It finally turns out that the young man refuses to do military service, because he is a Christian.
“Talk no nonsense! Get your measure! Doctor, be so kind as to take his measure. Is he fit for the army?”
“He is.”
“Reverend father, have him sworn in.”
No one is confused; no one even pays any attention to what this frightened, pitiable young man is muttering.
“They all mutter something, but we have no time: we have to receive so many recruits.”
The recruit wants to say something again.
“This is against Christ’s law.”
“Go, go, we know without you what is according to the law—but you get out of here. Reverend father, admonish him. Next: Vasíli Nikítin.”
And the trembling youth is taken away. And to whom—whether the janitor, or Vasíli Nikítin, who is being brought in, or anyone else who witnessed this scene from the side—will it occur that those indistinct, short words of the youth, which were at once put out of court by the authorities, contain the truth, while those loud, solemn speeches of the self-possessed, calm officials and of the priest are a lie, a deception?
A similar impression is produced, not only by the articles of a Farrar but by all those solemn sermons, articles, and books, which appear on all sides, the moment the truth peeps out and arraigns the ruling lie. Immediately there begin long, clever, elegant conversations or writings about questions which touch closely upon the subject with a shrewd reticence concerning the question itself.