Stories

of the office to which I was dedicated by birth itself. Then he reminded me of the fourth commandment honor thy father and mother and gave me the writings of Nil Sorsky a 15th-century Russian ascetic writer on the monastic life. I fulfilled everything exactly, but I could not break the pull toward medicine. During the vacation, I went home again. Levka had become even more wild: he voluntarily helped the shepherd herd the flock and almost never went home. He received me, however, with the same boundless, non-human attachment; it was sad for me to look at him, especially because his speech had somehow become more indistinct and stumbling, and his gaze had become even more frightening. A year later, I had to finish the course; there was no time to delay; my father was already preparing a position for me. What was to be done? A drowning man clutches at a straw. I had heard from the household servants that the son of our pomeshchik landowner (they were living in the village that summer) was a kind master, gentle—and I thought: if he were to ask my father about me through Fyodor Grigoryevich, perhaps he, seeing such high intercession, might agree. Why not try? I put on my nankeen frock coat, carefully polished my boots, tied a blue neckerchief, and went to the master's house. On the road, I ran into Levka. "Senka," he shouted to me, "to the forest! Levka found a nest, little birds, barely any down, there is no mother, they need warmth, they need to be fed."

—I cannot, brother, I am going over there.
—Where?
—To the master's house.