“You see, in spirit. After rubbing your back, I believe, you drank what was left in the bottle with a certain pious prayer, only known to your wife?”
“I did.”
“Did you drink much? Roughly speaking, a wineglass or two?”
“It might have been a tumblerful.”
“A tumblerful, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?”
Grigory did not answer. He seemed to see what was meant.
“A glass and a half of neat spirit—is not at all bad, don’t you think? You might see the gates of heaven open, not only the door into the garden?”
Grigory remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The President made a movement.
“Do you know for a fact,” Fetyukovitch persisted, “whether you were awake or not when you saw the open door?”
“I was on my legs.”
“That’s not a proof that you were awake.” (There was again laughter in the court.) “Could you have answered at that moment, if anyone had asked you a question—for instance, what year it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what year is it, Anno Domini, do you know?”
Grigory stood with a perplexed face, looking straight at his tormentor. Strange to say, it appeared he really did not know what year it was.