No More Learning

Here are we, Father Missail and I, a sinner, when we fled
from the monastery, then we cared for nothing. Was it
Lithuania, was it Russia, was it fiddle, was it dulcimer?
All the same for us, if only there was wine. That's the
main thing!

MISSAIL. Well said, Father Varlaam.

HOSTESS. (Enters. )
There you are, my fathers. Drink to your health.

MISSAIL. Thanks, my good friend. God bless thee. (The
monks drink. Varlaam trolls a ditty: "Thou passest
by, my dear," etc.
) (To GREGORY) Why don't you join
in the song? Not even join in the song?

GREGORY. I don't wish to.

MISSAIL. Everyone to his liking--

VARLAAM. But a tipsy man's in Heaven. * Father Missail!
We will drink a glass to our hostess. (Sings: "Where
the brave lad in durance," etc. ) Still, Father Missail,
when I am drinking, then I don't like sober men; tipsiness
is one thing--but pride quite another. If you want
to live as we do, you are welcome. No? --then take
yourself off, away with you; a mountebank is no
companion for a priest.

[*The Russian text has here a play on the words which cannot
be satisfactorily rendered into English. ]

GREGORY.