“Now she is praying,” Iván Petróvich thought, as he looked at her. “She does it differently from us sinners: this is faith, though I know that she is praying to her own image, or to her scarf, or to her adornment on the image, just like the rest of them. All right. What of it?” he said to himself, “every person has his own faith: she prays to her image, and I consider it necessary to beg the peasant’s forgiveness.”

And he walked over to the elder, instinctively scrutinizing the church in order to see who was going to see his deed, which both pleased and shamed him. It was disagreeable to him, because the old beggar women would see it, and more disagreeable still, because Míshka, his lackey, would see it. In the presence of Míshka⁠—he knew how wide-awake and shrewd he was⁠—he felt that he should not have the strength to walk up to Iván Fedótov. He beckoned to Míshka to come up to him.

“What is it you wish?”

“Go, my dear, and bring me the rug from the carriage, for it is too damp here for my feet.”