse, tugs at the reins, and does
not see that two street urchins are hanging on the back of his cab. I
should like to join them, but think of confession, and the street
urchins begin to seem to me great sinners.

"They will be asked on the day of judgment: 'Why did you play pranks and
deceive the poor cabman?'" I think. "They will begin to defend
themselves, but evil spirits will seize them, and drag them to fire
everlasting. But if they obey their parents, and give the beggars a
kopeck each, or a roll, God will have pity on them, and will let them
into Paradise."

The church porch is dry and bathed in sunshine. There is not a soul in
it. I open the door irresolutely and go into the church. Here, in the
twilight which seems to me thick and gloomy as at no other time, I am
overcome by the sense of sinfulness and insignificance. 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 dreaming how, when I am grown up, I will buy goloshes exactly like
them. I certainly will! The lady shudders and goes behind the screen. It
is her turn.

In the crack, between the two panels of the screen, I can see the lady
go up to the lectern and bow down to the ground, then get up, and,
without looking at the priest, bow her head in anticipation. The priest
stands with his back to the screen, and so I can only see his grey curly
head, the chain of the cross on his chest, and his broad back. His face
is not visible. Heaving a sigh, and not looking at the lady, he begins
speaking rapidly, shaking his head, alternately raising and dropping his
whispering voice. The lady listens meekly as though conscious of guilt,
answers meekly, and looks at the floor.

"In what way can she be sinful?" I wonder, looking reverently at her
gentle, beautiful face. "God forgive her sins, God send her happiness."
But now the priest covers her head with the stole. "And I, unworthy
priest . . ." I hear his voice, ". . . by His power given unto me, do
forgive and absolve thee from all thy sins. . . ."

The lady bows down to the ground, kisses the cross, and comes back. Both
her cheeks are flushed now, but her face is calm and serene and
cheerful.

"She is happy now," I think to myself, looking first at her and then at
the priest who had forgiven her sins. "But how happy the man must be who
has the right to forgive sins!"

Now it is Mitka's turn, but a feeling of hatred for that young ruffian
suddenly boils up in me. I want to go behind the screen before him, I
want to be the first. Noticing my movement he hits me on the head with
his candle, I respond by doing the same, and, for half a minute, there
is a sound of panting, and, as it were, of someone breaking candles. . .
. We are separated. My foe goes timidly up to the lectern, and bows down
to the floor without bending his knees, but I do not see what happens
after that; the thought that my turn is coming after Mitka's makes
everything grow blurred and confused before my eyes; Mitka's protruding
ears grow large, and melt into his dark head, the priest sways, the
floor seems to be undulating. . . .

The priest's voice is audible: "And I, unworthy priest . . ."

Now I too move behind the screen. I do not feel the ground under my
feet, it is as though I were walking on air. . . . I go up to the

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